The poetry of Gregory Corso you'd also find interesting..
But I should get married I should be good How nice it'd be to come home to her and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen aproned young and lovely wanting my baby and so happy about me she burns the roast beef and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf! God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married! So much to do! like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky! And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him When are you going to stop people killing whales! And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust You can't be me, I'm taken
SHAH FALLS! IRAN! Skennah Kowa
The second bar was the writers' bar, a museum really, called Specs. It was the derelict bar, frequented by the Corso's and would-be-Corso's of the world. I was also permitted to go there.
Next to City Lights was another bar, Vesuvios, which took the spillover. It was this nexus which gave San Francisco its reputation. Strangely, to this day, it is still (in my mind, wherever i put it) the Bohemian capital of the world (or at least in my world.)
Despite all the famous bars with all their famous experiences, it was Ferlinghetti's City Lights which gave birth to the next generation of amurkan counter culture. I'm still permitted there, and my visits lately, twice in the past few months, show that the City Lights spirit ain't dead yet.
Sven, tell us how this intersection of Beatnik and Dylan and Hippie, overseen by Ginsburg, affected you. Skennah Kowa
I was given 'The Holy Barbarians' by a sculptor then dating my older sister and later, husband. I really don't know why this all clicked for a middle class virgin - but it seemed like a whole other explanation for existence that nobody had told me about. It is probaby connected to my father who was totally bowled over by India where he was stationed during the war. He gave me a copy of the Upanishads when I was 9, which, now I come to think about it, was a weird gift to a son at a tender age. He also gave me a copy of 'Ripley's Believe it or Not' at the same time, which had quite a lot of strange things that people had avoided telling me about before (so I reasoned).
Of course, all this was just a typical imprinting intersection with hormonal changes. Nothing we can do about that. The just born duck sees a football rolling by at the critical imprinting moment and then dedicates its life to leather sphericalness. My football is a patchwork of stitched up panels of heretics who can write unusually.
But it is indeed a privilege to meet someone who actually visited such hallowed haunts with the same nonchalance that I occupied Swinging London, thinking that eating sausages with Lennon was what people did. My naivity was then a blessing. You can't be me, I'm taken
