Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 41

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as bestial newsprint photograph we shared once busted, me scared of black eye cops Manhattan

you blissful nothing to lose digging the live detectives perhaps even offering God a cigarette

I’ll answer for you Huncke I never could before—admiring your natural tact and charm and irony—now sad Sing Sing

whatever inept Queens burglary you goofed again let God judge his sacred case

rather than mustached Time Judge steal a dirty photograph of your soul—I knew you when—

& you loved me better than my lawyer who wanted a frightened rat for official thousand buck mousetrap, no doubt, no doubt—

Shine in Cell free behind bars Immortal soul why not

Hell the machine can’t sentence anyone except itself, have I to do that?

It gives jail I give you poem, bars last twenty years rust in a hundred

my handwork remains when prisons fall because the hand is compassion

Brilliant bitter Morphy stalking Los Angeles after his ghost boy

haunting basements in Denver with his Montmartre black beard

Charming ladies’ man for gigolo purpose I heard, great cat for Shakespearean sex

first poet suicide I knew we sat on park benches I watched him despair his forehead star

my elder asked serious advice, gentle man! international queer pride humbled to pre-death cigarette gun fright

His love a young blond demon of broken army, his nemesis his own mad cock for the kids sardonic ass

his dream mouthful of white prick trembling in his head—woke a bullet in his side days later in Passaic

last moments gasping stricken blood under stars coughing intestines & lighted highway cars flowing past his eyes into the dark.

Joe Army’s beauty forgotten that night, pain cops nightmare, drunken AWOL through Detroit

phonecalls angels backrooms & courtsmartial lawyers trains a kaleidoscope of instant change,

shrinkage of soul, bearded dead dreams, all Balzac read in jail,

late disappearance from the city hides metamorphosis to humancy loathing that deathscene.

Phil Black hung in Tombs, horsefaced junky, dreamy strange murderer, forgotten pistol three buck holdup, stoolpigeon suicide I save him from the grave

Iroquois his indian head red cock intelligence buried in miserous solitaire politics

his narcissistic blond haired hooknosed pride, I made him once he groaned and came

Later stranger chill made me tremble, I loved him hopeless years,

he’s hid in Seattle consumed by lesbian hypochondrias’ stealthy communion, green bullfighters envy age,

unless I save him from the grave, but he won’t talk no more

much less fall in my arms or any mental bed forgiveness before we climb Olympics death

Leroi returning to bughouse monkishness & drear stinky soupdish his fatness fright & suffering mind insult a repetitious void

“I have done my best to make saintliness as uninteresting as possible”

and has succeeded, when did I last write or receive ambiguous message joky hangdog prophetic spade

Joan in dreams bent forward smiling asks news of the living

as in life the same sad tolerance, no skullbone judge of drunks

asking whereabouts sending regards from Mexican paradise garden where life & death are one

as if a postcard from eternity sent with human hand, wish I could see you now, it’s happening as should

whatever we really need, we ought get, don’t blame yourself—a photograph on reverse the rare tomb smile where trees grow crooked energy above grass—

yet died early-old teeth gone, tequila bottle in hand, an infantile paralysis limp, lacklove, the worst—

I dreamed such vision of her secret in my frisco bed, heart can live the rest by my, or her, best desire—love

Bill King black haired sorry drunken wop lawyer, woke up trembling in Connecticut DT’s among cows

Him there to recover I guess, but made his way back to New York shuddering to fuck stiff Time girls,

Death charm in person, sexual childlike radiant pain

See his face in old photographs & bandaged naked wrist leaning melancholy contemplating the camera

awkward face now calm, kind to me in cafeteria one sober morn looking for jobs at breakfast,

but mostly smiled at roof edge midnight, all 1920s elegance reincarnate in black vomit bestriven suit

& screechy records Mahagonny airplane crash, lushed young man of 1940s hated his fairy woe, came on Lizzie’s belly or Ansen’s sock in desperate orgies of music canopener

God but I loved his murdered face when he talked with a mouthful of rain in 14th St subway—

where he fell skull broken underground last, head crushed by the radiant wheel on iron track at Astor Place

Farewell dear Bill that’s done, you’re gone, we all go into the ancient void drunkard mouth

you made it too soon, here was more to say, & more to drink, but now too late to sit and talk

all night toward the eternity you sought so well so fearlessly in so much alcoholic pain with so much fire behind eyes with such

sweet manner in your heart that never won a happy fate thru what bleak years you saw your red skull burning deathshead in the U.S. sun

Mix living dead, Neal Cassady, old hero of travel love alyosha idiot seek-train poems, what crown you wear at last

what fameless reward for patience & pain, what golden whore come secret from the clouds, what has god bidden for your coffin and heart someday,

what will give back your famous arm, your happy catholic boy eye, orphan torso shining in poolhall & library, intimate spermworks with old girls downtown rockabelly energy,

what Paradise built high enough to hold your desire, deep enough to encompass your cock kindnesses, soft for your children to pray, 10 foot iron wheels you fell under?

what American heaven receive you? Christ allow sufferings then will he allow you His opening tinbarrel Iowa light as Jerusalem?

O Neal that life end we together on knees know harvest of prayers together,

Paradise autos ascend to the moon no illusion, short time earth life Bibles bear our eyes, make it dear baby

Stay with me Angel now in Shroud of railroad lost bet racetrack broke leg

oblivion

till I get the shining Word or you the cockless cock to lay in my ass hope mental radiance—

It’s all lost we fall without glory to empty tomb comedown to nothing but evil thinkless worm, but we know better

merely by old heart hope, or merely Desire, or merely the love whisper breathed in your ear on lawns of long gone by Denver,

merely by the night you leaned on my body & held me for All & called me to Adore what I wondered at as child age ten I

wandered by hopeless green hedges, when you sat under alley balcony garbagestair, ache in our breasts Futurity

meeting Love for Love, so wept as child now man I weep for true end,

Save from the grave! O Neal I love you I bring this Lamb into the middle of the world happily—O tenderness—to see you again—O tenderness—to recognize you in the middle of Time.

Paris, Spring 1958

At Apollinaire’s Grave

“… voici le temps

Ou l’on connaitra l’avenir

Sans mourir de connaissance”

I

I visited Pere Lachaise to look for the remains of Apollinaire

the day the U.S. President appeared in France for the grand conference of heads of state

so let it be the airport at blue Orly a springtime clarity in the air over Paris

Eisenhower winging in from his American graveyard

and over the froggy graves at Pere Lachaise an illusory mist as thick as marijuana smoke

Peter Orlovsky and I walked softly thru Pere Lachaise we both knew we would die

and so held temporary hands tenderly in a citylike miniature eternity

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