Sunflower Sutra by Allen Ginsberg, read L.T.

Sunflower Sutra
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—
—I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these
entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen,
—We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.
Berkeley, 1955



Lubomír Tomik

čas o Tobě nepochybuje,
momenty budou praskat jako lana Hindenburgu

plameny a čas 
čas a plameny

z lomů na ně vodu,
z čistých jezer kde bydlí ryby s plnými břichy,
břehy písečné

můj čas se řítí do těch vod,
nepochybuj o čase

Nepochybuji o 
Do not doubt.

Lubomír Tomik

time doesn't doubt you
moments will snap like the ropes of the Hindenburg

flames and time
time and flames

water from the quarries to them,
from clean lakes where fish live with full bellies,
sandy shores

my time rushes into those waters
don't doubt the time

I have no doubt about
Princ Holí je karta na publikaci Crowleyho po úspěšném ranním nájezdu na tržnici. Na který, mimochodem, vyšla úplně stejná karta ze 78 a dvou Mágů.
Je to pořád ta správná cesta a dějí se na ní věci.



Lubomír Tomik

na tu správnou chvíli,
nedá se chytit

na tu správnou chvíli
nedá se lapit

a zavřít do klece
a zavřít do pece a škrtnout
nad srdci plnými benzínu

kde se dá sehnat,
kde se dají smontovat a dát do provozu,
ozubená kola z Antykithéry

past na správnou chvíli jsou Tvé oči
a když mrkneš
okamžik je zachycen do paměti,
až se příště připojíš k síti,
bud tam pro Tebe,

dny jsou žiletky které řežou,
plátky masa
a položíš je v andském vzduchu,
na vrak letadla,
jednou, dvakrát,
až na tom nezáleží

Lubomír Tomik

at the right moment
can't be caught

at the right moment
cannot be caught

and put in a cage
and close to peceo to cross out
over hearts full of gasoline

where to get
where they can be assembled and put into operation,
gears from Antikythera

Your eyes are a trap at the right moment
and when you blink
the moment is captured in memory,
the next time you connect to the network,
be there for you

mirror, mirror,
days are razors that cut
slices of meat
and you lay them in the Andean air,
to the plane wreck
once, twice,
until it doesn't matter