like pressed garlic
creamy crushed
husk blown away,
i held her
forgetting the argument,
forgiveness and
playing with that
blonde hair
thinking of tomorrow
A poem that got put published in Rusty Truck 25 March 2012 in memory of Richard Brautigans birthday 30th January 1935
Gregory Corso
John Antonelli’s documentary gives a slice of Kerouacs life from the early days to the publication of On The Road, it shows through comments how willing he was to suffer for his art as many writers and for that matter artists do
ashfoot, ashfoot
under moonball capsules of starlight
take two tubes of the sea
and with hipster tone,
squeeze upon my subterranean pinnacle
handcuffed to a midnight train
brakeman with burning lantern
punched me to nothing more,
take two more boxes to burn
smoke and steam
play it cool
sinister strapped luggage fell
to which i became lashed
tunnel -bone condemnation
under white haired
fawns feet
voices from regions unknown
lifted me away
to churches with horns
and fed capsules of better things
hopping away the vision
pierced bone
i was no longer
the bum
with sorry leg
dada at dVerse poets an interesting cut up as i used Gregory Corso In the Tunnel Bone of Cambridge which is below
IN THE TUNNEL-BONE OF CAMBRIDGE
1
In spite of voices-
Cambridge and all its regions
Its horned churches with fawns’ feet
Its white-haired young
and ashfoot legions-
I decided to spend the night
But that hipster-tone of my vision agent
Decided to reconcile his sound with the sea leaving me flat
North of the Charles
So now I’m stuck here-—
a subterranean
lashed to a pinnacle
2
I don’t know the better things that people know
All I know is the deserter condemned me to black-
He said: Gregory, here’s two boxes of night one tube of moon
And twenty capsules of starlight, go an’ have a ball-
He left and the creep took all my Gerry Mulligan records with him
3
But he didn’t cut out right then
I saw him hopping
On Brattle street today-
he’s got a bum leg
on his way to the tunnel-bone
He made like he didn’t see me
He was trying to play it cool
4
Wild in the station-bone
Strapped in a luggage vision-bone
made sinister by old lessons of motion
The time-tablebone said: Black
Handcuffed to a minister
Released in a padded diesel
The brakeman punched my back: Destination, black
Out the window I could see my vision agent
hopping along the platform
swinging a burning-lantern-bone like mad
All aboard, he laughed, all aboard
Far into the tunnel-bone I put my ear to the ear
of the minister–and I could hear
the steel say to the steam
and the steam to the roar: a black ahead
A black ahead a black and nothing more.
Gregory Corso
velvetmedia 