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<H3><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">\'Marriage\' by Gregory Corso</FONT></H3><I>
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<></I><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">Should I get married? Should I be good?<br>Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?<br>Don\'t take her to movies but to cemeteries<br>tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets<br>then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries<br>and she going just so far and I understanding why<br>not getting angry saying You must feel! It\'s beautiful to feel!<br>Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone<br>and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky- </FONT></P>
<><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">When she introduces me to her parents<br>back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,<br>should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa<br>and not ask Where\'s the bathroom?<br>How else to feel other than I am,<br>often thinking Flash Gordon soap-<br>O how terrible it must be for a young man<br>seated before a family and the family thinking<br>We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!<br>After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living? </FONT></P>
<P><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">Should I tell them? Would they like me then?<br>Say All right get married, we\'re losing a daughter<br>but we\'re gaining a son-<br>And should I then ask Where\'s the bathroom? </FONT></P>
<P><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends<br>and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded<br>just wait to get at the drinks and food-<br>And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated<br>asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?<br>And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!<br>I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back<br>She\'s all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!<br>And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-<br>Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes<br>Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!<br>All streaming into cozy hotels<br>All going to do the same thing tonight<br>The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen<br>The lobby zombies they knowing what<br>The whistling elevator man he knowing<br>Everybody knowing! I\'d almost be inclined not to do anything!<br>Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!<br>Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!<br>running rampant into those almost climactic suites<br>yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!<br>O I\'d live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls<br>I\'d sit there the Mad Honeymooner<br>devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy<br>a saint of divorce- </FONT></P>
<P><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">But I should get married I should be good<br>How nice it\'d be to come home to her<br>and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen<br>aproned young and lovely wanting my baby<br>and so happy about me she burns the roast beef<br>and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair<br>saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!<br>God what a husband I\'d make! Yes, I should get married!<br>So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones\' house late at night<br>and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books<br>Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower<br>like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence<br>like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest<br>grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!<br>And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him<br>When are you going to stop people killing whales!<br>And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle<br>Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust- </FONT></P>
<P><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">Yes if I should get married and it\'s Connecticut and snow<br>and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,<br>up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,<br>finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man<br>knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-<br>O what would that be like!<br>Surely I\'d give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus<br>For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records<br>Tack Della Francesca all over its crib<br>Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib<br>And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon </FONT></P>
<P><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">No, I doubt I\'d be that kind of father<br>Not rural not snow no quiet window<br>but hot smelly tight New York City<br>seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls<br>a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!<br>And five nose running brats in love with Batman<br>And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired<br>like those hag masses of the 18th century<br>all wanting to come in and watch TV<br>The landlord wants his rent<br>Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus<br>impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-<br>No! I should not get married! I should never get married!<br>But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman<br>tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves<br>holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other<br>and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window<br>from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days<br>No, can\'t imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream- </FONT></P>
<P><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">O but what about love? I forget love<br>not that I am incapable of love<br>It\'s just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-<br>I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother<br>And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible<br>And there\'s maybe a girl now but she\'s already married<br>And I don\'t like men and-<br>But there\'s got to be somebody!<br>Because what if I\'m 60 years old and not married,<br>all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear<br>and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me! </FONT></P>
<P><FONT face="Comic Sans MS">Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible<br>then marriage would be possible-<br>Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover<br>so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.</FONT></P>
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<PRE><FONT face="Times New Roman"><SMALL><br> <FONT size=3> BOMB by Gregory Corso<br> ---------------------<br><br> Budger of history Brake of time You Bomb<br> Toy of universe Grandest of all snatched sky I cannot hate you<br> Do I hate the mischievous thunderbolt the jawbone of an ass<br> The bumpy club of One Million B.C. the mace the flail the axe<br> Catapult Da Vinci tomahawk Cochise flintlock Kidd dagger Rathbone<br> Ah and the sad desparate gun of Verlaine Pushkin Dillinger Bogart<br> And hath not St. Michael a burning sword St. George a lance David a sling<br> Bomb you are as cruel as man makes you and you\'re no crueller than cancer<br> All Man hates you they\'d rather die by car-crash lightning drowning<br>Falling off a roof electric-chair heart-attack old age old age O Bomb<br> They\'d rather die by anything but you Death\'s finger is free-lance<br> Not up to man whether you boom or not Death has long since distributed its<br> categorical blue I sing thee Bomb Death\'s extravagance Death\'s jubilee<br> Gem of Death\'s supremest blue The flyer will crash his death will differ<br> with the climbor who\'ll fall to die by cobra is not to die by bad pork<br>Some die by swamp some by sea and some by the bushy-haired man in the night<br> O there are deaths like witches of Arc Scarey deaths like Boris Karloff<br> No-feeling deaths like birth-death sadless deaths like old pain Bowery<br> Abandoned deaths like Capital Punishment stately deaths like senators<br> And unthinkable deaths like Harpo Marx girls on Vogue covers my own<br> I do not know just how horrible Bombdeath is I can only imagine<br> Yet no other death I know has so laughable a preview I scope<br> a city New York City streaming starkeyed subway shelter <br> Scores and scores A fumble of humanity High heels bend<br> Hats whelming away Youth forgetting their combs<br> Ladies not knowing what to do with their shopping bags<br> Unperturbed gum machines Yet dangerous 3rd rail<br> Ritz Brothers from the Bronx caught in the A train<br> The smiling Schenley poster will always smile<br> Impish death Satyr Bomb Bombdeath<br> Turtles exploding over Istanbul<br> The jaguar\'s flying foot<br> soon to sink in arctic snow<br> Penguins plunged against the Sphinx<br> The top of the Empire state<br> arrowed in a broccoli field in Sicily<br> Eiffel shaped like a C in Magnolia Gardens<br> St. Sophia peeling over Sudan<br> O athletic Death Sportive Bomb<br> the temples of ancient times<br> their grand ruin ceased<br> Electrons Protons Neutrons <br> gathering Hersperean hair<br> walking the dolorous gulf of Arcady<br> joining marble helmsmen<br> entering the final ampitheater<br> with a hymnody feeling of all Troys<br> heralding cypressean torches<br> racing plumes and banners<br> and yet knowing Homer with a step of grace<br> Lo the visiting team of Present<br> the home team of Past<br> Lyre and tube together joined<br> Hark the hotdog soda olive grape<br> gala galaxy robed and uniformed <br> commissary O the happy stands<br> Ethereal root and cheer and boo<br> The billioned all-time attendance<br> The Zeusian pandemonium<br> Hermes racing Owens<br> The Spitball of Buddha<br> Christ striking out<br> Luther stealing third<br> Planeterium Death Hosannah Bomb<br> Gush the final rose O Spring Bomb<br> Come with thy gown of dynamite green<br> unmenace Nature\'s inviolate eye<br> Before you the wimpled Past<br> behind you the hallooing Future O Bomb<br> Bound in the grassy clarion air<br> like the fox of the tally-ho<br> thy field the universe thy hedge the geo<br> Leap Bomb bound Bomb frolic zig and zag<br> The stars a swarm of bees in thy binging bag<br> Stick angels on your jubilee feet<br> wheels of rainlight on your bunky seat<br> You are due and behold you are due<br> and the heavens are with you<br> hosanna incalescent glorious liaison<br> BOMB O havoc antiphony molten cleft BOOM<br> Bomb mark infinity a sudden furnace<br> spread thy multitudinous encompassed Sweep<br> set forth awful agenda<br> Carrion stars charnel planets carcass elements<br> Corpse the universe tee-hee finger-in-the-mouth hop<br> over its long long dead Nor<br> From thy nimbled matted spastic eye<br> exhaust deluges of celestial ghouls<br> From thy appellational womb<br> spew birth-gusts of of great worms<br> Rip open your belly Bomb<br> from your belly outflock vulturic salutations<br> Battle forth your spangled hyena finger stumps<br> along the brink of Paradise<br> O Bomb O final Pied Piper<br> both sun and firefly behind your shock waltz<br> God abandoned mock-nude<br> beneath His thin false-talc\'s apocalypse<br> He cannot hear thy flute\'s<br> happy-the-day profanations<br> He is spilled deaf into the Silencer\'s warty ear<br> His Kingdom an eternity of crude wax<br> Clogged clarions untrumpet Him<br> Sealed angels unsing Him<br> A thunderless God A dead God<br> O Bomb thy BOOM His tomb<br> That I lean forward on a desk of science<br> an astrologer dabbling in dragon prose<br> half-smart about wars bombs especially bombs<br> That I am unable to hate what is necessary to love <br> That I can\'t exist in a world that consents<br> a child in a park a man dying in an electric-chair<br> That I am able to laugh at all things<br> all that I know and do not know thus to conceal my pain<br> That I say I am a poet and therefore love all man<br> knowing my words to be the acquainted prophecy of all men<br> and my unwords no less an acquaintanceship<br> That I am manifold<br> a man pursuing the big lies of gold<br> or a poet roaming in bright ashes<br> or that which I imagine myself to be <br> a shark-toothed sleep a man-eater of dreams<br> I need not then be all-smart about bombs<br> Happily so for if I felt bombs were caterpillars<br> I\'d doubt not they\'d become butterflies<br> There is a hell for bombs<br> They\'re there I see them there<br> They sit in bits and sing songs<br> mostly German songs<br> And two very long American songs<br> and they wish there were more songs<br> especially Russian and Chinese songs<br> and some more very long American songs<br> Poor little Bomb that\'ll never be <br> an Eskimo song I love thee <br> I want to put a lollipop<br> in thy furcal mouth<br> A wig of Goldilocks on thy baldy bean<br> and have you skip with me Hansel and Gretel<br> along the Hollywoodian screen<br> O Bomb in which all lovely things<br> moral and physical anxiously participate<br> O fairylike plucked from the <br> grandest universe tree <br> O piece of heaven which gives<br> both mountain and anthill a sun<br> I am standing before your fantastic lily door<br> I bring you Midgardian roses Arcadian musk<br> Reputed cosmetics from the girls of heaven<br> Welcome me fear not thy opened door<br> nor thy cold ghost\'s grey memory<br> nor the pimps of indefinite weather<br> their cruel terrestial thaw<br> Oppenheimer is seated<br> in the dark pocket of Light<br> Fermi is dry in Death\'s Mozambique<br> Einstein his mythmouth<br> a barnacled wreath on the moon-squid\'s head<br> Let me in Bomb rise from that pregnant-rat corner<br> nor fear the raised-broom nations of the world<br> O Bomb I love you<br> I want to kiss your clank eat your boom<br> You are a paean an acme of scream<br> a lyric hat of Mister Thunder<br> O resound thy tanky knees<br> BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM<br> BOOM ye skies and BOOM ye suns<br> BOOM BOOM ye moons ye stars BOOM<br> nights ye BOOM ye days ye BOOM<br> BOOM BOOM ye winds ye clouds ye rains<br> go BANG ye lakes ye oceans BING<br> Barracuda BOOM and cougar BOOM<br> Ubangi BOOM orangutang <br> BING BANG BONG BOOM bee bear baboon<br> ye BANG ye BONG ye BING<br> the tail the fin the wing<br> Yes Yes into our midst a bomb will fall<br> Flowers will leap in joy their roots aching<br> Fields will kneel proud beneath the halleluyahs of the wind<br> Pinkbombs will blossom Elkbombs will perk their ears<br> Ah many a bomb that day will awe the bird a gentle look<br> Yet not enough to say a bomb will fall<br> or even contend celestial fire goes out<br> Know that the earth will madonna the Bomb<br> that in the hearts of men to come more bombs will be born<br> magisterial bombs wrapped in ermine all beautiful<br> and they\'ll sit plunk on earth\'s grumpy empires<br> fierce with moustaches of gold<br></FONT></SMALL></FONT></PRE></TD></TR>
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<DIV><a href="http://sunlaugh786.yculblog.com/post.1126570.html" target="_blank" ><STRONG><FONT color=#0079a2>格雷戈里·柯索(Gregory Corso)诗选/罗池 译</FONT></STRONG></A></DIV>
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<DIV>格雷戈里.柯索的几首诗(翻译:罗池) <br><br>《诺德林海滩》 <br><br>一天夜里五十个人游离上帝 <br>然后淹死。 <br>早晨,那个被抛弃的上帝 <br>用一只手指沾沾海水 <br>捞起五十个灵魂, <br>点向永生。 <br><br>《表里歌》 <br><br>昨夜是最夜的夜 <br>满月满满地照着一个没有星星的空间 <br>就像雪下面的雪是最白的雪 <br>人脸的下面该是上帝的脸 <br><br>《当我还是个孩子》 <br><br>当我还是个孩子 <br>要监听楼梯 <br>做弥撒祭童 <br>放飞全纽约的小鸟 <br><br>在夏令营 <br>我亲吻月亮 <br>在装雨水的桶里 <br><br>《哈喽》 <br><br>做一只受伤的鹿真是太惨了。 <br>我就是伤得最重的那只,而狼群逼近, <br>我也有我的失败,同样的。 <br>我的肉体被卡进“注定的圈套”! <br>小时候我见过很多我不想要的东西。 <br>我就是那个我不想成为的人吗? <br>那个自说自话的人? <br>那个给邻居们逗乐子的人? <br>我是那个在博物馆台阶上侧身躺着的人吗? <br>我穿的是一个失败者的衣服吗? <br>我是那个窝囊废吗? <br>在万物的宏美夜曲中, <br>我是最应该删掉的小节吗? <br><br>《种子的旅行》 <br><br>他们一路出发 <br>不管去到哪儿 <br>都有树木长大 <br><br>坚果被健忘的松鼠忘掉 <br>又变成更多的坚果 <br>刺果黏上小动物的毛皮 <br>而花粉在风里散播 <br><br>而有些种子 <br>面包是他们旅行的终点 <br><br><br>在地狱里众天使同样歌唱 <br>而他们以歌唱祈求重新拥有 <br>那些曾追随最初的基督之载体的人们 <br>离了地狱要去拥有一个新世界 <br>然而当他们带着枪支和《圣经》来到 <br>很快他们的新定居点变成了旧的 <br>并再一次让地狱占了码头 <br>红十字天使拉弗尔就是我之于你 <br>我把“众天使之主的十字架” <br>放在你身上……在这里 <br>一个全新世界的前夜等待着探索 <br>而你在这古旧而暗蔽的时日之上闪过 <br>一个垮掉的基督之童……呈示着万物的高贵的圆满 <br>见证着灵魂是圆的不是方的 <br>不久……在你身后将迎来追随中的 <br>鲜花的孩子们 <br><br>---------------《悲情亚美利加》 <br><br>我该结婚吗?我该好好做吗? <br><br>我的丝绒礼袍和浮士德式披风能唬倒隔壁的姑娘吗? <br><br> ――《结婚》 </DIV>
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<DIV> 格雷戈里·柯索(Gregory Corso),伟大的老垮掉派革命 <br>家、狂想家、诗人,坚定的异性恋者,20世纪美国诗坛最佳发型 <br>终身成就奖获得者,一个笑话多过屁话的好人,好父亲,优秀的 <br>意大利裔小扒手,浪子回头的道德楷模,生于1930年 3月26日, <br>卒于2001年1月17日,完成了他反叛的一生和承继的一生。 <br><br>格雷戈里·柯索(Gregory Corso,1930-2001),美国优秀诗人,与凯鲁亚克、金斯伯格等齐名的垮掉派文学运动开创者。一个街头流浪儿、少年犯,全凭自学和天赋达到艺术的顶峰。其人狂放,从不妥协,长期被主流文坛排斥;其诗绝妙、纯粹、本质,以独到的诗性敏感解放了语言,极受同仁推崇,被誉为诗人中的诗人。他一生穷困潦倒,死后葬在雪莱的墓旁。 \\</DIV>
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<DIV><br><br>有关一份悼词、一个歌手、一个诗人 </DIV>
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<DIV><br>平生经历过的葬礼不下十个,它们留给我相同的印象:作为孩子们不知所措;作为亲友们满脸悲哀,自觉或不自觉地怀念起与某人的交往、其生平与音容笑貌,仿佛只在此刻这些记忆才回光返照。我这样说是有点没心没肺,但我有我的依据----那些千篇一律的悼词如政府行文般枯涩无味,无非是该人一生功绩、在人世间修下的可以被大家见证的良好关系与品行(哪怕底下众人并非完全同意),所谓其人已死,其言当善。在此种宣告重压之下,你会觉察到已死之人的人生,不过是场供给结束语的苦行,且有将这苦行进行到坟墓中去的意思。 <br> <br> 死为终结,人人都明白。何况人家已死,你还活着,怎么能不为人家再无法与你共享这精彩世界而感到悲凉?这样一来,有意将这最后的篇章唱得自然、朴素而又充满了真实的悲欢感的人,我觉得很少很少。兔死狐悲,念及自己,悲痛之下怕确实也无心去认真对待一个注定消失在时间中的人,所以悼词之规矩和缺乏个人内心感悟,也属于可理解的事情。若我无聊到有机会继续关注悼词,我想肯定会一无所获,因为我可以再复习一下那个教授般的大道理:人生本就无趣。 <br> <br> 但生活总在不经意间给你意外的悲喜,好象电视上我们无法预定其结果的体育演出。近日在家反复聆听PATTI SMITH的新片《TRAMPIN’》。她是个经常面对死亡的人:她的丈夫、导师、战友近年一个个接踵而去,在她复出摇滚圈的这些年中,她不断以诗人与歌者的身份为他们写下纪念。有记者问她为何在唱片中总有那么多的挽歌?她答:我迷恋那些花朵。当整个喧闹的时代以濒临终极享乐的态度来遗弃过去时,我在这张唱片的封底,看见这个坚毅的中年女人沉静、坦然的脸,像灾难过后的湖水般清澈而泛起涟漪:那些刀刻似的风霜痕迹美如断裂的岩石。我听到她为死去的人写下的歌。但真正让我惊异的是意外发现她为垮掉诗人柯索写的悼文,我反复将它读出声音来,如同我当时就站在柯索的身边。柯索的诗中流露出的顽童气质、无邪的天真和真正属于流浪汉的街道情怀,一直让我明白:你可以随便地去死,像个气泡那样,不惊动别人,我们生来为快乐地死去而已。这想法被PATTI极具魅力的歌唱般的文字引领,到心碑最杂草丛生的地方,生出温暖与超然的领悟。我想如果我死,又该怎样让朋友们了解,生之极乐,在于拥抱过这些音乐与文字的恩宠?《TRAMPIN‘》是将爱与悲、行与停、泪与笑都带入岁月尘土中的车轮,碾过灵魂缺口,渡我们入谷。强烈建议大家去仔细聆听其中的叹息、哀挽与轻慢的脚步。PATTI给柯索的悼词,抄录于此: <br> </DIV>
<DIV><br> 格雷戈里.柯索,垮掉派之花,走了。他已经被采去给那位大老爹的花园增色,并在天上得到恩宠和愉悦。 <br> 我第一次遇到格雷戈里是在很久以前的切尔西旅馆大门外。他掀起大衣扒掉长裤,冒出拉丁式叹词。看到我惊讶的脸色,他大笑着说:“我不是要亮给你的,宝贝,我是亮给这个世界。”我记得我当时在想,这世界多幸运啊,能与一个真正诗人的发生关系。 <br><br> 他就是这样的人。很多人都有格雷戈里的故事,真实的或修饰过的,关于他传奇式恶作剧和没谱的鲁莽,肯定也有关于他的美,他的懊恼,和他的宽宏。他在七十年代初给我做过仁慈的评价,也许是因为我的生活环境跟他非常相似----大堆的纸张、书本、旧鞋子,脏碗----乱得一塌糊涂。在圣马可的乏味之极的诗歌朗诵会上我们总是臭名昭著的破坏分子。当然我们也受到了相应的指责,但格雷戈里建议我要坚持我的不敬的怒火,并且对那些坐在我们面前的自称为诗人的人提出更高的要求。 <br> 毫无疑问,格雷戈里是一个诗人。诗歌是他的意识形态,诗人是他的圣徒。他被称为诗人而他知道这是什么意思。也许他仅有的困扰是有时会问,为什么,为什么是他?他1930年3月26日生于纽约市。他年轻的妈妈抛弃了他。这个男孩从孤儿院漂流到管教所到监狱。他没受过什么正规教育,但他的自学是无限的。他拥抱了古希腊和浪漫主义文学,然后垮掉派拥抱他,把桂叶的冠冕置上他的不受约束的黑色卷发。凯鲁亚克将他册封为拉斐尔.厄索,他是他们的骄傲和欢乐同时也是他们最具有煽动性的良知。 <br> <br> 他留给我们的是两项遗产:一大批作品,它们的美、技艺和强大的活力将永存,还有他的人格品质。他一半是彼得.罗斯,一半是柏西.拜舍.雪莱。他会爆炸式的反叛,好战,怀疑一切,但另一面,孩子气的纯洁、谦卑,富有同情心。他总是喜欢说他很抱歉,分享他的知识,并且虚心学习。记得艾伦.金斯伯格临终的时候我看着格雷戈里坐在他的床前。“艾伦在教我怎样去死,”他说。 <br> 去年夏天,朋友们聚到一起来向他道别。我们默默地坐在贺瑞斯街他的病床边。那一夜充满了奇异的感应。一个他从没见过的女儿。一个从远方赶来的赞助人。一个追随他脚步的年轻诗人。在无声的屏幕上,罗伯特.弗兰克的《采我雏菊》偶然地在公共电视台上播映着----没意识到这是一个神秘的时段。老爹们的形象,年轻而又疯狂,黑而又白。艾伦的快照贴在墙上。格雷戈里的椅子用它褴褛的荣光统治着这个朴素的房间。多少梦想被一个个香烟烙痕打上了标点。他快要死了。我们都来道别。 <br> 但格雷戈里,或许是感应到围绕他身旁的祈祷,竟实现了一个真正的天主教奇迹。他站起来了。他得到一段好转期,让我们可以听见他的声音,他的笑,和一些受欢迎的粗话。我们又可以为他写诗,给他歌唱,去看球赛,听他背诵布莱克。他甚至还能够去到明尼阿波利斯,跟他的女儿住在一起,做一个孩子王,又看到了另一个秋天,另一个冬天,另一个世纪。艾伦告诉他怎样死。格雷戈里教会我们怎样活并珍惜生命,然后他第二次离开了我们。 <br> <br><br> 最后的日子里,他还在经受一个年轻诗人式的痛苦----那种追求完美的欲望。对死亡,就像对艺术,他也是如此。那路上来的小伙子们载走了他。但在他登上一张光彩的圣人卡片之前,格雷戈里,还是他自己,掀起大衣,,最后一次亮出他的诗人,大叫,“嘿,伙计,亲亲我的雏菊吧。” <br> 啊,格雷戈里,那岁月和花瓣飞扬。 <br> 他爱我们。他爱我们不了。他爱我们。 </DIV></TD></TR></TABLE>
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-3-4 5:35:20编辑过] |
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