sábado, 6 de febrero de 2010

Un poco de poesía. Esta es firmada por Allen Ginsberg

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 machin-                ery 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 tene-                ment 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, burn-                ing 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, al-                cohol 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 mo-                tionless 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 Brook-                lyn, 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 Brook-                lyn 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-grind-                ings and migraines of China under junk-with-                drawal 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 grand-                father night,         who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-                athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-                stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,         who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-                ionary 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 Okla-                homa 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 incom-                prehensible 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 manu-                scripts,         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 can-                dle 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 pet-                ticoat 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 unemploy-                ment 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 unsuccess-                fully, 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 sinis-                ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the                drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,         who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-                pened 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 Pas-                saic, 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 psycho-                therapy 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, rock-                ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench                dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night-                mare, 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 fur-                nished 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 vibrat-                ing 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 intel-                ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-                fessing 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 canni-                bal 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 fac-                tories 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! Pave-                ments, 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! De-                spairs! 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 com-                rades 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

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