Allen Ginsberg

So he said, 'What would you like to do? What is your desire really?' I said, 'Doctor, I don't think you're going to find this very healthy and clear, but I really would like to stop working forever__ever work again, never do anything like the kind of work I__ doing now__nd do nothing but write poetry and have leisure to spend the day outdoors and go to museums and see friends.

and he imagines carsand rides them in his dreams,so lonely growing up amongthe imaginary automobilesand dead souls of Tarrytownto createout of his own imaginationthe beauty of his wildforebears - a mythology he cannot inherit.

I learned a world from each / one whom I loved

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

I know I'm not God, are you? Don't be silly.God? God? Everybody's God? Don't be silly.

We're all golden sunflowers inside.

Man is no form no mighty molecule no justidea alone _ all that Thing _ I feel man tender radiance at Heart betweenbreast and belly, that physical placewhere the Self urges _ delicate sensation

Just because I like to suck cock doesn't make me any less American than Jesse Helms.

I really believe, or want to believe, really I am nuts, otherwise I'll never be sane.

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That's what poetry does.

Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.

Follow your inner moonlight don't hide the madness.

Who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Spacethrough images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame

The real America that Whitman proclaimed and Thoreau decoded.

We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

You can own an elephant or a bank or power thereof but if there's no personal breast bliss all you own is a lot of dead atoms and ideas.

..Moloch who entered my soul early. Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body. Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy. Moloch whom I abandon. Wake up in Moloch.. Light streaming out of the sky.Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! Invisible suburbs! Skeleton treasuries! Blind capitals! Demonic industries! Spectral nations! Invincible madhouses! Granite cocks! Monstrous bombs!They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven.. Pavements, trees, radios, tons. Lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us.