Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 185

If Robert Maheu knew

          who killed Kennedy

would he tell Santos Trafficante?

If Frank Sinatra had to grow his own

          food, would he learn

how to grind pinon nuts?

If Sammy Davis had to find original water

would he lead a million old ladies laughing

     round Mt. Charleston to the Sheepshead Mountains

               in migratory cycle?

Does Englebert know the name of

the mountains he sings in?

When gas and water dry up

will wild mustangs

     inhabit the Hilton Arcade?

Will the 130-billion-dollared-Pentagon guard

     the radioactive waste dump at Beatty

          for the whole Platonic Year?

Tell all the generals and Maitre D’s

to read the bronze inscriptions

          under the astronomical flagpole at Hoover Dam.

Will Franklin Delano Roosevelt

     Bugsy Siegel and Buddha

all lose their shirts at Las Vegas?

Yeah! because they don’t know how to gamble

     like mustangs and desert lizards.

September 23, 1979

To the Punks of Dawlish

Your electric hair’s beautiful gold as Blake’s Glad Day boy,

you raise your arms for industrial crucifixion

You get 45 Pounds a week on the Production line

and 15 goes to taxes, Mrs. Thatcher’s nuclear womb swells

The Iron Lady devours your powers & hours your pounds and pride &

scatters radioactive urine on your mushroom dotted sheep fields.

“Against the Bourgeois!” you raise your lip & dandy costume

Against the Money Establishment you pogo to garage bands

After humorous slavery in th’ electronic factory

put silver pins in your nose, gold rings in your ears

talk to the Professor on the Plymouth train, asking

“Marijuana rots your brain like it says in the papers, insists on the telly?”

Cursed tragic kids rocking in a rail car on the Cornwall Coastline, Luck to your dancing revolution!

With bodies beautiful as the gold blond lads’ of Oxford—

Your rage is more elegant than most purse-lipped considerations of Cambridge,

your mouths more full of slang & kisses than tea-sipping wits of Eton whispering over scones & clotted cream

conspiring to govern your music tax your body labor & chasten your impudent speech with an Official Secrets Act.

Cornwall, November 18, 1979

Some Love

After 53 years

I still cry tears

I still fall in love

I still improve

My art with a kiss

My heart with bliss

My hands massage

Kids from the garage

Kids from the grave

Kids who slave

At study or labor

Still show me favor

How can I complain

When love like rain

Falls all over the land

On my head on my hand

On my breast on my shoes

Kisses arrive like foreign news

Mouths suck my cock

Boys wish me good luck

How long can I last

Such love gone past

So much to come

Till I get dumb

Rarer and rarer

Boys give me favor

Older and older

Love grows bolder

Sweeter and sweeter

Wrinkled like water

My skin still trembles

My fingers nimble

Siegen, December 12, 1979

Maybe Love

Maybe love will come

cause I am not so dumb

Tonight it fills my heart

heavy sad apart

from one or two I fancy

now I’m an old fairy.

This is hard to say

I’ve come to be this way

thru many loves of youth

that taught me most heart truth

Now I come by myself

in my hand a potbellied elf

It’s not the most romantic

dream to be so frantic

for young men’s bodies,

a fine sugar daddy

blest respected known

but left to bed alone.

How come love came to end

flaccid, how pretend

desires I have used

Four decades as I cruised

from bed to bar to book

Shamefaced like a crook

Stealing here & there

pricks & buttocks bare

by accident, by circumstance

Naivete or horny chance

stray truth or famous lie,

How come I came to die?

Love dies, body dies, the mind

keeps groping blind

half hearted full of lust

to wet the silken dust

of men that hold me dear

but won’t sleep with me near.

This morning’s cigarette

This morning’s sweet regret

habit of many years

wake me to old fears

Under the living sun