I'll start you off:

http://theinvisibleagent.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/clusc_8_1_00061373a_j.jpg

Some 'Beat Girls".

And yet, the closest Ginsberg got to violence was Sunflower Sutra and describing the dew on a welsh hillside like warm moist vagina.  I don't see much hate in Ginsberg, only the best president the US never had.  Kerouac disowned the beats, the beat to keep, the beat du dah woo daa woody, when too much peyote poetry and Old Grandad whisky turned him into a drunken racist scum bag whose poetry was at one with Jim Morrison's poesy.  Ofcourse, Ginsberg justified this by saying these were lessons from a Zen master, testing us man, testing are Siddharta Buddhism Catholism. Corso talk all the money from Go! which should have gone to Kerouac. Burroughs that old Dickensian voice, I can hear him now talking about vaginas with teeth, talking assholes and young Morroccan boys keeping manly company whilst eating hash hesh doughnuts, whittering on about I Hassan the 11th century assassin and his fabled garden of delights whilst writing twisted sexual fantasies in the "satirical style of Swift" as a means to expose the evils of capital punishment.  Ah yes, the infamous masterbating hanging scene, a particular favourite, inspired many a deviant.

The Naked Lunch, the worse book I ever pretend to people I have read at least twice (variorum tex version, unabridged in Mayan hieroglyphic braille backwards). 

And that's the best spontaneous prose I can come up with today.

AQG you don't need to blow it up, but you might want some blow to get the full beatnik experience whilst reading it, it probably goes something like this:  I saw the best minds of my generation  destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of poverty.

Snort, snort, snort, stop me if I talk too much, lets do another line.....

Indeed, resembles many a conversation I had in my decadent coke fiend phase whilst Talking Heads Fear of Music/Stop Making Sense, Lou Reed's Coney Island Baby, unanswered telephone messages from wives and children pleading for errant husbands and fathers to come home gently repeat themselves for 36-48 hours solid, whilst the biggest jobs with the biggest heavy lifts and heists are planned and executed, planned again and all this BS makes sense even though as Mr Byrne quite rightly points out, you stopped making sense at 5:15 on Friday evening, and it is now Sunday morning and you still haven't taken your tie off or left the comfort of your mate's coffee table for quite some time.

^Bob Denver, John Denver's elder brother.  You thrilled up my senses like a night in squaresville, man.

Cheers for that article Ace Face. Good stuff!

That was his brother, Saintly, too good to live in the shadow of. All of Kerouac is one work, one autobiography, The Legend of Dulouz.

Be-bop spontaneous jazz poetics is deeply ingrained in my sunflower sutra.

Last edited by The Ace Face (2009-10-23 23:04:27)

'Let us go to Zen and beard and sandal land'...heh-heh - good newspaper clip
here.

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/.a/6a00d8341c630a53ef01157186f57e970b-pi

Slim and Ace... Are you familiar with likedreamsville.blogspot.com for more beat fun...