______________________ Naropa Boyfriends Boulder Diary How I Write Poetry & Who I Learned From Writing Poems Family Portrait Scrap Book Another Day Julius My Brother Mirror Morning Poem _________________ NAROPA BOYFRIENDS “nothing like a hot dish of warm lips” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS _____________ Naropa a big Marketplace— everybody is writing poetry Allen says to his classes— poetry is by itself nothing _____________ I’m always at the mercy— of cute young Rimbaud boys I know what that means— the great come-on routine ______________ All these young guys— hangin around Allen Each night in Boulder— goin to bed with some kid __________________ BOULDER DIARY “Talk we Split it’s— all right, goin ways” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS _______________ Allen’s apartment becomes— a youth hostel every night They want to get in bed— with the great queer poet ____________ It’s okay with me cause— I’ve been there done that It’s okay with me cause— by now it’s all pretty boring ___________ I’m not turned on by— Allen’s old ugly cock Young guys can do him— I could give a shit ____________ They’re not interested— in poetry just being famous “Look at me, I went to bed— with the great poet Ginsberg!” _____________ HOW I WRITE POETRY & WHO I LEARNED FROM “In 1957 Paris hotel room I wrote my first 2 poems” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS ____________ I learned from Allen— to always write it down Always carry a notebook— so you can drop it on paper ___________ I get a kick jotting down— spontaneous flashes Corso taught me to recognize— funny speech word idea combos _____________ Catullus natural talk about love— Rimbaud for lightening action Lorca for finding my duende— WC Williams for reality track __________ Allen for spontaneous verse— “First word, best word” ______________ WRITING POEMS “Writing poems is a sacred thing” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS ____________ Writing poems scary business— sacred & yet profane too A diary or a novel— would make a lot more sense ____________ One family all I ever want to know— what good another soap opera? The same old memory ramblings— another bunch of normal lies ____________ To breathe is just to sigh— roll my eyes is all I can do Rain & snow my only clock— watching it thru the window __________ Grinding my teeth for lack of love— the world a cold stove cathedral ______________ FAMILY PORTRAIT “I love the foot steps— of my family when they walk thru the house at night” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS _____________ I don’t like sorrow to hang— down from my family tree So I try to visit them— as much as I can ____________ I’m just a nameless asshole— but they’re still my family Looking into each other’s loopy eyes— it’s sad but still we’re still here ____________ Old age is a heart stab— see what it does to faces? No wonder they pull down— the window shades so that ____________ None of the neighbors— can see what I see All families are the same— it’s just so fuckin sad _____________ SCRAP BOOK “beauty lies deep like the little speck of dirt” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS ______________ Heaven’s closet— what’s in there anyway? I use my teeth and fingers— to pry it open, saliva dripping _______________ My broken fingernails— flinging the closet door open Spooks spillin out— a rush of rumors too _______________ What did I think was— in there anything to know? Then he comes out— my idiot kid brother Julius _____________ ANOTHER DAY “a hungry rose cloud will eat us up” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS __________ The smiling shadow— in my broken heart is An unseen face— hidden in some clay __________ Always a little stillness— when I stop and think What am I all about— standing, sitting here alone? ____________ A monument to fate is— being erected in my pants Getting on the bus— everybody sees it ___________ JULUS MY BROTHER “No tears for Julius tonight brother that left me young” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS _______________ He’s only 18— goodlooking with a mop of hair Gone, gone down the road— such a strange crazy kid _______________ He sits alone in the corner— that faraway look in his eyes I’ve worked in mental hospitals— know the gloomy horror of it _______________ At least he’s home with mother— even tho she’s a zombie too It runs in our family— years pass, it just gets worse ______________ MIRROR “All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS ____________ Shaving in the morning— my hairy ugly werewolf face My eyes just empty holes— only hoping to understand ______________ Blinking neon sign shines— down thru my bedroom window Reminding me once again— life is just a Grade-B movie ______________ My life here in NYC— another American beatnik Thank god I’m not a hustler— selling my bod on Times Square _______________ MORNING POEM “Morning again, nothing has to be done” —Peter Orlovsky CLEAN ASSHOLE POEMS _______________ Morning comes— don’t feel like doin nothin Maybe I’ll write a poem— or let a poem write me ______________ Time for another joint— let the show begin There’s this elevator— from my bed to the floor _______________ Isn’t that paradise— your own dream room-land?
“Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk?” —William Burroughs, NAKED LUNCH ____________________ Did I ever tell you about the man— who taught his asshole how to talk? Actually it was the other way around— his asshole taught him to talk instead _____________ He was really good at it— farting away grand speeches on TV It was unlike anything ever heard— or smelled before such a shitty syntax!!! ______________ His asshole talked with such fluency— his colon was tres intelligentsia He worked for this traveling carnival— at first a novelty ventriloquist act ________________ After awhile he started talking to himself— his ass would ad lib & toss out gags But his asshole got bored with all that— eating through his pants out on the street __________________ Shouting out it wanted equal rights— all pouty & puckered up in farting jags Bitching that nobody loved it & wanted— to be kissed like any other pair of lips ______________ The guy couldn’t stop his talking asshole— it went on & on ranting day and night You could hear it for blocks away— people screaming for it to shut the fuck up ___________________ The guy threatened his asshole saying— I’ll stick a fucking dildo in you, then what? You’re the one that’s gonna shut up— the talking asshole said back to the guy ______________ I don’t need you anymore because— I can talk and eat and SHIT if I want to!!! After that the dildo shut him up good— but when the guy had to shit, WATCH OUT!!! ________________ So anyway, the talking asshole shut up— cause one thing it needed was a pair of eyes It trapped the guy though one day— getting an organ transplant on the sly _________________ Viola!!! The first talking asshole with an eye— It walks!!! It talks!!! It can even see!!! That’s when the asshole squeezed its cheeks— and ran for an office in local politics ____________ It started out just being Mayor of Shitville— but you know ambitious Assholes can be… Jaysus christ, pretty soon he was on TV— CNN & FOX-News went hog-wild over him __________________ He even stooped to conquer— letting Rachel Maddow kiss his lips Lady Gaga couldn’t wait to finger him— getting her forefinger all the way up there _________________ He bit it off with his razor hemorrhoid teeth— Justin Bieber was gonna be fuckin next The end result was simply horrifying— all the world’s assholes suddenly revolted ______________________ A whole new bourgeois bunghole Bureaucracy— had to be quickly invented right then & there No time for any more dithering diarrhea— after all, who’d been sitting there forever? __________________ There on the THRONE day after day— Kings, queens, peons, the usual gangsters But who really knew the fine red line— between life and death at the final end? _______________ It was the worldly humble meek Asshole— constantly taking care of the dirty shit Empires come & go, States collapse— but it’s the Asshole who rules in the end _________________ Proud & tall & built like old Shit-houses— lonely out there on the lonely prairies Prim & proud, sleek marble rims for the— Emperor Caligula’s fine wicked tender ass ______________ Ah yes, it’s an altogether different history— once you start seeing things differently So you ask me whatever happened— to this guy’s troublesome Talking Asshole? __________________ Listen closely, cause I’ll only fart this once— it’s tres secret and truly hush-hush Welcome to my ASSHOLE PLANET— guess who sits on the Throne now?
http://www.gotpoetry.com/Sections/op=viewarticle/artid=23.html “Members of Burroughs’s “Beat” generation had drifted from place to place, always moving and their writing was similarly disjointed.” —Sarah Smarsh, It Happened in Kansas _______________ So it only makes sense that Burroughs’— writing and visual art deal with motion Setting paint flying at explosive speed— one way of doing motion on canvas ______________ Sitting there in Lawrence— and writing it is one thing But trying to write what’s moving— that’s a totally different artform ________________ Old representational methods— didn’t work with Kansas landscapes He turned to cut-up collages— a new narrative technique was needed
THE PRIVATE ASSHOLE
A private asshole. As a private investigator I run
into more death than the law allows. I mean the law of averages. The guy inside
is about ready to reach a crescendo of amorous noises. I always find that if
you walk in just as he gets off he can’t take a swing at you. My name is Clem
Williamson Snide. When me and the house dick finally open the door with a
passkey, the smell of shit and bitter almonds blows us away. We wait outside
the hotel room for the cyanide capsule fumes to air out. They’d fucked until
the capsules dissolved. A real messy love death. Another time I’m working on a
routine case and have to take away twenty-three dead people. These things
happen. I am a man of the world. Going to and fro and walking up and down in it.
Death backs into you that way. Seems they always smell like cyanide, carrion,
blood, cordite or burnt flesh. It’s like opium. Once you smell it you never
forget. Industrial sabotage when a factory burns down is worse. I can walk down
a street and get a whiff of death. It’s like opium smoke and I know someone is
kicking the bucket. It smells. I mean
it has a special smell.
“The shadow crawls up canyon walls” —Badger Clark “The Sky Blue Plains,” SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER ________________ The Flint Hills evening— comes slowly down ravines The rim rocks flush pink— crawling night shadows ____________ The cottonwood leaves— quiver shiver like me Do they anticipate— what I know will happen? _____________ The wind break sways— knows what night brings The Flint Hills get still— more blue shadows come ________________ After dinner we smoke— drink some Johnny Walker The stillness out there— singing the same old song ____________ Blow out kerosene lamp— then to bed together If only I say to myself— it’ll be this way forever
He was hard to get to know— but then that’s the way it was The harder the better— a quiet kind of prairie love __________ Mostly just him & me driving— out there on Kansas nights Bought me a nice Stetson hat— a pair of expensive boots __________________ I never made a decent cowboy— he didn’t seem to mind tho He wanted somebody to— know & love him way out there _______________ OUT THERE different than— livin in town back home I can’t even describe it— it’s like livin on the moon ________________ Cowboy songs comin up from— OK City on the radio Cowboy commaraderie— him & me out there ______________ Turnin me on to country music— comin up from Oklahoma City Hank Williams especially— YOUR CHEATIN HEART ________________ Out there in his ranch-house— quiet Chase County nights Kinda spooky like Z-Bar Mansion— listenin to prairie wind outside _____________ Lived with him for a year— stoic Kansas cowboy dude Rented the range out to— young ranchers with families & kids
I didn’t much want to— but like I couldn’t help it Him waitin for me— in his Chevy pickup truck ___________ Waitin for me there in— the high school parking lot Smokin a cigarette— after all that boring shit ____________ The shit they put us thru— punchin a fuckin clock Gettin us ready for it— shitty working class crap ___________ There I stood lookin— at him like I always did He didn’t look away— he said “Get in, baby” _____________ We drove west outta— town real slow on Sixth Hank Williams on the— radio from OK City ________ Suddenly I realized— I was never gonna Gonna be the same— not with him anyway __________ Out past Hwy 50— past the Truck Stop He reached over— grabbed my leg ___________ Jaysus christ I— fainted then & there Talk about angels— descendin' outta heaven ______________ I was ready for it— some wings to fly Ready for anything— he wanted me to be
I got bored waitin around for it— not knowin if he was comin back So I started cruisin Strong City— kinda Slim Pickens tho dontchaknow ________________ Mostly older retired folks— not ranchin much anymore Then one Sat night I met this— guy at the Longhorn Lounge ___________ Started hangin around with him— kinda the lonesome type Young & discouraged— divorced with ex-wife & kids ___________ Strong City rodeo kid with— tight fuckin bronco hips Could go all night long— bitin' me hard on the neck
The say a picture is worth— a thousand words This one says it all— that & another inch more ______________ Skip the usual flowery— old fashioned Cowboy verse Nostalgic, closeted, coy— shy cowpokes from Texas ______________ My Strong City stud— barely surviving Viet Nam Scorched by the vision— ever-dying youth slaughtered ______________ Over there in the goddamn— fuckin rotten SE Asia jungles So when he got back— nothing really surprised him ___________ He wasn’t bashful about men— what he wanted I gave him
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=fvwp&NR=1&v=0qzMsJ-tmJY Well, what can I really say— without getting all you know what It’s embarrassing to talk about it— knowin how most Kansas folk feel ____________ I can’t really blame them— it’s kinda shockin to me too It never had happened to me— fallin in love that cowboy way ___________ But it did happen way back then— right outta the clear blue sky Falling with grace for him & me— he gave me the wings to fly
Q: What frightens you? A: Real toads in imaginary gardens. Q: You being the toad? A: Who else? Q: And your novels and short stories? A: The gardens. Q: When did you first notice it? A: Just skimming the top of any head I’d say it was LA CÔTE BASQUE. Q: That’s when you realized… A: That I was the Toad… Q: The toad in the imaginary garden? A: You got it, honey… Q: How did you feel? A: It wasn’t pleasant. But what did they expect? The high society ladies. Or even Perry Smith. I’m a writer. I use what I see & hear. Did they think I was listening to them for the fun of it? Q: What happened? A: What do you think? I was terribly ostracized—banned from High Society. The very same snobs & upper-crust elite that I’d catered to with The Black and White Ball, the endless hours of boring cocktail confessions that they just couldn’t wait to tell me all about. All the tell-tale gossip about the Rich & Famous. Q: And? A: All their kitschy bedroom secrets and smarmy hidden adulteries. The yachts lollygagging in the same old stultifying Mediterranean, the covered-up sex-scandals, the tacky divorces, the hushed-up murders, the inescapable usual boredom, the luxurious day-to-day ennui of it all. Q: And? A: That’s how I became the Toad in that Garden. But that wasn’t the first time. I had inklings & hints that I’ve been an evil ugly little Toad for quite a long time, honey. Q: When was the first time? A: Well, let’s see. I suppose it all goes back to my first novel—OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS. Q: Your first imaginary garden? A: Yes, I be a Toad all the way back then. I just didn’t know it, that’s all. Q: The way you deal with it, though, it’s always rather intriguingly imaginary, my dear. A: I suppose so. Deceptively so. But that was the style back then—dontchaknow. Southern Gothic like Carson McCullers and Eudora Welty and Miss Faulkner. Q: You mean Deep South Decadence? A: Perhaps I was somewhat of a closet case back then. At least a part of me was. Too pretty to be a boy like the New Orleans voodoo queen said in “DAZZLE.” Q: It came out in Joel the young kid in OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS didn’t it? A: Yes, unconsciously I suppose. With Randolph up there in the window too. Q: Randolph was you? A: I was both Joel & Randolph. Sometimes a writer can be writing a story — not realizing completely that he’s working out some problem that’s been troubling him. Q: Like what? A: That a fictional character isn’t fictive at all. It’s the Writer himself… Like in a nonfictional novel. Q: Like being too pretty to be a boy? A: That & everything that goes with it, my dear. I could only hint at it in OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS. If I had kept it up much longer then, none of my future books would’ve sold — not with the tres chilly climate back then. Q: All the homophobic critics? A: Well, duh. Look what happened to Gore Vidal. Q: He blamed the straight critics for him not being as successful as you were. A: C’mon now, sweetheart. Miss Vidal only had herself to blame — that and the usual sour grapes routine. Q: Well, if you were a critic today what would you say about what you’ve written so far? A: Well, I’d probably say that Miss Capote certainly be quite familiar with horse manure, my dear. Q: “Miss Capote”? A: Yes, MISS CAPOTE. She sure bitch a lot, honey… Bitch, bitch, bitch. What a fuckin Bitch Queen!!! Moan & Bitch, that’s all she do anymore. Q: Not a kind word for anybody? Not even herself? A: Oh, I suppose I could blame it all on Big Daddy. You know like Madame Sylvia “Hammer Films” Plath. Or blame Ted Hughes for not catering to her fucked-up whims. Q: Are you in a bitchy mood now? A: What do you think, hmm? I can’t help it if I’m a Drearie Dearie these days. Mere trifles, though really, nothing’s really important anymore. Not after IN COLD BLOOD. Q: Are you really being honest? A: Did I ever say I was honest? Q: All that nonfiction baloney… Didn’t you just to it for the moola? Those IN COLD BLOOD big bucks & film rights? A: Well… Q: C’mon, Truman. You couldn’t wait for them to exhaust their appeals & end up deader than doornails! So you could collect a million? A: It was more than just a million, honey. Q: Did you really fall in love with Perry Smith? A: Well, I suppose Perry was more like the Leaper by the River Styx that Saint Julian came across. Q: How do you mean? A: I shared my robe with him — because he was cold. And I kissed his rotten diseased lips — to show I cared for him. Q: And? A: The hard Kansas rain was coming down on both of us — there in that dark Stygian Death Row Lansing Prison cell. We were both cold, shivering, lonely. Q: And then what? A: I couldn’t help myself. I had to comfort him somehow…
