The Lion, An Ode To Ginsberg
Ginsberg. I am not afraid I am not afraid of your nineteen sixties television opinions I am not afraid of your twentieth century expansive heroic verse I am not afraid of your fan-mail underwear dance Your communist lover’s scissor cut Your Broom-stick-fuck publicity short story Your Lorca/Crane/Batman army reputation I am not afraid And I know I know all about Denver’s broken arm with bloody shirt I know all about your opinion of the reflection in glass I know the secret of the lion that did not eat you And I know your ego only meant sweet, sweet love And I know your beard was the soft cover for life and the universe in your arms And I know that your big fleshy 1997 man corpse was nought but a golden memory album that consisted of Corso’s days with sun on the axis of a needle, your own graveyard gifts and manic ego declarations, Orlovsky’s barefooted fecal snowflake poetry and William’s hard-boiled look and big old cock. I know of little Jean. He who pretended to be his ol...