Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 67

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many strange magicians in buildings listening inside their own heads—or clouds over Manhattan Bridge—or strained thru music messages to —I Am from the central One! Come

blow the Cosmic Horn to waken every Tiglon & Clown sentience throughout the vasting circus—in the Name of God pick up the telephone call Networks announcing Suchness That—

I Am mutter a million old Gods in their beards, that had been sleeping at evening radios—cackling in their Larynx—Talking to myself again

said the Messiah turning a dial to remember his last broadcast—I scare myself, I eat my hand, I swallow my own head, I stink in the inevitable bathroom of death this Being requires—O Widen the Area of Consciousness! O

set my Throne in Space, I rise to sit in the midst of the Starry Visible!—Calling All Beings! in dirt from the ant to the most frightened Prophet that ever clomb tower to vision planets

crowded in one vast space ship toward Andromeda—That all lone soul in Iowa or Hark-land join the Lone, set forth, walk naked like a Hebrew king, enter the human cities and speak free,

at last the Man-God come that hears all Phantasy behind the matter-babble in his ear, and walks out of his Cosmic Dream into the cosmic street

open mouth to the First Consciousness—God’s woke up now, you Seraphim, call men with trumpet microphone & telegraph, hail every sleepwalker with Holy Name,

Life is waving, the cosmos is sending a message to itself, its image is reproduced endlessly over TV

over the radio the babble of Hitler’s and Claudette Colbert’s voices got mixed up in the bathroom radiator

Hello hello are you the Telephone the Operator’s singing we are the daughters of the universe

get everybody on the line at once plug in all being ears by laudspeaker, newspeak, secret message,

handwritten electronic impulse traveling along rays electric spiderweb

magnetisms shuddering on one note We We We, mustached disc jockeys trembling in mantric excitement, flowery patterns bursting over the broken couch,

drapes falling to the floor in St. John Perse’s penthouse, Portugal’s water is running in all the faucets on the SS Santa Maria,

chopping machines descend on the pre-dawn tabloid, the wire services are hysterical and send too much message,

they’re waiting to bam out the Armageddon, millions of rats reported in China, smoke billows out New York’s hospital furnace smokestack,

I am writing millions of letters a year, I correspond with hopeful messengers in Detroit, I am taking drugs

and leap at my postman for more correspondence, Man is leaving the earth in a rocket ship,

there is a mutation of the race, we are no longer human beings, we are one being, we are being connected to itself,

it makes me crosseyed to think how, the mass media assemble themselves like congolese Ants for a purpose

in the massive clay mound an undiscovered huge Queen is born, Africa wakes to redeem the old Cosmos,

I am masturbating in my bed, I dreamed a new Stranger touched my heart with his eye,

he hides in a sidestreet loft in Hoboken, the heavens have covered East Second Street with Snow,

all day I walk in the wilderness over white carpets of City, we are redeeming ourself, I am born,

the Messiah woke in the Universe, I announce the New Nation, in every mind, take power over the dead creation,

I am naked in New York, a star breaks thru the blue skull of the sky out the window,

I seize the tablets of the Law, the spectral Buddha and the spectral Christ turn to a stick of shit in the void, a fearful Idea,

I take the crown of the Idea and place it on my head, and sit a King beside the reptile Devas of my Karma—

Eye in every forehead sleeping waxy & the light gone inward—to dream of fearful Jaweh or the Atom Bomb—

All these eternal spirits to be wakened, all these bodies touched and healed, all these lacklove

suffering the Hate, dumbed under rainbows of Creation, O Man the means of Heaven are at hand, thy rocks & my rocks are nothing,

the identity of the Moon is the identity of the flower-thief, I and the Police are one in revolutionary Numbness!

Yawk, Mercy The Octopus, it’s IT cometh over the Void & makes whistle its lonemouthed Flute You-me forever—

Stop Arguing, Cosmos, I give up so I be, I receive a happy letter from Ray Bremser exiled from home in New Jersey jail—

Clocks are abuilding for a thousand years, ticking behind metalloidesque

electronico-clankered industries smokeless in silent mind city—

Dawn of the Ages! Man thy Alarm rings thru sweet myriad mornings in every desperate-carred street! Saints wait in each metropolis

for Message to Assassinate the old idea, that 20,000 yr old eye-god Man thought was Being Secret mystery,

unbearable Judge above, God alien handless tongueless to poor man, who’ll scream for mercy on his deathbed—Oh I saw that black

Octopus Death, with supernatural antennae spikes raying Awful waves at my consciousness, huge blind Ball invisible behind the rooms in the universe—a not-a-man—a no-one—Nobodaddy—

Omnipotent Telepath more visionary than my own Prophetics & Memories —Reptile-sentient shimmer-feel-hole Here,

Dense Soullessness wiser than Time, the Eater-Darkness hungry for All—but must wait till I leave my body to enter that

One Mind nebula to my recollection—Implacable, my soul dared not die,

Shrank back from the leprous door-mind in its breast, touch Him and the hand’s destroyed,

Death God in the End, before the Timeworld of creation—I mean some kind of monster from another dimension is eating Beings of our own Cosmos—

I saw him try to make me leave my corpse-illusion Allen, myth movie world come to celluloid-end,

I screamed seeing myself in reels of death my consciousness a cinematic toy played once in faded attick by man-already-forgotten

His orphan starhood inked from Space, the movie industry itself blot up its History & all wracked myriad Epics, Space wiped itself out,

lost in a wall-crack dream itself had once disappearing—maybe trailing endless comet-long trackless thru what unwonted dimensions it keeps dreaming existence can die inside of—vanish this Cosmos of Stars I am turning to bones in—

That much illusion, and what’s visions but visions, and these words filled Methedrine—I have a backache & 2 telegrams come midnight from messengers that cry to plug in the Electrode Ear to

my skull downstreet, & hear what they got to say, big lives like trees of Cancer in Bronx & Long Island—Telephones connect the voids island blissy darkness scattered in many manmind—

New York, February 1961

This Form of Life Needs Sex

I will have to accept women

          if I want to continue the race,

     kiss breasts, accept

     strange hairy lips behind

                    buttocks,

Look in questioning womanly eyes

          answer soft cheeks,

bury my loins in the hang of pearplum

          fat tissue

               I had abhorred

before I give godspasm Babe leap

     forward thru death—

Between me and oblivion an unknown

               woman stands;

Not the Muse but living meat-phantom,

a mystery scary as my fanged god

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