Kaddish - Allen Ginsberg
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 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 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 Angelico's universe the cat's gone mad
and scraowls around the floor
What happens when the death gong
hits rotting ginsberg on the head
what universe do I enter
death death death death death the
cat's at rest
are we ever free of - rotting ginsberg
Then let it decay, thank God I know
thank who
thank who
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
find 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 tucked 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'm 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 yellowed press clippings
I'm going away from the poem to be a 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 to enter a 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
NY, 1959
Allen Ginsberg (1926-199?), publié en 1961