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The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstacy is holy!
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
Ecstacy
Hearers
Typewriter
Typewriters
Poem
Holy
Voice
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The real America that Whitman proclaimed and Thoreau decoded.
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The soul is innocent and immortal, it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse.
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What if someone gave a war and Nobody came?
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Scientist alone is true poet he gives us the moon he promises the stars he'll make us a new universe if it comes to that.
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What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
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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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Fortunately art is a community effort - a small but select community living in a spiritualized world endeavoring to interpret the wars and the solitudes of the flesh.
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who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism
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I didn't know the names of the flowers - now my garden is gone.
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in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
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America, I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
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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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Ultimately Warhol's private moral reference was to the supreme kitsch of the Catholic church.
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You can't photograph everything.
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Sanity - a trick of agreement
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The apparition of an evil, sick unconscious wild city rose before me in visible semblance, and about the dead buildings in the barren air, the bodies of the soul that built the wonderland shuffled and stalked and stalked and lurched in attitudes of immemorial nightmare all around.
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A naked lunch is natural to us We eat reality sandwiches. But allegories are so much lettuce. Don't hide the madness.
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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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Let the straight flower bespeak its purpose in straightness - to seek the light. Let the crooked flower bespeak its purpose in crookedness - to seek the light. Let the crookedness and straightness bespeak the light.
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There is nothing to be learned from history anymore. We're in science fiction now.
Allen Ginsberg
