Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 80

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assembled armies vanish in

   their realms

Chinese American Bardo Thodols

   all the seventy hundred hells from

   Orleans to Algeria tremble

   with tender soldiers weeping

In Russia the young poets rise

   to kiss the soul of the revolution

   in Vietnam the body is burned

   to show the truth of only the

   body in Kremlin & White House

   the schemers draw back

   weeping from their schemes—

In my train seat I renounce

   my power, so that I do

   live I will die

Over for now the Vomit, cut

   up & pincers in the skull,

   fear of bones, grasp

   against man woman & babe.

Let the dragon of Death

   come forth from his

   picture in the whirling

   white clouds’ darkness

And suck dream brains &

   claim these lambs for his

   meat, and let him feed

   and be other than I

Till my turn comes and I

   enter that maw and change

   to a blind rock covered

   with misty ferns that

   I am not all now

but a universe of skin and breath

   & changing thought and

   burning hand & softened

   heart in the old bed of

   my skin From this single

   birth reborn that I am

   to be so—

My own Identity now nameless

   neither man nor dragon or

   God

but the dreaming Me full

   of physical rays’ tender

   red moons in my belly &

   Stars in my eyes circling

And the Sun the Sun the

   Sun my visible father

   making my body visible

   thru my eyes!

Tokyo, July 18, 1963

VII

KING OF MAY: AMERICA TO EUROPE

(1963–1965)

Nov. 23, 1963: Alone

Alone

in that same self where I always was

with Kennedy throat brain bloodied in Texas

the television continuous blinking two radar days

with Charlie muttering in his underwear strewn bedroom

with Neal running down the hall shouting about the racetrack

with Ann with her white boy’s ass silent under the Cupid thigh

with Lucille talking to herself, feeding the pregnant cat Alice

with Anne mourning her pockmarked womb & the hard muscled chest of her Lover

with David’s red wine fireplace casting shadows back to the Duchess farm-boy faggot of Wichita, on fire in mainstreet

with Lance with his crummy painting & leopard blue breast seeking to buy a motorcycle to crosscountry smiling & wan

with the manuscripts of nutritious Roselle the New York suicide on the round mahogany table near the kitchen

with Leroi Jones’ white-eyeballed war-cry unread, babbling in postmortem blue-sneer

with myself confused shock-fingertipt on the rented typewriter

with Alan with horses’ teeth metafysiks demurely insisting he was intensely so over coffee

with Glen o’ the lisp & Justin the olding bluejacketed man-love off in autos to Mexico cactus hope

with the fat lady with babe in the auto, feeding & grieving her adolescence’s backseat

with “Go to Hell” spoke on the streetcorner down hill in dark November night

with Judy’s blood in the furnace building up weeks before in campus-forest headlines, white-haired parents on Television

with Christopher running around in raincoats talking fast about his eyesockets seeing true streets of ’60s

with Jaime phoning collect from New York insulting his lonesome Cunt

with Nemmie insisting she was drunk & insulting on the couch & Marko with a bandaged tendon hanging in front of his gaptooth

with Hubert in beret & tweed beard absolutely sober on meth-freak newspaper splatter rorschach universe, drinking milk

with Jordan on the phone suave & retired jobbing invisible mandalas upstairs from the technicolor gutter

with Larry whitehaired chewing his teeth nodding in chairs weak & amiable lost the pointlessness

with the cat curled in white fur in the kitchen chair

with the transistor radio silent weeks on the typewriter desk

with the novels Happiness Bastard Sheeper from Tangier Wichita Mad Cub Yesterday Today & Tomorrow

with Now, with Fuck You, with Wild Dog Burning Bush Poetry Evergreen C Thieves Journal Soft Machine Genesis Renaissance Contact Kill Roy Etc.

with spaniards appearing at the doors to know what’s happening you wanna score or am I the sacred fear the meth-head fuzz the insect trust or delicious Jose

with Robert in his black jacket & tie deciding to make a point of his courtesy over the kitchen linoleum

with the Ghosts of Natalie & Peter & Krishna & Ram intoned on the shag rugs in the darkness of abandoned rooms

with Blue Grace in typescript stepping out of the taxi on the wall, and letters arriving from Malaga & Chicago

with me breaking off to rush in to the other room where Adam & Eve lie to get my hair spermy

Why Is God Love, Jack?

Because I lay my

      head on pillows,

Because I weep in the

      tombed studio

Because my heart

      sinks below my navel

because I have an

      old airy belly

   filled with soft

      sighing, and

   remembered breast

      sobs—or

   a hand’s touch makes

      tender—

Because I get scared—

Because I raise my

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