Naropa Boyfriends



Naropa Boyfriends
Boulder Diary
How I Write Poetry &
Who I Learned From
Writing Poems
Family Portrait
Scrap Book
Another Day
Julius My Brother
Morning Poem


“nothing like a hot dish
of warm lips”
—Peter Orlovsky

Naropa a big Marketplace—
everybody is writing poetry

Allen says to his classes—
poetry is by itself nothing

I’m always at the mercy—
of cute young Rimbaud boys

I know what that means—
the great come-on routine

All these young guys—
hangin around Allen

Each night in Boulder—
goin to bed with some kid


“Talk we Split it’s—
all right, goin ways”
—Peter Orlovsky

Allen’s apartment becomes—
a youth hostel every night

They want to get in bed—
with the great queer poet

It’s okay with me cause—
I’ve been there done that

It’s okay with me cause—
by now it’s all pretty boring

I’m not turned on by—
Allen’s old ugly cock

Young guys can do him—
I could give a shit

They’re not interested—
in poetry just being famous

“Look at me, I went to bed—
with the great poet Ginsberg!”


“In 1957 Paris hotel room
I wrote my first 2 poems”
—Peter Orlovsky

I learned from Allen—
to always write it down

Always carry a notebook—
so you can drop it on paper 

I get a kick jotting down—
spontaneous flashes

Corso taught me to recognize—
funny speech word idea combos

Catullus natural talk about love—
Rimbaud for lightening action

Lorca for finding my duende—
WC Williams for reality track

Allen for spontaneous verse—
“First word, best word”


“Writing poems is
a sacred thing”
—Peter Orlovsky

Writing poems scary business—
sacred & yet profane too

A diary or a novel—
would make a lot more sense

One family all I ever want to know—
what good another soap opera?

The same old memory ramblings—
another bunch of normal lies

To breathe is just to sigh—
roll my eyes is all I can do

Rain & snow my only clock—
watching it thru the window

Grinding my teeth for lack of love—
the world a cold stove cathedral


“I love the foot steps—
of my family when
they walk thru the
house at night”
—Peter Orlovsky

I don’t like sorrow to hang—
down from my family tree

So I try to visit them—
as much as I can

I’m just a nameless asshole—
but they’re still my family

Looking into each other’s loopy eyes—
it’s sad but still we’re still here

Old age is a heart stab—
see what it does to faces?

No wonder they pull down—
the window shades so that

None of the neighbors—
can see what I see

All families are the same—
it’s just so fuckin sad


“beauty lies deep like
the little speck of dirt”
—Peter Orlovsky

Heaven’s closet—
what’s in there anyway?

I use my teeth and fingers—
to pry it open, saliva dripping

My broken fingernails—
flinging the closet door open

Spooks spillin out—
a rush of rumors too

What did I think was—
in there anything to know?

Then he comes out—
my idiot kid brother Julius


“a hungry rose cloud
will eat us up”
—Peter Orlovsky

The smiling shadow—
in my broken heart is

An unseen face—
hidden in some clay

Always a little stillness—
when I stop and think

What am I all about—
standing, sitting here alone?

A monument to fate is—
being erected in my pants

Getting on the bus—
everybody sees it


“No tears for Julius tonight
brother that left me young”
—Peter Orlovsky

He’s only 18—
goodlooking with a mop of hair

Gone, gone down the road—
such a strange crazy kid

He sits alone in the corner—
that faraway look in his eyes

I’ve worked in mental hospitals—
know the gloomy horror of it

At least he’s home with mother—
even tho she’s a zombie too

It runs in our family—
years pass, it just gets worse


“All I need is a mirror
for the rest of my life”
—Peter Orlovsky

Shaving in the morning—
my hairy ugly werewolf face

My eyes just empty holes—
only hoping to understand

Blinking neon sign shines—
down thru my bedroom window

Reminding me once again—
life is just a Grade-B movie

My life here in NYC—
another American beatnik 

Thank god I’m not a hustler—
selling my bod on Times Square


“Morning again,
nothing has to
be done”
—Peter Orlovsky

Morning comes—
don’t feel like doin nothin

Maybe I’ll write a poem—
or let a poem write me

Time for another joint—
let the show begin

There’s this elevator—
from my bed to the floor

Isn’t that paradise—
your own dream room-land?

Peter Orlovsky


“Realize big difference
between me & Allen—
he has such far verbal
poetry image—I get
high thro feeling”
—Peter Orlovsky

I never did get off much—
on Naropa & all that shit

So my toe would curl—
and become a snail

Then going curiously—
on its own way

One room is all—
I’ll ever know

One bed plus—
memory ramblings

Writing poems such—
a lonely act

Allen Ginsberg

ALLEN GINSBERG (1926-2007)

The Buddhists swarmed—
around his dead body

Busy doing their tacky—
dharma rebirth routines

Allen could meditate—
for hours & hours

Some stupid boulder—
doing his meditation trick

The only problem was—
coming down from there

He’d be horny as hell—
chicken in the SAFEWAY

So much for NAROPA—
getting off in Boulder

Despite all the Poetics—
all that Spontaneous Shit

There was only one thing—
Neil Cassidy’s fine bod

Even butchy Kerouac—
fell in love with Neil

Denver laments eternally—
Neil Cassidy its Male Diva

There’s nothing quite—
like that young Stud cock

Fag poets aren’t any—
different than anybody else

Cassidy the cute Cowboy—
his true Story yet to be told

It’s the Story of America—
back then in the Fifties

It’s something even now—
that haunts all of us

But they’re all gone now—
Allen was one of the last

Burroughs in Kansas—
with his shotguns & cats

This is how it happens—
Literary movements live

They shoot their wads—
America craves their cum

The Talking Asshole


“Did I ever tell you about the man 
who taught his asshole to talk?”
—William Burroughs, NAKED LUNCH

Did I ever tell you about the man—
who taught his asshole how to talk?

Actually it was the other way around—
his asshole taught him to talk instead

He was really good at it—
farting away grand speeches on TV

It was unlike anything ever heard—
or smelled before such a shitty syntax!!!

His asshole talked with such fluency—
his colon was tres intelligentsia

He worked for this traveling carnival—
at first a novelty ventriloquist act

After awhile he started talking to himself—
his ass would ad lib & toss out gags

But his asshole got bored with all that—
eating through his pants out on the street

Shouting out it wanted equal rights—
all pouty & puckered up in farting jags

Bitching that nobody loved it & wanted—
to be kissed like any other pair of lips

The guy couldn’t stop his talking asshole—
it went on & on ranting day and night

You could hear it for blocks away—
people screaming for it to shut the fuck up

The guy threatened his asshole saying—
I’ll stick a fucking dildo in you, then what?

You’re the one that’s gonna shut up—
the talking asshole said back to the guy

I don’t need you anymore because—
I can talk and eat and SHIT if I want to!!!

After that the dildo shut him up good—
but when the guy had to shit, WATCH OUT!!!

So anyway, the talking asshole shut up—
cause one thing it needed was a pair of eyes

It trapped the guy though one day—
getting an organ transplant on the sly

Viola!!! The first talking asshole with an eye—
It walks!!! It talks!!! It can even see!!!

That’s when the asshole squeezed its cheeks—
and ran for an office in local politics

It started out just being Mayor of Shitville—
but you know ambitious Assholes can be…

Jaysus christ, pretty soon he was on TV—
CNN & FOX-News went hog-wild over him

He even stooped to conquer—
letting Rachel Maddow kiss his lips

Lady Gaga couldn’t wait to finger him—
getting her forefinger all the way up there

He bit it off with his razor hemorrhoid teeth—
Justin Bieber was gonna be fuckin next

The end result was simply horrifying—
all the world’s assholes suddenly revolted

A whole new bourgeois bunghole Bureaucracy—
had to be quickly invented right then & there

No time for any more dithering diarrhea—
after all, who’d been sitting there forever?

There on the THRONE day after day—
Kings, queens, peons, the usual gangsters

But who really knew the fine red line—
between life and death at the final end?

It was the worldly humble meek Asshole—
constantly taking care of the dirty shit

Empires come & go, States collapse—
but it’s the Asshole who rules in the end

Proud & tall & built like old Shit-houses—
lonely out there on the lonely prairies

Prim & proud, sleek marble rims for the—
Emperor Caligula’s fine wicked tender ass

Ah yes, it’s an altogether different history
once you start seeing things differently

So you ask me whatever happened—
to this guy’s troublesome Talking Asshole?

Listen closely, cause I’ll only fart this once—
it’s tres secret and truly hush-hush

Welcome to my ASSHOLE PLANET—
guess who sits on the Throne now?

Cut-Up Poetics


“Members of Burroughs’s “Beat” generation
had drifted from place to place, always moving
and their writing was similarly disjointed.” 
—Sarah Smarsh, It Happened in Kansas

So it only makes sense that Burroughs’—
writing and visual art deal with motion

Setting paint flying at explosive speed—
one way of doing motion on canvas

Sitting there in Lawrence—
and writing it is one thing

But trying to write what’s moving—
that’s a totally different artform

Old representational methods—
didn’t work with Kansas landscapes

He turned to cut-up collages—
a new narrative technique was needed

Dark Carnival


There’s no need for any memoirs—
since when does Hollywood care?

Los Angeles a heartless bitch—
just ask Bela Lugosi, my dears

Bela fell for Ed Woods of course—
offered the chance to star again

Who gave a fuck if it was cheesy—

Actors need to act to live—
it’s the lifeblood of filmic gods

Gods of the Silver Screen—
the only Immortality we have

Observe us at any Film Palace—
but there are none of them left

We live again only alone—
like very old vintage wine

We need Hollywood no longer—
we exist now in the Night

Look at me Tod Browning—
sitting in front of my TV

Alone in my beach-house—
late at night on Monica Beach

Watching late movies—
preferably old horror ones

We directors make movies—
like Billy Wilder and Huston

But I was unique—
I created you FREAKS 



—for Tod Browning

No one knows the darkness—like I do. There is only one darkness—the darkness of the NIGHT.

It creeps up on you—in the Night. Like tonight here on Monica Beach—hear the waves?

The waves—children of the Night. Hissing and curling—up onto the lonely beach. 

Hear them? Don’t be afraid—
It’s only a late TV night horror show

Perhaps you’ve seen my work?—
Forgotten by Hollywood Babylon

There was a time when I created—
DRACULA with Bela Lugosi

We set the standard for horror—
Universal Films born because of us

Boris Karloff just a fucking hack—
I was the Transylvania Queen Bee

Evil Incarnate through Browning—
I took over Hollywood just like that

Ever since then they’ve been singing—
Marlene Dietrich cabaret swan songs

Flint Hills Evening


“The shadow crawls
up canyon walls”
—Badger Clark
“The Sky Blue Plains,”

The Flint Hills evening—
comes slowly down ravines

The rim rocks flush pink—
crawling night shadows

The cottonwood leaves—
quiver shiver like me

Do they anticipate—
what I know will happen?

The wind break sways—
knows what night brings

The Flint Hills get still—
more blue shadows come

After dinner we smoke—
drink some Johnny Walker

The stillness out there—
singing the same old song

Blow out kerosene lamp—
then to bed together

If only I say to myself—
it’ll be this way forever

Gay Cowboy Poetry


He was hard to get to know—
but then that’s the way it was

The harder the better—
a quiet kind of prairie love

Mostly just him & me driving—
out there on Kansas nights

Bought me a nice Stetson hat—
a pair of expensive boots

I never made a decent cowboy—
he didn’t seem to mind tho

He wanted somebody to—
know & love him way out there

OUT THERE different than—
livin in town back home

I can’t even describe it—
it’s like livin on the moon

Cowboy songs comin up from—
OK City on the radio

Cowboy commaraderie—
him & me out there 

Turnin me on to country music—
comin up from Oklahoma City

Hank Williams especially—

Out there in his ranch-house—
quiet Chase County nights

Kinda spooky like Z-Bar Mansion—
listenin to prairie wind outside

Lived with him for a year—
stoic Kansas cowboy dude

Rented the range out to—
young ranchers with families & kids



Anyway sittin here havin a drink—
floatin kinda high right now

Ya know, reminiscin' about it—
him on my mind

Poetry I suppose cause—
it seems less I don’t know what 

Chase County cowboy romance—

Here on his ranch outise Strong City—
Jaysus, I loved him so really bad

The son of a rich cattleman—
catchin my eye in high school

Drivin his Chevy pickup—
his blue corduroy FFA jacket

Always lookin so butch comin—
down the hallway bowlegged

Still riding his horse out there—
Chase County butch kid

Lanky & shy, hangin out with—
his FFA buddies across the street

Over in the Vocational Ed Bldg—
doin gawd knows what

Workin with cars, engines—
Stuff country boys do

Strong City


I didn’t much want to—
but like I couldn’t help it

Him waitin for me—
in his Chevy pickup truck

Waitin for me there in—
the high school parking lot

Smokin a cigarette—
after all that boring shit

The shit they put us thru—
punchin a fuckin clock

Gettin us ready for it—
shitty working class crap

There I stood lookin—
at him like I always did

He didn’t look away—
he said “Get in, baby”

We drove west outta—
town real slow on Sixth

Hank Williams on the—
radio from OK City

Suddenly I realized—
I was never gonna

Gonna be the same—
not with him anyway

Out past Hwy 50—
past the Truck Stop

He reached over—
grabbed my leg

Jaysus christ I—
fainted then & there

Talk about angels—
descendin' outta heaven

I was ready for it—
some wings to fly

Ready for anything—
he wanted me to be