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When it snows in your nose, you catch cold in your brain.

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
Cold
Snows
Brain
Sniffing
Cocaine
Nose
Noses
Addiction
Catch
Snow

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We are all exposed to the flash bulb of death.
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Things are symbols of themselves.
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What came is gone forever every time
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I am learning by the week, but my poesy is still not my own. New rhyme, new me me me in words. I am not all this carven rhetoric.
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The actual materials are important. A book at the nightstand is important - a light you can get at - or a flashlight as Kerouac had a brakeman's latern.
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When you notice something clearly and see it vividly, it then becomes sacred.
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This is the same notion - Catholic exorcism, psychotherapy, shamanistic practices - getting to the moment when whatever it was gained access. And also to the name of the spirit. Just to know that it's the Ugly Spirit. That's a great step. Because the spirit doesn't want its name to be known.
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Many seek and never see, anyone can tell them why. O they weep and O they cry and never take until they try unless they try it in their sleep and never some until they die. I ask many, they ask me. This is a great mystery.
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Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!
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The hero surviving his own murder, his own suicide, his own addiction, surviving his own disappearance from the scene
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I don't think there is any truth. There are only points of view.
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You are what you think about all day.
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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 never dreamed the sea so deep, The earth so dark so long my sleep, I have become another child. I wake to see the world go wild.
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Our heads are round so thought can change direction
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he threw up his hands and wrote the Universe dont exist and died to prove it
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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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What if someone gave a war and Nobody came?
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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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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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