who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in
the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window,
jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and
fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards
of the madtowns of the East,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images
juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual
images
to conform to the rhythm of thought in his
naked and endless head


-Allen Ginsberg