Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen. Страница 222

     of my eightieth birthday

and dreamed all the red

     mountain of mucus accumulated

     round me

Himalaya of suffering gelatinous

     slop my lifetime since 1976

when the right side my face

     drooped dead muscles

’cause an O.D. on Doctor’s Antibiotic

     inflamed my seventh cranial nerve inside

     its cheekbone

& left me dry-nosed with crooked

     smile & sneaky finger

Probing the irritation in the

     middle of my face

walking daydreaming in the school hall—

That White boy in a two-piece suit

     Hotel Astor bar on Times Square

I took home one night in 1946

     he fucked me naked in the ass

till I smelled brown excrement

     staining his cock

& tried to get up from bed to go to the

     toilet a minute

but he held me down & kept pumping

     at me, serious & said

“No I don’t want to stop I like it dirty

     like this.”

April 30, 1982

Maturity

Young I drank beer & vomited green bile

Older drank wine vomited blood red

Now I vomit air

July 1982

“Throw Out the Yellow Journalists of Bad Grammar & Terrible Manner”

for Anne Waldman

who report Ten Commandments & Golden Rule forgetting Thou shalt not bear false witness Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you

and say the Man got crucified for insulting the Sanhedrin at a Victory Dance in the bombed out madhouse in Beirut

Out! Out! The Mad Correspondent who headlined “Madman or Messiah? He Died of Bad Pork” the night of Tathagata’s Parinirvana

or the snide reporter with yellow teeth who asked the Big Question, “Kerouac couldn’t write, so what’d he do it for, money?”

or the Time stringer who asks “You could say it was a nostalgia Trip, wouldn’t you?”

as you fly off to the moon on your translucent sexual wings forever

and the wire-service fellow ex-Harvard, “This business about Secret Police, why would you care, successful Abstract Expressionist painter, got a grudge to work out on your parents?”

Out! Out! into the Buddhafields, among stars to wander forever, weightless without a headline, without thought, without newspapers to read by the light of the Galaxies.

August 10, 1982

GOING TO THE WORLD OF THE DEAD

Going to the World of the Dead

Going to the World of the Dead

Stalin & Hitler in Bed

Gone inside of your head

Anybody got any bread?

FBI papers to shred?

Eisenhower’s ghost on a sled

Going to the world of the dead

Everybody gives you good head

Millionaires of Detroit

Millionaires of Chicago

Millionaires of New York

Millionaires of Hollywood

Let go of your money Ho Ho Ho

Let go your Big Poetry Let go Let go

Let go of your cars  Ho Ho Ho

Let go your Cocaine  Ho Ho Ho

Let go your meat Let go Let go

Let go Movie Picture Ho Ho Ho

Let go your Diamonds  Ho Ho Ho

Let go your Dollars Let go yr Gold

Let go your Houses Your Bodies Let go

Let go your Souls  Ho Ho Ho

Let go God  Buddha Let go

Let go Allah  Let go Let go

Let go your Armies  Ho Ho Ho

Let go your war  Ho Ho Ho

Let go your Holy  Land Let go

Let go Palestine  P.L.O.

Jews Let go Let go Let go

Let go Israel  Ho Ho Ho

Let go Apocalypse Let go Let go

Let go Yr Bomb  Ho Ho Ho

Your Nuclear Bomb  Ho Ho Ho

Let go your Disaster your Death Let go

Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho

Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho

Millionaires of Mexico  Ho Ho Ho

Millionaires of Nicaragua Let go Let go

August 22, 1982, 6:30 P.M.

   Guasave-Las Mochis bus past soya & cotton fields where red flags flew over plastic huts squatting by highway side

Irritable Vegetable

Don’t send me letters  Don’t send me poems

Too busy sick to write poetry  Sky’s covered with gray clouds

Perfect for photography

I have brain metal fatigue  Knee jerk aesthetic tears

So you got a junk habit

So you need a recommendation to Purgatory U.

So you’re working with Fort Collins’ Nuclear Freeze Campaign

So you got hi blood pressure  Your big toe hurts

Someday you’ll die

So you sing Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare

          Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare

So you work on the top floor of the Empire State Building

You’re a jerk

You’re a hypocrite who eats hot dogs.

October 28, 1982

Thoughts Sitting Breathing II

When I sat in my bedroom for devotions, meditations & prayers

my Gomden on a sheepskin rug beside the mirrored closet,

white curtains morning sunlit, Friday Rocky Mountain News “Market Retreats in Busiest Day”