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Naked in solitary prison cell he looks down at a hard-on.

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
Naked
Prison
Looks
Hard
Cell
Solitary
Cells

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Marijuana is a useful catalyst for specific optical and aural aesthetic perceptions. I apprehended the structure of certain pieces of jazz and classical music in a new manner under the influence of marijuana, and these apprehensions have remained valid in years of normal consciousness.
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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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Since art is merely and ultimately self-expressive, we conclude that the fullest art, the most individual, uninfluenced, unrepressed, uninhibited expression of art is true expression and the true art.
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We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
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None of us understand what we're doing, but we do beautiful things anyway.
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America, why are your libraries full of tears?
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Everybody's serious but me.
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What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
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Well, while I'm here I'll do the work — and what's the work? To ease the pain of living. Everything else, drunken dumbshow.
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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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Concentrate on what you want to say to yourself and your friends. Follow your inner moonlight don't hide the madness. You say what you want to say when you don't care who's listening.
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Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!
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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 first person who really showed me the ugly spirit was Brion Gysin. The ugly spirit shot Joan because . . . and I never found out why. This Brion wrote out on a piece of paper in a sort of trance state.
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I have a new method of poetry. All you got to do is look over your notebooks... or lay down on a couch, and think of anything that comes into your head, especially the miseries. Then arrange in lines of two, three or four words each, don't bother about sentences, in sections of two, three or four lines each.
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No rest without love, no sleep without dreams of love- be mad or chill obsessed with angels or machines, the final wish is love -cannot be bitter, cannot deny, cannot withhold if denied: the weight is too heavy
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I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
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The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction.
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I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
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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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