Mescaline
Rotting Ginsberg, I stared in the mirror naked today I noticed the old skull, I'm getting balder my pate gleams in the kitchen light under thin hair like the skull of some monk in the old catacombs lighted by a guard with flashlight followed by a mob of tourists so there is death my kitten mews, and looks into the closet Boito sings on the phonograph tonight his ancient song of angels Antinous bust in a brown photograph still gazing down from my wall a light burst from God's delicate hand sends down a wooden dove to the calm virgin Beato Angelicos universe the cat's gone mad and scraowls around the floor
What happens when the death gong hits rotting ginsburg on the head what universe do I enter death death death death death the cat's at rest are we ever free of - rotting ginsburg Then let it decay, thank God I know thank you thank you Thank you, O lord, beyond my eye the path must lead somewhere the path the path thru the rotting shit dump, thru the Angelico orgies Beep, emit a burst of babe and begone perhaps that's the answer, wouldn't know till you had a kid I dunno, never had a kid never will at the rate I'm going
Yes, I should be good, I should get married fing out what it's all about but I can't stand these women all over me smell of Naomi erk, I'm stuck with this familiar rotting ginsberg can't stand boys even anymore can't stand can't stand and who wants to get fucked up the ass, really? Immense seas passing over the flow of time and who wants to be famous and sign autographs like a movie star
I want to know I want I want ridiculous to know to know WHAT rotting ginsberg I want to know what happens after I rot because I am already rotting my hair's falling out I've got a belly I'm sick of sex my ass drags in the universe I know too much and not enough I want to know what happens after I die well I'll find out soon enough do I really need to know now? Is that any use at all use use use death death death death death god god god god god god god the Lone Ranger the rhythm of the typewriter
What can I do to Heaven by pounding on Typewriter I'm stuck change the record Gregory ah excellent he's doing just that and I am too conscious of a million ears at present creepy ears, making commerce too many pictures in the newspapers faded yellow press clippings I'm going away from the poem to be drak contemplative
trash of the mind trash of the world man is half trash all trash in the grave
What can Williams be thinking in Paterson, death so much on him so soon so soon Williams what is death? Do you face the great question now each moment or do you forget at breakfast looking at your old ugly love in the face are you prepared to be reborn to give release to this world and enter heaven or give release, give release and all be done - and see a lifetime - all eternity - gone over into naught, a trick question proposed by the moon to the answerless earth No Glory for man! No Glory for man! No glory for me! No me!
No point writing when the spirit doth not lead New York, 1959
-------------------- "But it was alright, he had won the battle against himself, He Loved Big Brother"
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