he threw up his hands
& wrote the Universe dont exist
& died to prove it.
I wrote a ‘poem’, I scribbled quotation marks everywhere over Fate passing by…
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
Then I knew
she was a dream: and questioned her
–Joan, what kind of knowledge have
the dead? can you still love
your mortal acquaintances?
What do you remember of us?
I was wondering what to post about today and then I got this brilliant idea that I should just make another post about art. You just can’t go wrong with that.
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.
Incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning
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