Flat Roof Lament Opposite the Industrial Estate with Rain

I wish this street was a landmark,
As I pine for significance
in this place in time.
I want to see through Ginsberg's eyes,
Tattered prince of the lower East side,
As he surveyed an everyday scene;
Somewhere countless feet have walked,
A place of which lips and pen
and typewriter had told, fervently.

Bathed in ethereal light from
neon signs
and the right choice of words,
Allen took a knife,
Cut those lips clean off the collective face,
Snapped the pen and binned the typewriter,
With a nonsensical quip that
at once drew all the senses to respond.
He wrapped his tongue around forbidden fruits;
Pupils dilated, juice running down,
And made all the beautiful sense in the world.