Allen Ginsberg

"We're all golden sunflowers inside."

"Poets are damned… but see with the eyes of angels."

"We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter"

"Concentrate on what you want to say to yourself and your friends. Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness. You say what you want to say when you don't care who's listening."

"Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private."

"“I never dreamed the sea so deep,The earth so dark; so long my sleep,I have become another child. I wake to see the world go wild.”"

"“Democracy! Bah! When I hear that I reach for my feather boa!”"

"“If I had a soul I sold itfor pretty words If I had a body I usedit up spurting my essence Allen Ginsberg warns youdont follow my pathto extinction”"

"“I really believe, or want to believe, really I am nuts, otherwise I'll never be sane.”"

"“Poets are damned… but see with the eyes of angels.”"

"Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does."

"The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That's what poetry does."

"Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private."

"Follow your inner moonlight don't hide the madness."

"The real America that Whitman proclaimed and Thoreau decoded."

"You can own an elephant or a bank or power thereof but if there's no personal breast bliss all you own is a lot of dead atoms and ideas."

"Whoever controls the media, the images, controls the culture."

"I would rather go mad, gone down the dark road to Mexico, heroin dripping in my veins, eyes and ears full of marijuana, eating the god Peyote on the floor of a mudhut on the border or laying in a hotel room over the body of some suffering man or woman; rather jar my body down the road, crying by a diner in the Western sun; rather crawl on my naked belly over the tincans of Cincinnati; rather drag a rotten railroad tie to a Golgotha in the Rockies; rather, crowned with thorns in Galveston, nailed hand and foot in Los Angeles, raised up to die in Denver, pierced in the side in Chicago, perished and tombed in New Orleans and resurrected in 1958 somewhere on Garret Mountain, come down roaring in a blaze of hot cars and garbage, streetcorner Evangel in front of City I-Tall, surrounded by statues of agonized lions, with a mouthful of shit, and the hair rising on my scalp, screaming and dancing in praise of Eternity annihilating the sidewalk, annihilating reality, screaming and dancing against the orchestra in the destructible ballroom of the world, blood streaming from my belly and shoulders flooding the city with its hideous ecstasy, rolling over the pavements and highways by the bayoux and forests and derricks leaving my flesh and my bones hanging on the trees."

"Poets are Damned... but See with the Eyes of Angels."

"Democracy! Bah! When I hear that word I reach for my feather boa!"