Book of Blues by Jack Kerouac Read Free Book Online

fallen
    angels
    Who didnt believe
    That nothing means nothing.”

9TH CHORUS
    We’re hanging into the abyss
    of blue—
    In it is nothing but innumerable
    and endless worlds
    More numerous even (& the number
    of beings!)
    Than all the rocks that cracked
    And became little rocks
    In all that rib of rock
    That extends from Alaska,
    Nay the Aleutian tips,
    Down through these High Cascades,
    Through to California & Ensenada,
    Down, through High Tepic, down
    To Tehuantepec, down,
    The rib, to Guatemala & on,
    Colombia, Andes, till the High
    Bottom Chilean & Tierra
    del Fuego
    O yoi yoi
    And on around to Siberia—
    In other words, & all the grains
    of sand that comprise
    A rock, and all the grains
    of atomstuff therein,
    More worlds than that
    in the empty blue sea
    We hang in, upsidedown,
    â€”Too much to be real

10TH CHORUS
    But it’s real
    it’s as real as the squares
    on this page
    And as real as my sore ass
    sitting on a rock
    And as real as hand, sun,
    pencil, knee,
    Ant, breezed, stick,
    water, tree, color,
    peeop, birdfeather,
    snag, smoke,
    haze, goat,
    appearance
    and low crazed cloud
    And dream of the Far Northwest
    And the little mounted policeman
    Of my dreams on a ridge—
    Not an Indian in sight—
    Real, real as fog in London town
    and croissants in Paris
    and swchernepetchzels
    in Prienna
    And Praha Maha Fuckit
    â€”Real, real,
    unreal,
    deal,
    Zeal,
    I say, dont care if it’s real
    or unreal, I’se

11TH CHORUS
    And if you dont like the tone
    of my poems
    You can go jump in the lake.
    I have been empowered
    to lay my hand
    On your shoulder
    and remind you
    That you are utterly free,
    Free as empty space.
    You dont have to be famous,
    dont have to be perfect,
    Dont have to work,
    dont have to marry,
    Dont have to carry burdens,
    dont have to gnaw & kneel,
    the taste
    of rain—
    Why kneel?
    Dont even have to sit,
    Hozomeen,
    Like an endless rock camp
    go ahead & blow,
    Explode & go,
    I wont say nothin,
    neither this rock,
    And my outhouse doesnt care,
    And I got no body
12TH CHORUS
    Little weird flower,
    why did you grow?
    Who planted you
    on this god damned hill?
    Who asked you to grow?
    Why dont you go?
    What’s wrong with yr. orange tips?
    I was under the impression
    that you were sposed to be
    some kind of perfect nature.
    Oh, you are?
    Just jiggle in the wind. I see.
    At yr feet I see a nosegay
    bou kay
    Of seven little purple apes
    who dint grow so high
    And a sister of yours
    further down the precipice—
    and your whole family
    to the left—
    I thot last week
    you were funeral bouquets
    for me
    that never askt
    to be born
    or die
    But now I guess
    I’m just talkin
    thru my
    empty head

ORIZABA 210 BLUES
1ST CHORUS
    Ah monstrous
    sweet monsters,
    who spawned
    thee chalk?
    God? Who
    Godded me?
    Who me’d
    God, chalk’d
    Thought, &
    Me sank
    Down
    To
    Fall
    A tché tché tcha
    hoot ee
    Wheet wha you—
    Sweet monstranot love
    By momma dears
    Hey
    Call God the Mother
    To stop this fight

2ND CHORUS
    Someday you’ll be lying
    there in a nice trance
    and suddenly a hot
    soapy brush will be
    applied to your face
    â€”it’ll be unwelcome
    â€”someday the
    undertaker’ll shave you
    *
    I almost called these poems
    Pickpocket Blues
    because they are the repetition
    by memory
    of earlier poems
    stolen from me
    by twelve thieves

3RD CHORUS
    Ah monster sweet monster
    Who spawned all this God
    A Marva Ah Marvaila
    Ah Marva Marvay
    Ah marve Ah Me
    Ah John O Ah John
    Oka John—
    Where do you worka
    John—Ah John,
    How do you William the
    Conqueror this morning
    With your height old otay
    â€”Nay, sight less worse,
    Urp, the spur that did nape
    At the wick the whack
    Of the horse’s piniard, urt,
    So up heaved Pegasus
    To rape the Sirens
    And Black Bastards Hold Out their Arms

4TH CHORUS
    One was called Boston Kitty—
    He was a one-whack artist
    Hold down the rope & the boy
    And slip his villons i the