Quotes from Allen Ginsberg

Forget pleasure and Ambition

I broadcast thru Time

Who can prophesy peace, or vow Futurity for any but armed insects

Clock hands move noonward

I'm obsessed by Time Magazine. I read it every week. Always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.

A missle lost Unprogrammed

I eat a catfish sandwich with onions and red sauce 20c. (Havana 1953)

Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye— corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to heaven!

First thought, best thought.

the day of the publication of the true literature of the American body will be day of Revolution the revolution of the sexy lamb

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

Assuming I am mad (Ha!) god, how I must have suffered to go mad. And all the time I was calling to people to save me and no one put out his hand and held it. This is like suicide, only I am alive and looking out of this living death I can see the people weep and feel sorry. Alas, nobody even weeps. It's all a dream.

all movement stops and I walk in the timeless sadness of existence, tenderness flowing thru the buildings, my fingertips touching reality's face, my own face streaked with tears in the mirror of some window - at dusk - where I have no desire - for bonbons - or to own the dresses or Japanese lampshades of intellection -

He visto las mejores mentes de mi generación destruidas por la locura

No point writing when the spirit doth not lead.

Money has reckoned the soul of America  Congress broken thru to the precipice of Eternity  the president built a War machine which will vomit and rear up Russia out of Kansas  The American Century betrayed by a mad Senate which no longer sleeps with its wife - Death to Van Gogh's Ear!

Without even intending it, there is that little shiver of a moment in time preserved in the crystal cabinet of the mind. A little shiver of internal space. That's what I was looking for.

an ant's dream's funnier than ours - he has more of them faster and seems to give less of a shit -

I'm with you in Rockland where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss

Love that bore me I bear back to my Origin with no loss, I float over the vomiter thrilled with my deathlessness, thrilled with this endlessness I dice and bury, come Poet shut up eat my word, and taste my mouth in your ear.

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

There's a guy, Anatole Broyard, of the N. Y. Times Book Review, who's still chasing Kerouac's corpse with a stiletto.

Burroughs ... his very junkhood an accomplishment beyond a million dollars.