Lo que había comenzado siendo una rebelión poética, se extendió rápidamente por todos los sectores de la vida joven norteamerica­na, y se generalizó más tarde en el mundo, adaptándose a las circunstancias de cada país. No hubo nunca manifiestos políticos, ni líderes evidentes, tampoco filósofos inspiradores, pero en cambio hubo múltiples manifiestos poéticos. El poeta se transformó en profeta, en espectador alucinado que deja en sus escritos un testimonio inaudito, el único válido, que resiste la falsificación o la engañosa histotia que quiso crear para condenarlos y justificar lo que muchos deseaban: «¡extirpar este peligroso cáncer que atenta contra la sociedad!».


El beat, con una filosofía propia que acepta y rechaza todo, se lanza a la aventura de lo conocido, adoptando en cada momento la actitud que le parece oportuna, huyendo de cualquier cosa que signifique una sujeción. Este comportamiento ante la vida nace de su misma forma de considerar la literatura. «El arte no debe sujetarse a nada», exclama Lawrence Ferlinghetti, en un alarde de independencia. La protesta que había catacterizado a la década del treinta, ya fenecida con la Guerra Mundial, reaparece ahora en los beat con más fuerza, aunque más acida que explosiva, una protesta mucho más individual que impregnada de una concepción colectiva. Protesta rebelde, y no revolucionaria. «Asistimos a la aparición de algo inevitable,» apuntaba Ferlinghetti, «la resocialización de la poesía. Pero no como en los años treinta.»


Impulsado por distintas y complicadas fuerzas sociopolíticas, económicas e incluso morales, surge este atormentado movimiento poético que sólo puede ser comparado en su magnitud y fuerza al surrealismo (del cual me gustaría escribir en siguientes posts), en lo que va del siglo.

Los beat no sólo hablan de poesía, hablan de todo. Utili­zando las dos vertientes de la poesía moderna, escriben sus poemas acusadores y fantásticos, ligados a la realidad y sumergidos en los mundos brumosos de la imaginación más exacerbada. Abren el poema tratando de dar cabida en él a todos los elementos, sin ningún tipo de discriminación. Llevan hasta sus últimas consecuencias el concepto de «obra abierta», que puede conducir a extremos tan peligrosos como la muerte de la creación artística misma, temor que nos recuerdan los propios poetas a cada momento. El verso adquiere, sin embargo, una fuerza admirable, alimentada por una enumeración caótica y una entonación sálmica, nombrando todas las cosas, elevándolas o destruyéndolas con una pasión sólo comparable a los arrebatos místicos, de los que los «beat» aunque parezca extraño— no están muy alejados.



Kerouac, refiriéndose a la estructura del poema, se muestra enemigo de los intervalos «que rompen las frases ya arbitrariamente entrecortadas mediante falsos punto y comas y tímidas comas, en la mayoría de los casos inútiles, sino vigorosos guiones que aíslan los momentos respiratorios (como los músicos de jazz, que recuperan el aliento entre dos largas frases), las pausas medidas que articulan la estructura de nuestro discurso».

«Howl», el aterrador poema de Allen Gínsberg, aparece en 1955, y se difunde con una amplitud sin precedentes en la historia de la poesía. Pronto sus versos descarnados se harán alma en movimiento, biblia y espada de toda la generación. Un infinito canto a la locura y a la muerte, a la vida como camino de la autodestrucción, canto a los hombres marginados, presos en las cárceles y en los hospicios, o encerrados en sus propias y terribles celdas, a los perseguidos por la sociedad, y a los que huyen de su propio fantasma, el espectro de sus vidas, el rostro de la muerte. El canto, el aullido de un hombre solo.

Antes de proseguir con mi escrito, pondré el poema de Allen Ginsberg «Howl» y un video en el cual dos chicos declaman la tercera parte de dicho poema.
El texto está en inglés ya que no me fio mucho de las traducciones, y para entender el beat, hay que leerlo como es.




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 machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
cohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
floated out and sat through the stale beer after
noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom-
prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
and trembling before the machinery of other
skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
scripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
gardens and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
picked themselves up out of basements hung
over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
East River to open to a room full of steamheat
and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
stores where they thought they were growing
old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European
1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the
Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
impossible criminals with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
notism & were left with their insanity & their
hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
stantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho-
therapy occupational therapy pingpong &
amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night-
mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the tenement window, and the last
door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur-
nished room emptied down to the last piece of
mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
hallucination
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you're really in the total animal soup of
time
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-
ing plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America's naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
years.


What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
nation?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun-
ned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni-
bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking
tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac-
tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave-
ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De-
spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
street!


Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful
typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and
is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island
and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under
our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma
by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
here O victory forget your underwear we're
free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

domingo, 10 de junio de 2007

Poesía Beatnik: Parte I

La poesía, como una de las manifestaciones más secretas y profundas del espíritu humano, no podía resistirse a la transformación del hombre y el mundo. Renovación, crisis, evolución, cambio, revolución, ocaso, renacimiento, son algunas de las palabras barajadas todos los días por la crítica especializada en su intento, vano intento, de explicar lo inexplicable, de dibujar el rostro invisible del prodigioso fenómeno constante de la poesía. El misterio poético, tan antiguo e impenetrable como el hombre mismo, no terminará nunca de sorprendernos, de descubrirnos insospechadas regiones para su caudal perenne. Todos los tiempos, todas las épocas y todas las latitudes del planeta han tenido poetas, esa raza condenada a acompañar al hombre eternamente, guiándolo, recordándole, deslumbrando a veces. Sin embargo, parece extraño que en una época practicista y mecanizada como la nuestra puedan subsistir aún estas almas extrañas, señaladas por la sociedad por su condición de seres diferentes. Relegada y cercada por el utilitarismo,la poesía se transforma en un artículo de lujo, cargada con un sistema impositivo que trata de ahogarla definitivamente. Los poetas optan, entonces, por la alucinante recreación de paraísos fantásticos, jardines redescubiertos para sus lectores, o por instituirse en conciencia acusadora y terrible de la sociedad que lo perturba. ¿Qué camino seguir? Mantenerse leal a una tradición lírica o destruirla, destruyéndose a sí mismo, con la esperanza latente de hallar entre los escombros una nueva y auténtica estética. Quedarse en un laberinto sin salida, un pasadizo de brumas impenetrables, o conducirse al borde del abismo, o lo que es peor: al abismo mismo.

El nuevo siglo contempló con inquietante interés las explosiones dadaístas y la posterior revolución surrealista, las cuales he de admitir han influido mucho en mi, en fin, el nuevo siglo, al igual que yo, vimos en ellas el contorno de un nuevo sistema planetario en el que, bajo el amparo del caos, nace esa apetecida nueva estética, y un concepto de la belleza anárquica de incontables posibilidades. Los velos del preconsciente, abiertos de pronto por la difusión de las ideas freudianas, colaboraron también en la conquista y colonización de las hasta entonces zonas prohibidas. La subversión de los valores ateísticos se hizo general y sobre todo irreversible. Se institucionalizaba una nueva tradición, la tradición de la ruptura. Nombres como Freud, Joyce, Proust, Picasso, Apollinaire, Dalí, Marx, Bretón, Artaud, Pound, Kafka o Sartre, formaron la gran constelación.

América, la indescifrable y turbadora América, caja de resonancias de todo lo que en Europa ocurre, no podía permanecer ajena a estos nuevos aires que soplaban más allá del océano. Latente aún en el norte el espíritu grandioso del viejo Walt Whitman, el equivalente norteamericano de Víctor Hugo o de Rubén Darío, entre sus versos se preguntaba sobre el destino de la poesía en su tierra:

¡Poetas del futuro! ¡Oradores, cantores, músicos venideros!
No es éste el día de mi justificación, ni el de explicar lo que represento, pero vosotros, una nueva estirpe, atlética, continental, grandiosa como nunca.
¡Surgiréis! Porque debéis justificar lo que yo canto.

Los versos de Whitman parecían, sin embargo, estrellarse en el vacío, frente a las jóvenes generaciones desorientadas que alimentaban un inobjetable culto a William Carlos Williams, e.e. cummings y Ezra Pound, además de un enorme respeto hacia el equilibrio que T. S. Eliot había logrado construir en su voluntario destierro. Fue necesaria una tragedia, tan escalofriante como la Segunda Guerra Mundial, para que de entre sus mismas cenizas comenzara a nacer una concepción distinta del hombre y de la sociedad norteamericana. Una nueva mentalidad surgía en la juventud estadounidense, una juventud divorciada de sus mayores, rebelde y vagabunda que, perseguida muchas veces, se refugiaba en los suburbios del paraíso americano. Esos jóvenes, escudados en el jazz, infiltrados y expulsados de las universidades, presos en las cárceles por robo, escándalo o violación, trastornados por la droga o la bebida, acusados por los inquisidores, perseguidos por la ley, el orden y la moral de sus ciudades natales, se autobautizaron beatniks.

La palabra beat, según explicó John Clellon Holmes, novelista y crítico de la corriente, define un estado mental en el que el ser humano se ha despojado de todo lo innecesario, quedando receptivo ante la realidad circundante, pero a la vez impaciente por los obstáculos triviales. «Ser beat,» dice, «es estar en el fondo de la propia personalidad, mirando hacia arriba.» Ser existencial más en el sentido de Kierkegaard que en el de Jean-Paul Sartre. El carácter «beatífico" o «beato» del movimiento fue explicado por Jack Kerouac, que es el creador de la denominación, y que parece relacionarse más con el adjetivo «frustrado» que con el «derrotado», evocando a la vez el sustantivo «beat", aplicado a batir palmas o pulsar acompasadamente una música, generalmente el jazz.

Exponiendo los alcances meramente poéticos del movimiento «beat», Gregory Corso, uno de sus miembros más destacados, explicó:

El más importante servicio prestado por la "Generación Beat» se refiere a la noción de «medida» en poesía. Cuando surgió esta generación, algunos poetas de inspiración profética insistían ya sobre la imperativa necesidad de rejuvenecer los viejos stocks de versos yámbicos, introduciendo elementos de prosodia espontánea, "ritmo bop», imágenes reales-superreales, rupturas, golpeteos, medidas extáticas, largas vocales rapídicas lineales largas, largas y sobre todo: alma. Estos poetas bautizaron a la generación del 50: la llamaron «Generación Beat». No habían previsto las deformaciones estúpidas que el futuro tenía reservadas a este término.

*** guzana @ 19:53

1 Escupitajos::

martes, 5 de junio de 2007

Memories: Come together

Here come old flattop, he come grooving up slowly
he got joo-joo eyeball, he one holy roller,
he got hair down to his knee,
got to be a joker he just do what he please.

He wear no shoeshine, he got toe-jam football
he got monkey finger, he shoot Coca-Cola,
he say "I know you, you know me."
One thing I can tell you is you got to be free,
come together right now over me.

He Bag Production, he got walrus gumboot,
he got Ono sideboard, he one spinal cracker,
he got feet down below his knee.
Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease,
come together right now over me.

He roller-coaster, he got early warning,
he got muddy water, he one Mojo filter,
he say "One and one and one is three."
Got to be good looking 'cause he's so hard to see.
Come together right now over me.

Come together, yeah. Come together, yeah.
Come together, yeah. Come together, yeah.

*** guzana @ 17:29

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