Howl by Allen Ginsberg

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire place Chicago,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight street light smalltown rain,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer after noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

light of Zoo,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear

rantings and kind king light of mind,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan

incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night