Gregory Nunzio Corso was an American poet, youngest of the inner circle of Beat Generation writers (with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and William S. Burroughs). He was beloved by the other "Beats".
“… a tough young kid from the Lower East Side who rose like an angel over the roof tops and sang Italian song as sweet as Caruso and Sinatra, but in words… Amazing and beautiful, Gregory Corso, the one and only Gregory, the Herald.” ~Jack Kerouac
"Corso's a poet's Poet, a poet much superior to me. Pure velvet... whose wild fame's extended for decades around the world from France to China, World Poet". ~Allen Ginsberg
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Gregory Corso Poems
Last Night I Drove A Car
Last night I drove a car not knowing how to drive not owning a car
I Am 25
With a love a madness for Shelley Chatterton Rimbaud and the needy-yap of my youth has gone from ear to ear:
The Mad Yak
I am watching them churn the last milk they'll ever get from me. They are waiting for me to die; They want to make buttons out of my bones. Where are my sisters and brothers?
They deliver the edicts of God without delay
I Held A Shelley Manuscript
My hands did numb to beauty as they reached into Death and tightened! O sovereign was my touch
To a downfallen rose
When I laid aside the verses of Mimnermus, I lived a life of canned heat and raw hands, alone, not far from my body did I wander, walked with a hope of a sudden dreamy forest of gold.
Should I get married? Should I be Good? Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustaus hood?
What simple profundities What profound simplicities To sit down among the trees...
The Whole Mess... Almost
I ran up six flights of stairs to my small furnished room opened the window
Writ On The Steps Of Puerto Rican Harlem
There’s a truth limits man A truth prevents his going any farther The world is changing The world knows it’s changing
Uncomprising year—I see no meaning to life. Though this abled self is here nonetheless, either in trade gold or grammaticness,
Transformation & Escape
1 I reached heaven and it was syrupy. It was oppressively sweet.
America Politica Historia, In Spontaneit...
O this political air so heavy with the bells and motors of a slow night, and no place to rest
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