Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen (книги серии онлайн .TXT) 📗

One and not One moves on its own ways

I cannot follow

And I have made an image of the monster here

and I will make another

it feels like Cryptozoids

it creeps and undulates beneath the sea

it is coming to take over the city

it invades beneath every Consciousness

it is delicate as the Universe

it makes me vomit

because I am afraid I will miss its appearance

it appears anyway

it appears anyway in the mirror

it washes out of the mirror like the sea

it is myriad undulations

it washes out of the mirror and drowns the beholder

it drowns the world when it drowns the world

it drowns in itself

it floats outward like a corpse filled with music

the noise of war in its head

a babe laugh in its belly

a scream of agony in the dark sea

a smile on the lips of a blind statue

it was there

it was not mine

I wanted to use it for myself

to be heroic

but it is not for sale to this consciousness

it goes its own way forever

it will complete all creatures

it will be the radio of the future

it will hear itself in time

it wants a rest

it is tired of hearing and seeing itself

it wants another form another victim

it wants me

it gives me good reason

it gives me reason to exist

it gives me endless answers

a consciousness to be separate and a consciousness to see

I am beckoned to be One or the other, to say I am both and be neither

it can take care of itself without me

it is Both Answerless (it answers not to that name)

it hummeth on the electric typewriter

it types a fragmentary word which is

a fragmentary word,

MANDALA

Gods dance on their own bodies

New flowers open forgetting Death

Celestial eyes beyond the heartbreak of illusion

I see the gay Creator

Bands rise up in anthem to the worlds

Flags and banners waving in transcendence

One image in the end remains myriad-eyed in Eternity

This is the Work! This is the Knowledge! This is the End of man!

Palo Alto, June 2, 1959

I Beg You Come Back & Be Cheerful

Tonite I got hi in the window of my apartment

          chair at 3 A.M.

gazing at Blue incandescent torches

          bright-lit street below

clotted shadows looming on a new laid pave

—as last week Medieval rabbiz

          plodded thru the brown raw

          dirt turned over—sticks

               & cans

     and tired ladies sitting on spanish

          garbage pails—in the deadly heat

               —one month ago

          the fire hydrants were awash—

     the sun at 3 P.M. today in a haze—

now all dark outside, a cat crosses

          the street silently—I meow

and she looks up, and passes a

          pile of rubble on the way

     to a golden shining garbage pail

          (phosphor in the night

               & alley stink)

          (or door-can mash)

     —Thinking America is a chaos

Police clog the streets with their anxiety,

     Prowl cars creak & halt:

Today a woman, 20, slapped her brother

          playing with his infant bricks—

     toying with a huge rock—

          ‘Don’t do that now! the cops! the cops!’

     And there was no cop there—

          I looked around shoulder—

     a pile of crap in the opposite direction.

          Tear gas! Dynamite! Mustaches!

I’ll grow a beard and carry lovely

     bombs,

I will destroy the world, slip in between

          the cracks of death

     And change the Universe—Ha!

I have the secret, I carry

          Subversive salami in

               my ragged briefcase

“Garlic, Poverty, a will to Heaven,”

     a strange dream in my meat:

Radiant clouds, I have heard God’s voice in

          my sleep, or Blake’s awake, or my own or

the dream of a delicatessen of snorting cows

          and bellowing pigs—

               The chop of a knife

          a finger severed in my brain—

               a few deaths I know—

          O brothers of the Laurel

Is the world real?

               Is the Laurel

a joke or a crown of thorns?—

Fast, pass

up the ass

Down I go

Cometh Woe

—the street outside,

     me spying on New York.

The dark truck passes snarling &

     vibrating deep—

Leaving us flying like birds into Time

          —eyes and car headlights—

          The shrinkage of emptiness

in the Nebulae

These Galaxies cross like pinwheels & they pass

          like gas—

What forests are born.

September 15, 1959

Psalm IV

Now I’ll record my secret vision, impossible sight of the face of God:

It was no dream, I lay broad waking on a fabulous couch in Harlem

having masturbated for no love, and read half naked an open book of Blake on my lap

Lo & behold! I was thoughtless and turned a page and gazed on the living Sun-flower

and heard a voice, it was Blake’s, reciting in earthen measure: