Аллен Гинзберг в переводах Михаила Гунина

Last nite I dreamed  of T.S.  Eliot welcoming me to the land of dream  Sofas
couches fog  in England  Tea  in his  digs Chelsea rainbows  curtains on his
windows, fog seeping in the chimney but a nice warm house and an  incredibly
sweet hooknosed  Eliot he loved me,  put me up, gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious asked my opinion on Mayakovsky I  read him
Corso Creeley Kerouac advised Burroughs Olson Huncke the bearded lady in the
Zoo,  the intelligent puma in  Mexico  City 6 chorus boys  from Zanzibar who
chanted in wornout  polygot Swahili,  and the  rippling rhythms of Ma Rainey
and  Rachel  Lindsay. On  the  Isle  of  the Queen  we had a  long evening's
conversation  Then  he tucked me in  my long  red underwear  under a  silken
blanket by the fire on the sofa gave me English dottle and went off sadly to
his bed, Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad to have met a fine young man like you.
At last,  I  woke  ashamed of myself.  Is he  that good and kind? Am  I that
great? What's my motive  dreaming  his manna? What  English Department would
that impress? What failure to be perfect prophet's made up here? I  dream of
my kindness to T.S. Eliot wanting  to be a historical  poet and share in his
finance of Imagery- overambitious dream of eccentric boy. God forbid my evil
dreams come true. Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg. T.S. Eliot would've
been ashamed of me.

Under The World There's A Lot Of Ass A Lot Of Cunt