The Dangerous Garden of Robert LaVigne

First! the Flower Inside, burst out
         larger than life, and jacking
itself up over our drunken heads on
         the beanstalk of the imagination:
then Narcissus making it with itself
         in its blue platonic pool:
and Butterfly, escaped into the dangerous
         garden, watching us with nervous
eye as he goes to it with his Lily ball:
         he's worried, and with good reason:
there's Young Geranium with his pastel brain
         and droopy green nose beneath:
and the sturdy Virgin Flower of the North
         with his bright little balls:
O but Natasha! with her redhead armpits in
         her ears, and great dollop
yellow tongue given forward to an
         orange hairy suck herself:
and the Breathing Flower's delicate case
         about which nothing may
be whispered, since the slightest breath
         might disturb her balance:
and Two Wild Yellow Flowers who will
         renounce their tigerish trade
and submit to taming and domestication
         by some kind hand for only $35:
possibly lower their pride for a sensitive gardener:
         and the Cross-eyed Gaga,
with its watchface of twentyeight petals
         (two each for every hour of
Time and four extra for Apocalypse)
         motioning toward the Eternity
deep behind its two round blue eyes:
         and the Blue Flowers Trying
Not To Forget but merely succeeding
         in being very pretty:
and the Flower Knowing Itself By Moonlight,
         lifting its hands in dedication
one moment before the exquisite act--
         notice the little Peter--:
and the weak-wristed Dream Flower's
         redfaced swish, deploring th'
ugliness of its own fantastick Panicles:
         and the Daisies with inflamed
eyes waving so excited and hairy up
         the bedclothes--and him with
his big yellow egg head sniffing
         somebody's green foot--
Help! they're stealing my petals!--Take
         your stem out of my ear!
--I can't I've got a Thistle in my eye!--
         and last the Farewell Flag,
the flower wrapped on Time's victorious
         arrow flying toward (either
the Wilde Romantics or) Robert La Vigne himself
         who planted that blossom in front
of his lone head and glorified his hand.

-Allen Ginsberg
1955, San Francisco