Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Peter Orlovsky Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Peter Orlovsky poems. This is a select list of the best famous Peter Orlovsky poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Peter Orlovsky poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Peter Orlovsky poems.

Search for the best famous Peter Orlovsky poems, articles about Peter Orlovsky poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Peter Orlovsky poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Peter Orlovsky |

Snail Poem

 Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired
 & handsome felt,
Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at
 blown up clowd.
Ear turnes close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound of rain dribble thru this layer down to the roots that will tickle my ear.
Hay grave, my toes need cutting so file away in sound curve or Garbage grave, way above my head, blood will soon trickle in my ear - no choise but the grave, so cat & sheep are daisey turned.
Train will tug my grave, my breath hueing gentil vapor between weel & track.
So kitten string & ball, jumpe over this mound so gently & cutely So my toe can curl & become a snail & go curiousely on its way.
1958 NYC


by Peter Orlovsky |

My Bed is Covered Yellow

  My bed is covered yellow - Oh Sun, I sit on you
Oh golden field I lay on you
Oh money I dream of you
 More, More, cried the bed - talk to me more -
Oh bed that taked the weight of the world -
 all the lost dreams laid on you
Oh bed that grows no hair, that cannot be fucked
 or can be fucked
Oh bed crumbs of all ages spiled on you
Oh yellow bed march to the sun whear yr journey will be done
Oh 50 lbs.
of bed that takes 400 more lbs- how strong you are Oh bed, only for man & not for animals yellow bed when will the animals have equal rights? Oh 4 legged bed off the floor forever built Oh yellow bed all the news of the world lay on you at one time or another 1957, Paris


by Peter Orlovsky |

SECOND POEM

 Morning again, nothing has to be done, 
 maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water to clean the smelly mouth.
A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these hallucinations aney more.
Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor, maybe take a bath on the bed? Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own room-land? For this drop of time upon my eyes like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would disappear forever.
The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
My rug is dirty but whose that isent? There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the tabol.
Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost, or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air, or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear - two months abused - what would the ants say about that? How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did that.
No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in a lunchenette.
My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me around the globe.
Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of flowers.
Dec.
27th, 1957, Paris


by Peter Orlovsky |

FRIST POEM

 A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills the air.
I look for my shues under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet.
Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again.
I want everybody to talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning of life All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street, look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears then I do?" Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies, my gay jubilation.
Nov.
24th, 1957, Paris


by Allen Ginsberg |

Death and Fame

 When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
But l want a big funeral
St.
Patrick's Cathedral, St.
Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in Manhattan First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt Honey from old Newark, Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister- in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren, companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan-- Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche, there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama Tarchen -- Then, most important, lovers over half-century Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories "He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand day retreat --" "I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he loved me" "I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone" "We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly arms round each other" "I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my skivvies would be on the floor" "Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master" "We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then sleep in his captain's bed.
" "He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy" "I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my stomach shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips-- " "All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth & fingers along my waist" "He gave great head" So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin- gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997 and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!" "I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me.
" "I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head, my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly.
on my prick, tickled with his tongue my behind" "I loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow --" Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear "I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his walk-up flat, seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him again never wanted to.
.
.
" "He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man.
" "He made sure I came first" This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor-- Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical con- ductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trum- peters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin auto- harp pennywhistles & kazoos Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India, Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman Massa- chusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American provinces Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate biblio- philes, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex "I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved him anyway, true artist" "Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me from suicide hospitals" "Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my studio guest a week in Budapest" Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois" "I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- " "He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City" "Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City" "Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982" "I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others like me out there" Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo- graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to witness the historic funeral Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph- hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive February 22, 1997