I found peace in Ginsberg County without the aid of new patois and peyote to bring forth

Dreams.  No hard beer or soft women from the broken Morrison’s Hotel to keep words flowing,

All I was left with was the terms of a contract not yet signed. Kerouac yawned and smiled

With his teeth showing, baring at me across the table, daring me to join in some inspired anarchic

Game, a ritual, a joyful disease that saw leaflets dropped and new words learned.

Keep the flag flying high, the dream alive whilst offering me a full glass of dirty Bourbon.