#john wieners

[geryone]

“A poem for cocksuckers”, John Wieners, from Pathetic Literature

[garadinervi]

«Trobar», No. 5, Trobar, Brooklyn, NY, 1962 [Between the Covers, Gloucester City, NJ]

Contributors: Rochelle Owens, George Economou, Charles Olson, Robert Kelly, Robert Duncan, Paul Blackburn, Jerome Rothenberg, David Antin, John Wieners, Amiri Baraka (as LeRoi Jones), Anselm Hollo, Theodore Enslin, and others

[manwalksintobar]

The Acts of Youth  // John Wieners

And with great fear I inhabit the middle of the night What wrecks of the mind await me, what drugs to dull the senses, what little I have left, what more can be taken away? The fear of travelling, of the future without hope or buoy. I must get away from this place and see that there is no fear without me: that it is within unless it be some sudden act or calamity to land me in the hospital, a total wreck, without memory again; or worse still, behind bars. If I could just get out of the country. Some place where one can eat the lotus in peace. For in this country it is terror, poverty awaits; or am I a marked man, my life to be a lesson or experience to those young who would trod the same path, without God unless he be one of justice, to wreak vengeance on the acts committed while young under un- due influence or circumstance. Oh I have always seen my life as drama, patterned after those who met with disaster or doom. Is my mind being taken away me. I have been over the abyss before. What is that ringing in my ears that tells me all is nigh, is naught but the roaring of the winter wind. Woe to those homeless who are out on this night. Woe to those crimes committed from which we can walk away unharmed. So I turn on the light And smoke rings rise in the air. Do not think of the future; there is none. But the formula all great art is made of. Pain and suffering. Give me the strength to bear it, to enter those places where the great animals are caged. And we can live at peace by their side. A bride to the burden that no god imposes but knows we have the means to sustain its force unto the end of our days. For that is what we are made for; for that we are created. Until the dark hours are done. And we rise again in the dawn. Infinite particles of the divine sun, now worshipped in the pitches of the night.

[ozkar-krapo]

V/A

"Cold Turkey Press / Klacto presents : A Cold Turkey Press special"

(LP. Rotterdam '72. 1972) [US]

[haruosaki]

[aeide-thea]

Act #2

John Wieners (1934–2002)

    For Marlene Dietrich

I took love home with me, we fixed in the night and sank into a stinging flash.

¼ grain of love           we had 2 men on a cot, a silk cover and a green cloth over the lamp.         The music was just right. I blew him like a symphony,    it floated and           he took me down the street and           left me here. 3 AM. No sign.

           only a moving van           up Van Ness Avenue.

Foster’s was never like this.

I’ll walk home, up the          same hills we              came down. He’ll never come back,           there’ll be no horse               tomorrow nor pot tonight to smoke till dawn.

He’s gone and taken my morphine with him Oh Johnny. Women in       the night moan yr. name

[vzyee]

Cocaine For I have seen love and his face is choice Heart of Hearts, a flesh of pure fire, fusing from the center where all Motion is one.

And I have known despair that the Face has ceased to stare at me with the Rose of the world but lies furled

in an artificial paradise it is Hell to get into. If I knew you were there I would fall upon my knees and plead to God to deliver you in my arms once again.

But it is senseless to try. One can only take means to reduce misery, confuse the sensations so that this Face, what aches in the heart and makes each new

start less close to the source of desire, fade from the flesh that fires the night, with dreams and infinite longing.

John Wieners

[nbmr]

[big-gay-demons]

[onenakedfarmer]

JOHN WIENERS "A Poem for the Old Man" from The Hotel Wentley Poems (1958)

God love you Dana my lover lost in the horde on this Friday night 500 men are moving up & down from the bath room to the bar. Remove this desire from the man I love. Who has opened the savagery of the sea to me.

See to it that his wants are filled on California street Bestow on him lan- gesse that allows him peace in his loins.

Leave him not to the moths. Make him out a lion so that all who see him hero worship his thick chest as I did moving my mouth over his back bringing our hearts to heights I never hike over anymore. Let blond hair burn on the back of his neck, let no ache screw his face up in pain, his soul is so hooked. Not heroin. Rather fix these hundred men as his lovers & lift him with the enormous bale of their desire.

6.20.58

[6peaches]

John Wieners - A Poem for Trapped Things

This morning with a blue flame burning this thing wings its way in. Wind shakes the edges of its yellow being. Gasping for breath. Living for the instant. Climbing up the black border of the window. Why do you want out. I sit in pain. A red robe amid debris. You bend and climb, extending antennae.

I know the butterfly is my soul grown weak from battle.

A Giant fan on the back of                             a beetle. A caterpillar chrysalis that seeks a new home apart from this room.

And will disappear from sight at the pulling on invisible strings. Yet so tenuous, so fine           this thing is, I am            sitting on the hard bed, we could                     vanish from sight like the puff                      off an invisible cigarette. Furred chest, ragged silk under           wings beating against the glass

          no one will open.

The blue diamonds on your back are too beautiful to do                        away with.

I watch you           all morning                     long. With my hand over my mouth.

- A Poem for Trapped Things by John Wieners

[blogdemocratesjr]

A Dawn Cocktail

John Wieners, Nerves

[manwalksintobar]

A poem for vipers // John Wieners

I sit in Lees. At 11:40 PM with Jimmy the pusher. He teaches me Ju Ju. Hot on the table before us shrimp foo yong, rice and mushroom chow yuke. Up the street under the wheels of a strange car is his stash—The ritual. We make it. And have made it. For months now together after midnight. Soon I know the fuzz will interrupt, will arrest Jimmy and I shall be placed on probation. The poem does not lie to us. We lie under its law, alive in the glamour of this hour able to enter into the sacred places of his dark people, who carry secrets glassed in their eyes and hide words under the coats of their tongue.

6.16.58

[haruosaki]

[fuckingpajamas]

Hear me out— they’re the same.