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The Last Mind (elegy For A Poet Allen Ginsberg) (read 80 times) ... or go back

What was Allen about? Everyone is about something. Allen was about a person with a confused mind, (writing things from outer space: where he lived)

Yet knowing very little about what he was writing about (so I do believe); to be blunt, I doubt he cared one way or another what it was all about, as long as he got his bows in!

The old man, at 71, shit in his pants, perhaps had too much fat and salt in his diet; screwed too many young boys in the buttocks; perhaps it caused his heart and liver and lungs to weaken.

He wrote many things, poetry he called it, “Howl,” dramatic it was, but poetry it was not; perhaps just a bunch of howling, negative thoughts.

He wrote “Empty Mirrors,” poetry that was poetry, to any listening ears (when he was very young).

On his death bed (1997), he called all his friends, not sure what he had to say to them, perhaps, a simply “Goodbye, farewell;” he did believe he was his own god, and so I’m sure he built his own heaven, somewhere in hell.

During those last days, he was populous—he couldn’t jack-off anymore, it was limp, a limp prick…! That is what he left the living: live by the sword, die by the sword.

I wonder if he’d like to live in the slime he wrote, if so, it will coke him to death in haven…! In Hell, it will do well….

#1251 2/27/06

Note: What you have read is the surface of my feelings towards a poet's poetry; but the problem of his poetry goes deeper (I am not trying to diminish any respectable reader's pleasure in Ginsberg's work ): but I do believe Ginsberg is by far the founder of Babel, incomprehensible, and his poetry meaningless. His poem Kaddish, like so many of his poems, is a piece of prose of assertions of the author being possessed; an obsession, confession, and he keeps talking as if he wants to build up a power house of excitment. I fear if that is what he thinks it takes to get the horse moving, it isn't much. This kind of writng allows you to go on forever saying nothing, line after line after stanza. Sounds like a woodpicker. Because the poet says it's true, doesn't make it so.

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