|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 12:56 pm
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
Hello, there.
Please, call me Pandy.
It is widely accepted, yea, encouraged, to (at the beginning of a pet quest thread) explain to the world at length why you are questing, and also to give a personal essay about why you chose this pet and why you want it so much. In short, you are to spend the introductory post speaking about you. And you're supposed to give such an eloquent reason that people can't help but donate to you.
Honestly, I'm not sure I can do that. Because I chose this boy spur-of-the-moment the other day as I was wondering whether or not I wanted to stay with the eerie character I chose to apply with in an earlier Ames Errantes custom contest. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I thought, "What I could do with a beatnik!" And wondered how adorable it would be to have a child based on bongo drums or coffee cups.
Honestly, I cannot say I harbour any special love for beatniks. I haven't read Kerouac. Can't say I'm a poet. Ginsburg was foreign to me. While I like listening to poetry, I have no particular love for that of the beat generation. I can't name more than two beat generation poets or writers, and I've already mentioned them in this paragraph. I only just read "Howl," and perhaps I intend to try On the Road someday in the future. But it is not of any great interest.
I just thought that a poetic character with rhythm, who perhaps speaks in quiet verse or has an immaculate sense of timing, and is terrifically eloquent, someone who is pleasant but sharp, quick but delicate, and dresses all in black,would be a wonderfully fun child to play with and raise.
It was a swift decision, neither hugely inspired nor hugely meaningful. I just...wanted it to happen. So I started questing. Onward, perhaps?
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:32 pm
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the
streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
Table of Contents
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:33 pm
Hey Father Death, I'm flying home
Hey poor man, you're all alone
Hey old daddy, I know where I'm going
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:35 pm
A lion met America
in the road
they stared at each other
two figures on the crossroads in the desert.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:36 pm
Now I'll record my secret vision, impossible sight of the face of God:
It was no dream, I lay broad waking on a fabulous couch in Harlem
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:37 pm
Is that the only way we can become like Indians, like Rhinoceri,
like Quartz Crystals, like organic farmers, like what we imagine
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:38 pm
I came home and found a lion in my living room
Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:39 pm
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:40 pm
The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the
kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it
kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:41 pm
These are the names of the companies that have made
money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight Annodomini fourthousand
eighty Hebraic
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:43 pm
Real as a dream
What shall I do with this great opportunity to fly?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:44 pm
That tree said
I don't like that white car under me,
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:46 pm
Blandly mother
takes him strolling
by railroad and by river
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:47 pm
Pigeons shake their wings on the copper church roof
out my window across the street, a bird perched on the cross
surveys the city's blue-grey clouds.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 14, 2008 5:48 pm
All poetry copyright Allen Ginsberg.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
