At some tiny level there’s spontaneous disintegration of what’s on my mind until I find myself in a “half-life” where speech still matters. 
By way of a PS on bohemians, Schuyler (ravaged of course) was more of one than Ginsberg, unravaged. And Brainard (ravaged then unravaged then ravaged) was a big boho. Auden? Think so. Jim Brodey, a boho. Even less narrowly, Harry Matthews.