Added: Dec 12, 2011

From: lostinmyroom1981

Duration: 5:6

After working on some of my own writing, typing up some spontaneous prose, I was burnt out and tired, and although cliche as it is, and often even ever more so cliche to be critical of such a rehearsal, well besides all of that I thought I would give a crack at reading some Jack Kerouac, who is in my opinion, one of the pioneers of rap and city flows. Anyway, this is my first and only try and just done for myself, and so I share. Sometimes, if you are a writer, you feel inspired reading and typing full passages of other woks that were created by those masters who came and have gone before you, those who painted with the same language that you use. Like Nirvana playing a cover song of CCR, or more like an open mic folk singer singing a bob Dylan song, that's really what this is. Below is the the original and ready typed work. cool. That is all. "It goes back to the inky ditties of old cartoons (Krazy Kat with the irrational brick) -- to Laurel and Hardy in the Foreign Legion -- to Count Dracula and his smile to Count Dracula shivering and hissing back before the cross -- to the Golem horrifying the persecutors of the Ghetto -- to the quiet sage in a movie about India, unconcerned about the plot-- to the giggling old Tao Chinaman trotting down the sidewalk of old Clark Gable Shanghai -- to the holy old Arab warning the hotbloods that Ramadan is near. To the Werewolf of London a distinguished doctor in his velour smoking jacket smoking his pipe over a lamplit tome on botany and suddenly hairs grown on his hands, his cat hisses and he slips out into the night with a cape and a slanty cap like the caps of people in breadlines-- to Lamont Cranston so cool and sure suddenly becoming the frantic Shadow going mwee hee hee ha ha in alleys of New York imagination. To Popeye the sailor and the Sea Hag and the meaty gunwales of boats, to Cap'n Easy and Wash Tubbs screaming with ecstasy over canned peaches on a cannibal isle, to Wimpy looking X-eyed for a juicy hamburger such as they make no more. To Jiggs ducking before a household of furniture flying through the air, to Jiggs and the boys at the bar and the corned beef and cabbage of old woodfence noons -- to King Kong his eyes looking into the hotel window with tender huge love for Fay Wray -- nay, to Bruce Cabot in mate's cap leaning over the rail of a fogbound ship saying "Come aboard." It goes back to when grapefruits were thrown at crooners and harvestworkers at bar-rails slapped burlesque queens on the rump. To when fathers took their sons to the Twi League game. To the days of Babe Callahan on the waterfront, Dick Barthelmess camping under a London streetlamp. To dear old Basil Rathbone looking for the Hound of the Baskervilles (a dog big as the Gray Wolf who will destroy Odin) -- to dear old bleary Doctor "Watson with a brandy in his hand, To Joan Crawford her raw shanks in the door of the waterfront dive. To train whistles of steam engines out above the moony pines. To Maw and Paw in the Model A clanking on to get a job in California selling used cars making a whole lotta money. To the glee of America, the honesty of America, the honesty of oldtime waiters in line at the Brooklyn Bridge in Winterset, the funny spitelessness of old big-fisted America like the big Boy Williams saying "Hoo? Hee? Huh?" in a movie about Mack Trucks and slidingdoor lunchcarts. To Clark Gable, his certain smile, his confident leer. Like my grandfather this America was invested with wild selfbelieving individuality and this had begun to disappear around the end of World War II with so many great guys dead (I can think of half a dozen from my own boyhood groups) when suddenly it began to emerge again, the hipsters began to appear gliding around saying "Crazy, man." --from The Origin of the Beat Generation Playboy, June 1959

Channel: Entertainment

Rating: 5.0' max='5' min='1' numRaters='1' rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#overall ( ratings)    Views: 109    Comments: 0