Let Me Live In A World Pure Let Me Have Around Me The Pure The Pure Heroes

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Diggers free city back cover issue 2 fc b12 l.jpg

Back cover art from the Free City News collection of broadsides, 1967.

Image: Digger Archive

original flyer, text below, courtesy The Digger Archive
Peter Berg at the communications company layout table; © Chuck Gould, all rights reserved.
There are no more negroes, Jews, Christians. there is only one minority in America. And we ask:

When will BOB DYLAN quit working on Maggie's Farm?

When will RALPH GLEASON realize he is riding in a Hearst?

When will TIMOTHY LEARY stand on a streetcorner waiting for no one?

When will the JEFFERSON AIRPLANE and all ROCK-GROUPS quit trying to make it and LOVE?

When will NORMAN MAILER fill his Brooklyn town house with presses and feed words to a day-tight night-tight generation?

When will OSWLEY [sic] STANLEY expose the traffic of alkaline acid and pour his background into LSD-25?

When will the NEW LEFT RADICAL POLITICOS stop laying down limp and liberate the consumer?

When will PABLO PICASSO take the seven thousand paintings he has in storage and give them away with a smile?

When will KEN KESEY swallow the ocean and take us all to Yucatan?

When will MICHAEL BOWEN and friends use, look through, but not package the expansion of human consciousness?

When will ALLEN GINZBURG [sic] be blessed by his own seed and golden hairy nakedness?

When will ART-FOR-ART'S-SAKE climb higher than the social responsibility of the civilized past?


When will they all hear the death of LENNY BRUCE?

Our bowels quake

in constipated false alarms.

cover art of "The Digger Papers", courtesy The Digger Archive
We are often naked and nameless

in boring rooms with tedious records

and toy tops that make colored sparks

for drug stained eyes,

smelling of weeds.

Ghosts haunt our heads,

demons are loose in our spinal fluid.

Uptite over glass beads

that focus where we are at

for just a little while...

on dirty strings hung

from Victorian gas fixtures.

Somebody cries in a slow motion bag

and blows the mind

of a skinny, drab redhaired girl

freaking out the gathering

sending everybody to the icebox

checking out the seconal supply.

Somebody in the tall, dark highway

is still c r y i n g for Lenny,

and won't come down just yet.

THE D I G G E R S .


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