Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 64
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already begun not bombs but sit
down strikes on top submarines
on sidewalks nearby City Hall—
How many families control the States?
Ignore the Government,
send your protest to Clint Murchison.
The Indians won their case with Judge McFate
Peyote safe in Arizona—
In my room the sick junky
shivers on the 7th day
Tearful, reborn to the Winter.
Che Guevara has a big cock
Castro’s balls are pink—
The Ghost of John F. Dulles hangs
over America like dirty linen
draped over the wintry red sunset,
Fumes of Unconscious Gas
emanate from his corpse
& hypnotize the Egyptian intellectuals—
He grinds his teeth in horror & crosses his
thigh bones over his skull
Dust flows out of his asshole
his hands are full of bacteria
The worm is at his eye—
He’s declaring counterrevolutions in the Worm-world,
my cat threw him up last
Thursday.
& Forrestal flew out his window like an Eagle—
America’s spending money to overthrow the Man.
Who are the rulers of the earth?
New York, January 6, 1961
“Southern Cult Composite: The Staten Island Massacre” by Harry Smith, 1984.
Journal Night Thoughts
Television Was a Baby Crawling Toward That Deathchamber
It is here, the long Awaited bleap-blast light that Speaks one red tongue like Politician, but happy its own govt.,
either we blow ourselves up now and die, like the old tribe of man, arguing among neutrons, spit on India, fuck Tibet, stick up America, clobber Moscow, die Baltic, have your tuberculosis in Arabia, wink not in Enkidu’s reverie—
it’s a long Train of Associations stopped for gas in the desert & looking for drink of old-time H2O—
made up of molecules, it ends being innocent as Lafcadio afraid to get up & cook his bacon—
I prophesy: the Pigs won’t mind! I prophesy: Death will be old folks home!
I prophesy: Chango will prophesy on national Broadcasting System,
I prophesy, we will all prophesy to each other & I give thee happy tidings Robert Lowell and Jeanette MacDonald—
Dusty moonlight, Starbeam riding its own flute, soul revealed in the scribble, an ounce of looks, an Invisible Seeing, Hope, The Vanisher betokening Eternity
one finger raised warning above his gold eyeglasses—and Mozart playing giddy-note an hour on the Marxist gramophone—
All Be—let the Kabbalah star be formed of perfect circles in a room of 1950 unhappiness where Myrna Loy gets lost—
The Bardo Thodol extends in the millions of black jello for every dying Mechanic—We will make Colossal movies—
We will be a great Tantric Mogul & starify a new Hollywood with our unimaginable Flop—Great Paranoia!
The Family presents, your Corpse Hour—attended by myriad flies—hyperactive Commentators freed at their most bestial—sneering literary— perhaps a captive & loan Square
caught hiding behind a dummy-univac in the obscurest Morgues of Hearst —wherever—no more possible—
Only remains, a photo of a riverswollen hand in black and white, arm covered by aged burlap to the wrist—
skin peeling from the empty fingers—; yet discovered by a mad Negro high on tea & solitary enough himself to notice a Fate—
therefore, with camera remembered and passed along by hand mail roaring Jet toward Chicago, Big Table empty this morning,
nothing but an old frog-looking editor worried about his Aesthetics,
That’s life Kulchur ’61—retired to New York to invent Morse Code & found a great yellow Telegraph—
Merry Xmas Paul carroll and irving Rose in Thrall—give up thy song & flower to any passing Millennium!
I am the One, you are the One, we are the One, A. Hitler’s One as well as fast as his Many heavenly Jews are reborn,
many a being with a nose—and many with none but an ear somewhere next to a Yelling Star—
I myself saw the sunflower-monkeys of the Moon—spending their dear play-money electricity in a homemade tape-record minute of cartoony high Sound—
goodbye Farewell repeated by Wagner Immortal in many a gladdened expanding mid-europe Hour
that I’ll be hearing forever if the world I go to’s Music, Yes good to be stuck thru Eternity on that aching Liebestod Note
which has been playing out there always for me, whoever can hear enough to write it down for a day to let men fiddle in space, blow a temporary brass tuba or wave a stick at a physical orchestra
and remember the Wagner-music in his own titty-head Consciousness—ah yes that’s the message—
That’s what I came here to compose, what I knocked off my life to Inscribe on my gray metal typewriter,
borrowed from somebody’s lover’s mother got it from Welfare, all interconnected and gracious a bunch of Murderers
as possible in this Kalpa of Hungry blood-drunkard Ghosts—We all have to eat—us Beings
gnaw bones, suck marrow, drink living white milk from heavenly Breasts or from bucktoothed negress or wolf-cow.
The sperm bodies wriggle in pools of vagina, in Yin, that reality we must have spasmed our Beings upon—
The brothers and sisters die if we live, the Myriads Invisible squeak reptile complaint
on Memory’s tail which us pterodactyl-buzzard-dove-descended two foot mammal-born Geek-souls almost Forget—
Grab—a cock—any eye—bright hair—All Memory & All Eternity now, reborn as One—
no loss to those—the Peacock spreads its cosmic-eye Magnificat-feathered tail over its forgotten Ass—
The being roars its own name in the Radio, the Bomb goes off its twenty years ago,
I hear thy music O my mystery, my Father in myself, my mother in my eye, brother in my hand, sister-in-honey on my own Poetry’s Tongue, my Hallelujah Way beyond all mortal inherited Heavens, O my own blind ancient Love-in-mind!
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