Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 105
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“God created all the races … and it is only men who tried to mix em up, and when they mix em up that’s when the trouble starts.”
No place like Booneville though, buddy—
End of the Great Plains,
late afternoon sun, rusty leaves on trees
One of these days those boots will walk all over you
We the People—shelling the Viet Cong
“Inflation has swept in upon us … Johnson administration rather than a prudent Budget… discipline the American people rather than discipline itself…”
I lay in bed naked in the guest room,
my mouth found his cock,
my hand under his behind
Till the whole body stiffened
and sperm choked my throat.
Michele, John Lennon & Paul McCartney
wooing the decade
gaps from the 30s returned
It’s the only words I know that
You ll understand…
Old earth rolling mile after mile patient
The ground
I roll on
the ground
the music soars above
The ground electric arguments
ray over
The ground dotted with signs for Dave’s Eat Eat
scarred by highways, eaten by voices
Pete’s Cafe—
Golden land in setting sun
Missouri River icy brown, black cows,
grass tufts standing up hairy on hills
mirrored to heaven—
Spring one month to come.
Sea shells on the ground strata’d by the turnpike—
Old ocean evaporated away,
Mastodons stomped, dinosaurs groaned
when these brown hillocks were
leafy steam-green-swamp-think Marsh nations
before the Birch Society was a gleam in the
Pterodactyl’s eye
—Aeroplane sinking groundward
toward my white Volkswagen prehistoric
white cockroach under high tension wires—
my face, Rasputin in car mirror.
Funky barn, black hills approaching Fulton
where Churchill rang down the Curtain
on Consciousness
and set a chill which overspread the world
one icy day in Missouri
not far from the Ozarks—
Provincial ears heard the Spenglerian Iron
Terror Pronouncement
Magnificent Language, they said,
for country ears—
St Louis calling St Louis calling
Twenty years ago,
Thirty years ago
the Burroughs School
Pink cheeked Kenney with fine blond hair,
his almond eyes aristocrat
gazed,
Morphy teaching English & Rimbaud
at midnight to the fauns
W.S.B. leather cheeked, sardonic
waiting for change of consciousness,
unnamed in those days—
coffee, vodka, night for needles,
young bodies
beautiful unknown to themselves
running around St Louis
on a Friday evening
getting drunk in awe & honor of the
terrific future these
red dry trees at sunset go thru two decades later
They could’ve seen
the animal branches, wrinkled to the sky
& known the gnarled prophecy to come,
if they’d opened their eyes outa the whiskey-haze
in Mississippi riverfront bars
and gone into the country with a knapsack to
smell the ground.
Oh grandfather maple and elm!
Antique leafy old oak of Kingdom City in the purple light
come down, year after year,
to the tune
of mellow pianos.
Salute, silent wise ones,
Cranking powers of the ground,
awkward arms of knowledge
reaching blind above the gas station
by the high TV antennae
Stay silent, ugly Teachers,
let me & the Radio yell about Vietnam and mustard gas.
“Torture … tear gas legitimate weapons …
Worries language beyond my comprehension” the radio
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