The Windows of the Skull
"...who were expelled from the academies for publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull..."
-Allen Ginsberg, "Howl"
Let's go out and get trashed! Forget all the is-es and oughts they bombard us with, tossing their papers at us, cutting our arms and wrists against out wills, throwing us against brick walls and plastering us there with spotlights. We'll reach us a great plateau: skin slack and nerves firing into the skull in little bursts that look like bouquets against the retinas. And we'll twitch our arms and legs in the early phases of an endlessly approaching ograsm. We will pet some inexplicable dogs coming out of some back-alley abyss. We will feel the back of our legs go slack and the wave of slackness spread upward and forward. It will bring an end to the orgasm, but that won't matter anymore. All that will matter will be the feeling of relaxedness, of a self-adjusted not-you and not-me within you and me, little creatures swathed in quilts and blankets and pillows, in softness and lushness until the end of the night. We won't even have time to take the needle out of the arm; we'll just lay there as this reverse-phallus undulates with soft breathing and the TV flickers somwehere from the next room. What a strange simultaneous up and down! We're not even trashed anymore; we've crossed a theshold where we may have to re-furnish our homes at such a radical lifestyle shift. Strange, though, the mess won't bother me anymore. We're so deep. You see the etchings of all the geological eras of the world on my ceiling and I see the spiderwebs standing in for the vast sweep of the evolution of the biotic world. We'll talk about that later when we're coming down (or back up, however you choose to parse the nomenclature). And then we'll logically move to the substantiall less grand sweep of the subset of human economies and religions and mythologies and folk sayings and musical forms and martial arts and foods and dwellings and family structures and technologies such as the cotton gin and looms and supercomputers and abacii and oxen. And then I'll notice the needle sticking out of my left arm and I'll suggest another hit and you'll gladly assent, your face lighting up with involuntary limbic-mediated reflexes for the first time since the last hit. But it'll be too much and we'll end up on the floor in an emerg hallway somewhere on Hospital Row. I'll be 23 and you'll be 21.
A sad hypothetical.
Consider: "There are people who worship Allah to gain His Favors, this is the worship of traders; while there are some who worship Him to keep themselves free from His Wrath, this is the worship of slaves; a few who obey Him out of their sense of gratitude and obligations, this is the worship of free and noble men."
-Allen Ginsberg, "Howl"
Let's go out and get trashed! Forget all the is-es and oughts they bombard us with, tossing their papers at us, cutting our arms and wrists against out wills, throwing us against brick walls and plastering us there with spotlights. We'll reach us a great plateau: skin slack and nerves firing into the skull in little bursts that look like bouquets against the retinas. And we'll twitch our arms and legs in the early phases of an endlessly approaching ograsm. We will pet some inexplicable dogs coming out of some back-alley abyss. We will feel the back of our legs go slack and the wave of slackness spread upward and forward. It will bring an end to the orgasm, but that won't matter anymore. All that will matter will be the feeling of relaxedness, of a self-adjusted not-you and not-me within you and me, little creatures swathed in quilts and blankets and pillows, in softness and lushness until the end of the night. We won't even have time to take the needle out of the arm; we'll just lay there as this reverse-phallus undulates with soft breathing and the TV flickers somwehere from the next room. What a strange simultaneous up and down! We're not even trashed anymore; we've crossed a theshold where we may have to re-furnish our homes at such a radical lifestyle shift. Strange, though, the mess won't bother me anymore. We're so deep. You see the etchings of all the geological eras of the world on my ceiling and I see the spiderwebs standing in for the vast sweep of the evolution of the biotic world. We'll talk about that later when we're coming down (or back up, however you choose to parse the nomenclature). And then we'll logically move to the substantiall less grand sweep of the subset of human economies and religions and mythologies and folk sayings and musical forms and martial arts and foods and dwellings and family structures and technologies such as the cotton gin and looms and supercomputers and abacii and oxen. And then I'll notice the needle sticking out of my left arm and I'll suggest another hit and you'll gladly assent, your face lighting up with involuntary limbic-mediated reflexes for the first time since the last hit. But it'll be too much and we'll end up on the floor in an emerg hallway somewhere on Hospital Row. I'll be 23 and you'll be 21.
A sad hypothetical.
Consider: "There are people who worship Allah to gain His Favors, this is the worship of traders; while there are some who worship Him to keep themselves free from His Wrath, this is the worship of slaves; a few who obey Him out of their sense of gratitude and obligations, this is the worship of free and noble men."
posted by A. D. at 12:42 PM
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