Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen (книги серии онлайн .TXT) 📗
Fate tells big lies.
… And the big kind Dreamer
is on the nod again
God sleeps!
He’s in for a big surprise
one of his dreams is going to come true
He’ll get the answer too
He’ll get the answer too
Just a flash in the cosmic pan
—just an instant when there
might have been a light
had there been any pan
to reflect it—
—we can lie on the bed and imagine
ourselves away—
I’m afraid to stop breathing—
first the pain in the
body
suffocation, then
the Death.
V
The pain of gas flowing into the eye
the crooked tooth-drills hanging like gallows
on a miniature Jupiter
Thru the open window, spring frozen
in the young tree
the repeated bong of the doorbell
opening elsewhere
I’ve come back to the same medicine
cabinet in the universe—Bong,
I know I’m more real than the dentist!
a serious embarrassment, having grasped to one Self
though admittedly I’d seen it disappear
over and over
TRACKLESS TRANSIT CORPORATION
runs a bus thru Bloomfield
… blossoming
in the bottom of an unborn daisy
it will vanish into the Whist-not
History will keep repeating
itself forever like the woman
in the image on the Dutch Cleanser box
A way out of the mirror
was found by the image
that realized its existence
was only …
a stranger completely like myself
A way out for ever! has not been found
to enter the ground whence the images
rise, and repeat themselves
The sadness is, that every leaf
has fallen before—
At my feet an ant crawling
in the broken asphalt—
and this exact white lollipop stick
& twig of branch
lain next to that soggy match
near those few grassblades …
and I’ve sat here and took this note
before and tried to remember—
and now I do—remember what
I’m writing as I write it down
I know when I’m going to stop
I know when I’m forgetting and
know when I
take a jump and change—
Impossible
to do anything but right now in all
the universe at once—
which Art does, and
the Insight of Laughing Gas?
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha
and the monk laughs
at the moon—
and everybody 10 miles round
in all directions wonders
why—he’s just reminding
them—of what—of
the moon, the old dumb moon
of a million lives.
New York, Fall 1958
Funny Death
The music of the spheres—that ends in Silence
The Void is a grand piano
a million melodies
one after another
silence in between
rather an interruption
of the silence
Tho the music’s beautiful
Bong Bong Bon———
gnob
gnob
gno———
THE circle of forms
Shrinks
and disappears
back into the piano.
New York, September 25, 1958
My Sad Self
To Frank O’Hara
Sometimes when my eyes are red
I go up on top of the RCA Building
and gaze at my world, Manhattan—
my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,
lofts, beds, coldwater flats
—on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,
its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men
walking the size of specks of wool—
Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,
sun go down over New Jersey where I was born
& Paterson where I played with ants—
my later loves on 15th Street,
my greater loves of Lower East Side,
