‘Ginsberg’s Tears’ by Ahmed Nader Gretly

I had the strangest dream last night,

I dreamt I was walking towards this

Magnificent church, an architectural

Masterpiece silhouetted by a purpulish

Sky. The sheer vividness of the scene caused

My heart to flutter uncontrollably like the wings

Of a thousand butterflies roaming my soul.

I walked into the church on twinkle toes to see

An even more beautiful scene right in front of my eyes.

I saw a long aisle with wooden benches on both sides,

With spectators focusing intently towards the end

Of that aisle. I silently took a seat and looked as

the others were looking.

Two men facing each other with a minister in between.

The first was Allen Ginsberg, the second, Peter  Orlovsky.

“Dearly beloved,” the minister said in a heavenly voice

“We are gathered here today to join both these men

In holy matrimony. To witness these humans as they

Celebrate their love for one another.”

I turned my vision towards Allen’s face, childish as always,

Smiling with glee, looking at his hansom lover.

They held hands.

“Isn’t this beautiful.” Someone said next to me.

I turned my head and saw Jack Karouac with tears in his eyes.

The fluttering in my heart increased as the scene commenced,

I felt this dulcet sensation, as if witnessing life from a different angle.


And without a warning, the door to the church slammed open.

Men in black suits and ties came pouring in.

“Same sex marriage is illegal,” One of them yelled

“New beat it y’all, shame on you for tainting the

sanctity of marriage. The lord with cut you down!”

The men in suits grabbed everyone and pushed them outside.

At that moment, I felt as if I was floating,

Watching over the scene from above, as if watching a movie.

One of the men grabbed Allen, another grabbed Peter.

But the lovers would not let go. They held on to each-others

Hand, ’til the men in the suits forced them.

It took a minute to empty the church,

Then, and only then, an old man staggered in with

Fumes of alcohol hovering around his sagging face.

A girl of no more than nineteen -dressed like a streetwalker would

Dress, dragged on his tie, ’til they reached the minister.

“Dearly beloved,” the minister said in awe “We are gathered here-“

At that moment, the scene shifted. I was no longer at the church.

Instead, I found myself in an apartment.

Allen was there, still in his tux.

He sat on the floor with his head between his knees,

Sobbing. I reached out my hand and grabbed his shoulder.

He lifted his head and peered at me behind his glasses,

With tears rolling down his gentle face.

“Nothing is holy.” I whispered “Nothing is sacred anymore.”

I bent down and kissed his forehead.

O’ nothing is holy… nothing is sacred.


About Ahmed Gretly

Ahmed Nader Gretly. Construction/Site Engineer, fiction writer, poet, psychopath, researcher, a book addict, and a daydreamer from Cairo, Egypt. Currently doing Construction Project Management, MSc, at Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh.
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