Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 77

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Ganges towels—

               Down, to drink

      Iced coffee with sweet evaporated milk

      Chinese coffee in small glasses, but

   Manger les Tripes No No—not eat

      that mouthful of snake-apple

   “give up desire for children”

   give up—this Prophecy—

   Everything drifted away in the dream

         even the stone buildings of Low Library,

         even the great dome of Columbia,

   even the great cities of Khmer—weak

   dancers at the portals of Angkor—

            where I saw the praying young

            head shaved peasant kneel at

            the foot of the stairs on a purple

                  straw mat,

   The cries of the boy dancers to the

      deliberate slow walking drum’s

            triple beat—Faunlike

      conscious asian steps on the

            stonewalk—My cries of Sex

               in bed echoed in their

                     lap-head grass eyes—

      Motorcyclists crying together

      entering the inner gates to

   the huge temple left behind by other

      Hindu dreamers—Kingdom

      Come or Kingdom Yore—

               reassurance from Buddha’s

               two arms, palms out

                  stept up to 13th Century

                     Sukothai feminacy

                        step forward—

I’ve read the 1910 Guidebook about them

      giant trees strangling the heavy palace

one altar full of little black bugs I never saw

                        before,

Broken or stray Lingams left over from another

         Imperial History, Goon squads with Moats,

Kingly reservoirs dried up, must’ve

been a big city full of wooden poles right

         near here, bamboo thatchments

            Chinese babies screaming at the bearded

            Han traveler—Palms together

               Salute I don’t care I don’t know

Buddha footprint repetition

Make that a dozen eggs—split em easy.

Make that pig—tied up on the running board

     between iron spokes, with a sharp

   wood stick set between his legs to

   carry him squeaking hoarsely protesting

      being man-handled to

      get his throat cut for chinese

         hordes—yes they eat

So much pork they’ll make a butcher shop

   restaurant of the whole white folks universe

   which should be owned by Negroes but is

      really haircut like Jews or

         Indian Mounties in

            Northern Canada

They been “throwing up radioactive dolphins

      in their icy bays—”?

There was a great ice-floe up north I

      saw holes in the sea crust, weir

      cold green brine slurping up, or mist

      on my fingernail—

I sat in a hammock and waited—a

      big hole appeared in the English

                  Channel

   To let the human beings thru, hordes

     from Italy into White Anglia

   England achange—Stonehenge who

   went back that far to worship the

                     Sun?

Lady Mort’s wormy intestines,

always passed the basement in the Louvre

with that Knight-at-Arms on a stone

   black table carried by hooded monks

      big as huge children getting

         stoned, tired—

It can can’t go on forever. I’m in the

   Jet Set, according to my memory,

   dissociated in Space from

   Bangkok to Calcutta 2 hours

         from Bangkok to Saigon the

            old elegance of the hitch thumb

               in Texas past the valley

                  town and the green river—

   Coughing in the airplane and my ears hurt

      a headache on the local slow

         airboat—over the great

         water, carrying the 10 tiny

            Buddhas of the negligent

            Mahant of Bodh Gaya—

      Jumping in and out of space—soon

faster than light I’ll go back to the

Graham Avenue past, and stare out the

      window happily at Paul R——

      passing down the 1942 Broadway—

   the gothic church, the alleys and

      Synagogues of Mea Shearim,

Jerusalem’s hated Walls—

I couldn’t get over to the Holy Side and weep

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