Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 47

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     Fate tells big lies.

     … And the big kind Dreamer

is on the nod again

          God sleeps!

He’s in for a big surprise

one of his dreams is going to come true

     He’ll get the answer too

     He’ll get the answer too

Just a flash in the cosmic pan

—just an instant when there

          might have been a light

     had there been any pan

               to reflect it—

—we can lie on the bed and imagine

     ourselves away—

I’m afraid to stop breathing—

     first the pain in the

          body

suffocation, then

          the Death.

V

The pain of gas flowing into the eye

the crooked tooth-drills hanging like gallows

          on a miniature Jupiter

Thru the open window, spring frozen

          in the young tree

the repeated bong of the doorbell

          opening elsewhere

I’ve come back to the same medicine

     cabinet in the universe—Bong,

I know I’m more real than the dentist!

a serious embarrassment, having grasped to one Self

though admittedly I’d seen it disappear

          over and over

TRACKLESS TRANSIT CORPORATION

runs a bus thru Bloomfield

     … blossoming

in the bottom of an unborn daisy

it will vanish into the Whist-not

History will keep repeating

itself forever like the woman

in the image on the Dutch Cleanser box

A way out of the mirror

     was found by the image

that realized its existence

     was only …

a stranger completely like myself

A way out for ever! has not been found

to enter the ground whence the images

     rise, and repeat themselves

The sadness is, that every leaf

          has fallen before—

At my feet an ant crawling

          in the broken asphalt—

and this exact white lollipop stick

          & twig of branch

lain next to that soggy match

     near those few grassblades …

and I’ve sat here and took this note

     before and tried to remember—

and now I do—remember what

I’m writing as I write it down

I know when I’m going to stop

I know when I’m forgetting and

know when I

          take a jump and change—

               Impossible

to do anything but right now in all

     the universe at once—

          which Art does, and

the Insight of Laughing Gas?

Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha

and the monk laughs

at the moon—

and everybody 10 miles round

in all directions wonders

why—he’s just reminding

them—of what—of

the moon, the old dumb moon

of a million lives.

New York, Fall 1958

Funny Death

The music of the spheres—that ends in Silence

The Void is a grand piano

                    a million melodies

               one after another

          silence in between

                    rather an interruption

                         of the silence

                    Tho the music’s beautiful

Bong Bong Bon———

                    gnob

                         gnob

                              gno———

THE circle of forms

Shrinks

     and disappears

back into the piano.

New York, September 25, 1958

My Sad Self

To Frank O’Hara

Sometimes when my eyes are red

I go up on top of the RCA Building

     and gaze at my world, Manhattan—

          my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,

               lofts, beds, coldwater flats

—on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,

     its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men

          walking the size of specks of wool—

Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,

     sun go down over New Jersey where I was born

          & Paterson where I played with ants—

my later loves on 15th Street,

     my greater loves of Lower East Side,

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