—We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.
This is from the poem Sunflower Sutra where Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac sit down by a train and get really sad because everything is gross and filthy but then they see this dead sunflower all covered in
"The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives, all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—"
One time I got up at an open mic when I was in high school and read this poem and I didn't really know what it was about then but I've always liked the way that Allen Ginsberg put words together and I like sunflowers too.
Anyway I think the point of the poem is that all this stuff that's covering everything doesn't change what it really is. There's still inspiration to be found.
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