What are your opinions on this?

What do you think of other beat era work? Do you prefer Burroughs or Kerouac?

>contemplating jazz

as an aspiring jazz musician this hit me hard in the cognitive sector

Were the 50s and 60s actually a good time overall for american populace or n-o.

>What are your opinions on this?

fake and gay

Quite good, Kaadish is better imo. For anyone interested in Ginsberg's poetry, journal's, letters, essays etc., I recommend this book. I just got it and I'm very happy with it.

I find it hard to believe that were not capable of discussing an author because he was a homosexual.

>alcohol and cock and endless balls

I actually really like Howl. I think it's a lot more interesting if you learn all the really obscure references he makes, too.

Contrary to what everybody seems to be saying I loved it until I heard him reciting it, fuck his declamation is like a continuous whimper, and context too removes much of the richness from it

I love Burroughs and he's my favorite of the beat era. Only Kerouac I've read is On the Road, which I found strong if a tad meandering.

big sur is top tier kerouac

it's still an amazing poem

I'll give that one a read next time I'm in the mood for Kerouac

>The Pocket Poets Series
What are the other ones? More Beats?

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/City_Lights_Pocket_Poets_Series

Some Kerouac. It's better to just buy a larger collection this day and age.

There are three people who, if given the chance, that I would put inside a cage and watch die.

1. Allen Ginsberg

2. William S. Burroughs

3. Cormac McCarthy

Worthless fucking hacks.

Burroughs would win.

I think the history surrounding Howl is the most interesting part about Howl. The lawsuit, the Courts; it's all very interesting.

well, two of them are already dead

the beats were fucking shit

I agree, the way he talks about DT and hopelessness is great.

This 2bh

No, not really. I'm not sure what you were expecting from them though.

The Bricklayer’s Lunch Hour

Two bricklayers are setting the walls
of a cellar in a new dug out patch
of dirt behind an old house of wood
with brown gables grown over with ivy
on a shady street in Denver. It is noon
and one of them wanders off. The young
subordinate bricklayer sits idly for
a few minutes after eating a sandwich
and throwing away the paper bag. He
has on dungarees and is bare above
the waist; he has yellow hair and wears
a smudged but still bright red cap
on his head. He sits idly on top
of the wall on a ladder that is leaned
up between his spread thighs, his head
bent down, gazing uninterestedly at
the paper bag on the grass. He draws
his hand across his breast, and then
slowly rubs his knuckles across the
side of his chin, and rocks to and fro
on the wall. A small cat walks to him
along the top of the wall. He picks
it up, takes off his cap, and puts it
over the kitten’s body for a moment.
Meanwhile it is darkening as if to rain
and the wind on top of the trees in the
street comes through almost harshly.

Denver, Summer 1947

Sunflower Sutra is one of my favourite poems of all time.
In the Baggage Room at Greyhound is also very good. I think of it every time I travel.