Howl by Allen Ginsberg

What a crew.

Allen Ginsberg (right) with (from left) fellow Beat luminaries Larry Rivers, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso (back to camera) and David Amram, New York,      late 1950s. Photograph: John Cohen/Hulton Archive

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, who bared their brains to heaven under the EL and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatories their torsos night after night, with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock endless balls (…)”

A lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars (…)”

God bless you Allen.

That’s the JAM, have a nice day.



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