Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 78

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            where I was supposed to by History

            Laws got confused stamped

         in my passport, lost in the refugee

            Station at Calcutta. It

winds in and out of space and time the

         physical traveler—

Returning home at last, years later as

         prophesied, “Is this the way that

            I’m supposed to feel?”

with my nightmare underwear downtown

   in the gray haunted midnight street

            foggy Vancouver was winter

               then now Summer I’ll see

Thru the clear air the great Northern Mountains

   and aspire that lonely visible

   Space-peak before entering the

Moils of New Frisco San York Orleans

   Castro Bomb Shade Protest Shelter

Better write a letter warning against

   the

      Aswan Nile not seen

      Peking’s Jewelry feet not Come true

Surely I’ll live to take tea in a back yard

      in Kyoto and be calm!

“Make me ready—but not yet”

No I am not “ready” to die when that Choke

comes I’m afraid I’ll scream and

         embarrass everybody—go out

like a coward yellow fear I done left no

         Louis babies behind me Rebuke in

         Those 70 year eyes and I speak of Murder

            blessing him?—Alas

to be kinder except I was kind to the

         Man on park bench after the Nite Club

            who “schemed murders” as an

               analyst for air forces.

They need conscience-stricken analysts, I’m

      a conscious-stricken panelist on this

      university show.

               Forward March, guessing

      which bullet which airplane which nausea

      be the dreadful doomy last

            begun while I’m still

conscious—I’ll go down and get a cold coffee at

                     Midnight

Siemreap, Cambodia, June 10, 1963

The Change: Kyoto–Tokyo Express

I

Black Magicians

Come home: the pink meat image

   black yellow image with

   ten fingers and two eyes

is gigantic already: the black

   curly pubic hair, the

   blind hollow stomach,

the silent soft open vagina

   rare womb of new birth

cock lone and happy to be home

                  again

touched by hands by mouths,

   by hairy lips—

Close the portals of the festival?

Open the portals to what Is,

The mattress covered with sheets,

   soft pillows of skin,

long soft hair and delicate

   palms along the buttocks

   timidly touching,

waiting for a sign, a throb

   softness of balls, rough

   nipples alone in the dark

   met by a weird finger;

Tears allright, and laughter

   allright

I am that I am—

               Closed off from this

The schemes begin, roulette,

   brainwaves, bony dice,

   Stroboscope motorcycles

   Stereoscopic Scaly

      Serpents winding thru

         cloud spaces of

            what is not—

“… convoluted, lunging upon

a pismire, a conflagration, a—”

II

Shit! Intestines boiling in sand fire

   creep yellow brain cold sweat

   earth unbalanced vomit thru

   tears, snot ganglia buzzing

   the Electric Snake rising hypnotic

   shuffling metal-eyed coils

   whirling rings within wheels

   from asshole up the spine

   Acid in the throat the chest

   a knot trembling Swallow back

the black furry ball of the great

   Fear

Oh!

The serpent in my bed pitiful

   crawling unwanted babes of

   snake covered with veins and pores

   breathing heavy frightened love

   metallic Bethlehem out the window

   the lost, the lost hungry

   ghosts here alive trapped

   in carpet rooms How can I

   be sent to Hell

   with my skin and blood

Oh I remember myself so

Gasping, staring at dawn over

   lower Manhattan the bridges

   covered with rust, the slime

   in my mouth & ass, sucking

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