Back cover art from the Free City News collection of broadsides, 1967.
Image: Digger Archive
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.
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 .