Illegalism: The Poetry of Tomorrow

by Peter Lamborn Wilson

We’d run it off in small batches like moonshine
seven times distilled in glass alembic flask
its coil running thru cold mountain rivulet
gathered like dew on felt blankets dragged
at dawn across ragged meadows: potent poteen
its illegality a sign of grace.
There are bars in Harlem & shebeens
in Donegal where customers happily pay more
for ’shine than anything w/ the government chop
a) because it’s probably cleaner and
b) because a little crime is itself psychotropic.