'For all the Beatniks of SF' consists of
Edited and versified extracts
From one of my earliest
Existent pieces of fictional writing.
Dating at an estimate from about 1970,
It reflects the spirit of the times,
Even though it’s been sanitised
For online publication.
In the years immediately following
The revolutionary events of ‘68
I was deeply in sympathy
With the West’s prevailing
Adversary culture
Or alternative Society
Which is very much not the case today.
And my attitude is dictated
Not by increasing maturity,
But by my Christian beliefs,
Without which I might
Be an aging hipster by now,
Blithely festooned
With ostentatious symbols of revolt.
For all the Beatniks of San Francisco
Shirley Brown was a very beautiful girl
And her brunette hair
Hung down her back
And as the wind blew thru the window,
It waved around. It waved around.
She was making sandwiches
And was packing them with fruit
And two massive bars of fruit
And nut chocolate.
She lit a cigarette, picked up the basket
And with a nod of her head,
Waved her hair backwards
And walked out the back door
Into the alley where,
Propped up against a fence
Was a blue mini-moped.
She mounted the bike
And with a little trouble, started it.
And the rider made a sudden jump
As a horn blew behind her
And a leather jacketed youth
Sped by on a butterfly motor-cycle.
It waved around. It waved around.
They were going in the same direction
And the young man on the big bike
Turned into a park
And made his way to a lawn.
The blue moped drove down a narrow path
And it too stopped at the Great Green
Where the radio was blaring
And many motor-cycles were lying about.
People turned away
And the music blared on
And the youths talked on.
Then, a park keeper came
But the youths took no notice.
“What are you kids doing,
The keeper shouted,
I’ve had complaints from all over,
Clear off, wilya,
This is a park
Not a meeting place
For all the Beatniks in San Francisco.
John Hemmings started dancing:
“Cool it, grandpa, get on,
Get going, don’t bug me!”
The kids had gone too far
And they knew it.
Some of them turned away,
As the radio blared even louder,
Litter was scattered everywhere.
“I ain’t chicken of dying,
John Hemmings then said,
We’ve got to go on,
ALL RIGHT! Who are the crumbs
Who want to chicken out at this point,
Just take your bikes and go.
We’re free people now.
Nothing can stop us,
We’ll rule the streets,
The young people will triumph.”
He was perspiring wildly
And his black hair
Hung down his back.
It waved around. It waved around.
Read more articles by Carl Halling or search for articles on the same topic or others.
