Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 109
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Metropolis by night,
By air, Man’s home filamented black panorama-skin
brilliant below my chair & book—
Impossible to be Mayor! know all details!?
Alleyed with light,
lampless yards
blazing compounds factoried cube-like,
prisons shining brilliant!
Suburban moviehouses’ tiny glow
by the Delicatessen corner,
Vast hoards of men Negro’d in the gloom,
gnashing their teeth for miles.
Tears in attick’s blackness
Swastikas worshipped in the White Urb,
clean teeth bared in Reptilian smiles—
Newsphoto Vision: M. L. King Attacked by Rocks—
Dark Land,
Sparse networks of Serpent electricity
Dotted between towers
Signaling to themselves beneath the moon—
*
Living like beasts,
befouling our own nests,
Smoke & Steam, broken glass & beer cans,
Auto exhaust—
Civilization shit littering the streets,
Fine black mist over apartments
watercourses running with oil
fish fellows dead—
June 1966
Cleveland, the Flats
To D. A. Levy
Into the Flats, thru Cleveland’s
Steeple trees illuminated
Lake Bridge Light college cars speed round white lines
thru Green Lights, past downtown’s pale Hotels
Triple towers smokestacked steaming in blue nite
buildings in water, the shimmer of that
factory in the blackness
a little tinkle RR engine bell
See the orange bedroom shack
under the viaduct
crisscrossed with 1930s raindrops Tragedies
extrapolating railroads overhead—
Asphalt road bumps—
that blue flame burning? Industry!
Bom! Bom! Mahadev! Microphone Icecream!
Battle Conditions! Come in Towers!
Buster Keaton died today, folksongs in the iron smell
of Republic Steel, hish—!
American children crossing Jones Laughlin’s yellow
bridge saying o how
Beautiful, and Work ye Tarriers Work
in the fiery hill on the Press,
under black smoke—
Oh yes look, the lake mill lights—
Like an organpipe that smokestack
Hart Crane died under—
Black Tank Skeleton lifted over railroads’ orange lamps,
illustrious robots stretched with wires,
smoking organpipes of God in the Cleveland Flats
Open hearth furnaces light up sky,
all night gas station
Polack Stokers running out of money
“Bearded short Amish, square-faced & incestuous,
big-eared buck-toothed women, like cross-eyed cats”
Steelton downhill, that smell What is it?
The guys wander up & down their gas refining Cracker
climbing ladders in white light—
Butane smells—Creosote—
“Looka that gas-cloud we just passed thru—”
Twin heavy smokestacks there—
Space age children wandering like lost orphans
thru the landscape filled with iron—
their grandfathers sweated over forges!
now all they know is all them rockets they see silvery
Quivering on Television—
I don’t know any more.
Move ye wheels move
for Independent Towel—
Dakota Hotel, old Red brick apartment,
up Carnegie to University Circle,
Om Om Om Sa Ra Wa Buddha Dakini Yea,
Benzo Wani Yea Benzo Bero
Tsani Yea Hum Hum Hum
Phat Phat Phat Svaha!
June 1966
To the Body
Enthroned in plastic, shrouded in wool, diamond crowned,
transported in aluminum, shoe’d in synthetic rubber, fed by asparagus,
adored by all animals,
ear-lull’d by electric mantra rock, chemical roses acrid in the nose,
observant of large-nostril’d air factories, every crack of the skin kissed by
beloved grandmothers,
so man woman child are tender meat become consciously genital with the
shudder & blush of substance
adorned with hair at crotch and brain—beard on lion and youth by fireside.
June 15, 1966
Iron Horse
I
This is the creature I am!
Sittin in little roomette Santa Fe train
naked abed, bright afternoon sun light
leaking below closed window-blind
White hair at chest, ridge
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