嚎叫中英对照原文

嚎叫中英对照原文

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn

looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly

connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up

smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating

across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw

Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes

hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the

scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy &

publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their

money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the

wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through

Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise

Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol

and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and

lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada &

Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery

dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs

of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and

tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan

rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride

from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of

wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in

the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated

out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate

Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen

jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to

bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down

the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of

the moon

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and

memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of

hospitals and jails and wars,

whose intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and

nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the

pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of

ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and

migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak

furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway

yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing

through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and

bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their

feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary

indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed

in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma

on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston

seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to

converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so

took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving

nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and

ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in

beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin

passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the

narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed

Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and

undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and

wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and

trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in

policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking

pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged

off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly

motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the

sailors, caresses of Atlantic and

Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens

and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their

semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with

a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond &

naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the

one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew

that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does

nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads

of the craftsman’s loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and

continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting

on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the

last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in

the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared

to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under

barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen

night-cars, ., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis

of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in

empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on

mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar

roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams,

woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of

basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third

Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the

snowbank docks waiting for

a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the

moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the

crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts

full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge,

and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on

the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the

tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty

incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of

gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht &

tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an

egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for

an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads

every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successfully unsuccessfully,

gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they

thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on

Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up

clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine

shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister

intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of

Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened

and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze

of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the

subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes,

cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot

smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s

German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the

bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal

steamwhistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to

each othe r’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham

jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had

a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came

back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver &

brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the

Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for

each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul

illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for

impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality

in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to

tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the

black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the

daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism

& were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and

subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the

madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide,

demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin

Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational

therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic

pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and

tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of

the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls,

bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the

midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a

nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung

out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 . and

the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last

furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental

furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the

closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit

of hallucination—

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now

you’re really in the total animal soup of time—

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with

a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog

the meter & the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space

through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the

soulbetween 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, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the

rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet

putting down here what might be left to say in time come after

death,

and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the

goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of

America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma

sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the

last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their

own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their

skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable

dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in

armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless!

Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone

soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose

buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch

the stunned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood

is running money! Moloch whose

fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal

dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch

whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas!

Moloch whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch

whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose

soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter

of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!

Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels!

Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in

Moloch!

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! invisable 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!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone

down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole

boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone

down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal

screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down

on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes!

the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to

solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the

street!

III

Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland

where you’re ma dder than I am

I’m with you in Rockland

where you must feel strange

I’m with you in Rockland

where you imitate the shade of my mother

I’m with you in Rockland

where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries

I’m with you in Rockland

where you laugh at this invisible humour

I’m with you in Rockland

where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

I’m with you in Rockland

where your condition has become serious and is reported on

the radio

I’m with you in Rockland

where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of

the senses I’m with you in Rockland

where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of

Utica

I’m with you in Rockland

where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of

the Bronx

I’m with you in Rockland

where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the

game of actual pingpong of the abyss

I’m with you in Rockland

where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent

and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse

I’m with you in Rockland

where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its

body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void

I’m with you in Rockland

where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the

Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha

I’m with you in Rockland

where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect

your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb

I’m with you in Rockland

where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all

together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale

I’m with you in Rockland

where we hug and kiss the United States under our

bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let

us sleep

I’m with you in Rockland

where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own

souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop

angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls

collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of

mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear

we’re free

I’m with you in Rockland

in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the

highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the

Western night