Poetry – Screaming for Beat

Screaming for Beat

Screaming at the injustice

The insanity, the madness.

Screaming in the face of destruction, devastation.

Screaming at the rape of nature, the slaughter.

Screaming at the mindless billions

Swamping all that is good and pure

With their synthetic plastic, neon boredom.

Screaming at myself for being

Part of the of the machine,

Within the machine,

Of the machine,

And at the whim of the machine.

Screaming at myself,

Consumed with guilt,

At my impotence,

Inabilities,

Limitations,

And inadequacies.

We should all be screaming

Instead of placidly sitting,

Buying, consuming

And politely talking

Platitudes;

Voting for psychopaths,

Allowing transgressions.

We should all be screaming

As the world is being torn

From our grip,

Nature eradicated,

And the planet

Transformed

Into a plastic theme park,

With Muzak, playgrounds, wheel-chair access and a curfew.

Where it is safe,

Comfortable

And there is no raucous noise to disturb the peace,

No insects to bite

And no, absolutely no, need

To think.

Opher 21.1.2016

Screaming for Beat

The Beat poets were the start of a movement that wanted no part of the machine that society had become. They wanted life. They were on a mad crazy journey to experience, feel and gain knowledge, insight and satori. They smoked hash, took peyote and heroin to change reality and explore the dimensions of mind. Life was a journey, a vivid set of possibilities to be experienced. Every moment was vital. It had to be squeezed and its essence extracted. Life was for living, for kicks, for crazy, but also for love, satori and spiritual exploration. Life was Zen.

There were no rules or boundaries. There were poems to be created and shared; emotions to be garnered, sex to be shared, music to be bopped to and journeys to be undertaken. There wasn’t a second to waste.

Society was on a mad controlled rush to consume, exploit and use up. It was devoid of love, poems and purpose. Everything was regimented, made to fit, reduced or eradicated. Nature was unwanted unless confined to trimmed lawns, tidy flower beds and ornamental plants. If it moved – kill it.

For me that vision of society was a vision of a nightmare – an existence sucked dry, leaving life as a desiccated husk of a life devoid of feeling and passion.

The world was being tamed, destroyed, consumed and made to fit the plastic model. People were being controlled, trained to work and consume and tamed. Their desires were repressed. Their feelings controlled. Their passions doused.

The world was being transformed into a plastic nightmare of consumption and order. Nature and wilderness are being destroyed before our very eyes as the juggernaut of progress bulldozes the planet in its relentless greed.

We are being fenced in, tied up with laws and placed in our cubicles in orderly lines. I want the chaos. Fuck the safety – I want the excitement – I want to live each second. It’s not about the length of a lifetime; it’s about the quality.

Poetry – Meaning Jack and Allen

Meaning Jack and Allen

Searching for meaning,

Truth and beauty

In the back streets

Away from the plastic

Neon falsity of Mammon.

Searching for a raw

Unprocessed chord,

A burst of inspiration

Blast of energy

Among the processed

Refinement of rehearsed notes.

Searching for energy.

Searching for words of passion,

Fury and eloquence,

Words that are meant,

That are revealing,

Inspiring and awakening.

Searching for candour

Amid the controlled,

Those robbed

By the political correctness thieves

Who steal souls in the name of respect.

Searching for compassion

Among the dead

Moribund corpses

Who walk the well-lit streets

Without a mind,

Regurgitating indoctrinations

And believing it.

Searching for someone to offend

Argue with

And learn from.

Who has the balls to speak;

To scream the images

That adorn the inside of their skull.

Searching for reality

In the midst of a culture

That has sold its spirit

To both religion and business,

That is bankrupt,

Devoid of ideas;

That consumes the planet

In the madness of its death throes;

In a mindless self-fuck;

That thinks plastic is perfect –

It’s what the suckers want –

It makes bucks.

Searching for the spirit

Of Kerouac, Ginsberg and Cassidy

On one long crazy rapture

One night of endless madness

With no limits,

No end.

Spitting words, dreams, visions and thoughts

In sounds

Beyond words

Beyond meaning.

On an endless drive

Of desperation

Roaring across plains,

Up mountains,

Down canyons

In search of crazy;

In search of ultimate kicks.

Goofin’ with eternity,

Lost in honking sounds,

Mad fuck

And high on anything –

Just so long as it will never stop,

Never be understood,

Never be explained.

But it is there –

It exists

In the Zen of an instant,

A rock, a sax solo, a raving stanza,

A drooling poem

Spontaneously bursting into existence

Climaxing from the tongue

In an orgy of sudden understanding,

Realisation

Real

Unfettered, furious,

So orgasmic and crude

That it throbs through your groin

To explode in your brain

With uncontainable joy.

Searching for an explanation

For the madness

Wreaked on humanity,

On the planet,

The poor trussed planet;

The enslavement of humanity

The taming,

The reduction

Containment and boredom,

The pressures

That causes people

To explode

In cruelty and barbarism.

Searching for the love

That melts the soul

In ecstatic waves;

That swamp, crash and churn,

So that we are absorbed,

Enlightened,

And reborn totally alive,

And free.

Searching through words,

That squirm and metamorphose,

Through my mind

My dreams –

Searching for expression,

Substance and delirium.

Searching through images

Extracted from the mundane,

With shape, texture and colour

Never before glimpsed!

Creating poems to reflect

The turmoil;

Truths that stalk the coils

Within the skull.

Opher 21.1.2016

Meaning Jack and Allen

It is great to reconnect with Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg every now and again. The visions they espoused created images in my head.

Allen altered poetry. He opened my head up and gave me eyes to see. He brought poetry to life from the rotting carcass it had been.

For me Allen’s forte was that there were no rules.

Allen wrote poetry in the same stream of consciousness that Jack wrote prose. It was a revolution.

That revolution brought a whole new way of writing, thinking and feeling. It created the modern world. Others had done it before – Henry Miller for one, but nobody connected in to that ‘reality’ the way Allen and Jack did. They were searching for the meaning in life, the ultimate kicks, to tune in to the craziness of life, to live.

They weren’t satisfied with the plastic, the superficial, the mundane; they wanted something that had depth; which meant something.

Society is empty.

Real living was to let everything out – all that emotion, feeling, energy and joy.

They wanted to live and life had to burn. If it wasn’t real it wasn’t worth a fuck.

Allen Ginsberg – America

Allen is one of the great poets. His Howl turned me back on to poetry. Now that the USA is melting into idiocy with Trump’s mad narcissism and fascism it’s time to take stock.

America

BY ALLEN GINSBERG

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.   
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America, after all, it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.   
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.   
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.   
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?   
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.   
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.   
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.   
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.
I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine?   
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.   
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.   
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that jetplanes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfive-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they’re all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor the Silk-strikers’ Ewig-Weibliche made me cry I once saw the Yiddish orator Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy.
America you don’t really want to go to war.
America its them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.   
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.   
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.   
America is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

Berkeley, January 17, 1956

Poetry – Jack Kerouac – In Vain

The stars in the sky
In vain
The tragedy of Hamlet
   In vain
The key in the lock
      In vain
The sleeping mother
      In vain
The lamp in the corner
         In vain
The lamp in the corner unlit
            In vain
Abraham Lincoln
                        In vain
The Aztec empire
                           In vain
The writing hand: in vain
(The shoetrees in the shoes
         In vain
The windowshade string upon
            the hand bible
   In vain—
   The glitter of the greenglass
         ashtray
In vain
The bear in the woods
         In vain
The Life of Buddha
         In vain)

Poetry – Jack Kerouac – Mexico City Blues

Jack is remembered for his incredible prose and the Beat Generation. But he wrote some amazing poems too.

Got up and dressed up
and went out & got laid
Then died and got buried
in a coffin in the grave,
Man—
Yet everything is perfect,
Because it is empty,
Because it is perfect
with emptiness,
Because it's not even happening.

Everything
Is Ignorant of its own emptiness—
Anger
Doesn't like to be reminded of fits—

You start with the Teaching
Inscrutable of the Diamond
And end with it, your goal
is your startingplace,
No race was run, no walk
of prophetic toenails
Across Arabies of hot
meaning—you just
numbly don't get there

Today’s Music to keep me SANe in Isolation – Jack Kerouac.

I just felt like getting back into the old fifties Jazz. Jack Kerouac put some of his music to jazz music. It captured something of that mad time – jazz, sex and travel, reefer, zen and crazy. Life was for kicks and Sartori.  There was no time to waste. Crazy, crazy, crazy, man.

Back when I was young these were like diamonds. You couldn’t get them. Thanks to the internet we have access to all manner of gems.

The only question is whether having such easy access makes everything less important.

Today I’m listening to Jack creating a whole new era out of black music and the search for truth. Go, Go Jack. You changed the world!!

Poetry – Meaning Jack and Allen – a stream of consciousness for the shame of it

Poetry – Meaning Jack and Allen – a stream of consciousness for the shame of it

IMG_1938

Meaning Jack and Allen (I wrote this one for Matt)

It is great to reconnect with Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg every now and again. The visions they espoused created images in my head.

Allen altered poetry. He opened my head up and gave me eyes to see. He brought poetry to life from the rotting carcass it had been.

For me Allen’s forte was that there were no rules.

Allen wrote poetry in the same stream of consciousness that Jack wrote prose. It was a revolution.

That revolution brought a whole new way of writing, thinking and feeling. It created the modern world. Others had done it before – Henry Miller for one, but nobody connected in to that ‘reality’ the way Allen and Jack did. They were searching for the meaning in life, the ultimate kicks, to tune in to the craziness of life, to live.

They weren’t satisfied with the plastic, the superficial, the mundane; they wanted something that had depth; that meant something.

Society is empty.

Real living was to let everything out – all that emotion, feeling, energy and joy.

They wanted to live and life had to burn. If it wasn’t real it wasn’t worth a fuck.

We’re beat but we ain’t beat yet.

Meaning Jack and Allen

Searching for meaning,

Truth and beauty

In the back streets

Away from the plastic

Neon falsity of Mammon.

Searching for a raw

Unprocessed chord,

A burst of inspiration

Blast of energy

Among the processed

Refinement of rehearsed notes.

Searching for energy.

Searching for words of passion,

Fury and eloquence,

Words that are meant,

That are revealing,

Inspiring and awakening.

Searching for candour

Amid the controlled,

Those robbed

By the political correctness thieves

Who steal souls in the name of respect.

Searching for compassion

Among the dead

Moribund corpses

Who walk the well-lit streets

Without a mind,

Regurgitating indoctrinations

And believing it.

Searching for someone to offend

Argue with

And learn from.

Who has the balls to speak;

To scream the images

That adorn the inside of their skull.

Searching for reality

In the midst of a culture

That has sold its spirit

To both religion and business,

That is bankrupt,

Devoid of ideas;

That consumes the planet

In the madness of its death throes;

In a mindless self-fuck;

That thinks plastic is perfect –

It’s what the suckers want –

It makes bucks.

Searching for the spirit

Of Kerouac, Ginsberg and Cassidy

On one long crazy rapture

One night of endless madness

With no limits

No end

Spitting words, dreams, visions and thoughts

In sounds

Beyond words

Beyond meaning.

On an endless drive

Of desperation

Roaring across plains,

Up mountains,

Down canyons

In search of crazy.

In search of ultimate kicks

Goofin’ with eternity,

Lost in honking sounds,

Mad fuck

And high on anything –

Just so long as it will never stop,

Never be understood,

Never be explained.

But it is there –

It exists

In the zen of an instant,

A rock, a sax solo, a raving stanza,

A drooling poem

Spontaneously bursting into existence

Climaxing from the tongue

In an orgy of sudden understanding,

Realisation

Real

Unfettered, furious,

So orgasmic and crude

That it throbs through your groin

To explode in your brain

With uncontainable joy.

Searching for an explanation

For the madness

Wreaked on humanity,

On the planet,

The poor trussed planet

The enslavement of humanity

The taming,

The reduction

Containment and boredom,

The pressures

That causes people

To explode

In cruelty and barbarism.

Searching for the love

That melts the soul

In ecstatic waves

That swamp, crash and churn,

So that we are absorbed,

Enlightened

And reborn totally alive

And free.

Searching through words,

That squirm and metamorphose,

Through my mind

My dreams –

Searching for expression,

Substance and delirium.

Searching through images

Extracted from the mundane,

With shape, texture and colour

Never before glimpsed!

Creating poems to reflect

The turmoil,

Truths that stalk the coils

Within the skull.

 

Opher 21.1.2016

If you enjoy my poems or anecdotes why not purchase a paperback of anecdotes for £7.25 or a kindle version for free.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Anecdotes-Weird-Science-Writing-Ramblings/dp/1519675631/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1457515636&sr=1-3&keywords=opher+goodwin

Or a book of poetry and comment:

Rhyme and Reason – just £3.98 for the paperback or free on Kindle

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Rhymes-Reason-Opher-Goodwin/dp/1516991184/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1457515636&sr=1-4&keywords=opher+goodwin

My other books are here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Opher-Goodwin/e/B00MSHUX6Y/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1457515636&sr=1-2-ent

Death and stars – a true story

Death and stars

The day started well. The sky was blue and the sun was shining down upon us. But then it always did in California. Looking up at that sky you knew it was going to be another hot one. But little did we know what a day it was going to be – a day of ups and downs.

We were heading out of San Francisco on our way to LA. Our American companion, Jack, was taking us round to stay with friends in Venice Beach. This was all part of our big American adventure. We planned to stop off at Pfieffer State Beach to camp over and soak up the atmosphere in the wake of Henry Miller and Jack Kerouac. Exciting stuff. It seemed that I was living my dreams.

The three of us, my girlfriend Liz, Jack and me were standing on the side of the freeway with our thumbs out. The wheel spin of fast moving cars sent clouds of dust over us. Nobody seemed willing to pick up three young hitch-hikers. The sun was getting hot and there was no shade. It did not look as if our luck was in.

To make it worse a pretty girl was hitching just ahead of us.

Eventually a big open-top Cadillac pulled over. It was being driven by a young army officer. He picked up the girl and motioned for us to get in the back. We did not need much urging. We grabbed up our bed-rolls and rucksacks and soon ensconced in the luxurious leather of the massive back seat, rolling through the California hills with the sun on our faces and warm air trailing our hair out behind us. What could be better?

The two of them talked in the front while we stretched out in the back. It was the first time I had ever ridden in a real Cadillac. It was the fabled vehicle that I’d heard in the Bo Diddley song covered by the Kinks. And here I was riding through California in one!

The coast road was a windy two-lane highway, high up the mountains. On one side you have the sheer face of the mountain, carved out of the solid rock, and on the other you have a drop down to the distant rocks below with the waves crashing over them – so picturesque.

The lieutenant seemed to want to impress the girl in the front and was putting the car through its paces. We were doing a good hundred. There was a thrill to it but it was also a bit scary. The only thing separating us from the rocks below was a narrow strip of sand and a rail. But, hey, he seemed competent, even if he was driving with one hand on the wheel and seemed to spend most of the time smiling over at the girl.

We went round a bend to find ourselves confronted with a terrifying sight. Heading right for us was a huge truck overtaking another truck. The whole road was a mass of metal. There was nowhere to go.

Without thinking the lieutenant swung us over to the narrow strip of sand at the side. It didn’t seem wide enough. The rail was a mere inches away from us. We bounced along, careering over the uneven sand doing nigh on a ton as the two trucks screamed past centimetres away on the other side. In the back we were bouncing right up out of our seats as the car bucked and bounced. Ahead a signpost was looming. At the last second, just as we cleared the trucks, the lieutenant pulled us back on the road. The tyres on our left gripped while the ones on the sand did not. The car went into a spin. We were heading straight for the rail. The nose dug into a sand dune and the whole back end of the car shot up into the air threatening to shoot us out into space. For a moment we hung there like a fairground ride, looking down at the distant rocks below. Then it fell back with a great bump.

We were all stunned – surrounded with a great cloud of dust. Time was suspended. We sat and stared, catching our breath and imagining how close we had come as the world settled around us.

Neither truck stopped to see what had happened.

We had to dig the car out and push it back on the road. We managed to get it restarted. It was a more subdued journey after that. He dropped us off at the top of the dirt road leading down to the beach.

It was evening now. We walked cheerfully down the mile and a half to the beach below, chortling about our close call and looking forward to setting up camp.

When we arrived the sun was setting, a line of people were sitting on the beach watching the sun set through a hole in a rock in the middle of the bay. The waves were crashing. A jay was being passed along. It seemed idyllic.

We ate, shared and laughed a lot. We told the tale of our near death experience, someone had a guitar – things were good.

Then the police arrived and busted everyone. They got very heavy and threatening. We were roughly grabbed and driven back up to the top where we were dumped by the side of the highway. It seemed our idyll had been rudely interrupted.

Yet, out of failure can come great success.

We got our bedrolls out and lay back looking up at the magnificent sky. Up high in the Sierras the Milky Way was like a great arc of smoke. The sky was a mass of stars like salt strewn on a black velvet cloth. Around us the mountain lions roared and I lay in my sleeping bag reminiscing about Kerouac and Miller and how they’d breathed this very air, smelt the sweet pines and fragrant shrubs, laid back like this and stared up at that same sky, felt that same sense of wonder, listened to the mountain lions and tasted that same mystery of life.

A great wind suddenly rose up threatening to blow us away. But it all just seemed part of the magic of the place. Somehow we felt safe.

We silently roared our joy up into that mystical sky like ecstatic cougars. Life seemed all the richer.

Jack Kerouac – What he meant to writing, life and the sixties.

Jack Kerouac – What he meant to writing, life and the sixties.

Jack opened a door and let a new stream of light come flooding in. It swept the old dull formula away.
Before Jack there was a structure and form. Everything had its place. There were rules, procedures, format and sequence. It was staid. It was dull. It was controlled.
Jack opened a valve in his head and the steam of ideas, words and stories gushed forth in one long screaming roar.
Jack put his words into life as if he was playing a never-ending saxophone line. They wailed, parped and spouted out in uncontrolled frenzy. They streamed along in a great torrent that gathered you up and bore you along with it.
There were no rules. There was no formula. It was a raging waterfall that cascaded along with a madness, exuberance and all the spontaneity of now. It wasn’t so much telling a story as relating the moment, describing now.
And what a now!
It was a now teeming with desires, madness and a thirst for life that could not be contained, had no limits, and was bursting to explode out of the confines of the shackles society puts on us.
Jack was too alive to sit still, too wired. He had to let loose. He sought fellow freaks to travel, open up new horizons and explore possibilities; rapping endlessly as they delved the depths of possibility – ecstatic on discovery. Discovery of self, of possibility, for awe and wonder, to wrestle the demons, open up the senses, to let go; to give rein to all the sensations possible and experience life. There was sex, drugs, fast cars, laughs, kicks, craziness and exaggerated, heightened possibility. There was meaning, purpose and kicks to be screwed out of the drabness.
Jack was in awe of the emancipated black culture and its propensity to let its hair down; its sensuous sexuality, unloosed vitality and wondrous creativity. The black culture was rich and thriving where white culture was constrained and uptight. He wanted to be as loud, as natural and as in touch with his inner self and let all that bottled up energy out. In the black clubs with the black music it was GO GO GO GO GO – crazy man. There were no limits. You went for it.
Despite all the racism and poverty the black American culture had style, had class and knew how to let it hang out. When you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose. They burned. They grasped every second and knew how to extract the kicks out of it. It was wild. It was real.
After Jack how could one go back to living an ordinary life? To writing manufactured stories? – To following an ordained pathway into a career, a home and a life of tedium. This was a plastic culture of concrete and control. It was as dead as the dodo.
Jack had defied the cosmos and sought satori in the majesty of being.
How could you mow the grass and catch the eight thirty to the office?
Without Jack could we have had that sweeping liberalism of the sixties that swept the dowdy conformism away? Or would we be living in our little boxes, locked up inside as repressed as the society that spawned us?
Jack was the great liberator. Once the door was open then was no holding back the current. The dam gave way. The sixties was the flood that Jack unleashed.
I was swept along in that tide. Who could deny the energy and excitement? The freedom?
Allen Ginsberg howled and Jack roared down the highways of life. They both opened minds.

Mez Mezzrow and Henry Miller – the precursors to the Beat Generation.

Jack Kerouac

The first time I read Jack Kerouac, when I was seventeen, I was completely blown away. He had created a whole new way of writing – this spontaneous, stream of consciousness flow of ideas, thoughts and observations written in a mad Bebop flow. I’d never read anything quite like it. It did not seem to have a plot. It just recorded life as it happened. And what a life. It was a life of the underground world, the sex, drugs and Jazz – the antithesis of the suburban life. It described the young kids wild for life, wild for truth, searching for meaning, for Sartori, in among the Jazz cellars of the Black city clubs and out on the road under those big skies. It burned with the passion of youth and its idealism; it’s lust for life.

On The Road created the Beat Generation with its poets like Ginsberg and its writers like Burroughs.

But the Beat Generation was in fact just an incarnation of the fifties. Back in the thirties other writers had done similar things.

I discovered:

Mez Mezzrow

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Really-Blues-Flamingo-modern-classic/dp/0006546919/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1540286229&sr=1-1&keywords=mez+Mezzrow

Really The Blues – described the life of a white Jazz player who lived the life back in the thirties in the same black clubs. It was full of the same ingredients as Jack Kerouac.

Henry Miller

https://www.amazon.co.uk/TROPIC-CAPRICORN-Capricorn-Paperback-13-Jan-1994/dp/B0058PXQJY/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1540287085&sr=1-5&keywords=Henry+Miller+tropic

Henry got a reputation as a pornographer but he wasn’t. He was writing about his life in Paris back in the thirties. There was so much more than sex in that book. I remember thinking that one page in Capricorn was the best bit of writing I had ever read.

Henry wrote with that same zest about life. It had that flow and autobiographical honesty.