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Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 86


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86

This is human, and the cat that licks its ass

also hath short term to be furry specter

as I do woken by last thought leap

up from my pillow as the cat leaps up

on the desk chair to resolve its foot lick,

I lick my own mind observe the pipe

crawling up the brick wall, see picture

room-sides hung with nails emblem

abstract oil funny glyphs, girls

naked, letters & newspapers the World

Map colored over for emphasis somebody born—

my thoughts almost lost, I absorb the big

earth lamps hung from the ceiling for ready light,

hear the chirp of birds younger than I

and faster doomed, that jet plane whistle

hiss roar above roofs stronger winged

than any thin-jawed bird—the precise robot

for air flying’s stronger than me even,

tho’ metal fatigue may come before I’m 90—

I scratch my hairy skull and lean on elbow bone

as alarm clock Sat Morn rings next door

and wakes a sleeper body to face his day.

How amazing here, now this time newspaper

history, when earth planet they say revolves

around one sun that on outer Galaxy arm

revolves center so vast slow pinwheel

big this speckless invisible molecule I am

sits up solid motionless early dawn thinking

high in every direction photograph spiral nebula

photograph death BLANK photograph this wakened

brick minute bird-song pipe-flush elbow lean

in soft pillow to scribe the green sign Paradis.

June 1965

Who Be Kind To

Be kind to your self, it is only one

     and perishable

of many on the planet, thou art that

one that wishes a soft finger tracing the

     line of feeling from nipple to pubes—

one that wishes a tongue to kiss your armpit,

     a lip to kiss your cheek inside your

     whiteness thigh—

Be kind to yourself Harry, because unkindness

     comes when the body explodes

napalm cancer and the deathbed in Vietnam

is a strange place to dream of trees

     leaning over and angry American faces

grinning with sleepwalk terror over your

     last eye—

Be kind to yourself, because the bliss of your own

     kindness will flood the police tomorrow,

because the cow weeps in the field and the

     mouse weeps in the cat hole—

Be kind to this place, which is your present

     habitation, with derrick and radar tower

     and flower in the ancient brook—

Be kind to your neighbor who weeps

     solid tears on the television sofa,

he has no other home, and hears nothing

     but the hard voice of telephones

Click, buzz, switch channel and the inspired

     melodrama disappears

and he’s left alone for the night, he disappears

     in bed—

Be kind to your disappearing mother and

     father gazing out the terrace window

     as milk truck and hearse turn the corner

Be kind to the politician weeping in the galleries

     of Whitehall, Kremlin, White House

     Louvre and Phoenix City

aged, large nosed, angry, nervously dialing

     the bald voice box connected to

electrodes underground converging thru

     wires vaster than a kitten’s eye can see

on the mushroom shaped fear-lobe under

     the ear of Sleeping Dr. Einstein

crawling with worms, crawling with worms, crawling

     with worms the hour has come—

Sick, dissatisfied, unloved, the bulky

     foreheads of Captain Premier President

     Sir Comrade Fear!

Be kind to the fearful one at your side

     Who’s remembering the Lamentations

     of the bible

the prophecies of the Crucified Adam Son

     of all the porters and char men of

          Bell gravia—

Be kind to your self who weeps under

     the Moscow moon and hide your bliss hairs

     under raincoat and suede Levi’s—

For this is the joy to be born, the kindness

     received thru strange eyeglasses on

     a bus thru Kensington,

the finger touch of the Londoner on your thumb,

     that borrows light from your cigarette,

the morning smile at Newcastle Central

     station, when longhair Tom blond husband

     greets the bearded stranger of telephones—

the boom bom that bounces in the joyful

     bowels as the Liverpool Minstrels of

     Cavern Sink

raise up their joyful voices and guitars

86

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Ginsberg Allen - Collected Poems 1947-1997 Collected Poems 1947-1997
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