we are oceans

martes 30 de abril — 01:22 am

Tus ojos recorren las letras que estás leyendo y yo comienzo a existir. Cada una de tus lecturas me configura como un ser verdadero entre las infinitas sombras del Universo. Elegís una voz particular para el murmullo de mis palabras mudas, seleccionás el par de manos que gesticulan, aquella mirada que con la tuya dialoga. Me ves en frente tuyo y soy exactamente la persona que querés que sea. Porque sos vos el que me da existencia y el que me permite vivir. Allí, en los mares que te habitan.

—Lucas Nicolás Cardozo - www.somosoceanos.tumblr.com



Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg in front of Jack Kerouac’s grave, 1976.
Walt Whitman: Song of Myself (V)
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed

"I have been running around with mad mean poets & world-eaters here & was longing for kind words from heaven which you wrote, came as fresh as a summer breeze & “when I think on thee dear friend / all loses are restored & sorrows end,” came over & over in my mind — it’s the end of a Shakespeare Sonnet — he must have been happy in love too. I had never realized that before… .

Write me soon baby, I’ll write you big long poem I feel as if you were god that I pray to –



— Allen Ginsberg, in a letter to Peter Orlovsky