Jack Kerouac - McDougal Street Blues | Текст песни

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• Jack Kerouac
• McDougal Street Blues

The goofy foolish
human parade
Passing on Sunday
art streets
Of Greenwich Village

Pitiful drawings of
images on an
iron fence
ranged there
by self believing
artists
with no hair
and black berets
showing green seas
eating at rock
and Pleiades
of Time

Pestiferating at moon squid
Salt flat tip fly toe
tat sand traps
With cigar smoking interesteds
puffing at the
stroll
I mean sincerely
naive sailors buying prints

Women with red banjos
On their handbags
And arts handicrafty
Slow shuffling
art-ers of Washington Square
Passing in what they think
Is a happy June afternoon
Good God the Sorrow
They dont even listen to me when
I try to tell them they will die

They say "Of course I know
I'll die, Why shd you mention
It now - Why should I worry
About it - It ll happen
It ll happen - Now
I want a good time -
Excuse me -
It's a beautiful happy June
Afternoon I want to walk in -

Why are you so tragic & gloomy?
And in the corner at the
Pony Stables
On Sixth Ave & 4th
Sits Bodhisattva Meditating
In Hobo Rags
Praying at Joe Gould's chair
For the Emancipation

Of the shufflers passing by,
Immovable in Meditation

He offers his hand & feet
To the passers by
And nobody believes
That there's nothing to believe in.
Listen to Me.
There is no sidewalk artshow
No strollers are there

No poem here, no June
afternoon of Oh
But only Imagelessness
Unrepresented on the iron fence
Of bald artist
With black berets
Passing by
One moment less than this
Is future Nothingness Already

The Chess men are silent, assembled
Ready for funny war -
Voices of Washington Square Blues
Rise to my Bodhisattva Poem
Window
I will describe them:-
Ey t k ey ee
Sa la o s o
F r u p t u r t
Etc.
No need, no words to
describe
The sound of ignorance -
This is the sound of ignorance -
They are strolling to
their death

Watching the Pictures of Hell
Eating Ice Cream
of Ignorance
On wood sticks
That were once sincere
in trees -
But I cant write, poetry,
just prose
* * *
I mean
This is prose
Not poetry
But I want
To be sincere

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