A. Ginsberg – Television Was a Baby Crawling Toward That Deathchamber

Here I am—Old Betty Boop whoopsing behind the skull-microphone

wondering what Idiot soap opera horror show we broadcast by Mistake

—full of communists and frankenstein cops and

mature capitalists running the State Department and the Daily News Editorial

hypnotizing millions of legional-eyed detectives to commit mass murder on the Invisible

 

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R. Bolano – 2666

What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench.

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All the Pretty Flowers

No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost

A. Ginsberg – Kaddish

It’s time get this blog back on track, a little more time and a little more summer outside. That helps.  The quote above caught my eye lately. This isn’t a surprise but let’s make it clear. Allen Ginsberg has a lot more to offer than just Howl.

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