Peter Orlovsky

Snail Poem

Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired
       & handsome felt,
Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at
       blown up clowd.
Ear turnes close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound
       of rain dribble thru this layer
       down to the roots that will tickle my ear.
Hay grave, my toes need cutting so file away
       in sound curve or
Garbage grave, way above my head, blood will soon
       trickle in my ear -
       no choise but the grave, so cat & sheep are daisey
       turned.
Train will tug my grave, my breath hueing gentil vapor
       between weel & track.
So kitten string & ball, jumpe over this mound so
       gently & cutely
So my toe can curl & become a snail & go curiousely
       on its way.
        

1958 NYC

My Bed is Covered Yellow

  My bed is covered yellow - Oh Sun, I sit on you
Oh golden field I lay on you
Oh money I dream of you
       More, More, cried the bed - talk to me more -
Oh bed that taked the weight of the world -
       all the lost dreams laid on you
Oh bed that grows no hair, that cannot be fucked
       or can be fucked
Oh bed crumbs of all ages spiled on you
Oh yellow bed march to the sun whear yr journey will be done
Oh 50 lbs. of bed that takes 400 more lbs-
       how strong you are
Oh bed, only for man & not for animals
       yellow bed when will the animals have equal rights?
Oh 4 legged bed off the floor forever built
Oh yellow bed all the news of the world
       lay on you at one time or another
        

1957, Paris
SECOND POEM

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 the floor,
      maybe take a bath on the bed?
Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own 
    room-land?
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 
     disappear forever.
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 
    tabol.
Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost, 
     or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring 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 
     that.
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 I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in 
     a lunchenette.
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
     flowers.
        

Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris