Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 37
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and his middle torso, narrow and made of iron, soft at my back,
his fiery firm belly warming me while I trembled—
His belly of fists and starvation, his belly a thousand girls kissed in Colorado
his belly of rocks thrown over Denver roofs, prowess of jumping and fists, his stomach of solitudes,
His belly of burning iron and jails affectionate to my side:
I began to tremble, he pulled me in closer with his arm, and hugged me long and close
my soul melted, secrecy departed, I became
Thenceforth open to his nature as a flower in the shining sun.
And below his belly, in white underwear, tight between my buttocks,
His own loins against me soft, nestling in comradeship, put forth & pressed into me, open to my awareness,
slowly began to grow, signal me further and deeper affection, sexual tenderness.
So gentle the man, so sweet the moment, so kind the thighs that nuzzled against me smooth-skinned powerful, warm by my legs
That my body shudders and trembles with happiness, remembering—
His hand opened up on my belly, his palms and fingers flat against my skin
I fell to him, and turned, shifting, put my face on his arm resting,
my chest against his, he helped me to turn, and held me closer
his arm at my back beneath my head, and arm at my buttocks tender holding me in,
our bellies together nestling, loins touched together, pressing and knowledgeable each other’s hardness, and mine stuck out of my underwear.
Then I pressed in closer and drew my leg up between his, and he lay half on me with his thighs and bedded me down close, caressing
and moved together pressing his cock to my thigh and mine to his
slowly, and slowly began a love match that continues in my imagination to this day a full decade.
Thus I met Neal & thus we felt each other’s flesh and owned each other bodies and souls.
So then as I lay on his breast with my arms clasped around his neck and his cheek against mine,
I put my hand down to feel his great back for the first time, jaws and pectorals of steel at my fingers,
closer and stiller, down the silken iron back to his waist, the whole of his torso now open
my hand at his waist trembling, waited delaying and under the elastic of his briefs,
I first touched the smooth mount of his rock buttocks, silken in power, rounded in animal fucking and bodily nights over nurses and schoolgirls,
O ass of long solitudes in stolen cars, and solitudes on curbs, musing fist in cheek,
Ass of a thousand farewells, ass of youth, youth’s lovers,
Ass of a thousand lonely craps in gas stations ass of great painful secrecies of the years
O ass of mystery and night! ass of gymnasiums and muscular pants
ass of high schools and masturbation ass of lone delight, ass of mankind, so beautiful and hollow, dowry of Mind and Angels,
Ass of hero, Neal Cassady, I had at my hand: my fingers traced the curve to the bottom of his thighs.
I raised my thighs and stripped down my shorts to my knees, and bent to push them off
and he raised me up from his chest, and pulled down his pants the same,
humble and meek and obedient to his mood our silence,
and naked at long last with angel & greek & athlete & hero and brother and boy of my dreams
I lay with my hair intermixed with his, he asking me “What shall we do now?”
—And confessed, years later, he thinking I was not a queer at first to please me & serve me, to blow me and make me come, maybe or if I were queer, that’s what I’d likely want of a dumb bastard like him.
But I made my first mistake, and made him then and there my master, and bowed my head, and holding his buttock
Took up his hard-on and held it, feeling it throb and pressing my own at his knee & breathing showed him I needed him, cock, for my dreams of insatiety & lone love.
—And I lie here naked in the dark, dreaming
Arctic, August 10, 1956
Ready to Roll
To Mexico! To Mexico! Down the dovegray highway, past Atomic City police, past the fiery border to dream cantinas!
Standing on the sunny metropolitan plateau, stranger prince on the street, dollars in my pocket, alone, free—genitals and thighs and buttocks under skin and leather.
Music! Taxis! Marijuana in the slums! Ancient sexy parks! Continental boulevards in America! Modern downtown for a dollar! Dungarees in Les Ambassadeurs! And here’s a hard brown cock for a quarter!
Drunkenness! and the long night walks down brown streets, eyes, windows, buses, interior charnels behind the Cathedral, lost squares and hungry tacos, a calf’s head cooked and picked apart for meat,
and the blackened inner roofs and tents of the Thieves’ Market, street crisscrossed on street, a naked hipster labyrinth, stealing, pausing, loitering, noticing drums, purchasing nothing
but a broken aluminum coffeepot with a doll’s arm sticking up out of the mouth.
Haha! what do I want? Change of solitude, spectre of drunkenness in paranoiac taxicabs, fear and gaiety of unknown lovers
coming around the empty streetcorner dark-eyed and watching me make it there alone under the new hip moon.
San Francisco, October 1956
IV
REALITY SANDWICHES: EUROPE! EUROPE!
(1957–1959)
POEM Rocket
Old moon my eyes are new moon with human footprint
no longer Romeo Sadface in drunken river Loony Pierre eyebrow, goof moon
O possible moon in Heaven we get to first of ageless constellations of names as God is possible as All is possible so we’ll reach another life.
Moon politicians earth weeping and warring in eternity
tho not one star disturbed by screaming madmen from Hollywood
oil tycoons from Romania making secret deals with flabby green Plutonians—
slave camps on Saturn Cuban revolutions on Mars?
Old life and new side by side, will Catholic Church find Christ on Jupiter
Mohammed rave in Uranus will Buddha be acceptable on the stolid planets
or will we find Zoroastrian temples flowering on Neptune?
What monstrous new ecclesiastical design on the entire universe unfolds in the dying Pope’s brain?
Scientist alone is true poet he gives us the moon
he promises the stars he’ll make us a new universe if it comes to that
O Einstein I should have sent you my flaming mss.
O Einstein I should have pilgrimaged to your white hair!
O fellow travelers I write you a poem in Amsterdam in the Cosmos
where Spinoza ground his magic lenses long ago
I write you a poem long ago
already my feet are washed in death
Here I am naked without identity
with no more body than the fine black tracery of pen mark on soft paper as star talks to star multiple beams of sunlight all the same myriad thought
in one fold of the universe where Whitman was
and Blake and Shelley saw Milton dwelling as in a starry temple
brooding in his blindness seeing all—
Now at last I can speak to you beloved brothers of an unknown moon
real Yous squatting in whatever form amidst Platonic Vapors of Eternity
I am another Star.
Will you eat my poems or read them
or gaze with aluminum blind plates on sunless pages?
do you dream or translate & accept data with indifferent droopings of antennae?
do I make sense to your flowery green receptor eyesockets? do you have visions of God?
Which way will the sunflower turn surrounded by millions of suns?
This is my rocket my personal rocket I send up my message Beyond
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