[00:00.000] 作曲 : Ginsberg
[00:08.501]
[00:10.853] I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock
[00:13.649] and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific
[00:17.743] locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
[00:22.508] Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion,
[00:27.877] we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
[00:32.816] surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.
[00:37.488] The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks,
[00:44.453] no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts,
[00:48.682] just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.
[00:56.501] Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky,
[01:01.260] big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—
[01:05.760] —I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower,
[01:09.468] memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem
[01:12.641] and Hells of the Eastern rivers,
[01:14.774] bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches,
[01:17.735] dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded,
[01:22.623] the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless,
[01:28.524] only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—
[01:33.572] and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
[01:36.612] crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—
[01:42.696] corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown,
[01:47.267] seeds fallen out of its face,
[01:49.840] soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air,
[01:52.893] sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,
[01:57.552] leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem,
[02:00.690] gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs,
[02:06.201] a dead fly in its ear,
[02:08.252] Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul,
[02:13.361] I loved you then!
[02:15.772] The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,
[02:20.138] all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin,
[02:24.734] that smog of cheek,
[02:26.445] that eyelid of black mis’ry,
[02:28.856] that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—
[02:33.071] industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—
[02:39.406] and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below,
[02:45.042] in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery,
[02:50.963] the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car,
[02:54.161] the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack,
[02:57.842] what more could I name,
[02:59.417] the smoked ashes of some cock cigar,
[03:02.087] the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars,
[03:05.535] wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these
[03:08.316] entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset,
[03:11.697] all your glory in your form!
[03:14.237] A perfect beauty of a sunflower!
[03:16.729] a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence!
[03:19.508] a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon,
[03:23.037] woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!
[03:29.903] How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime,
[03:32.936] while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?
[03:37.271] Poor dead flower?
[03:38.990] when did you forget you were a flower?
[03:42.302] when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?
[03:46.811] the ghost of a locomotive?
[03:48.565] the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
[03:53.101] You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!
[03:57.029] And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!
[04:02.133] So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,
[04:07.830] and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen,
[04:13.732] —We’re not our skin of grime,
[04:16.002] we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives,
[04:19.502] we’re golden sunflowers inside,
[04:22.288] blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies
[04:26.974] growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset,
[04:31.016] spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.
[04:40.949] Berkeley, 1955