Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 9

sow the eye

bust my dust again

Woe the worm

work the wise

dig my spade the same

Stop the hoax

what’s the hex

where’s the wake

how’s the hicks

take my golden beam

Rob my locker

lick my rocks

leap my cock in school

Rack my lacks

lark my looks

jump right up my hole

Whore my door

beat my boor

eat my snake of fool

Craze my hair

bare my poor

asshole shorn of wool

Say my oops

ope my shell

bite my naked nut

Roll my bones

ring my bell

call my worm to sup

Pope my parts

pop my pot

raise my daisy up

Poke my pap

pit my plum

let my gap be shut

Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac & Neal Cassady

New York, Spring-Fall 1949

The Shrouded Stranger

Bare skin is my wrinkled sack

When hot Apollo humps my back

When Jack Frost grabs me in these rags

I wrap my legs with burlap bags

My flesh is cinder my face is snow

I walk the railroad to and fro

When city streets are black and dead

The railroad embankment is my bed

I sup my soup from old tin cans

And take my sweets from little hands

In Tiger Alley near the jail

I steal away from the garbage pail

In darkest night where none can see

Down in the bowels of the factory

I sneak barefoot upon stone

Come and hear the old man groan

I hide and wait like a naked child

Under the bridge my heart goes wild

I scream at a fire on the river bank

I give my body to an old gas tank

I dream that I have burning hair

Boiled arms that claw the air

The torso of an iron king

And on my back a broken wing

Who’ll go out whoring into the night

On the eyeless road in the skinny moonlight

Maid or dowd or athlete proud

May wanton with me in the shroud

Who’ll come lie down in the dark with me

Belly to belly and knee to knee

Who’ll look into my hooded eye

Who’ll lie down under my darkened thigh?

New York, 1949–1951

Stanzas: Written at Night in Radio City

If money made the mind more sane,

Or money mellowed in the bowel

The hunger beyond hunger’s pain,

Or money choked the mortal growl

And made the groaner grin again,

Or did the laughing lamb embolden

To loll where has the lion lain,

I’d go make money and be golden.

Nor sex will salve the sickened soul,

Which has its holy goal an hour,

Holds to heart the golden pole,

But cannot save the silver shower,

Nor heal the sorry parts to whole.

Love is creeping under cover,

Where it hides its sleepy dole,

Else I were like any lover.

Many souls get lost at sea,

Others slave upon a stone:

Engines are not eyes to me,

Inside buildings I see bone.

Some from city to city flee,

Famous labors make them lie;

I cheat on that machinery,

Down in Arden I will die.

Art is short, nor style is sure:

Though words our virgin thoughts betray,

Time ravishes that thought most pure,

Which those who know, know anyway;

For if our daughter should endure,

When once we can no more complain,

Men take our beauty for a whore,

And like a whore, to entertain.

The city’s hipper slickers shine,

Up in the attic with the bats;

The higher Chinamen, supine,

Wear a dragon in their hats:

He who seeks a secret sign

In a daze or sicker doze

Blows the flower superfine;

Not a poppy is a rose.

If fame were not a fickle charm,

There were far more famous men:

May boys amaze the world to arm,

Yet their charms are changed again,

And fearful heroes turn to harm;

But the shambles is a sham.

A few angels on a farm

Fare more fancy with their lamb.

No more of this too pretty talk,