Allen Ginsberg Quotes

Brainwash cried Romney, the Governor of Pollution

Television concentrates its blue flicker of death in the frontal lobe

I want people to bow as they see me and say he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of the creator.

he threw up his hands
and wrote the Universe dont exist
and died to prove it

Mind is shapely, Art is shapely.

Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!

...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 -

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

The weight of the world is love.
Under the burden of solitude,
under the burden of dissatisfaction
the weight,the weight we carry is love.

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

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.

Now is the time of prophecy without death as a consequence
the universe will ultimately disappear
Hollywood will rot on the windmills of Eternity
Hollywood whose movies stick in the throat of God
Yes Hollywood will get what it deserves
Time
Seepage of nerve-gas over the radio
History will make this poem prophetic and its awful silliness a hideous spiritual music
I have the moan of doves and the feather of ecstasy
Man cannot long endure the hunger of the cannibal abstract

The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That's what poetry does. By poetry I mean the imagining of what has been lost and what can be found—the imagining of who we are and the slow realization of it.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!

Nobody knows whether we were catalysts or invented something, or just the froth riding on a wave of its own. We were all three, I suppose.