Tears by Allen Ginsberg


I cry all the time now.

I cried all over the street when I left Seattle Wobbly Hall.

I cried listening to Bach.

I cried looking at happy flowers in my backyard, I cried at

the sadness of the middle-aged trees.

Happiness exists I feel it.

I cried for my soul, I cried for the world’s soul.

The world has a beautiful soul.

God appearing to be seen and cried over. Overflowing heart of


Seattle, February 2, 1956

Scribble by Allen Ginsberg


Rexroth’s face reflecting human

tired bliss

White haired, wing browed

gas mustache

flowers jet out of

his sad head,

listening to Edith Piaf street song

as she walks the universe

with all life gone

and cities disappeared

only the God of Love

left smiling.

Berkley, March 1956


A Strange New Cottage In Berkley by Allen Ginsberg


All afternoon cutting bramble blackberries off a tottering

brown fence

under a low branch with its rotten old apricots miscellaneous

under the leaves,

fixing the drip in the intricate gut machinery of a new toilet;

found a good coffeepot in the vines of the porch, rolled a

big tire out of the scarlet bushes, hid my marijuana;

wet the flowers, playing the sunlit water each to each,

retuning the godly extra drops for the stringbeans and daisies;

three times walked around the grass and sighed absently;

my reward, when the garden fed me its plums from the

form of a small tree in the corner,

am angel thoughtful of my stomach, and my dry and lovelorn



Dream Record : June 8, 1955 by Allen Ginsberg


William S Burroughs


A drunken night in my house with a

boy, San Francisco: I lay asleep:


I went back to Mexico City

and saw Joan Burroughs leaning

forward in a garden-chair, arms

on her knees. She studied me with

clear eyes and a downcast smile, her

face restored to a fine beauty

tequila and salt had made strange

before the bullet in her brow

We talked of life since then.

Well, what’s Burroughs doing now?

Bill on earth, he’s in North Africa.

Oh, and Kerouac? Jack still jumps

with the same beat genius as before,

notebooks filled with Buddha.

I hope he makes it, she laughed.

Is Hunke still in the can? No,

last time I saw him on Times Square.

And how is Kenney? Married, drunk

and golden in the East. You? New

loves in the West-

Then I knew

she was a dream: and questioned her

-Joan what kind of knowledge have

the dead? can you still love

your mortal acqaintances?

What do you remember of us?

faded in front of me- The next instant

I saw her rain-stained tombstone

rear an illegible epitaph

under a the gnarled branch of a small

tree in the wild grass

of an unvisited garden in Mexico.

My Alba by Allen Ginsberg


Now that I’ve wasted

five years in Manhattan

life decaying

talent a blank

talking disconnected

patient and mental

sliderule and number

machine on a desk

autograph triplicate

synopsis and taxes

obedient prompt

poorly paid

stayed on the market

youth of my twenties

fainted in offices

wept on typewriters

deceived multitudes

in vast conspiracies

deodorant battleships

serious business industry

every six weeks whoever

drank my blood bank

innocent evil now

part of my system

five years unhappy labor

22 to 27 working

not a dime in the bank

to show for it anyway

dawn breaks it’s only the sun

the East smokes O my bedroom

I am damned to Hell what

alarm clock is ringing


NY 1953

Malest Cornifici Tuo Catullo by Allen Ginsberg


I’m happy, Kerouac, your madman’s Allen’s

finally made it: discovered a new young cat,

and my imagination of an eternal boy

walks on the streets of San Francisco,

handsome, and meets me in cafeterias

and loves me, Ah don’t think I’m sickening.

You’re angry at me. For all my lovers?

It’s hard to eat shit, without having visions;

when they have eyes for me it’s like Heaven.

SF 1955

Malest Cornifici Tuo Catullo : Latin for

Things are bad for your Catullus, Cornificus

The Beats : Allen Ginsberg


On Burroughs’ Work by Allen Ginsberg

The method must be purest meat

and no symbolic dressing

actual visions & actual prisons

as seen then and now.


Prisons and visions presented

with rare descriptions

corresponding exactly to those

of Alcatraz and Rose


A naked lunch is natural to us,

we eat reality sandwiches.

But allegories are so much lettuce.

Don’t hide the madness.

San Jose 1954