Allen Ginsberg

The world knows the love that's in its breast as in the flower, the suffering lonely world.

Thank God I am not God! Thank God I am not God!

To ease the pain of living. Everything else, drunken dumbshow.

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Night is the wonderful opportunity to take rest, to forgive, to smile, to get ready for all the battles that you have to fight tomorrow.

Every American wants MORE & MORE of the world and why not, you only live once. But the mistake made in America is persons accumulate more & more dead matter, machinery, possessions & rugs & fact information at the expense of what really counts as more: feeling, good feeling, sex feeling, tenderness feeling, mutual feeling. You own twice as much rug if you're twice as aware of the rug.

I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.

How sick i am! that thought Always comes to me with horror. Is it this strange for everybody? But such fugitive feelings have always been my metier.

Because I am still clinging to my human known me, Allen Ginsberg — and to enter this thing means final, complete abandonment of all I know of my I am except for this outer-seeming otherness which requires my disappearance.

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!

Why don't you put a stop to it? 'I try, he said—That's all he could do, he looked tired. He's a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil soup.

The universe turns inside out to devour me!

I will always be afraid I will always be worthless, I will always be alone till I die and I will be tormented long after you leave me.

Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on

What came is gone forever every time

No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the dream, trapped in its disappearance.

This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God's perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms!

Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years' loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All!

Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability.

There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you've gone, it's good.