Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen. Страница 140
Smog veils Maya, paranoia walks great cities in blue suits with guns,
—are all these billion grassblades safe?
My stomach’s bitter, city haste & money loss—
Hawkeye stronger than thought! Horsefly and bee!
St. John’s wort nodding yellow bells at the sun! eyes close in your presence, I
lie in your soft green bed, watch light thru red lid-skin, language persistent as birdwarble in my brain.
Independence Day! the Cow’s deep moo’s an Aum!
1969
In a Moonlit Hermit’s Cabin
Watching the White Image, electric moon, white mist drifting over woods
St. John’s Wort & Hawkeye wet with chance Yarrow on the green hillside
“D’ya want your Airline Transport Pilot to smoke grass? Want yr moonmen to smoke loco weed?”
What Comedy’s this Epic! The lamb lands on the Alcohol Sea—Deep voices
“A Good batch of Data”—The hours of Man’s first landing on the moon—
One and a Half Million starv’d in Biafra—Football players broadcast cornflakes—
TV mentioned America as much as Man—Brillo offers you free Moon-Map —2 labels—
And CBS repeats Man-Epic—Now here again is Walter Cronkite,
“How easy these words … a shiver down the old spine …
Russia soundly beaten! China one Fifth of Mankind, no word broadcast …”
The Queen watched the moon-landing at Windsor Castle—
Pulling a fast one on Hypnosis at Disneyland, the Kerchief-headed Crowd
Waving to the TV Camera—Ersatz Moon—
“No place gives you history today except the Moon”—
Running behind time entering Space Suits—
And a Moon-in at Central Sheep Meadow—
Western Electric’s solemn moment!
And rain in the woods drums on the old cabin!
I want! I want! a ladder from the depths of the forest night to the silvery moon-wink—
A flag on the reporter’s space-suit shoulder—
Peter Groaning & Cursing in bed, relieved of the lunatic burden at last—
’Tis Tranquillity base where the Tragedy will settle the Eve.
Alert for solar flares, clock ticks, static from Antennae—swift as death.
I didn’t think we’d see this Night.
Plant the flag and you’re doomed! Life a dream—slumber in eyes of woods,
Antennae scraping the ceiling. Static & Rain!
Saw the earth in Dream age 37, half cloud-wrapped, from a balcony in outer-space—
Melies—giddiness—picture tube gaga—
“Men land on Sun!” decennial sentences—
Announcers going goofy muttering “142—”
Alone in space: Dump Pressure in the LEM!
Hare Krishna! Lift m’ Dorje on the kitchen table!
No Science Fiction expected this Globe-Eye Consciousness
Simultaneous with opening a hatch on Heaven.
A moth in the Deja Vu!
This is the instant—open the hatch—every second is dust in the hourglass —Hatch open!
The Virus will grow green slime reptiles in sixty centuries,
& gobble up their fathers as we ate up God—
Imagine dying Tonight! Closing the eyes on the man in the Moon!
Sighing away forever… everyone got sleepy… On the moon porch—
A 38 year old human American standing on the surface of the moon—
Footprint on the Charcoal dust—stepped out
and it’s the old familiar Moon, as undersea or mountaintop, a place—
“Very pretty on the Moon!” oh, ’twere Solid Gold—
Voices calling “Houston to Moon”—Two “Americans” on the moon!
Beautiful view, bouncing the surface—“one quarter of the world denied these pix by their rulers”!
Setting up the flag!
Cherry Valley, July Moon Day 1969
Rain-wet asphalt heat, garbage curbed cans overflowing
I hauled down lifeless mattresses to sidewalk refuse-piles,
old rugs stept on from Paterson to Lower East Side filled with bed-bugs,
gray pillows, couch seats treasured from the street laid back on the street
—out, to hear Murder-tale, 3rd Street cyclists attacked tonite—
Bopping along in rain, Chaos fallen over City roofs,
shrouds of chemical vapour drifting over building-tops—
Get the Times, Nixon says peace reflected from the Moon,
but I found no boy body to sleep with all night on pavements 3 A.M. home in sweating drizzle—
Those mattresses soggy lying by full five garbagepails—
Barbara, Maretta, Peter Steven Rosebud slept on these Pillows years ago,
forgotten names, also made love to me, I had these mattresses four years on my floor—
Gerard, Jimmy many months, even blond Gordon later,
Paul with the beautiful big cock, that teenage boy that lived in Pennsylvania,
forgotten numbers, young dream loves and lovers, earthly bellies—
many strong youths with eyes closed, come sighing and helping me come—
Desires already forgotten, tender persons used and kissed goodbye
and all the times I came to myself alone in the dark dreaming of Neal or Billy Budd
—nameless angels of half-life—heart beating & eyes weeping for lovely phantoms—
Back from the Gem Spa, into the hallway, a glance behind
and sudden farewell to the bedbug-ridden mattresses piled soggy in dark rain.
August 2, 1969
Death on All Fronts
“The Planet Is Finished”
A new moon looks down on our sick sweet planet
Orion’s chased the Immovable Bear halfway across the sky
from winter to winter. I wake, earlier in bed, fly corpses
cover gas lit sheets, my head aches, left temple
brain fibre throbbing for Death I Created on all Fronts.
Poisoned rats in the Chickenhouse and myriad lice
Sprayed with white arsenics filtering to the brook, City Cockroaches
stomped on Country kitchen floors. No babies for me.
Cut earth boys & girl hordes by half & breathe free
say Revolutionary expert Computers:
Half the blue globe’s germ population’s more than enough,
keep the cloudy lung from stinking pneumonia.
I called in Exterminator Who soaked the Wall floor with
bed-bug death-oil: Who’ll soak my brain with death-oil?
I wake before dawn, dreading my wooden possessions,
my gnostic books, my loud mouth, old loves silent, charms
turned to image money, my body sexless fat, Father dying,
Earth Cities poisoned at war, my art hopeless—
Mind fragmented—and still abstract—Pain in
left temple living death—
Cherry Valley, September 26, 1969
Memory Gardens
covered with yellow leaves
in morning rain
—Quel Deluge
he threw up his hands
& wrote the Universe dont exist