There will never be a better argument against the madness of the 60′s. Devotees, stuck in a lifetime loop, harry and haunt was every day.

In Whitman we have the Dionysian; in Ginsburg we have the Priapic, vulgar coarse and slightly ridiculous. Even Priapus, however, has a sense of humor about his penile obsessions, whereas Ginsburg is deadly serious about all his excretions, like an infant. If the Greeks were right, that poets must be mad, then there must exist a sort of mediocre madness composed of sad little frenzies, tedious, morose, adolescent ecstasies; that is, if Ginsburg is a poet.

Problem is, I think he is. He is a poet circa 1960, a poet filled with all the unhappy decadence and degeneration of America post WWII, and things have only gone downhill since. Take a look at Whitman (a real Whitman) and feel the vigor and optimism of his America, compare it to the cultural black hole that Ginsburg creates. A black hole that Ginsburg in his retentive little way can only envision as an anus. Were we ever really that?

His ìbest mindsî went down a crapper of their own making.

I remember thinking, “Hey, ‘free-form’ means ya don’t gotta make nothin’ rhyme!”

Gerard’s parody is a stone hoot, man.

Once I greatly admired “Howl” (I’m younger than that now).

Rereading it today it seems tawdry, shallow and absurdly self-indulgent.

Ginsberg himself became — or perhaps always was — a rather pathetic, amoral windbag.

Were he alive toady, he would be uttering inanities on the level of the outpourings of Ward Churchill, though with superior and more original imagery.

I rather enjoyed “Growl”.

Jamie Irons

I have never been one for poetry, but both of those were really something. I can actually see why people enjoy poetry now.