gallas13

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 afternoon 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, a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fireescapes off windowsills of 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 telepathy 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 streetlight 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 fireplace 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 rosegardens 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 sunrise, 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 steam-heat 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. . .

- from howl, by allen ginsberg

yes well how fucking pretentious of me to make you wade through all that, but if you are from new york, or have ever lived here, then youll graciously thank me and be on your way. those of you from some other sub-standard metropolis. . .well, yes, i AM taking the piss out of your town. living in the center of the known universe in rome at the height of the roman empire ive the right to. sure, you could be from somewhere quai-important take los angeles where all people care about are their highlights or their fucking labia after a brazilian, or you could be from here where people say what they mean, and fuck like they mean it.

forgive me for that little moment of hometown pride, but i happen to love it here. our men walk on the outside of the street, and our women have more character than the rest of this nation has in a thimble. god bless you new york. . .

we won the league. . .



speaking of pride, yes it took 50 years but the boys in blue finally did it. alan actually started to cry considering the fact that he was 10 the last time we managed it. . .well it was a moment to behold. having spent the better part of today celebrating Im a bit rough around the edges well yes I DO smell of beer and farts. but you dont have to smell me, now do you? robert, i am officially rubbing it into your northern bastard nose. . .it's been a long time coming. i bet second place never felt so good.

the next sun ra arkestra:



naptime.