Morning again, nothing has to be done,
maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick
the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
to clean the smelly mouth.
A nock on the door, a cat walks in,behind her the Zoo's baby
elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
hallucinations aney more.
Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to thefloor,
maybe take a bath on the bed?
Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
For this drop of time upon my eyes
like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
or on the bed I resemble a crying mummeyhollaring for air,
or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear -
two months abused - what would the ants say about that?
How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did
No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
As for the dishes Ican do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
around the globe.
Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly
makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
Peter Orlovskyis generally known as Allen Ginsberg's lover and companion of almost three decade. What is less known and mentioned is that he is a poet in his own right, this is a distinctive poetry about senses, about the search of paradise on his own room, about the way we can affect our environment to transform it into a paradise. Moreover Gregory Corso said about him in San Francisco in 1977, he was “Anagricultural romantic [...] whose hymns to redolent shovels of manure nourish the fields that so nourish us, both in body meal and the cosmetics of soul.”. Orlovsky wanted to be a farmer and went to high school for that, which explains this leaning toward a natural and “agricultural” poetry.
“Second Poem” is the reflection of a man, waking up in his room, in his idleness: “nothing has to be done”.This is the introduction of his day, he can stay in here all day, with just his thoughts, and very little preoccupations: “wipe glasses”, “drink the water to clean the smelly mouth” . This poem is the expression of the Beat Spirit, it contains every elements we see in the Beat Literature.
First of all, this man will stay in his room all day and do nothing at all. We can consider this behaviouras an opposition to the American Way of Life, the american myth of the Self-Made Man. This is the rejecion of the society, of convention and conformity. “For the floor its more creative to paint it then clean it up.”: Eveybody would clean up the floor if it was dirty, but Orlovsky wants to do it another way, he prefers to paint it, it hides the dirt, and nobody knows it’s dirty, plus you have a...