If you don't like my peaches
If you don't like my peaches
why do you shake my tree?
If you don't like my peaches
why do you shake my tree?
Get out of my orchard
& let my fruit trees be.
Ah
shit.
Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward & outward
round, man-balls, man-root
not
in the 1st ed. (1855)
Whitman had a dirty mind
In high school we read Leaves of Grass & Venus & Adonis & Look Homeward Angel & The Catcher in the Rye for their dirty parts
cummings had a dirty mind Wolfe had a dirty mind Shakespeare had a dirty mind Chaucer had a very dirty mind
I have a very dirty mind indeed for I have breathed the same air as coroners
I have seen coroners' assistants with their stomachs & photographs
ball-headed men in glasses & plastics & synthetics & technical terms
(Ah shit in italics)
with stomachs of steel & bone buttons & stills of corpses
I saw one once of a young guy killed in a car crash
He was laid out on his back
Penis & testicles covered up by a little white rectangle
Laurence Sterne & Jonathan Swift & Samuel Richardson had dirty minds
Charles Darwin had a dirty mind & thought about shit all the God-damn time
& Benjamin Franklin & J. S. Bach & W. B. Yeats & Franklin Delano Roosevelt had dirty minds & were foul of mouth
Woodrow Wilson had one of the dirtiest minds in the world
Bloody Lydia Pinkham had a dirtier mind than the worst Lutheran convict lying on his left side in his grey cell thinking compulsively obsessively about pussy twenty-four hours a day day in day out seven days a week fifty-two weeks a year for his entire lifetime plus ninety-nine fiscal years for aggravated sodomy & high carnal knowledge
& if it's not pussy you can bet it's something even worse
But in the final analysis I think I would have to say that undertakers coroners & policemen have the dirtiest minds
& use the foulest language habitually
In high school they told us that the habit-forming use of profane obscene vulgar blasphemous language not only stank in the nose-drills of Yahweh but also indicated a deficient command of the English language
I guess that's right but still have never found a truer clearer or more forceful thing to call a son of a bitch than son of a bitch
Sean O'Casey (19 June 1950 Daily Worker): To hell with the atom bomb!
But old Allen Ginsberg with his dirty queer dope-fiend commie unbusinesslike mind says through his filthy antisocial objectionable obnoxious Jewish beard to clean upstanding & erect America: Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
Now how could that be said better?
“How could that be said better?” a nice old Ulster lady once asked me (the text in question being “gem of purest ray serene”)
& so I honor her I really & sincerely do
I honor her here by applying her praise to Ginsberg's scatological imperative
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
She was born in 1888 named Jane unmarried & my landlady in Londonderry
had been a schoolteacher & I don't doubt that she had given a great deal of serious thought to the mechanics & logistics of the operation of that place in the Miller's Tale where one guy gets back at another guy by shoving a red-hot plow-share up his ass
O plow & stars
& that reminds me that once when I was out she went into my room & took my copy of O'Casey's six-volume autobiography & later told me that O'Casey was dead that day in Turkey
I could not believe that but she explained (calling me Gorman because Harmon is somehow impossible in Gaelic she said) that Turkey was a place in Devonshire: Torquay
Ah man-balls & root
Imagine all the ladies of the temperance & suffragette persuasions sitting & sipping bloody Lydia's vegetable compound which was one half booze & other half dope
thinking about the body electric & incleft outswell
Zip Zap snap crackle inward & outward round
my ass
why do you shake my tree?
If you don't like my peaches
why do you shake my tree?
Get out of my orchard
& let my fruit trees be.
Ah
shit.
Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward & outward
round, man-balls, man-root
not
in the 1st ed. (1855)
Whitman had a dirty mind
In high school we read Leaves of Grass & Venus & Adonis & Look Homeward Angel & The Catcher in the Rye for their dirty parts
cummings had a dirty mind Wolfe had a dirty mind Shakespeare had a dirty mind Chaucer had a very dirty mind
I have a very dirty mind indeed for I have breathed the same air as coroners
I have seen coroners' assistants with their stomachs & photographs
ball-headed men in glasses & plastics & synthetics & technical terms
(Ah shit in italics)
with stomachs of steel & bone buttons & stills of corpses
I saw one once of a young guy killed in a car crash
He was laid out on his back
Penis & testicles covered up by a little white rectangle
Laurence Sterne & Jonathan Swift & Samuel Richardson had dirty minds
Charles Darwin had a dirty mind & thought about shit all the God-damn time
& Benjamin Franklin & J. S. Bach & W. B. Yeats & Franklin Delano Roosevelt had dirty minds & were foul of mouth
Woodrow Wilson had one of the dirtiest minds in the world
Bloody Lydia Pinkham had a dirtier mind than the worst Lutheran convict lying on his left side in his grey cell thinking compulsively obsessively about pussy twenty-four hours a day day in day out seven days a week fifty-two weeks a year for his entire lifetime plus ninety-nine fiscal years for aggravated sodomy & high carnal knowledge
& if it's not pussy you can bet it's something even worse
But in the final analysis I think I would have to say that undertakers coroners & policemen have the dirtiest minds
& use the foulest language habitually
In high school they told us that the habit-forming use of profane obscene vulgar blasphemous language not only stank in the nose-drills of Yahweh but also indicated a deficient command of the English language
I guess that's right but still have never found a truer clearer or more forceful thing to call a son of a bitch than son of a bitch
Sean O'Casey (19 June 1950 Daily Worker): To hell with the atom bomb!
But old Allen Ginsberg with his dirty queer dope-fiend commie unbusinesslike mind says through his filthy antisocial objectionable obnoxious Jewish beard to clean upstanding & erect America: Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
Now how could that be said better?
“How could that be said better?” a nice old Ulster lady once asked me (the text in question being “gem of purest ray serene”)
& so I honor her I really & sincerely do
I honor her here by applying her praise to Ginsberg's scatological imperative
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
She was born in 1888 named Jane unmarried & my landlady in Londonderry
had been a schoolteacher & I don't doubt that she had given a great deal of serious thought to the mechanics & logistics of the operation of that place in the Miller's Tale where one guy gets back at another guy by shoving a red-hot plow-share up his ass
O plow & stars
& that reminds me that once when I was out she went into my room & took my copy of O'Casey's six-volume autobiography & later told me that O'Casey was dead that day in Turkey
I could not believe that but she explained (calling me Gorman because Harmon is somehow impossible in Gaelic she said) that Turkey was a place in Devonshire: Torquay
Ah man-balls & root
Imagine all the ladies of the temperance & suffragette persuasions sitting & sipping bloody Lydia's vegetable compound which was one half booze & other half dope
thinking about the body electric & incleft outswell
Zip Zap snap crackle inward & outward round
my ass
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