Slouching Toward Nirvana. New Poems

I thumb through those lit mags, and sometimes there are pictures, he’s most often photographed with other old Beats, those kittens still hanging together, wondering where the good times went, looking sad and confused as the young girls jump into bed with a new generation; the old Beats look fat, haggard and angry like ancient prostitutes still flashing their faded garter belts; they pose for the camera like long-retired door-to-door salesman photographed together at some ill-advised reunion.

(из стихотворения "THE POET")