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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 qualities for me to use -- my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.

Allen Ginsberg

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Allen Ginsberg
Age: 70 †
Born: 1926
Born: June 3
Died: 1997
Died: April 5
Autobiographer
Diarist
Musician
Photographer
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Teacher
Writer
Paterson
New Jersey
Irwin Allen Ginsberg
Ayālena Gīnasabārga
Alen Ginzberg
Use
Loves
Left
Havens
Piled
Book
Haven
Remnants
Time
Books
Manuscripts
Quality
Texts
Waiting
Disappeared
Space
Placed
Words
Qualities

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What if someone gave a war and Nobody came?
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I've got enough money to live where I want, but I don't want to move.Go out and have sexual adventures in Burma.
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I'm an old man now, and a lonesome man in Kansas / but not afraid / to speak my lonesomeness in a car, / because not only my lonesomeness / it's Ours, all over America, / O tender fellows --/ & spoken lonesomeness is Prophecy / in the moon 100 years ago or in / the middle of Kansas now.
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Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.
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I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
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The Jews always complained, kvetching about false gods, and erected the biggest false God, Jehovah, in middle of western civilization.
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The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
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Ultimately Warhol's private moral reference was to the supreme kitsch of the Catholic church.
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First thoughts are the strongest.
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Night is the wonderful opportunity to take rest, to forgive, to smile, to get ready for all the battles that you have to fight tomorrow.
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Tell your secrets. [In reply to the question How does one become a prophet?]
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Our heads are round so thought can change direction
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Who can live with this Consciousness and not wake frightened at sunrise?
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Sometime I’ll lay down my wrath, As I lay my body down Between the ache of breath and breath, Golden slumber in the bone.
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Who’ll come lie down in the dark with me Belly to belly and knee to knee Who’ll look into my hooded eye Who’ll lie down under my darkened thigh?
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I know I'm not God, are you? Don't be silly. God? God? Everybody's God? Don't be silly.
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Poetry's role is to provide spontaneous individual candor as distinct from manipulation and brainwash.
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I want to be a saint, a real saint while I am young, for there is so much work to do.
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he threw up his hands and wrote the Universe dont exist and died to prove it
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Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
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