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