I really believe, or want to believe, really I am nuts, otherwise I’ll never be sane.
I know I’m not God, are you? Don’t be silly.God? God? Everybody’s God? Don’t be silly.
Poets are damned… but see with the eyes of angels.
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded and loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
If I had a soul I sold itfor pretty wordsIf I had a body I usedit up spurting my essenceAllen Ginsberg warns youdont follow my pathto extinction
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.
Democracy! Bah! When I hear that I reach for my feather boa!
Another lover hits the universe. The circle is broken. But with death comes rebirth. And like all lovers and sad people, I am a poet.
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and handand asshole holy!Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere isholy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s anangel!
We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
Just because I like to suck cock doesn’t make me any less American than Jesse Helms.
Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.
Man is no form no mighty molecule no justidea alone — all that Thing — I feel man tender radiance at Heart betweenbreast and belly, that physical placewhere the Self urges — delicate sensation
and he imagines carsand rides them in his dreams,so lonely growing up amongthe imaginary automobilesand dead souls of Tarrytownto createout of his own imaginationthe beauty of his wildforebears – a mythology he cannot inherit.
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
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
America when will you be angelic? When will you take off your clothes?
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.I read it every week.Always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s seriousbut me.
It occurs to me that I am America.I am talking to myself again.
Democracy! Bah! When I hear that word I reach for my feather boa!
Poets are Damned… but See with the Eyes of Angels.
Whoever controls the media, the images, controls the culture.
You can own an elephant or a bank or power thereof but if there’s no personal breast bliss all you own is a lot of dead atoms and ideas.
The real America that Whitman proclaimed and Thoreau decoded.
Follow your inner moonlight don’t hide the madness.
Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.
The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.
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.