I love men, but not the Toffs,
Nor the ones with hacking coughs.
I would like an artist most,
Especially with hot buttered toast.
I love men,do men love me?
There’s only one true way to see.
Do your best to put them off,
Wear flat shoes and never laugh.
Study Wittgenstein and Kant,
Study all that’s difficult.
Parse Quantum theory as a hobby.
Learn long words from the dictionary.
Dance with Riemann, swing with Joyce;
Read Ulysses in a Rolls Royce.
Enjoy Chess, Trigonometry;
Weigh down your mind with Geometry.
Look around and see who’s left.
That’s the man who loves you best.
Once you’re wed and have a home,
You can free your mind to roam.
Throw away your library,
Let your senses all run free.
Wear bright clothes and enjoy some fun.
Your second life has just begun.
The most famous line in all of twentieth-century American poetry can be found in Allen Ginsberg’s 1956 poem, “America,” which was published in the Pocket Poets series by Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s City Lights in the volume titled Howl and Other Poems. That famous line reads, “Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.” It’s addressed to America itself, and it has been quoted and popularized by anarchists, communists, beatniks and hipsters over the past 36 years.
The poem ends on a whimsical note, “America, I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel,” a not-so veiled reference to the poet’s homosexuality, and his sense that though he was queer he had a role to play in the society as a whole.
The perfect violin and artist fine
Soften hearts as hard as an old oak
Make the music holy and sublime
In a shop, I looked at new designs
Music played, I even felt it spoke
With perfect violin and artist fine
If only such great moments came again
Kiss them as they fly or deftly float
May their music holy be divine
As the trees smell sweetly in the rain
So in darker times, love is evoked
With open heart and sentiments, each fine
Love and justice need to be aligned
Played on like an instrument, they speak
Make their language holy and sublime
Punishment for blindness comes with time
The innocent offensiveness of rhyme
The perfect instrument, the art, the mind
May our music be the texts we find