by Jack Kerouac
54
peep
peep the
bird tear the
sad bird drop heart
the dawn has slung
her aw arrow drape
to sissyfoo & made eastpink
dink the dimple solstice men
crut and so the birds go ttleep
and now bird number two three four five
sixen seven and seven million of em den
dead bens barking now the birds are yakking
& barking swinging Crack! Wow! Quiet! the
birds are making an awful racket in the Row
tweep? tswip! creet! clink! crack!
ding dong the bell rope bird of break of day
Okay birds quiet
Please
you birds
robins
black & blue birds
redbreasts & all
sisters,———
my little parents
have the morning
by the golden balls
And over there the sultan forgot
55Ah old angel of midnight I cant hear myself think for all your scur racket the lead in yr pencil on simple asinine page so noisy what’s a man gonna think of this unless the rumble house black as snow horizon train brings back all our favored dead from furnace & somebody furnish—Ah car, a human directing his tatismatatagolre thru Holland to find the Dutch Imprimatur to his Helem, the Helm & Cross of Charlemagne Euron Irope that meant no more no less that Quebekois Canoe (Kebokoa Kano)—Kak! But rumble will the devil his will’s unspoken, God wont truck helicopters to peek-at-wisdom Vulture Queen, nor will the red dog that glitters at the fish queen of my heart reach for kite hook or Dahlenberg drent it any different for by the great God Jesus I will not rest no wont rest till Ferlinghetti’s dog his day had does piss again on hydrant hydramatic stillness electrical ectroid where for sure cats of the stripe so proud & vainty do vaunt for to bring the final jumpmonkey home to Marpa’s bird sing—Ah translate me that—Cook! Dog echo in the sandbank valley Northport rumble Mahayana the diamond Vajrayana path that was trod here long ago before those houses jewel-graced the seaside hill, & for Krissakes no sound at all comes in this window except those Wolf Hourses got tamming bringing white & gray pearl hearses thru the shoot rain to munner munner munner, O fat eater in the drape son push yr belly back, the tape worm—& worms to measure you, long tape—sod & sand over yr bluenose disdain, Mrs America, the Indian’s Ya Ya Henna, the Indian Uprising known as the Beat Generation, is going to eat rails & make tire sandwiches of every junkyard misty rust & all old heroes’ eyes in barley Soup of time—to be sopped with eye sop—So carry on, escaper, jail’s only made to flee—
The wush of trees on yonder eastern nabathaque Latin Walden axe-haiku of hill where woodsman Mahomet perceives will soon adown the morning drear to pail the bringup well suspender farmer trap moon so’s cock go Bloody yurgle in the distance where Timmy hides, flat, looking with his eyes for purr me—O Angel, now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, & ah Angel dont paperparty me, but make me honified in silken Honen honeyrubbéd Oxen tongue of Cow Kiss, Ant Mat, silk girl ran, & all the monkey-better-than secondary women of Sam Sarah the Sang of Blood this earth, this tool, this fool, look with your eyes, I’m tired of fooling O Angel bring it to me THE MAGIC SOUND OF SILENCE broken by first-bird’s teepaleep——
Good East! Hard to blow out! Sometimes! Darkness in my final kip. This shot will send the gossip mongers yarking back to Harvard frail slat, soft, full of gyzms in slit lacéd hatreds for light is light O Lord, O Lord, I pray, my Lord—Again! Once more! Ta ta ta! Om
56Ack, who gives a ruddy fuck about all this American showoffy prose I’d like to know why Whane meant horsefly & Brane something like, & why Owe’s Born is Awe’s Dead, & all our intelligent handsome Tedsy Boys go yearning after our pink pages & never find & all the riots in Pixy Dilly & all the Traf on the Square, Elgar with his music doesn’t impertaramount the rock of Murican roll? For strings? Air? O nonce, node, these babic yoiks, these Inds, these stupidities, these gem americans
57TWO DAYS AGO, MARCH TWIP, 2059 (AXTONO) (WOW the twip of that carry-on I’ll never fly another Yet to Souski that country wont feed me nothing but ersatz gatagatpataraze which is a kind (wow, the munsch) of farlidaltamanigalo the color of which, well, yr aunt Mary mighta told you but O the gossip in these other galaxies just too much my dear the rurn, the klen, the hoit, the noises of Flup. There was Onat Roren, Bob Torlignath the Crank, the Cranker of Hono-Machines, & the Bile Pister of the Falledern he was there be-sartifying all his meanies & the meannesses & told me I didnt have praper green in my pen gat—But he B.O. was alright, felt good, was glad because her time was late, & as for those publications up there that they turn out with all their bearded Trees extemporiating on the state of the talismanic oral pata—
I just got tired & retired but got involved in a long tat with Sinabad Talgamimargafonik Crud the interesting fool from the well located (in emerald waters) continent of Magic who told me there was a Sound recently developed by Shitteers that wd eventually require dog whistles hanging from breast teeth & bug micro bugs & long swarms of Milky Wayers vacationed over from Blue Curtain Country listening to the Country Pard say: “The tanitat of this Omakorgeklid is infested with Imagery & therefore white as moon—but O my Thinkers never let it be said the sooth—“I couldnt listen to any more besides I had a deadline to meet & new flows to fii so came back to good old Tierra del Firma & had Princess my Tabtate, (solit) go eat another bont, which meant I only had 2 days to wait till today so rested up reading ancient texts & spent all night watching the sun on the moon the sinking mountain till all vanished & even MRS Stone made no comment but slept & that is my report to you today, my Dotggergsamtiian-idarstofgiviks
58I just cant stand these people I teel you I dont know what I’m going to do about them, start my motor or fart my passage but you the way they carried on last night, him, with that dressy little deaful foosy on his lap the boom of busting chair & all that boommusic on the juke box & I dont know I wanted to call the police & get rid of this sandbag pineneedle Bodhi neighbor who is such ugly bearded dirty” (“nothing on earth or in any terrestrial sphere or in any Buddhalands Heaven or Mockswarm of Einsteinian & non-light Light can take hold my brothers & sisters & cousins because it is only the wisdom of manifested epiphany & the compassion of goodbye”—) (as soon as I can find a bully club & bang a hole in imaginary fence I tell you this will be the last time the window’s with redlegged devils & stone blue eyes—) (Kunfii, garayen, hallo Kiyan, fitiguwi, katapatafataja, silya, kitipuwee, senlou, saint loup, coish, karan) (or vaunt the moidners the Villa Viva Pancho baby Mexico City sorefoot Juarez old hotel wino El Paso march picking up six thousand partisans to vest the peon with his land coat so that years later Rivera murals shine by army teahead trumpet in Ole Texcoco) “there’ll come a day when that yurn I’ll have to astabing the zemble the cartifacartilage I wont have another moment of—Dry up, dry up, moist earth, dry up, dust ball, dutball moon is sick of leering at your inadmissable sorrow because it has no twat to to tie onto’t—And we the fooly libs that think ah music airplane & all ye screaming birds of falsedawn let the ephemera existence wait at yr side with you for end to’t—No other teaching hear & hear tell & what of that the sound who wants to hear—Go fetch the gardles & make open the corridors of your Bright Room mind the Lord is coming he’s all white & gold, he’s a pink white angel in a black room by a blue window & a yellow candleflame with golden (hurt) wings the color of all thingness, the swarming dove, there! See it! He stands at yr non-side sides the waterbaby by the baby shroud, the honeyfall, the bliss blessed to be believed, the final pollitabimackatatanabala (fine as fine can be) (Ah Ah) (HO HO) leap & dance it’s saved! the nerve of that man! foru! mon ti kitaya! patakatafataya—perk! prick! prick ears I mean you think I let pollute window liars? Oh God, stop it—
When God snaps his Finger of Gold & suspenders too the world will wake in the well looki
ng at the dark star—this silvery desert full of gophers rattlesnake tracks & sobbing moons of Chihuahuan splendor I’ll buy, tho, till that Babe of the Honied Fall is at my side again for nothing, nothing, nothing, absolutely powerfully lightly emptily goldenly eternally nothing ever happened & this I bring to you from grass i the sun (to tell of it, the cock in card the soft & mixup pushing bardahl Drutchen cant & dent of it I wount hav it, ht Anyway) (seurain) (sunrin) (booya) J’m’enva arretez! Fo.
59Aw rust rust rust rust die die die pipe pipe ash ash die die ding dong ding ding ding rust cob die pipe ass rust die words—I’d as rather be permiganted in Rusty’s moonlight Rork as be perdirated in this bile arta panataler where ack the orshy rosh crowshes my tired idiot hand O Lawd I is coming to you’s soon’s you’s ready’s as can readies be Mazatlan heroes point out Mexicos & all ye rhythmic bay fishermen dont hang fiish eye soppy in my Ramadam givecigarette Sop of Arab Squat—the Berber types that hang fardels on their woman back wd as lief Erick some son with blady matter I guess as whup a mule in singsong pathetic mulejump field by quiet fluff smoke North Carolina (near Weldon) (Railroad Bridge) Roanoke Millionaire High-Ridge hi-party Hi-Fi milliondollar findriver skinfish Rod Tong Apple Finder John Sun Ford goodby Paw mule America Song—
60Arguing about mudpies in the hot spring sun karu, myota the Japanese who wrote of was always concerned about his poison oak hut when they came bringing him early dogwood buds with a bleached rock & the trinity of rocks & yak of blackbird pearbranch jumping & the Umpteen yumping erse Norway Man of N’o’r’m’a’n’d’i’a (who repaired houses?) (who made new moons bider) (brighter) (?) (bider) of time the bider the cross in his tomb worm & the King on his epistaff stone tomb port of north—Oh—All ties in you see like fish pier respect.
Fish spear shook?—shook aimed & breton rocked—
O but just as long as sun shines like this in yellow airplane on the pebble Beach sky & pear yump yak blossoms (up north)—& as long as red hydrants & post chaises—(gossip?) (Well it’s a quiet moment but methinks the sons of the world & daughters thereof as wellus wolves & loups will be perfectly containted as long as they stay away from Ehrlich’s dyemill blue-worms which are et by OObaltory golbords & clover’ed & clobbered by mind’s no-nature essence & as soon as they ask for an explanation say “What? buds in blue new sky?”
Dream for Muggy Mojump the quiet cloud.
61Kertion Kerdion Keryon Kerson cherson & Who else in this ugly old Russia hechavel helps me in this business recordin sounds of universe midnight? but not a single damn dull fool podium hear it attestify that the selickman was a poet who decided to say:
I am a poet
&
here is my poem
Watch how fancy I write
Skeletons of Compassion dusting
in the distant heavens’ infinity
while fat old burbles rememberem
well
here
on high hark—high hart—
world—diepork—
Over & above of which it was down in Charleston West Virginny one time my Pa in white shirt & unshaved shot a man in a poolroom fight—they chased him acrosst the Kanowa in a Kanoea (idiot) & got him down by the bayin hope dogs in that country where Old Angel Mama Midnight will lean her happy head & hungry eyes on pillows of Old in the high falutin poem of Heaven where little white house it waitin for all you black sufferers so’s dandy’ll say “Twas all writ & no more to say, the Vow of Gold is Done” & all yet young kids wanta know what a man do when he golden baby post up there he completes the vow matures the Karma returns the Kitkat Clowns the Crown Thorns the Flap and dad blasts him happiness forever, because you’ll see, in not too many years now, yr hope & grace-waves werent jivin ya, all’s taken care of behind these suffering trees & inside these suffering bees & wont nobody harsh ya but say kind star roof words & bring white cloth to your laundryboy basket (clean as dinosaur teeth) & you’ll know the—sore yah he was sore but he said Bust me one on the jaw, I got the running eyes—With or without sugar—The Cat in the Con-Cord
Lord, you presumptuous goodgiver, thanks, & go tell everybody you Vowin hardass sonsumbitchcs—(hold clasp hand TaTaTa)—Aye Bodhidharma
62Tapistry the second writer
in the novel island bearded
scared wont use words saves
he go’s & hungerers of wood
from boom in the Spain Jail
hand on knees
To go cross cemetery America
highwire ratcroak dumpslaver
moogow silo sillwindow rat
wait moon shine on tin
all the little inner outer sin
peek at the bird
tree, remember
it again, the
hoosegow goddam cuban
Killer who moidners
turtles, traps em cock
in the nigh & never
draps a wear
All day nervous wonderin what to do shoe in my armchair innesfoo that was writ in Akashia I’m just hearin what my head said & it’s mighty repetitiousness
63The black ants that roosted in my tree all winter long have just emerged to meet an army of enemy ants (same breed) & a big war is now taking place, I just looked with my brakemans lamp (by sunlight) (brake the day sun) warriors are biting each other’s sensitive rear humps & killing each other with more intelligence about murder than my boot knows—I squashed one wounded warrior whose poor right front armorer was missing & he just croualtad coupled there, I hated to see him suffer & he was open (ow) for attack too, bit safe a mo on a flat rock used for lady’s flagstones in the pink tea world which ignores ant Wars & doesnt know that when the first space ship lands on the planet Amtasagrak (really Katapatafaya in other galuxies) the ship will immediately be swarmed over by black ants, even the window obscured, they’ll have to turn their X-Roentgen Gun Ray on it to see & what they’ll see’ll make em wish Von Braun had stayed in brown germany: one sextillion sextillion idiot insect fiends a foot deep eating one another endlessly the top ones scuffling, the next layer dead & being nibbled, the next layer belly to belly cant move from the weight, & the bottom layer suffocated at last—& the lady ants have wings & fly to little tiny planets that hang six feet above the moiling black shiny ant sea, where they hatch, push the grownup kids off (into the Mess) & die Sighing for Paradise O ye singers of War & Glory
After seeing a thing like this who wd dare not ask for enlightenment everywhere? Who will deny ant war with me?
Meanwhile in my yard the triumphant winning warrior ant stands over his defeated dying brother & you see his little antled helmet waving in the glorious breeze like How Ta Ra the trumpets of Harfleur & (you know what I was going to say there—hm—) no compassion in these little febrile finicular skeleton—O Ant Soup!
64O Escapade escape me never I lied I lied I lied I’ll never escape ex cape—of Spaign—God’ll ever me allow to leave this hurt of ant scene until I lissen to his words & wave & point by saucer moon & antlered antennae &
weird roofwash & weirder cross windows, the black clock by the white clock in the city’s creamy tenement while one silk stocking waves to gossip the lady’s lost leg & there’s a slip by a pair of paints waving in the moon breeze as well as a sheet which however has no blaind stain of blood, only the one silk stocking—& there’s panties, littleboy pants, handkerchiefs, towels & many cursed faint bigscrew’d oratan furykula yaink antavyazers, with black hooks, sword spaces, windows the bottoms falling out & the moon a crink in its upper neck which is really its back (Ah)
65That grassy yocker pocking up yonder
66Tonight the full apogee May moon will out, early with a jaundiced tint, & pop angels all over my rooftop along with Devas sprinkling flowers, pilgrims dropping turds & sweet nemanucalar nameless railroad trains from heaven with omnipotent youths bearing monkey women that will stomp through the stage waiting for the moment when by pinching myself I prove that a thought is like a touch, unless someone sicks a hot iron in my heart or heaps up Evil
Karma like tit and tat the pile of that and pulls my mother out her bed to slay her before my damning dying human eyes and I break my head on heads—Everytime you throw a rock at a cat from your glass house you heap upon yourself the automatic Stanley Gould winter so dark of death after death, & growing old, because lady those ashcans’ll bite you back & be cold too, and your son will never rest in the imperturbable knowledge that what he thinks he thinks as well as what he does he thinks as well as what he feels he thinks as well as future that.
Future that my damn old sword cutter Paison Pasha Lost the Preakness again.
Tonight the moon shall witness angels trooping at the baby’s window where inside he gurgles in his pewk looking with mewling eyes for babyside waterfall lambikin hillside the day the little arab shepherd boy hugged the babylamb to heart while the mother bleeted at his bay heel—And so Joe the sillicks killit no not—Shhhhoww graaa—wing & car-start—The angels devas monsters asuras Devadattas Vedantas McLaughlins Stones will hue & hurl in hell if they don’t love the lamb the lamb the lam of hell lambchop. Why did Scott Fitzgerald keep a notebook? Such a marvelous notebook.
67Komi denera ness pata sutyamp anda wanda vesnoki shadakiroo paryoumemga sikarem nora sarkadium baron roy kellegiam myorki ayastuna haidanseetzel ampho andiam yerka yama chelmsford alya bonneavance koroom cemada versel
(The 26th Annual concert of The Armenian Convention)
Editor’s Note:
Sections 1-49 of Old Angel Midnight were first published in Big Table, Spring 1959. Sections 50-67 were published in Evergreen Review, August/September 1964. Sections 50 and 51 appeared as “More Old Angel Midnight” in New Directions in Prose & Poetry No. 17 (1961). In 1992 John Sampas found “A Piece of Old Angel Midnight” amongst Jack Kerouac’s papers.