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Date Posted: 22:08:56 10/31/04 Sun
Author: Gregory Corso
Author Host/IP:
Subject: Fuck Kerouac
In reply to: Ian Gregor 's message, "Kerouac" on 20:08:01 10/31/04 Sun

I never liked the asshole. He was a mic-hog sweat slut drag kyke and besides, he never even bothered to read me and it made me ill. Drama queen. That's what he was. A fucking drama queen with a penchant for two-bit coffee-house poseurs, then recently, I started browsing a couple of Kerouax chit and low and behold godblessem throatpierced sound in a lonely American night right before a lips ona mouthpiece soft ragtime parade.

>I haven't read any Kerouac for a long time. Somehow it
>came to be fixed in my head that he was just the over
>rated idol of two-bit coffee house poseurs. Then,
>recently, I starting browsing a couple of Kerouac's
>novels and i remembered why I once spent so much time
>on his novels and poetry ...
>"Once there was Louis Armstrong blowing his beautiful
>top in the muds of New Orleans; before him the mad
>musicians who had paraded on official days and broke
>up their Sousa marches into ragtime. Then there was
>swing, and Roy Eldridge, vigorous and virile, blasting
>the horn for everything it had in waves of power and
>logic and subtlety--leaning to it with glittering eyes
>and a lovely smile and sending it out broadcast to
>rock the jazz world. Then had come Charlie Parker, a
>kid in his mother's woodshed in Kansas City, blowing
>his taped-up alto among the logs, practicing on rainy
>days, coming out to watch the old swinging Basie and
>Benny Moten band that had Hot Lips Page and the
>rest--Charlie Parker leaving home and coming to
>Harlem, and meeting mad Thelonius Monk and madder
>Gillespie--Charlie Parker in his early days when he
>was flipped and walked around in a circle while
>playing. Somewhat younger than Lester Young, also from
>KC, that gloomy, saintly goof in whom the history of
>jazz was wrapped; for when he held his horn high and
>horizontal from his mouth he blew the greatest; and as
>his hair grew longer and he got lazier and
>stretched-out, his horn came down halfway; till it
>finally fell all the way and today as he wears his
>thick-soled shoes so that he can't feel the sidewalks
>of life his horn is held weakly against his chest, and
>he blows cool and easy getout phrases. Here were the
>children of the American bop night.
>Stranger flowers yet--for as the Negro alto mused over
>everyone's head with dignity, the young, tall,
>slender, blond kid from Curtis Street, Denver, jeans
>and studded belt, sucked on his mouthpiece while
>waiting for the others to finish; and when they did he
>started, and you had to look around to see where the
>solo was coming from, for it came from angelical
>smiling lips upon the mouthpiece and it was a soft,
>sweet, fairy-tale solo on an alto. Lonely as America,
>a throatpierced sound in the night."
>God bless 'em

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