#Allen Ginsburg

[brucklethings]

“The weight of the world

is love.

Under the burden

of solitude,

under the burden

of dissatisfaction

the weight,

the weight we carry

is love.”

— Allen Ginsburg

[theghostwhotumbles]

Chelsea Hotel — from Howl to murder most foul

Chelsea Hotel — from Howl to murder most foul

THE CHELSEA HOTEL LAID BARE SCORSESE DOCUMENTARY IN THEATERS JULY 8 Punk rocker Sid Vicious stabbed his girlfriend to death in Room 100. The poet Dylan Thomas was living in Room 205 when he drank 18 whiskeys in a row and died. Jack Kerouac wrote ‘On The Road’ while staying there. Allen Ginsburg wrote his great epic poem ‘Howl’ there. The Chelsea Hotel at 222 West 23rd Street opened in 1883 and…

[maximilianthequeer]

every day I wake up and make my silly little posts about gay men who died 100 years ago 

[macrolit]

America, I've given you all and now I'm nothing.

“America,” Allen Ginsburg

[dailylitquotes]

America, I've given you all and now I'm nothing.

Allen Ginsburg, America

[misguidedmalfoy]

daniel radcliffe, i love you

[the-stoned-ranger]

America

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing. America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.   I can’t stand my own mind. America when will we end the human war? Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb. I don’t feel good don’t bother me. I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind. America when will you be angelic? When will you take off your clothes? When will you look at yourself through the grave? When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? America why are your libraries full of tears? America when will you send your eggs to India? I’m sick of your insane demands. When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.   Your machinery is too much for me. You made me want to be a saint. There must be some other way to settle this argument.   Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.   Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?   I’m trying to come to the point. I refuse to give up my obsession. America stop pushing I know what I’m doing. America the plum blossoms are falling. I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder. America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies. America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.   I smoke marijuana every chance I get. I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.   When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.   My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble. You should have seen me reading Marx. My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right. I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer. I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations. America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia. I’m addressing you. Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine?   I’m obsessed by Time Magazine. I read it every week. Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.   I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library. It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.   It occurs to me that I am America. I am talking to myself again. Asia is rising against me. I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance. I’d better consider my national resources. My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that jetplanes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfive-thousand mental institutions. I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns. I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go. My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic. America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood? I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they’re all different sexes. America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe America free Tom Mooney America save the Spanish Loyalists America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die America I am the Scottsboro boys. America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor the Silk-strikers’ Ewig-Weibliche made me cry I once saw the Yiddish orator Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy. America you don’t really want to go to war. America its them bad Russians. Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.   The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages. Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations. That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.   America this is quite serious. America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.   America is this correct? I’d better get right down to the job. It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway. America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.  

Allen Ginsburg Berkeley, January 17, 1956

still relevant sixty three years later 

[lumi-waxes-poetic]

Transcription Of Organ Music, by Allen Ginsberg

The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the kitchen crooked to take a place in the light, the closet door opened, because I used it before, it kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner. * I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening to music, my misery, that's why I want to sing. The room closed down on me, I expected the presence of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and ceiling, they contained my room, they contained me as the sky contained my garden, I opened my door * The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post, the leaves in the night still where the day had placed them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had arisen to think at the sun * Can I bring back the words? Will thought of transcription haze my mental open eye? The kindly search for growth, the gracious de- sire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing among them The privilege to witness my existence-you too must seek the sun... * My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qual- ities for me to use--my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves. I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying. Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait- ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give them... Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I loved them. I am so lonely in my glory--except they too out there--I looked up--those red bush blossoms beckon- ing and peering in the window waiting in the blind love, their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat to the sky to receive--all creation open to receive--the flat earth itself. * The music descends, as does the tall bending stalk of the heavy blssom, because it has to, to stay alive, to continue to the last drop of joy. The world knows the love that's in its breast as in the flower, the suffering lonely world. The Father is merciful. * The light socket is crudely attached to the ceil- ing, after the house was built, to receive a plug which sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now... * The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open. The kitchen has no door, the hole there will admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen. I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gra- ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov- incetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the Father, the door to the womb wasopen to admit me if I wished to enter. * There are unused electricity plugs all over my house if I ever needed them. The kitchen window is open, to admit air... The telephone--sad to relate--sits on the floor--I haven't had the money to get it connected-- * I want people to bow when they see me and say he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of the Creator And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning for him.

[a-passing-storm]

Hellfire by black midi gives me so many thoughts!

[textbrick]

My all-time favorite poem has a dastardly way of still being relevant. "America, after all... it is you and I who are perfect, not the next world"

[seasauvage787]

Raga Rage...... Shiva and Allen Ginsburg Dancing in Eternity

Raga Rage…… Shiva and Allen Ginsburg Dancing in Eternity

Raga Rage                                  …..Shiva and Allen Ginsburg dancing in eternity…….                                                          Lawrence Ferlinghetti to a Ferlinghetti raga Ginsburg dancing with who? it’s only talk rift me again numerical iambs count the fingers     on your hand keep time snap tap time is the only rift do you talk while you dance a waltz the personal raga…

[lemond]

(via Estate of Robert Giard Allen Ginsberg with his own portrait of Burroughs, 1986 presented by Stephen Bulger Gallery)

[whateverbringsyouthroughthenight]

[enginedrivermp3]

if you use the word 'cunt' in a poem: you're so right. word of the year.

[mercyeltu]

aspiration is to become a brooding intellectual fetishized by a younger generation who muses over black and white candids of me n my lesbian lover protesting or reading at a kitchen table or kissing each other on the temple. manifesting it