stanzas: written at night in radio city

If money made the mind more sane, Of money mellowed in the bowel The hunger beyond hunger's pain, Or money choked the mortal growl And made the groaner grin again, Or did the laughing lamb embolden To loll where has the lion lain, I'd go make money and be golden.  Nor sex will salve the sickened soul, Which has its holy goal an hour, Holds to heart the golden pole, But cannot save the silver shower, Nor heal the sorry parts to whole. Love is creeping under cover, Where it hides its sleepy dole, Else I were like any lover.  Many souls get lost at sea, Others slave upon a stone: Engines are not eyes to me, Inside buildings I see bone. Some from city to city flee, Famous labors make them lie; I cheat on that machinery, Down in Arden I will die.  Art is short, nor style is sure: Though words our virgin thoughts betray, Time ravishes that thought most pure, Which those who know, know anyway; For if our daughter should endure, When once we can no more complain, Men take our beauty for a whore, And like a whore, to entertain.  The city's hipper slickers shine, Up in the attic with the bats; The higher Chinamen, supine, Wear a dragon in their hats: He who seeks a secret sign In a daze or sicker doze Blows the flower superfine; Not a poppy is a rose.  If fame were not a fickle charm, There were far more famous men: May boys amaze the world to arm, Yet their charms are changed again, And fearful heroes turn to harm; But the shambles is a sham. A few angels on a farm Fare more fancy with their lamb.  No more of this too pretty talk, Dead glimpses of apocalypse: The child pissing off the rock, Or woman withered in the lips, Contemplate the unseen Cock That crows all beasts to ecstasy; As so the Saints beyond the clock Cry to men their dead eyes see.  Come, incomparable crown, Love my love is lost to claim, O hollow fame that makes me groan; We are a king without a name: Regain thine angel's lost renown, As, in the mind's forgotten meadow, Where brightest shades sleep under stone, Man runs after his own shadow                                        New York, March 1949: Allen Ginsburg