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

vast Customs agencies searching books—who Advises what book where—who invented what’s dirty? The Pope? Baruch?—tender Genet burned by middleaged vice Officers

sent out by The Automatic Sourface mongers whatever bad news he can high up from imaginary Empires name Scripps-Howard—just more drear opinions—Damn that World Telegram was Glad Henry Miller’s depression Cancerbook not read to sad eyeglass Joe messenger to Grocer

in Manhattan, or candystore emperor Hersh Silverman in Bayonne, dreaming of telling the Truth, but his Karma is selling jellybeans & being kind,

The Customs police denyd him his Burroughs they defecated on de Sade, they jack’d off, and tortured his copy of Sodom with Nitric Acid in a backroom furnace house at Treasury Bureau, pouring Fire on the soul of Rochester,

Warlocks, Black magicians burning and cursing the Love-Books, Jack be damned, casting spells from the shores of America on the inland cities, lacklove-curses on our Eyes which read genital poetry—

O deserts of deprivation for some high school’d gang, lone Cleveland that delayed its books of Awe, Chicago struggling to read its magazines, police and papers yapping over grimy gossip skyscraped from some sulphurous yellow cloud drift in from archtank hot factories make nebulous explosives near Detroit—smudge got on Corso’s Rosy Page—

US Postmaster, first class sexfiend his disguise told everyone to open letters stop the photographic fucks & verbal suckeries & lickings of the asshole by tongues meant but for poison glue on envelopes Report this privileged communication to Yours Truly We The National Police—We serve you once a day—you humanical meat creep-hood—

and yearly the national furnace burned much book, 2,000,000 pieces mail, one decade unread propaganda from Vietnam & Chinese mag harangues, Engelian

dialectics handmade in Gobi for proud export to top hat & tails Old Bones in his penthouse on a skyscraper in Manhattan, laconic on two phones that rang thru the nets of money over earth, as he barked his orders to Formosa for more spies, abhorred all Cuba sugar from concourse with Stately stomachs—

That’s when I began vomiting my paranoia when Old National Skullface the invisible sixheaded billionaire began brainwashing my stomach with strange feelers in the Journal American—the penis of billionaires depositing professional semen in my ear, Fulton Lewis coming with strychnine jizzum in his voice making an evil suggestion that entered my mouth

while I was sitting there gaping in wild dubiety & astound on my peaceful couch, he said to all the taxidrivers and schoolteachers in brokendown old Blakean America

that Julius and Ethel Rosenberg smelled bad & shd die, he sent to kill them with personal electricity, his power station is the spirit of generation leaving him thru his asshole by Error, that very electric entered Ethel’s eye

and his tongue is the prick of a devil he don’t even know, a magic capitalist ghosting it on the lam after the Everett Massacre—fucks a Newscaster in the mouth every time he gets on the Microphone—

and those ghost jizzums started my stomach trouble with capital punishment, Ike chose to make an Artificial Death for them poor spies—if they were spying on me? who cares?—Ike disturbed the balance of the cosmos by his stroke-head deathshake, “NO”

It was a big electrocution in every paper and mass medium, Television was a baby crawling toward that deathchamber

Later quiz shows prepared the way for egghead omelet, I was rotten, I was the egghead that spoiled the last supper, they made me vomit more —whole programs of halfeaten comedians sliming out my Newark Labor Leaders’ assholes

They used to wash them in the ’30s with Young Politics Ideas, I was too young to smell anything but my own secret mind, I didn’t even know assholes basic to Modern Democracy—What can we teach our negroes now?

That they are Negroes, that I am thy Jew & thou my white Goy & him Chinese?—They think they’re Arab Macrocosms now!

My uncle thinks his Truthcloud’s Jewish—thinks his Name is Nose-smell-Newark 5 decades—& that’s all except there’s Gentile Images of mirrory vast Universe—

and Chinese Microcosms too, a race of spade microcosms apart, like jewish truth clouds & Goyishe Nameless Vasts

But I am the Intolerant One Gasbag from the Morgue & Void, Garbler of all Conceptions that myope my eye & is Uncle Sam asleep in the Funeral Home—?

Bad magic, scram, hide in J. E. Hoover’s bathingsuit. Make his pants fall in the ocean, near Miami—

Gangster CRASH! America will be forgotten, the identity files of the FBI slipt into the void-crack, the fingerprints unwhorled—no track where He came from—

Man left no address, not even hair, just disappeared & Forgot his big wall-street on Earth—Uncle I hate the FBI it’s all a big dreamy skyscraper somewhere over the Mutual Network—I don’t even know who they are—like the Nameless—

Hallooo I am coming end of my Presidency—Everybody’s fired—I am a hopeless whitehaired congressman—I lost my last election—landslide for Reader’s Digest—not even humans—

Nobody home in town—just offices with many jangling telephones & automatic switchboards keep the message—typewriters return yr calls oft, Yakkata yak & tinbellring—THE POLICE ARE AT THE DOOR—

What are you doing eccentric in this solitary office? a mad vagrant Creep Truthcloud sans identity card—It’s Paterson allright—anyway the people disappeared—downtown Fabian Bldg. branch office for The Chamber of Commerce runs the streetlights

all thru dark winter rain by univac piped from Washington Lobby—they’ve abolished the streets from the universe—just keep control of

the lights—in case of ectoplasm trafficking thru dead Market—where the Chinese restaurant usta play Muzak in the early century—soft green rugs & pastel walls—perfumed tea—

Goodbye, said the metal Announcer in doors of The Chamber of Commerce —we’re merging with NAM forever—and the NAM has no door but’s sealed copper 10 foot vault under the Federal Reserve Bldg—

Six billionaires that control America are playing Scrabble with antique Tarot —they’ve just unearthed another Pyramid—in the bombproof Cellar at Fort Knox

Not even the FBI knows who—They give orders to J. E. Hoover thru the metal phonegirl at the Robot Transmitter on top of RCA—you

can see new Fortune officers look like spies from 20 floors below with their eyeglasses & gold skulls—silver teeth flashing up the shit-mouthed grin—weeping in their martinis! There is no secret to the success of the

Six Billionaires that own all Time since the Gnostic Revolt in Aegypto—they built the Sphinx to confuse my sex life, Who Fuckd the Void?

Why are they starting that war all over again in Laos over Neutral Mind? Is the United States CIA army Legions overthrowing somebody like Angelica Balabanoff?

Six thousand movietheaters, 100,000,000 television sets, a billion radios, wires and wireless crisscrossing hemispheres, semaphore lights and morse, all telephones ringing at once connect every mind by its ears to one vast consciousness This Time Apocalypse—everybody waiting for one mind to break thru—

Man-prophet with two eyes Dare all creation with his dying tongue & say I AM—Messiah swallow back his death into his stomach, gaze thru great pupils of his Bodies’ eyes

and look in each Eye man, the eyeglassed fearful byriad-look that might be Godeyes see thru Death—that now are clark & ego reading manlaw —write newsbroadcasts to cover with Fears their

own Messiah that must come when all of us conscious—Breakthru to all other Consciousness to say the Word I Am as spoken by a certain God—Millennia knew and waited till this one Century—

Now all sentience broods and listens—contemplative & hair full of rain for 15 years inside New York—what millions know and hark to hear, & death will tell, but—