A usually young and artistic person who rejects the mores of conventional society. The word beatnik is no longer a word that’s used in the late 60’s but its becoming a word in the 20th century used to describe these bohemian young men’s life styles. Expect enormous things from these extraordinary beatniks.

I’m Arrogant.
Welcome To My Home.

Marriageby Gregory Corso, 1958Should I get married? Should I be good?Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?Don’t take her to movies but to cemeteriestell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinetsthen desire her and kiss her and all the preliminariesand she going just so far and I understanding whynot getting angry saying You must feel! It’s beautiful to feel!Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstoneand woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-When she introduces me to her parentsback straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofaand not ask Where’s the bathroom?How else to feel other than I am,often thinking Flash Gordon soap-O how terrible it must be for a young manseated before a family and the family thinkingWe never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?Should I tell them? Would they like me then?Say All right get married, we’re losing a daughterbut we’re gaining a son-And should I then ask Where’s the bathroom?O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friendsand only a handful of mine all scroungy and beardedjust wait to get at the drinks and food-And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbatedasking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the backShe’s all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoesNiagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!All streaming into cozy hotelsAll going to do the same thing tonightThe indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happenThe lobby zombies they knowing whatThe whistling elevator man he knowingEverybody knowing! I’d almost be inclined not to do anything!Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!running rampant into those almost climactic suitesyelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!O I’d live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the FallsI’d sit there the Mad Honeymoonerdevising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamya saint of divorce-
But I should get married I should be goodHow nice it’d be to come home to herand sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchenaproned young and lovely wanting my babyand so happy about me she burns the roast beefand comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chairsaying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!God what a husband I’d make! Yes, I should get married!So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones’ house late at nightand cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian booksLike hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmowerlike pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fencelike when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chestgrab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell himWhen are you going to stop people killing whales!And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottlePenguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-Yes if I should get married and it’s Connecticut and snowand she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling manknowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-O what would that be like!Surely I’d give it for a nipple a rubber TacitusFor a rattle a bag of broken Bach recordsTack Della Francesca all over its cribSew the Greek alphabet on its bibAnd build for its playpen a roofless ParthenonNo, I doubt I’d be that kind of fatherNot rural not snow no quiet windowbut hot smelly tight New York Cityseven flights up, roaches and rats in the wallsa fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!And five nose running brats in love with BatmanAnd the neighbors all toothless and dry hairedlike those hag masses of the 18th centuryall wanting to come in and watch TVThe landlord wants his rentGrocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbusimpossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-No! I should not get married! I should never get married!But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated womantall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black glovesholding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the otherand we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge windowfrom which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer daysNo, can’t imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-O but what about love? I forget lovenot that I am incapable of loveIt’s just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my motherAnd Ingrid Bergman was always impossibleAnd there’s maybe a girl now but she’s already marriedAnd I don’t like men and-But there’s got to be somebody!Because what if I’m 60 years old and not married,all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwearand everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possiblethen marriage would be possible-Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian loverso i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

Gregory Corso.
Milkbone Studios, Philadelphia 
April 5th, 2014
Whenever somebody types in afropunk on Google, this should pop up.
Be Happy don’t Pursue it.