Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 63

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          hands pulled into the darkness by a frightful Hand

               —the worm’s blind wriggle, cut—the plough

                         is God himself

What ball of monster darkness from before the universe come

     back to visit me with blind command!

          and I can blank out this consciousness, escape back

                    to New York love, and will

               Poor pitiable Christ afraid of the foretold Cross,

                    Never to die—

     Escape, but not forever—the Presence will come, the hour

          will come, a strange truth enter the universe, death

               show its Being as before

and I’ll despair that I forgot! forgot! my fate return,

                    tho die of it—

What’s sacred when the Thing is all the universe?

     creeps to every soul like a vampire-organ singing behind

          moonlit clouds—poor being come squat

     under bearded stars in a dark field in Peru

               to drop my load—I’ll die in horror that I die!

Not dams or pyramids but death, and we to prepare for that

          nakedness, poor bones sucked dry by His long mouth

               of ants and wind, & our souls murdered to prepare His Perfection!

The moment’s come, He’s made His will revealed forever

     and no flight into old Being further than the stars will not

          find terminal in the same dark swaying port of unbearable music

No refuge in Myself, which is on fire

          or in the World which is His also to bomb & Devour!

               Recognize His might! Loose hold

          of my hands—my frightened skull

                    —for I had chose self-love—

     my eyes, my nose, my face, my cock, my soul—and now

                    the faceless Destroyer!

               A billion doors to the same new Being!

          The universe turns inside out to devour me!

and the mighty burst of music comes from out the inhuman door—

June 1960

The End

I am I, old Father Fisheye that begat the ocean, the worm at my own ear, the serpent turning around a tree,

I sit in the mind of the oak and hide in the rose, I know if any wake up, none but my death,

come to me bodies, come to me prophecies, come all foreboding, come spirits and visions,

I receive all, I’ll die of cancer, I enter the coffin forever, I close my eye, I disappear,

I fall on myself in winter snow, I roll in a great wheel through rain, I watch fuckers in convulsion,

car screech, furies groaning their basso music, memory fading in the brain, men imitating dogs,

I delight in a woman’s belly, youth stretching his breasts and thighs to sex, the cock sprung inward

gassing its seed on the lips of Yin, the beasts dance in Siam, they sing opera in Moscow,

my boys yearn at dusk on stoops, I enter New York, I play my jazz on a Chicago Harpsichord,

Love that bore me I bear back to my Origin with no loss, I float over the vomiter

thrilled with my deathlessness, thrilled with this endlessness I dice and bury,

come Poet shut up eat my word, and taste my mouth in your ear.

New York, 1960

Man’s glory

Shines on top of Mountains where Grey Stone monastery sits & blinks at the sky

There in Tangier in Soco Chico there God’s Grammar Arabic jabbers shoe-shine Poverty beneath the ultra silent mosque

There in Venice glittering in Canal Grande in Front of San Giorgio Maggiore Gondola’d to cream the fabulous tourist—

There in Mexico in th’ Archaeologic Museum where Coatlique Aztec Golgotha-head Goddess clasps her snakes & skulls & grins—

There over Asia where the desolate white Stupas blast into the Buddhic Dome and the Mandala of the stars shines down—

All over Europe where the masses weep & faint in Wooden Trains—

By Florence, by the Windmills, all the churches singing together

“We in the mountains and downtown Pray that America return to the

Lamb”—

And the Great Boom of the Cathedral at Seville, Granada groaning,

Barcelona chanting out the Crannies of Sagrada Familia

Long horns of Montpellier, Milan screaming and San Marco rocking in Venice like a great golden calliope

“America, America, under the elms in parks of Illinois, the Anger, the

Anger, Beware!”

August 1960

Fragment: The Names II

Bill Burroughs in Tangiers slowly transfiguring into Sanctity season after season no God save impersonal solitude

Mad Sheila shaking her head on a couch in Frisco, soft tear face half a year, 60 sleeping pills & blue asphyxiation—

Connie much too drunk, slapped in my apartment by plainclothesmen & strangled in an alley by a lonesome hood

Natalie redhaired in bathrobe on the roof listing sinners’ names for Government, police scared her to fire escape, her body on the pavement in the newspapers—

Elise trembling by the phonograph with Bible in her hand, The Book of the Dead in her family wall reading her thoughts aloud, and her poor unmarried body broken on that ground Manhattan Heights

Bremser running state to state, trapped Hoboken, Vera Cruz rat tat tat Poetry defense, frameup reformatory he thinks the cops are real

One Harry Honig carried a laughing gas mask & bomb ten years back in NY the Kosmos exploded for

John Hoffman too ecstasy of the black sun, Mexican peyote or infantile paralysis

Iris suicide, delicate ships of paint fading into brown ocean universe—her longheaded junk-delicate girl’s penmanship of Orient small cats on folded knees

New York & West coast grim as the A bomb deathwatch is set

Nobody knows the way out of Time trap maybe Burroughs maybe Jack in

Florida drinking with Joe McCarthy’s ghost, grieving death of mother who isn’t dead, scribing notebooks won’t be read till cold war’s lost by all

1960/1961?

VI

PLANET NEWS: TO EUROPE AND ASIA

(1961–1963)

Who Will Take Over the Universe?

A bitter cold winter night

conspirators at cafe tables

          discussing mystic jails

The Revolution in America

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