To Carl Solomon
I
I saw the most outstanding minds of this generation being destroyed by madness, naked and close to hunger hysteria, dragging themselves through the dark streets of dawn, looking for a deadly dose.
Sibst, as holy as an angel, is eager to communicate with the star-awn generator in the night machinery.
They are poor, their clothes are worn out and their eyes are blank. In the supernatural darkness of the cold water apartment, they smoke and float over the city, reciting jazz chapters and staying up all night.
They confided to God under the elevated railway tracks and found Muhammad's angels teetering on their brightly lit roofs.
They went in and out of the university with shining cold eyes, and met the tragedy inspired by Arkansas and Blake among the scholars who studied war.
They were expelled from school because they were crazy, because they published obscene hymns on the skull-like windows,
They huddled in unshaven rooms in shorts, burned paper money in the middle of the wastebasket, and listened to the horrible sound.
They returned to new york and crossed laredo with bundles of marijuana. They were naked and had pubic hair when they were caught.
They swallow fire with powder in hotels, or go to the "Road to Heaven" to drink turpentine, or die, or humiliate their bodies night after night.
Dreams, drugs, lucid nightmares, alcohol, penis and countless testicles,
Trembling dark clouds build an unparalleled dead lane, and lightning in my mind rushes to Canada and Patterson, illuminating the dead time world between the poles.
Morgan's generally credible hall, the dawn on the green tree cemetery in the backyard, the drunkenness on the roof, the neon lights when driving past the tea-loving shop in town, the sun and moon in Brooklyn and the shaking of trees at dusk, the roar of garbage cans and the tenderest light of thinking,
They tied themselves to the subway and traveled endlessly from Batri to the Bronx base with amphetamines, until the sound of wheels and children's voices woke them up, shivering with cold, their lips cracked, and their brilliant brains were worn out and desolate in the dimly lit zoo.
They spent the whole evening immersed in the light on the ground floor of bickford cafeteria, floated out, and then sat in a sparse foggy bar drinking afternoon horse urine beer and listening to the creaking of fate on the hydrogen jukebox.
They talked for 70 hours, from parks to beds to bars, from Bellevue Hospital to museums to Brooklyn Bridge.
A group of lost Platonic conversationalists jumped off the fire escape, windowsill and Empire State Building in the moonlight.
Talking, screaming, vomiting, whispering facts and memories and anecdotes, dazzling confrontation and hospital shock and cell and war,
A generation of wise men's eyes lit up and sank into the deep memories of seven days and seven nights. The mutton sacrificed to the synagogue was thrown on the masonry road.
They sneaked into Zen Village in New Jersey, leaving behind a vague postcard with a view of Atlanta City Hall.
Endure the pain in the dark room with furniture in Newark, endure the hard labor in the east, endure the grinding of bones in Tangier, and endure the migraine in China.
They wandered in the railway freight yard in the middle of the night, not knowing where to go, still unable to get rid of their sadness.
They lit cigarettes on trucks and rushed noisily through the snow to their ancestors' lonely farm in the dark.
They studied the telepathy between Rutius, Poe and St. John, and studied the mysterious knowledge of Jews in jazz, because in Kansas, the universe instinctively trembled at its feet.
They walk alone in the streets of Idaho looking for imaginary Indian angels, because they are imaginary Indian angels.
They were very happy because Baltimore was shrouded in supernatural ecstasy.
They took China, Oklahoma, to the car and felt the stimulation of raindrops in a street lamp town on a winter night.
Hungry and lonely, they wandered around Houston looking for jazz and soup. They followed the famous Spaniard and discussed America and eternity with him, but their ambition was hopeless. They traveled to Africa.
They disappeared into the volcano in Mexico, leaving only the shadow of coarse clothes and tools, while the fireplace in Chicago was covered with lava and the ashes of poetry.
They haunt the west coast, chasing the FBI in shorts and beards. Their dark skin makes the eyes of anti-war activists wide open and sexy. They distributed confusing leaflets.
They branded cigarettes on their arms to protest against capitalism's crackdown on alcoholic tobacco smoke.
They distributed super-pamphlets in Union Square and took off their clothes while crying, but the siren of Loselemos swept them down and swept down the wall, and the ferry on Staddon Island also cried.
They burst into tears in the empty gymnasium, naked, shivering in front of another skull machine,
They bit the detective on the back of the neck and screamed excitedly in the police car, because the crimes they committed were only their own crazy sodomy and drug abuse.
They knelt on the subway and howled, shaking their genitals and waving manuscripts, and were dragged off the roof.
They let the sacred motorcyclists crowd behind them and shout with joy.
They lick others and are caressed by human Seraphim and water, which is the love touch from Atlantic and Caribbean.
They have sex in the rose garden in the morning and in the grass of the cemetery at dusk, and their liquid is happily sprinkled on anyone who can reach orgasm.
They kept burping behind the partition wall in Hamam, trying to squeeze out giggles, but in the end they just choked up and sobbed, and naked angels with blond hair and blue eyes rushed forward to stab them with their swords.
They lost their lover because of three ancient destiny gophers, one was the one-eyed heterosexual, the other was squeezing out of the womb to blink, and the other was simply cutting off the money of the wisdom of the Weaver Girl.
They frantically and greedily rolled down from the bed with a bottle of beer, a lover, a pack of cigarettes and a candle in their hands, and continued on the floor and living room until the last vulva appeared in front of them and fainted on the wall, reaching a climax at the last moment of consciousness dissipation.
They let/kloc-0.0 million girls shivering in the sunset enjoy sweet moments. Their sweet eyes are bloodshot in the morning, but they are still ready to enjoy the joy of sunrise, the fleeting donkey in the barn and the nakedness in the lake.
They wandered around Colorado, raping prostitutes in various stolen night cars. Nika is the protagonist of these poems. The rooster in Denver and Tony-his past was pleasant. He put down countless girls in the empty floor and the back seat of the dining car, in the rickety chair of the cinema, in the cave on the top of the mountain, or on the familiar secluded path, especially in the gas station, in the toilet and in the alley in his hometown.
They gradually disappeared into the huge dirty movie theater, were kicked out in their dreams, woke up in Manhattan, the cold wine and the horror of the third avenue hard dream dispelled their hangover in the cellar, and then fell into the door of the unemployment relief office.
They walked on the snow-covered dock all night, with blood in their shoes, waiting for the East River to open the door of the room full of steam and opium.
They climbed to the top of the cliff apartment on the Hudson River and committed a tragic suicide in the blue moonlight like mercury lamp during the war. Their heads will be crowned in hades.
They eat imaginary roast mutton, or digest crabs at the bottom of a dirty ditch in Bow Wow.
They cried in a street romance full of onions and inferior music.
They sat in despair, sucked into the darkness under the bridge, and climbed into their attic to build a grand piano.
They coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem wearing fire crowns, and the tuberculous sky was surrounded by theological orange orchards.
They scribbled and recited abstruse spells all night, and rock and roll left a nonsense for the cowardly morning.
They cook the lungs, hearts, hooves, tails, Luo Songtang and tortillas of rotting animals, dreaming of an abstract plant kingdom.
They got into the meat truck to look for eggs.
They threw their watches off the roof as an eternal vote to transcend time. Since then, the alarm clock has been ringing every day for ten years.
They cut their wrists three times and washed their hands. They were forced to open an antique shop, where they felt old and sad.
They suffered in Madison Avenue wearing naive flannel suits, witnessed the revelry of low-level poetry parties, witnessed the laughter of the popular Iron Man, witnessed the screaming of nitroglycerin of the advertising fairy, witnessed the mustard gas of the sinister and wise editor, and were knocked down by an absolutely realistic taxi.
It's true that they jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, and then quietly walked away into the foggy narrow lanes and hoses, forgotten in the trance of Chinatown, and didn't even care about a free beer.
They sang in despair on the windowsill, jumped over the subway window, jumped into the dirty Basque River, pounced on the blacks, wailed along the street, danced barefoot on the broken glass, broke the nostalgic German jazz records in Europe in the 1930s, drank all the whisky, groaned and vomited into the bloody toilet, and the whistle sounded in a low voice.
They compete along the ancient avenue, each other's broken cars, martyrdom, prison loneliness or the embodiment of Birmingham jazz.
They drove 72 hours across the field to see if it was you, me or him who found the beautiful scenery. They want to find eternity.
They traveled to Denver, they died in Denver, they went back to Denver to wait in vain, they watched Denver meditate and were alone in Denver, and finally left to find time. Now Denver is lonely because it has lost its hero.
They knelt in a hopeless church and prayed for each other's liberation, for light and breasts, only for the temporary enlightenment of the soul.
They are anxious in prison, waiting for the blonde villain, waiting for them to sing sweet blues and inner realistic charm to the pelican.
They live in seclusion in Mexico for self-cultivation, or go to the Rocky Mountain to convert to Buddhism or go to Tangier to find their old friends, or go to the South Pacific to find a black locomotive, or go to Harvard to find daffodils or Wooddragon to find a daisy wreath or grave.
They demanded a fair trial, accused the drugged radio, and no one asked them about their confused minds, their hands and the pending jury.
They threw potato salad to drive away new york's Dadaism remarks, and then set foot on a granite-level performance in an insane asylum to give a funny speech about baldness and suicide, demanding an immediate lobotomy.
Instead, it is insulin antispasmodic, cardiotonic, electrotherapy, hydrotherapy and occupational therapy. This is true vanity, table tennis and amnesia.
Their angry protest only overturned a symbolic ping-pong table and stopped for a while because of mental stress.
Many years later, I came back, wearing only a wig, tears and finger blood, and returned to this crazy city in the East. The madman in this ward can't escape bad luck.
The halls of the Pilgrims' Country, the halls of Lochrane and the halls of Gray Si Tong stink. They quarrel with the echo of the soul, lonely benches and stone houses, midnight rock in the kingdom of love, everything in life is like a nightmare, and the body becomes as heavy as the moon.
Finally, with my mother, I threw the last gobbledygook out of the window, closed the last door at four in the morning, threw the last phone on the wall to answer that the last decorated room was cleaned, leaving only the last piece of spiritual furniture, yellow paper roses twisted on the wire hook of the wardrobe. Even if this is pure imagination, the whole room is empty, with a hint of illusory hope-
Ah, Carl, you are unstable and I am unstable, and now you are really caught in the hodgepodge of the times-
So they ran through the cold streets, dreaming that the light of alchemy suddenly flashed, looking for ellipsis, arrangement, rhythm usage and trembling plane guidance maze for them.
They used juxtaposed images to realize their dreams, let the living ravine cross time and space, and caught the archangel of the soul between the two visual images. They connect basic verbs, combine conscious nouns and dashes, and jump in the eternal God feeling of Almighty Father.
In order to transform the syntax and rhythm of human poverty, they stand before you speechless, wise and trembling with shame, but they are rejected but show their true intentions, and their naked and deep hearts adapt to the rhythm of thinking.
Crazy prodigals and angels are digging up their ideas, which are little known, but they still have to leave what they might want to say in the afterlife after death.
Being thoroughly remoulded, standing under the fancy costume of jazz and under the shadow of the horn of the band, he played in the United States to reveal the sufferings of spiritual courtship, and played the cries of Eli Ramallah and Masasaba Dani on saxophone until the last broadcast shattered the city.
The absolute heart of this life poem gouged out from oneself is enough to eat for 1000 years.
two
What cement monster broke their skulls and ate their brains and imagination?
Vulcan! Lonely! Dirty things! Ugly! Trash cans and unattainable dollars! The children are screaming under the stairs! Boys in the army sobbed! The old man is crying in the park!
Vulcan! Vulcan! Vulcan's nightmare can't get Vulcan who loves God! Spirit Vulcan! Vulcan, the judge who punishes mankind!
Vulcan, this incomprehensible prison! Vulcan, skeleton and femur, a prison without soul, a gathering place of troubles! Vulcan, his tall building is a test! Vulcan, the stone of war! Vulcan this unconscious rule!
Vulcan, his thoughts are purely mechanical! Vulcan, he has money in his blood! Vulcan, his fingers are ten armies! Vulcan, his chest is a man-eating generator! Vulcan, his ears are a smoking grave!
Vulcan, his eyes are a thousand blocked windows! Vulcan skyscrapers stand along the street like countless Jehovah! Vulcan, his factory is sleeping in the fog, shouting in the fog! Vulcan, his chimney and antenna are soaring over the city!
Vulcan love is inexhaustible oil and stone! The soul of Vulcan is electricity and banks! Vulcan, his poverty is the ghost of genius! The fate of Vulcan is a mass of asexual hydrogen! Vulcan, his name is Will!
Vulcan, I'm sitting in it alone! Vulcan, I dreamed that angels were among them! Crazy in Vulcan! Vulcan's debauchery! Losing love and men in Vulcan!
Vulcan, he entered my young soul! I have no physical consciousness on Vulcan! Vulcan, he scared away my natural fun! Vulcan, I abandon him! Awaken on Vulcan! Light falls from the sky!
Vulcan! Vulcan! Robot apartment! Invisible suburbs! Bones. Blind capital! Devil industry! Ghost country! An incurable madhouse! Granite penis! Monster atomic bomb!
They worked hard to send Vulcan to heaven! Masonry roads, trees, radios, tonnage! Raise the city to a ubiquitous paradise!
Dream! Bad omen! Phantom! Miracle! Ecstasy flows into the rivers of America!
Dream! Worship! Light! Religion! A ship full of sensitive lies!
Rest! Cross the river bank! Rolling and suffering! Into the flood! Highland! Show! Despair! Ten years of animal screaming and suicide! Mind! New love! Crazy generation! Hit the stone of time!
What a sacred laugh there is in the river! See * * *! Those round eyes! Holy cry! They waved goodbye! They jumped off the roof! Run to loneliness! Shake hands! With flowers! Sink into the river! Go to the street!
Roman numeral 3
Carl Solomon! I'm in Lochrane with you.
You are crazier than me.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
You must be fidgeting there.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
You imitate my mother's shadow.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
You murdered your twelve secretaries there.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
You laugh at this subtle humor
I'm in Lochrane with you.
We are all great writers, playing equally bad typewriters.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
Where your illness worsens, there will be a notice of your illness on the radio
I'm in Lochrane with you.
Brain organs no longer tolerate sensory moths.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
There you can drink tea from Utica's old maid's breasts.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
You tease the nurse's body with puns. They are women's island in the Bronx.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
There, you are bound in crazy clothes, screaming, and afraid of losing the real table tennis match in the abyss.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
Where you beat the piano nervously, the soul is naive and immortal, and it will never die absurdly in that armed madhouse.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
After pilgrimage to the cross in the void, more than 50 electric shocks will not bring your soul back to your body.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
There, you accused the doctors of insanity and planned a Hebrew socialist revolution against fascist countries.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
There you will split the sky on Long Island and dig up your living human Christ from Superman's grave.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
There are 25,000 crazy comrades singing the last verse of The Internationale.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
We lay under the sheets, hugged and kissed the United States of America, which coughed all night and kept us awake.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
There, we woke up from a coma and were shocked by the roaring soul plane on the roof. They flew here and dropped angel bombs. The hospital lit up our imagination and the walls collapsed. The eternal war has come. Forget your underwear. We are free.
I'm in Lochrane with you.
In my dream, you dripped water from your sea trip. You came to the door of my cabin and bathed in the western night with tears on the road across America.