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Allen Ginsberg...

Discussion in 'Channel Zero' started by Pistol, Jan 23, 2002.

  1. Pistol

    Pistol Dirty Dozen Crew

    Joined: Jul 12, 2001 Messages: 19,358 Likes Received: 298
    While in another thread a couple of people were quoting Kerouac lines I started thinking about Ginsberg and this big ass book I got of his poetry. I figured I'd post a few of his works. Maybe you guy's will like some of it. I like some of his work but others are "way too gay" for me to get into although you can still feel his work. Post some of your faves too. If no one is into it and doesent post anything I won't post anything and let it die cause it takes too long to type this shit if no ones interested.
    By the way the book is:
    Allen Ginsberg Collected Poems 1947-1980

    Who Runs America

    Oil brown smog over Denver
    Oil red dung colored smoke
    level to level across the horizon
    blue tainted sky above
    Oil car smog gasoline
    hazing red Denver's day
    December bare trees
    sticking up from the housetop streets
    Plane lands rumbling, planes rise over
    rader wheels, black smoke
    drifts wobbly from tailfins

    Oil of millions of cars speeding the cracked plains
    Oil from Texas, Bahrain, Venezuela Mexico
    Oil that turns General Motors
    revs up Ford
    lights up General Electric, oil that crackles
    thru International Business Machine computers,
    charges dynamos for ITT
    sparks Western Electric
    runs thru Amer Telephone & Telegraph wires
    Oil that flows thru Exxon New Jersey hoses,
    ring in Mobil gas tank cranks, rumbles
    Chrysler engines
    shoots thru Texaco pipelines,
    blackens ocean from broken Gulf tankers
    spills onto Santa Barbara beaches from
    Standard of California derricks offshore.

    Who Runs America, Taken from Mind Breaths All Over The Place
    Braniff Air, Denver-Dallas, December 3, 1974
     
  2. seven.13

    seven.13 Dirty Dozen Crew

    Joined: Oct 5, 2000 Messages: 3,572 Likes Received: 19
    I'm bored sensless at school anyways....

    and i've always kinda liked this one.


    In The Back Of the Real

    railroad yard in San Jose
    I wandered desolate
    in front of a tank factory
    and sat on a bench
    near the switchman's shack.

    A flower lay on the hay on
    the asphalt highway
    --the dread hay flower
    I thought--It had a
    brittle black stem and
    corolla of yellowish dirty
    spikes like Jesus' inchlong
    crown, and a soiled
    dry center cotton tuft
    like a used shaving brush
    that's been lying under
    the garage for a year.

    Yellow, yellow flower, and
    flower of industry,
    tough spiky ugly flower,
    flower nonetheless,
    with the form of the great yellow
    Rose in your brain!
    This is the flower of the World.

    why did i even bother going to school today. I only had one class in the morning. :confused:
     
  3. When

    When 12oz Loyalist

    Joined: May 4, 2000 Messages: 10,294 Likes Received: 3
  4. Pistol

    Pistol Dirty Dozen Crew

    Joined: Jul 12, 2001 Messages: 19,358 Likes Received: 298
    To the Punks of Dawlish

    I'll throw this one up tonight too cause I can't sleep and this poem was written on my birthday.

    To the Punks of Dawlish

    Your electric hair's beautiful gold as Blake's Glad Day boy,
    you raise your arms for industrial crucifixion
    You get 45 Pounds a week on the Production line
    and 15 goes to taxes, Mrs. Thatcher's nuclear womb swells
    The Iron Lady devours your powers & hours your pounds and pride &
    scatter radioactive urine on your mushroom dotted sheep fields.
    "Against the Bourgeois!" you raise your lip & dandy costume
    Against the Money Establishment you pogo to garage bands
    After humorous slavery in th' electronic factory
    put silver pins in your nose, gold rings in your ears
    talk to the professor on the Plymouth train, asking
    "Marijuana rots your brain like it says in the papers, insists on th etelly?"
    Cursed tragic kids rocking in a rail car on the Cornwall Coastline, Luck to
    your dancing revolution!
    With bodies beautiful as the gold blonde lads' of Oxford-
    Your rage is more elegant than the purse-lipped considerations of Cambridge,
    your mouths more full of slang & kisses than tea-sipping wits of Eton
    whispering over scones & clotted cream
    conspiring to govern your music tax your body labor & chasten your impudent speech with an Official Secrets Act.
    To the Punks of Dawlish, Taken from Plutonian Ode
    Cornwall, November 18, 1979
     
  5. When

    When 12oz Loyalist

    Joined: May 4, 2000 Messages: 10,294 Likes Received: 3
    definately not ginsberg...sorry but i love this...
    I

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar

    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us--if at all--not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

    II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.

    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer--

    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom

    III

    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.

    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.

    IV

    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    and avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.

    V

    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.

    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the shadow
    For Thine is the Kingdom

    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
    Life is very long

    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    and the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
    For Thine is the Kingdom

    For thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the

    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.
     
  6. seven.13

    seven.13 Dirty Dozen Crew

    Joined: Oct 5, 2000 Messages: 3,572 Likes Received: 19
    YEAH.

    In the Baggage Room at a Greyhound



    In the depths of the Greyhound Terminal

    sitting dumbly on a baggage truck looking at the sky

    waiting for the Los Angeles Express to depart

    worrying about eternity over the Post Office roof in

    the night-time red downtown heaven

    staring through my eyeglasses I realized shuddering

    these thoughts were not eternity, nor the poverty

    of our lives, irritable baggage clerks,

    nor the millions of weeping relatives surrounding the

    buses waving goodbye,

    nor other millions of the poor rushing around from

    city to city to see their loved ones,

    nor an indian dead with fright talking to a huge cop

    by the Coke machine,

    nor this trembling old lady with a cane taking the last

    trip of her life,

    nor the red-capped cynical porter collecting his quar-

    ters and smiling over the smashed baggage,

    nor me looking around at the horrible dream,

    nor mustached negro Operating Clerk named Spade,

    dealing out with his marvelous long hand the

    fate of thousands of express packages,

    nor fairy Sam in the basement limping from leaden

    trunk to trunk,

    nor Joe at the counter with his nervous breakdown

    smiling cowardly at the customers,

    nor the grayish-green whale's stomach interior loft

    where we keep the baggage in hideous racks,

    hundreds of suitcases full of tragedy rocking back and

    forth waiting to be opened,

    nor the baggage that's lost, nor damaged handles,

    nameplates vanished, busted wires & broken

    ropes, whole trunks exploding on the concrete

    floor,

    nor seabags emptied into the night in the final

    warehouse.
     
  7. Pistol

    Pistol Dirty Dozen Crew

    Joined: Jul 12, 2001 Messages: 19,358 Likes Received: 298
    Nice Howl selection ink Lunatic!
     
  8. When

    When 12oz Loyalist

    Joined: May 4, 2000 Messages: 10,294 Likes Received: 3
    "As if that blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself---so like a brother, really---I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate."
     
  9. -Rage-

    -Rage- 12oz Loyalist

    Joined: Apr 12, 2001 Messages: 10,006 Likes Received: 27
    Ginsberg has got to be my favorite poet...

    HUM BOM!

    Whom bomb?
    We bomb'd them!
    Whom bomb?
    We bomb'd them!
    Whom bomb?
    We bomb'd them!
    Whom bomb?
    We bomb'd them!

    Whom bomb?
    We bomb you!
    Whom bomb?
    We bomb you!
    Whom bomb?
    You bomb you!
    Whom bomb?
    You bomb you!

    What do we do?
    Who do we bomb?
    What do we do?
    Who do we bomb?
    What do we do?
    Who do we bomb?
    What do we do?
    Who do we bomb?

    What do we do?
    You bomb! You bomb them!
    What do we do?
    You bomb! You bomb them!
    What do we do?
    We bomb! We bomb you!
    What do we do?
    You bomb! You bomb you!

    Whom bomb?
    We bomb you!
    Whom bomb?
    We bomb you!
    Whom bomb? You bomb you!
    Whom bomb?
    You bomb you!

    May 1971
     
  10. Howl
    For Carl Solomon


    I

    I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
    madness, starving hysterical naked,
    dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
    looking for an angry fix,
    angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
    connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

    who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
    up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
    cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
    contemplating jazz,
    who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
    saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
    who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
    hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
    among the scholars of war,
    who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
    publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
    who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
    who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
    Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
    who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
    Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
    torsos night after night
    with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares,
    alcohol and cock and endless balls,
    incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
    lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
    Canada & Paterson,
    illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
    Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
    dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
    storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
    blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
    vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn,
    ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
    who chained themselves to subways for the endless
    ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
    until the noise of wheels and children brought
    them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
    battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
    in the drear light of Zoo,
    who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
    floated out and sat through the stale beer after
    noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
    of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
    who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
    pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
    lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
    down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
    off Empire State out of the moon,
    yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
    and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
    and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
    whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
    and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
    Synagogue cast on the pavement,
    who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
    trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
    City Hall,
    suffering Eastern sweats and
    Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China
    under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
    who wandered around and around at midnight in the
    railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
    leaving no broken hearts,
    who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
    through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
    who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
    athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
    who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking
    visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
    who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
    gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
    who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight street
    light smalltown rain,
    who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
    seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
    brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
    and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
    to Africa,
    who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
    behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
    and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
    place Chicago,
    who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
    F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
    eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
    who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
    the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
    who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
    Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
    of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
    down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
    wailed,
    who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
    and trembling before the machinery of other
    skeletons,
    who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
    in policecars for committing no crime but their
    own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
    who howled on their knees in the subway and were
    dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
    who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
    motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
    who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
    the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
    love,
    who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
    gardens and the grass of public parks and
    cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
    whomever come who may,
    who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
    with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
    when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
    them with a sword,
    who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
    the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
    the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
    and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
    sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
    threads of the craftsman's loom,
    who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
    beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along
    the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
    on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
    come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
    who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
    in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
    but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
    rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
    in the lake,
    who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
    stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
    poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy
    to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
    in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
    rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
    gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings
    & especially secret gas-station
    solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
    who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
    dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
    picked themselves up out of basements hung
    over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
    Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
    who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
    the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
    East River to open to a room full of steamheat
    and opium,
    who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
    cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
    blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
    be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
    who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
    the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
    Bowery,
    who wept at the romance of the streets with their
    pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
    who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
    bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
    their lofts,
    who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
    with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
    by orange crates of theology,
    who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
    incantations which in the yellow morning were
    stanzas of gibberish,
    who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
    & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
    kingdom,
    who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
    an egg,
    who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
    for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
    fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
    who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully,
    gave up and were forced to open antique
    stores where they thought they were growing
    old and cried,
    who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
    on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
    & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
    of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
    fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors,
    or were run down by the
    drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
    who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened
    and walked away unknown and forgotten
    into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
    ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
    who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
    the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic,
    leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
    danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
    phonograph records of nostalgic European
    1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
    threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
    in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
    whistles,
    who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
    to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
    watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
    who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
    if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
    a vision to find out Eternity,
    who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
    came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
    watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
    Denver and finally went away to find out the
    Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
    who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
    for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
    until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
    who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
    impossible criminals with golden heads and the
    charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
    blues to Alcatraz,
    who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
    Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
    or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
    Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
    daisychain or grave,
    who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
    notism & were left with their insanity & their
    hands & a hung jury,
    who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
    and subsequently presented themselves on the
    granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
    and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
    stantaneous lobotomy,
    and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
    Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
    who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
    pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
    returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
    blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
    man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
    East,
    Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
    halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul,
    rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
    dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare,
    bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
    moon,
    with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
    flung out of the tenement window, and the last
    door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
    slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room
    emptied down to the last piece of
    mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
    on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
    imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
    hallucination
    ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
    now you're really in the total animal soup of
    time
    and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
    with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
    of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
    who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
    through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
    archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
    and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
    and dash of consciousness together jumping
    with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
    Deus
    to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
    prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent
    and shaking with shame,
    rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
    of thought in his naked and endless head,
    the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
    yet putting down here what might be left to say
    in time come after death,
    and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
    the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
    suffering of America's naked mind for love into
    an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
    cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
    with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
    out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
    years.

    II

    What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
    their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
    nation?
    Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
    tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
    stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
    weeping in the parks!
    Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
    loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
    judger of men!
    Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
    crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
    sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
    Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun-
    ned governments!
    Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
    blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
    are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo!
    Moloch whose ear is a smoking
    tomb!
    Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
    Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
    streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream
    and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
    smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
    Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
    whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
    whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
    whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
    Moloch whose name is the Mind!
    Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
    Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
    Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
    Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
    I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
    who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
    Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
    Light streaming out of the sky!
    Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
    skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
    industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
    houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
    They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven!
    Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
    Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
    us!
    Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
    gone down the American river!
    Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
    boatload of sensitive bullshit!
    Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
    gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies!
    Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
    Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
    the rocks of Time!
    Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
    wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
    They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
    carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
    street!

    III

    Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
    where you're madder than I am
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you must feel very strange
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you imitate the shade of my mother
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you laugh at this invisible humor
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where we are great writers on the same dreadful
    typewriter
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where your condition has become serious and
    is reported on the radio
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
    the worms of the senses
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
    spinsters of Utica
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
    harpies of the Bronx
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
    losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
    abyss
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
    is innocent and immortal it should never die
    ungodly in an armed madhouse
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where fifty more shocks will never return your
    soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
    cross in the void
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
    plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
    fascist national Golgotha
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you will split the heavens of Long Island
    and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
    superhuman tomb
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where there are twenty-five-thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where we hug and kiss the United States under
    our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
    night and won't let us sleep
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where we wake up electrified out of the coma
    by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
    roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
    hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
    lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
    spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
    here O victory forget your underwear we're
    free
    I'm with you in Rockland
    in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
    journey on the highway across America in tears
    to the door of my cottage in the Western night

    San Francisco 1955-56
     
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