Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen. Страница 238

still rubbery muscular,

     unashamed wide open for joy

But another 20 years who knows,

     old folks got troubles everywhere—

necks, prostates, stomachs, joints—

     Hope the old hole stays young

     till death, relax

March 15, 1986, 1:00 P.M.

Spot Anger

“Drive all blames into one”

Allen when you get angry you got two choices—

Konk your head on the floor with words

Bang the kitchen table, slap taxicab doors,

          insult hotel toilets

Snarl into National microphones, sneer at the

          speedfreak closet girl syringiste—

Why not more subtle, grab your anger by the wings

and bag it in the garbage pail

Look around by the venetian blind

It’s only you in the universe’s kitchen—

A subtler wave of the hand, patience—

Say, I don’t want this Saturn trip, no thanks,

Domo arigato how nice but I’ll not entertain

          Dr. Frankenstein till Monday

These pants don’t fit, may I borrow your library card—

Breathe your typhoonic tantrum in, exhale a gentle

          breath of Ginsberg out the kitchen window

wafting a Springtime Fairy feather-slight

          raising a big iron pipe

to konk Mr. Temper Tantrum on his green bull noodle & fly off

over Manhattan weaving silver laughter

          round skyscraper spires.

April 24, 1986, 6:00 A.M.

London Dream Doors

On London’s Tavern’s wooden table, been reading Kit Smart—

God sent him to sea for pearls—till eyes heavy must sleep—

So went upstairs to my boardinghouse room yet the tall dark

boy that lived across the hall’d just got under covers

in a high Captain’s bed, but left his door wide open,

his room furnished mahogany, oak crowded to the closets—

I gazed alas he was handsome, older than my choice of flesh

smooth boyhood, the lad had dark eyes, long limbs

a little hair on legs and chest, a little beard and smile—

I dozed, woke and returned from the bog, again passing

his room at stairtop— He lay in bed eyes open, I paused—

then turned aside thru his door, an embrace before going

to sleep in my own solid room I’d rented, first night

in this odd town, I’d come to teach a few strangers Love

& Poetry— So cast myself on his chest for a hug goodnight,

a second’s surprise like father-son sweet dreams—

He clasped arms around me, held tight, I stopped a second—

More than I’d hoped for! Refreshing friendliness!—

lay there a minute, his warmth remained, spontaneous—

Grateful hugged his chest & quickly kissed his neck

& face, haste before I must rise— Yet no need to go

so with right leg I pushed the door in, closed,

we were alone. He pulled me on top of him, held each other,

I passed my hand along his side down to his thigh

he shivered, hands on my back, we began to sweat

under covers, his skin like slippery meat, the heat

of our embrace familiar, companionable surprise, I was

to be loved by his strong form, how soon hug his middle?

touch his flaccid glans? My own already thick with pleasure—

chest to his chest, legs intertwined, hard hair felt

uncomfortable under my hand—moved my palm across

his slimy stomach, sweat not unpleasant, close heat

amazed us both, secret freedom in his antique room,

invitation to explore night’s pleasure, fresh conscience,

muscled thoughts, hearts glowing astounded happiness a brief

8 hours in the dark— What to do? I kissed his solar plexus

& belly above loins, he sighed and breathed on my neck in back,

affectionate clasped to his breast, arm round my waist— eyes

closed I lay still, head under white muslin in dim light,

quilt set aside for the heat—

                         The door opened suddenly!

“You’ll have to pay for the night’s furniture” announced

the landlord. “You’ll have to pay for the sink water and extra

covers! We rent or sell!” He fell silent. Hadn’t he noticed

my bulk under thin sheet-cloth? But next instant he was

gone downstairs to write up the bill, door left ajar.

“Into my closet!” my new friend whispered urgent, “the first door!”—

The knob on his mirrored armoire stuck, wouldn’t open,

same horrific closet of old play-movie nightmare blackouts—I saw

my own room entrance across the hall—“I’ll go in there, seconds

to hide,” fast before the old fellow returns! Naked trailing

sheet & blanket I crossed the hall stealthy, closed my bedroom

door behind, just time enough? Alas bed sheets blocked

the door jamb, clogged the landing, pull them through, I strained,

dragged awkward blankets inside in a trice and woke under

springtime sheets and linen cover alone, East Twelfth Street,

last night with Bengali Marathi Urdu poets, Museum of Modern Art.