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st64 Feb 2014
I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room  
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life.

First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:
"Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!"
"Oh yeah? Well, I've nothing to hide ... OUT!"

Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement:  
"It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!"
"OUT!"  

Then Love, cooing bribes: "You'll never know impotency!  
All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!"
I pushed her fat *** out and screamed:
"You always end up a ******!"

I picked up Faith, Hope, Charity
all three clinging together:
"Without us you'll surely die!"
"With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!"

Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty—
As I led her to the window
I told her: "You I loved best in life
... but you're a killer; Beauty kills!"  

Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her  
"You saved me!" she cried
I put her down and told her: "Move on."

Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out.

The only thing left in the room was Death  
hiding beneath the kitchen sink:
"I'm not real!" It cried
"I'm just a rumor spread by life ... "  

Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all  
and suddenly realized Humor
was all that was left—

All I could do with Humor was to say:  
"Out the window with the window!"
Gregory Corso (1930–2001)



Gregory Corso was a key member of the Beat movement, a group of convention-breaking writers who were credited with sparking much of the social and political change that transformed the United States in the 1960s. Corso's spontaneous, insightful, and inspirational verse once prompted fellow Beat poet Allen Ginsberg to describe him as an "awakener of youth." Although Corso enjoyed his greatest level of popularity during the 1960s and 1970s, he continued to influence contemporary readers and critics late into the twentieth century. Writing in the American Book Review, Dennis Barone remarked that Corso's 1989 volume of new and selected poems was a sign that "despite doubt, uncertainty, the American way, death all around, Gregory Corso will continue, and I am glad he will."

Born in 1930 to teenaged parents who separated a year after his birth, Corso spent his early childhood in foster homes and orphanages. At the age of eleven, he went to live with his natural father, who had remarried. A troubled youth, Corso repeatedly ran away and was eventually sent to a boys' home. One year later he was caught selling a stolen radio and was forced to testify in court against the dealer who purchased the illegal merchandise. While he was held as a material witness in the trial, the twelve-year-old boy spent several months in prison where, as he wrote in a biographical sketch for The New American Poetry, the other prisoners "abused me terribly, and I was indeed like an angel then because when they stole my food and beat me up and threw *** in my cell, I . . . would come out and tell them my beautiful dream about a floating girl who landed before a deep pit and just stared." He later spent three months under observation at Bellevue Hospital.

When Corso was sixteen, he returned to jail to serve a three-year sentence for theft. There he read widely in the classics, including Fyodor Dostoevsky, Stendahl, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Thomas Chatterton, and Christopher Marlowe. After his release in 1950, he worked as a laborer in New York City, a newspaper reporter in Los Angeles, and a sailor on a boat to Africa and South America. It was in New York City that he first met Ginsberg, the Beat poet with whom he was most closely associated. The pair met in a Greenwich Village bar in 1950 while Corso was working on his first poems. Until then he had read only traditional poetry, and Ginsberg introduced him to contemporary, experimental work. Within a few years Corso was writing in long, Whitmanesque lines similar to those Ginsberg had developed in his own work. The surreal word combinations that began to appear in Ginsberg's work about the same time may in turn suggest Corso's reciprocal influence.

Corso once explained his use of rhythm and meter in an interview with Gavin Selerie for Riverside Interviews: "My music is built in—it's already natural. I don't play with the meter." In other words, Corso believes the meter must arise naturally from the poet's voice; it is never consciously chosen.

Corso shaped his poems from 1970 to 1974 into a book he planned to call Who Am I—Who I Am, but the manuscript was stolen, and there were no other copies. Aside from chapbooks and a few miscellaneous publications, he did not issue other work until 1981 when Herald of the Autochthonic Spirit appeared. Shorter than any of his major books since Gasoline, it contains several critically acclaimed poems, many of them written in clipped, almost prosaic lines more reminiscent of William Carlos Williams than of Whitman. "Return" deals with barren times in which there had been no poems but also asserts that the poet can now write again and that "the past is my future." The new poems, however, are generally more subdued than the earlier ones, though there are surreal flights, as in "The Whole Mess . . . Almost," in which the poet cleans his apartment of Truth, God, Beauty, Death, and essentially everything but Humor.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGam9Z6PSWk
Chintan Shelat Mar 2012
"The Nymphs are departed"
says Elliot,

the nymphs are departed,
so, all the barbers dumped their tools into the lake out of the village,
because all men will grow beard,
the homosexuality of the high ends of the streets,
is stuck to the heel of that transgender like a dust,

you can not shake your head if you have combed your hair neatly,
and your impotency is revealed,
you reach to the tree running, and fall like a chestnut,
your hands are still blue from the act of last night,
there is no question that you will be accused,

for the name sake there are some shovering forests,
at the every rough turn of the streets,
you can only enter with your grown beard,
there is only one riddle to solve,
"why did the nymphs depart?"
SassyJ Oct 2016
The melody of the strings of life*
a substitution for the institution
take my arm, let it reach a far
in creativity and sensitivity
beats bouncing the zombies
from the graves of impotency
created by mundane manipulation
mutilations of the happiness we long
as we capture the tides of everyday

The harmony of the universal love
screaming with a tantalizing mission
a remission from the decay of the society
sugar coated with lengthy dices of lies
then iced with laces of illusionary secretions
tis' me who embrace the skin you wear
as we seek a new phase of revolution
solutions that are delusional and waking
*rising through ever dense curved valley
For HP Dystopia .... my utopia. Thanks for reaching to me, you lifted my soul and spirit intensively. You have seriously mused me in a deep way ;-)

My utopia is very talented.... check out the lovely pen on
http://hellopoetry.com/mydystopia/

Thanks for the new mantra my utopia
" I never going to kneel no way.......I got my own to truth to swallow,  I have got my own path to follow,I won't be manipulated, mind controlled and inundated, I will seek the revelation, make my life a celebration,  I will be the change I am seeking, manifest the word I am speaking, I  refuse to be imprisoned, I will make my own decisions.... I will never be a pawn... I will never slave away"
Rhianecdote Apr 2015
It's not that I can't do it
Its just that I can't KEEP ON doin it
Whatever "it" may be
I'm consistently inconsistent you see
Maybe cause I was born to be free
But that choice always seems
to wind up in apathy
I just can't keep it up
If I was a man then surely
I'd be suffering from impotency
This has been my struggle in life for quite some time, I'm at a loss at how to change it tbh, maybe I should take a leaf out of the book of Nike and "just do it"
JP Sep 2017
Villain are always
rich
Heroes are always
poor

Villains being
rational
Heroes being
irrational

Villains are emotional
Heroes are calm and dead

Villains live longer
Hero life are always tragedy

Villains moves faster in life
Heroes moves slower calling mindful

Villains live in glamourise bungalow
Heroes live in so called pathetic hut

Villains death is injury
Heroes injury is death

Villains buys on full cash
Heroes buys on instalment

Villains enjoy beautiful girls calling him flirt
Heroes enjoy the impotency called gentleman

At last
Villains killed by heroes
Heroes are killed by villains kins
The rigor morgasm
last bus to spasmville
will you rise to the occasion,take a ride,go on vacation or will you fail,sails up,head down,sink or swim,win out or drown?
These thoughts are what occur to me,when thinking somewhat morbidly about what age may do to me,and when or if it happens, will I see, or feel the loss of my virility,it really bothers me,it never did before,but then I'm almost at three score,(I'm talking years)
when fears of that impotency may be more important than what I think of as my potency,and I ask the lord libido to show me some high rise clemency and let me be the man I think I am.

Fevers of the mind when the motions of the body blind, slow,
you know,
but you don't say,
you love me anyway
I love you
sometimes and sometimes at times I come through,making love with you,counting calendars,dates and we are the best of mates,lovers too.sometimes you love me sometimes coming through,but always love me making love with you.

We may be old and often told that all is past,
and then we smile and kiss,
cast off our wrinkled skin and dive in to swim in each others winning ways,making it,sometimes at odd times of the days or nights and lights off or on,
and if this goes the way we think it should
I would not complain.

There comes a time sometimes when we have to read between the lines and tell the Doctor on prescription about the failures of *******.
I ***** a monument, to this my plea,
let the lord libido be kind to me.
Men can be such babies and so shy when it comes to talking about their own bodies and yet have no such qualms talking  about the female form and their bodies..I don't care,we get old and things drop off,when they do..See the Doctor.
Guy Random Apr 2011
Simple is the story of hard earned money;
Hard to earn hard to spend;

Single penny is worth and respected;
Fight within continues, spend it or save it;

Earn, when u have nothing;
But yes problems accompany;

Giving doesn't mean much, if you have much;
Giving, when u are having little;

Smile covering the helpless forlorn impotency;
Even smile hiding the difficulty of spending;

Parents choose comfort of child over there need;
Sacrifice not because its responsibility;

Finding satisfaction in giving;
It’s known to be utmost;

I witnessed that smile on a worker;
Offering tea when you barely earn to eat

I witnessed that smile on a father;
Those muddy legs told me real cost of college fees;

I witnessed that smile on a customer;
Confirming billion times before paying off;

Increment in bus fare by 20 rs made a huge difference;
How I throw 20 bucks on a soft drink;

I wonder why I don’t think like this;
How can I feel sad for inadequate money?

How man gets satisfy in cheap cloths and food;
Here i think i wear a signature instead of Strauss;

Simple is the story of hard earned money;
Hard to earn hard to spend;
(c)goyal.madhav@gmail.com

your reactions are highly appreciated

can follow this on blogs- http://hard-earned.blogspot.com/
Devin Lawrence  May 2016
Sand
Devin Lawrence May 2016
Have you ever fallen in love?

I once did,
sitting on top of a sand dune
under the lights
of the Fourth of July.

                                         The water below
                                         cast the reflection of beautiful chandeliers
                                         bursting with color,
                                         and as timeless as sand,
                                         and yet my eyes were elsewhere -
                                         capturing something unlike I'd ever seen.

Have you ever fallen in love?

I once did,
laying on a couch as I held her,
she turned to me and smiled;
the chandeliers were bold and raucous
as they decorated the sky of my mind,
and the stars twinkled in the depths of her eyes -

                                        that memory since faded with time.

Have you ever fallen in love?

I once did,
the pen in my hand
gave birth to words and worlds
made from my reflection
like they were my children -
and I had always feared
impotency.

                                               I created places I'd never seen,
                                               but they were as real as sand,
                                               and for a moment,
                                               I felt like God:
                                               watching from above
                                               as my creations began to breathe.

Have you ever fallen in love?

I once did,
living on a page of black and white,
if I was God,
she was an angel,
and the song from her trumpet
reminded me of the chandeliers
I thought were lost in time.

Have you ever fallen in love?

I don't know if I ever have,
but what I have is something
that gives me a reason to be;

                                                 Something beautiful
                                                 and intricate
                                                 like a chandelier
                                                 whose glass was once
                                                 nothing more
                                                 than countless grains of sand.
I'm open to other title ideas, and by open I mean please give me ideas
Lucius Furius Dec 2021
"Janice, I sat next to you in Latin.
We were sophomores.
You were a cheerleader
but smart too.
The excitement was unbearable
(Cicero; the shape of your sweater . . . ).
I asked you to play tennis."
"You did never."
"Yes, I did."
"I suppose I didn't want to get sweaty."
"So then you would have gone with me to a movie?"
"No, I doubt it. . . . I was a brat."
"You were divine.
I wrote a poem for you in Latin."
  
"Lynda, we met at The Three Penny Opera.
You were an usher.
I was a college student; you were in high school."
"Yes, a 'townie'."
"I put my arm around you.
I stroked your hair.
When I tried to kiss you on the forehead our noses collided."
"I was expecting a lip kiss."
"It was a powerful attraction,
but it wouldn't have worked."
"No, we could have made great love,
but it wouldn't have lasted."
  
"Gina, you lived on that 'hippie farm'
at the edge of town.
I was the 'knowing elder',
the one who'd worked on a real farm.
You were so high-energy, so alluring.
Guys flocked to you:
William and Michael; Davy, back home;
sexually involved with all of them."
"Not Michael really."
"You seduced me--
I think you wanted to make William jealous--
not that I was unwilling. . . .
I was, however, impotent."
"I wanted adventure and, yes, I suppose I did want to make
       William jealous."
"Our intimacy awakened me.
I realized what I'd been missing.
Your rejection was devastating."
"I didn't mean to hurt you.
I didn't know you were so fragile."
  
"Carla, I loved you in your apartment.
It was all softness and warmth;
**** carpet, soft bed,
Carole King on the stereo. . . .
We slept together, showered together."
"I really listened to Carole King?"
"Your parents were divorcing.
You didn't have time for a relationship."
"I don't think I was ready."
"Just as I was overcoming my impotency. . . ."
  
"Sarah, I loved you on a camping trip.
We kissed at dusk in the Great Smoky Mountains."
"I remember."
"I felt so connected--
physically, intellectually, emotionally.
You smiled with your whole face, with your whole being.
I wanted to be with you steadily.
You said it wouldn't work.
I guess you were right:
I couldn't love someone who couldn't love me completely.
When we parted,
I cried uncontrollably."
"Yes,
I remember."
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_037_former.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Franswa Hackett Sep 2010
Long ago I dreamt of mountains,
I dreamt of finding bliss,
I lay alone now, unfulfilled
I sleep in slime and ****.

I travelled far, and left my home
In search of light and revelation,
But neither the road, nor the sky
Could sanctify my demons.

I sought to pray atop the spire
Where the clouds and mountains meet,
Though restoration of lost fire,
Is a mere idealistic dream.

I've had women, but never known love
For my impotency defines,
I bore not the mind nor matter
To obtain what could have been mine.

Bitterness, sweet bitterness
I make love to my cigarettes,
They keep me warm on coldest nights
When I am drowning in Solipsis.

In cinema, man is changed by journeys
But fictions are not always so,
For some wounds are beyond healing,
And I race now towards Thanatos.
Drawing blinds across our eyes
we are blinded to the beauty
trapped inside.
sideways,all ways and
in days of darkness we cannot see
and blinded as we are
we'll be
forever bound by that impotency of being in, yet still without,being a part of,yet still not seeing
this humble being begs to let the light in,get the blinds pulled,cull the nights that **** him,nights no longer thrill him or will him to deliver goddesses to altar tables.

Beds and fables
stories now, but I am still unable to forget,
more than millstones 'round my neck and iron ***** placed on my ankles designed to slow me down,
Oh how it rankles.

Time was,
life was younger and in that hungering I ate my fill and how the darkness of the night did thrill me so
to and fro.
A see saw ride
a fairground slide to my demise and somewhere now,behind the blinds inside and written on the signposts,hosts to my dependence on
the days long gone
where I had shone my light,
there sits a frightened child with wild abandoned thought, untamed adventures I have sought and fought against society
but now I'll be
the child that waits within for me.
Surely in the distant future historians will find our civilization
Appalling, destructive, gluttony,
Stricken.
Receipts of items that once fulfilled our temporal desires will fill earth
creating a toxic compost for life
To nourish upon
They'll blame us for the decay
And devolution of man
They'll duly note our fascination
With stimulants and violent trends
And most of all, they'll be unable
To comprehend our impotency
our hubris our clemency
They'll construct theories
That moor our cultural malaise
To each recrudescence of tyranny

In essence they will despise our very nature.
Not out of contempt but out of fear that they too will fall
prey to the plague.
Canyon Read Jul 2015
I could write about anything
and no one would stop and think.
Everything's been said before.
Rephrased and repositioned
to the point of impotency.

— The End —