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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.

Allen Ginsberg

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Allen Ginsberg
Age: 70 †
Born: 1926
Born: June 3
Died: 1997
Died: April 5
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Irwin Allen Ginsberg
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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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Follow your inner moonlight don't hide the madness.
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You say what you want to say when you don't care who's listening. If you're grasping to get your own voice, you're making a strained attempt to talk, so it's a matter of just listening to yourself as you sound when you're talking about something that's intensely important to you.
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Everybody's serious but me.
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I am neither romantic nor a visionary, and that is my weakness and perhaps my power at any rate it is one difference. In less romantic and visionary terms, I am a Jew, (with powers of introspection and eclecticism attendant, perhaps.) But I am alien to your natural grace, to the spirit which you would know as a participator in America.
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one must verge on the unknown, write toward the truth hitherto unrecognizable of one’s own sincerity, including the avoidable beauty of doom, shame, and embarrassment, that very area of personal self-recognition,(detailed individual is universal remember) which formal conventions, internalized, keep us from discovering in ourselves and others
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There is nothing to be learned from history anymore. We're in science fiction now.
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What if someone gave a war and Nobody came?
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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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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 suffering itself is not so bad it's the resentment against suffering that is the real pain.
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Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine. Jiggling your knees blankeyed in the rain, when it snows in your nose you catch cold in your brain.
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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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That's what the shaman said. He didn't know what he was up against. He didn't expect the strength and weight and evil intensity of this spirit, this entity, as he called it. The same way the priest in an exorcism has to take on the spirit.
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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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I believe that we are put here in human form to decipher the hieroglyphs of love and suffering. And, there is no degree of love or intensity of feeling that does not bring with it the possibility of a crippling hurt. But, it is a duty to take that risk and love without reserve or defense.
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Taxi September along Jessore Road Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load past watery fields thru rain flood ruts Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts Wet processions Families walk Stunted boys big heads don't talk Look bony skulls & silent round eyes Starving black angels in human disguise.
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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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America, how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
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