SLSL Wandering Scholars

[Fergus Ginsberg]

--- Keith McMullen <keithsz at concentric.net> wrote:

> >>>PS we lost four parts of the heart and soul of
> this list today. They unsubscribed. Where are your
poets, waste? <<<
> 
> They'll be back. Soon.

And we will be with them in Rockland
We will be dreaming of them 

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 old catacombs lighted
by
a guard with flashlight (1)
followed by a mob of tourists so there is death


trash of the mind 
trash of the world 
man is half trash 
all trash in the grave

NY, 1959


http://www.chez.com/barkokhba/ginsberg.htm

(1) see Benny with guard job and flashlight in the
sewer and & see     also flashlight guard job in
chapter 11 of On The Road

This is my rocket my personal rocket I send up my
message Beyond
Someone to hear me there
My immortality
without steel or cobalt basalt or diamond gold or
mercurial fire
without passport filing cabinets bits of paper
warheads
without my finality
pure thought
message all and everywhere the same
I send up my rocket to land on whatever planet awaits
it
preferably religious free planets no money
four dimensional planets where Death shows movies

1957

Always reminds me of Slothrop, a rocket with his name
on it and Blicero too. And the rocket kabalists
picking up scraps of the rocket like Slothrop's
Puritan ancestors picking up scraps of the Word or
bible. And so on…

When Allen Ginsberg died I sat down to read his Howl
and the binding broke.   And when our dear Deleuze
crashed I was reading VL and it is broken too. 

Some of the post-Howl poems remind of the chapter in
GR wherein Slothrop is released from the hospital and
it's very early in the morning--sunrise. His hopes for
a ruptured duck, now a section 8 is lost. He sees
Bricks and squares and frames, traps, Game Of Chess,
Pearls, pigs, parables and folk tales. Poor Slothrop,
a Harvard experiment, like one of Ginsberg's Howlmen,
  hopelessly ranging the East End in a drug stupor,
breathing the rank air of Thameside. 

This one reminds me of Owlglass

THE BLUE ANGEL
  Allen Ginsberg, Dream, Patterson, Mid-1950

  Marlene Dietrich is singing a lament
  For mechanical love.
  She leans against a mortarboard tree
  On a plateau by the seashore.

  She's a life sized toy,
  The doll of eternity:
  Her hair is shaped like an abstract hat
  Made out of white steel.

  Her face is powdered, whitewashed and
  Immobile like a robot.
  Jutting out of her temple, by an eye, 
  Is a little white key.

  She gazes through dull blue pupils
  Set in the whites of her eyes.
  She closes them and the key
  Turns by itself.

  She opens her eyes, and they're blank
  Like a statues in a museum.
  Her machine begins to move, the key turns
  Again, her eyes change, she sings

  --you'd think I would have thought a plan
  to end the inner grind, 
  but  not till I have found a man
  to occupy my mind.










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