Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 28

Yellow, yellow flower, and

     flower of industry,

tough spiky ugly flower,

     flower nonetheless,

with the form of the great yellow

     Rose in your brain!

This is the flower of the World

San Jose, 1954

On Burroughs’ Work

The method must be purest meat

     and no symbolic dressing,

actual visions & actual prisons

     as seen then and now.

Prisons and visions presented

     with rare descriptions

corresponding exactly to those

     of Alcatraz and Rose.

A naked lunch is natural to us,

     we eat reality sandwiches.

But allegories are so much lettuce.

     Don’t hide the madness.

San Jose, 1954

Love Poem on Theme by Whitman

I’ll go into the bedroom silently and lie down between the bridegroom and the bride,

those bodies fallen from heaven stretched out waiting naked and restless,

arms resting over their eyes in the darkness,

bury my face in their shoulders and breasts, breathing their skin,

and stroke and kiss neck and mouth and make back be open and known,

legs raised up crook’d to receive, cock in the darkness driven tormented and attacking

roused up from hole to itching head,

bodies locked shuddering naked, hot hips and buttocks screwed into each other

and eyes, eyes glinting and charming, widening into looks and abandon,

and moans of movement, voices, hands in air, hands between thighs,

hands in moisture on softened hips, throbbing contraction of bellies

till the white come flow in the swirling sheets,

and the bride cry for forgiveness, and the groom be covered with tears of passion and compassion,

and I rise up from the bed replenished with last intimate gestures and kisses of farewell—

all before the mind wakes, behind shades and closed doors in a darkened house

where the inhabitants roam unsatisfied in the night,

nude ghosts seeking each other out in the silence.

San Jose, 1954

Drawing by Robert LaVigne, San Francisco, 1954

Over Kansas

Starting with eyeball kicks

on storefronts from bus window

on way to Oakland airport:

I am no ego

          these are themselves

stained gray wood and gilded

nigger glass and barberpole

          thass all.

But then, Kiss Me Again

in the dim brick lounge,

muted modern music.

Where shall I fly

not to be sad, my dear?

The other businessmen

bend heavily over armchairs

introducing women to cocktails

in fluorescent shadow—

gaiety of tables,

          gaiety of fat necks,

gaiety of departures,

gaiety of national business,

hands waving away jokes.

          I’m getting maudlin

on the soft rug watching,

mixed rye before me

on the little black table

whereon lieth my briefcase

containing market research

notes and blank paper—

that airplane ride to come

—or a barefaced pilgrimage

acrost imaginary plains

I never made afoot

into Kansas hallucination

and supernatural deliverance.

Later: Hawthorne mystic

waiting on the bench

composing his sermon also

with white bony fingers

bitten, with hometown gold

ring, in a blue serge suit

and barely visible blond

mustache on mental face,

blank-eyed: pitiful thin body

—what body may he love?—

My god! the soft beauty in

comparison—that football boy

in sunny yellow lovesuit

puzzling out his Xmas trip

death insurance by machine.

A virginal feeling again,

I’d be willing to die aloft now.

Can’t see outside in the dark,

real dreary strangers about,

and I’m unhappy flying away.

All this facility of travel

too superficial for the heart

I have for solitude.

          Nakedness

must come again—not sex,

but some naked isolation.

And down there’s Hollywood,

the starry world below

—expressing nakedness—

that craving, that glory

that applause—leisure, mind,

appetite for dreams, bodies,

travels: appetite for the real,

created by the mind

and kissed in coitus—

that craving, that melting!

Not even the human

imagination satisfies

the endless emptiness of the soul.

The West Coast behind me

for five days while I return

to ancient New York—