Howl
the opening lines

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
	starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for
	an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection
	to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking
	in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating
	across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw
	Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs
	illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating
	Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing
	obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money
	in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo
	with a belt of marijuana for New York . . .

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