по просьбе tes3m дублирую пост сюда.Увидела сегодня в ЖЖ ленте это фото, и оно мне так понравилось
**ах, очки в роговой оправе**. Это Питер Орловски и Аллен Гинзберг. И сегодня год со дня смерти Питера Орловски - амер. поэта, больше известного широкой общественности не как поэт, а как любовник Аллена Гинзберга. Из его стихов я могу припомнить лишь самое раскрученное - FRIST POEM. Признаться, я равнодушна к поэзии битников,
или честнее сказать, я ее плохо понимаю. А единственный факт, который я помню про Орловски как поэта: у него был ужасный спеллинг. Он часто писал слова с ошибками, а его издатели решили, что в этом есть своя изюминка, и не исправляли его спеллинг при публикации стихов.
FRIST POEM
FRIST POEM
A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
the air.
I look for my shues under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
of life
All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
then I do?"
Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
my gay jubilation.
Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris