Allen Ginsberg's LSD poem to William Buckley

Oh what am i reform I'm a truck illegal oh and do you have one yes I have one a an interesting project which is a home which I wrote on LSD under the influence under the influence of LSD is long ish how long well valen up to be entertaining okay I can just roughly speaking just so I can gauge it one to three pages sabang tax but it's a good text space of interesting evidence care can outcome and you can interrupt it your farm it's not interrupted and discussed Tara get Sarah Wales visitation wh wala yes in Minden Wales hi northie this our Melanie for those who are specifically technologists in this white fog lifting and falling on the mountain brow trees moving in rivers of wind the clouds arise as on a wave gigantic Eddy lifting mist above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed ago a green crag glimpse through mullioned glass in valley rain nice okay Karthik of self visitation tell north but what seen by one man in the veil and album of the folk whose physical sciences end in ecology the wisdom of earthly relations of mouths and eyes internet ten centuries visible orchards of mind language manifest human of the Satanic thistle that raises its horn symmetry flowering above sister grass daisies small pink bloom let's angelic as lightbulbs remember 160 miles from London symmetrical thorn Tower and network of TV pictures flashing bearded yourself the lambs on the train looked hillsides this day bleating herd and Blake's old ear and the silent thought of Wordsworth in elde stillness clouds passing through skeleton arches of tintern abbey bard nameless as the vast babel to fastness all the valley quivered one extended motion wind undulating on mossy hills a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red Runnels on the mountainside whose leaf branch tendrils moved us way in granitic undertow down and lifted the floating nebulous upward and lifted the arms of the trees and lifted the grasses an instant in balance and lifted the Lambs to hold still and lifted the green of the hill in one solemn wave a solid mass of heaven mist infused herbs through the veil a wavelet of immensity lapping gigantic through anthony valley the length of all england valley upon valley under heavens ocean tongue with cloud hang roar of the mountain wind slow sigh as the body one being on the mountainside stirring gently exquisite scales trembling everywhere in balance one motion on the skies cloudy floor shifting through a million footed daisies one majesty the motion that's third wet grass quivering to the farthest tendril of white fog bored down through shivering flowers on the mountains head no imperfection in the budded mountain valleys breathe heaven and earth moving together daisies bush inches of yellow air vegetables' tremble green atoms shiver Grassi Mandela's sheep speckle the mountainside revolving their jaws with empty eyes tree-lined canals networked with five farmland horses dance in the warm rain out out on the hillside into the ocean sound into delicate gusts of wet air fall on the ground oh great wetness Oh mother no our my my bodies their clothes no imperfection in the grass each flower Buddha I repeating the story the myriad formed soul kneel before the foxglove raising green bud whore bells group double down the stem trembling antennae I look in the eye of the branded lambs that's their breathing stock still under dripping Hawthorne I lay down mixing my beard with the wet air of the mountainside smelling the brown vagina moist ground harmless tasting the violet thistle hair sweetness one being so balanced so vast that its softest breath moves every flower it in the stillness on the valley floor lifts trees on their roots grown through breasts and neck a great o to earth heart calling our presence together the great secret is no secret senses fit the winds visible is visible rain mist curtains wave through the bearded veil cross-legged on a rock in dust grain mind Mullis breath trembles and white daisies by the roadside heaven breath and my own symmetric airs wavering through antlered green fern drone in my navel same breath as breathes through kappa life an sounds of a life and owl through forests of gristle my skull and lord Herefords knob equal all albion one I like that

23 thoughts on “Allen Ginsberg's LSD poem to William Buckley

  1. Filthy disgusting rat face paedophile. You should be ashamed of yourself for promoting this kiddy fiddling demon

  2. This is easily one of my favorite Ginsberg poems and i've never done LSD.

  3. I’m retired from the Navy. I fought in the war. Oef/oif I flew in support of it for over 12 years. After I retired I got cancer. I live in California. I found out that doctors do not have to treat you. I didn’t know that. It’s been 8 years of fighting to live all by myself. They tell me I should die for being part of the military. I’m being aborted. I need to move out of liberal hell California. They are the new gods, liberals. They’re going to destroy America.

  4. Man Ginsburg really milked it didn't he? Must have been great to be a beat when the hippies and freaks came along they became as big as rock stars.

  5. It speaks deeply to the triumph of the human spirit – and to the deep integrity, despite all his confused nonsense, of Buckley – that both men could come together in this gorgeous moment of celebrating the beauty of creation.

    We are, indeed, all one.

  6. He described all my acid trips and lucid day&night dreaming in one beautiful literary image. Does anyone see how pataphysics parallels dreamstate poetry?

  7. It's the LSD talking . . . wonderful word mechanics . . . and Buckley appreciated its complexity.

  8. conservatives have no heart nor ear for poetry their asses too tight..thus waste of time..!!!!

  9. How well Ginsberg read this poem, he seemed to really be taken back to the moment durring this reading.

  10. I love how Buckley and Ginsberg both acknowledge that it is okay for them to interrupt the poem, but they do it once, and then seem to realize that they are interrupting a very real moment. They never do it again and they never shake him from his intensity. Regardless what you think of Ginsberg, imagine being Buckley in that moment, having someone looking you in the face and saying those words. Phew! Buckley was lucky.

  11. Nobody like those guys anymore, Ginsberg, Burroughs, and Kerouac. Pioneers, and innovators of the 60's, 70's, 80's, and finally the 90's generation of musical inspiration, and all forms of artistic talent. What we see now, is inspired by whom? What came after these pioneers? No one, why? They all died at 27. Or died too young to stretch out they're charisma.

  12. I think a pink flyod album would of been better, if I was tripping I'd have to tell him STFU!!! Jesus!

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