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kvetchlandia · 4 years

Photo

Dave Heath New York City c.1957

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, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge, a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room, who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination— ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time— and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

--Allen Ginsberg, “Howl, part 1″ 1956

43 notes · View notes

newloverofbeauty · 4 years

Photo

Richard Avedon: Peter Orlovsky & AllenGinsberg (1963)

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,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson,

illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over

the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun

and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings

and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx

on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-

wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale

beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and

eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes,

meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and

followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and

the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big

pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,

who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing

while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed

down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime

but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath

when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate

the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb

and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of

cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall

and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed

in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems,

cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable

lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops

in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings &

especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden

Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay

and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a

door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the

wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to

open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine

shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown

and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the

filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses

barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz

finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision

or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain,

who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out

the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads

and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers

to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented

themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy, and

who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the

visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes

of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M.

and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture,

a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the

alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and

trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs

and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater

Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you

speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and

blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma

sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat

a thousand years.

–Allen Ginsberg, “Howl, part 1″ 1956

29 notes · View notes

knives-out20 · 4 years

Text

Magnetic Pull - Erik Lehnsherr x Male!OC - Part 6

Fandom: X-Men: First Class (2011)

Pairing: Karmel Rosenstein (OC)

Warnings: Spoilers for X-Men: First Class, Swearing, Internalized homophobia,

Notes: I couldn’t find the gif I wanted of the Lincoln Memorial scene. Be sure to pick up the Hamilton reference!

Karmel, Erik, and Charles sat on the great front steps of the Lincoln Memorial, talking.

Well, Erik and Charles did the sitting and talking.

Karmel wasn't quite up to the same level of maturity, patience and 'ability-to-sit-still-ness' as the other two men, so he stood by the 19-feet-tall statue of Lincoln sitting, jumping up and around it to try and grab hold of something. He wanted to climb it. If climbing the 19-foot-tall statue of a sitting 16th president who happens to be long dead, distracted Karmel from his vile, non-platonic feelings towards Erik, then so be it. He'll climb it.

"Can't stop thinking about the others out there" Charles told, "all those minds that I touched. I can feel them. Their isolation, their hopes. Their ambitions. I can tell you, and I can tell Karmel later, we're at the start of something incredible, Erik. We can help them."

Erik and him stared out across the lake, over at the looming Washington Monument."Can we?" He questioned, turning around to check on Karmel."Identification, that's how it starts. It ends with being rounded up, experimented on, eliminated."

Karmel was currently attempting to use his vines as a lasso, and if that didn't work, he'd use them like rock-climbing rope, next."'In this temple, as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever!'" He read the quote carved into the wall behind Lincoln's stone head aloud, scoffing. Karmel stood in a position where it looked as if Lincoln were pointing right at him."Beware, it goeth before the fall!" He repeated to the statue he pointed back up at (as if it was listening and sentient) the same thing he told Erik in Hank's transmitter.

Erik's eyebrows knitted together once again, in confusion. But also slight interest...what a strange specimen, that Karmel was. But why was he so weirdly enticing?

Charles grinned softly."Weird one, isn't he? Restless, too. More than anyone I've ever met" he commented, glancing down at the chess board between Erik and himself.

"What does that mean?" Erik whispered to himself, referring to Karmel's recurrent quote.

"'It goeth before the fall', eh? It's a quote adapted from the biblical Book of Proverbs. It means that people who are overconfident, or- or too arrogant, but mostly prideful, are likely to fail. Quite a strange circumstance to use it under, but I'd let the poor man live. I wouldn’t question how a Jewish man knows a quote like that; it’s been brewing around for ages.”

Karmel was able to lasso a vine around one of Lincoln's ankles, the vine automatically tying around like a knot. He chuckled in surprise, at how it actually worked."Gotcha, bitch." Karmel shed himself of his black leather jacket, tossing it away, towards Charles and Erik. He was blissfully unaware that they became technical audience members to his small mission.

Erik reached out, grabbing the coat and pulling it closer. He hummed softly, folding it neatly and setting it aside.

Charles noticed, deciding to keep out of Erik's mind for now.

Karmel placed a foot flat on the marble block under Lincoln and his chair, grip tightening around his vine. The thought of Erik's eyes had that effect on him, where he'd tightly grab something he's holding.

"Should we stop him?" Erik inquired.

Karmel grunted, tugging on his vine-lasso as he made his way up the block, rock-climbing style. He had both feet flat on the block, slowly making his way up, step-by-step. This was quite a feat of his own; Karmel had never gone rock climbing before.

"No. And to answer your question, Erik-" Charles turned back over to Erik."Yea, not this time. We have common enemies. Shaw, the Russians- they need us."

Karmel's vines seeped back into his body once he stood vertically again, panting lightly after he accomplished phase one.

Erik looked over at Charles, diverting his gaze back over to the Washington Monument. He wondered if Karmel would ever try climbing that."For now."

Karmel stepped onto the smaller stone above the platform he just got onto, hopping onto the pedestal above that. He lightly kicked one of Lincoln's hard, faded shoes."Sick kicks, Abe" Karmel teased, looking up at him. He hooked his thumbs around his suspenders, pulling them off so that they hung at his hips. Karmel rubbed his hands together, throwing an arm over his head as he bit his lip.

Erik glanced back over at him.

"Baggyass pants, though" Karmel cackled, stepping onto Lincoln's flat foot. He reached up as high as he could, barely getting to the president's knee. Karmel leaned against the statue's leg, vines crawling out from behind his back and sliding over the thigh of the leg he was on."Risque" he grinned, holding onto his vines and beginning to hoist himself up.

"How do you feel about Karmel, anyway?" Charles inquired.

"This sounds like the beginning of a 'what are your intentions with my daughter' speech" Erik compared, locking eyes with Charles."Whatever do you mean, then? Karmel's...I see quite a bit of myself in Karmel, weirdly. He seems quite hot-headed, and by the looks of it, is physically courageous. He'd be a dogged adversary" he explained.

"Yea, he seems like he'd be one who’s prone to losing his temper. If I do say so myself, he practically feeds off of his emotions. But trust me, Erik, there's a lot of stuff hiding in that little head of his."

Erik arched a brow."Does consent mean nothing to you?" He joked.

Charles chuckled."It does when it can. Karmel's problem is, though, that I don't need to try to read his mind sometimes. Sometimes, he projects his thoughts so much that I strangely end up reading them whether I want to or not. He has such...such strong emotions, I'll word it. That he hides away, keeps it under a lock and key. Out of pure instinct, and fear for what people would say. There's internalized aggression to these emotions, he doesn't want them to exist, and believes that he's made them up for whatever reason. Poor chap, he is" He read Karmel like a book.

The unknowing mutant just made his way onto Lincoln's knee.

"Karmel, don't-" Charles called, contemplating whether he should get up and walk over or not.

Karmel laughed in triumph, leaning against the statue's thigh."Boy, I'd tell you what I want for Christmas, if I even celebrated it" he crossed his arms, content in Lincoln's gigantic lap. Karmel decided to ignore the fact that he had to physically turn away from Abraham’s crotch- but, he used the classic excuse that come on, it’s RIGHT there.

Erik just watched Karmel in Lincoln's lap, wondering why he suddenly wished he were a 19-foot-tall statue of a dead president. He shrugged to himself, thinking it would be a fleeting feeling, an intrusive thought.

Karmel rolled his shoulders back, hands on his hips as he looked out at the view."Some view this is, guys!" He yelled over."The sixteenth president's view of a monument for the very first president!" Karmel told, pointing out at the Washington Monument in the distance. He turned around, raising his arms as if reaching for Abraham's neck. Karmel's vines came shooting out, wrapping around Lincoln's neck.

"Don't choke him!" Erik joked, earning the sound of Karmel's sweet laughter.

"Don't encourage him-" Charles mumbled, standing up.

Erik gestured for Charles to stay."Please, he's having fun for once in the past couple days. Nobody's going to catch him, anyway" he smiled slightly.

Karmel huffed softly, repeating his previous actions and rock-climbing his way up Lincoln's torso, in a one-hand-in-front-of-the-the other way on the vines. He made it up to Lincoln's shoulder and hopped on, steadying himself as Erik's playful voice rang in his ears. Karmel's vines untied from around the statue's dusty neck, reeling back in like yo-yo strings. He held onto the side of the statue's face before he sneezed, to steady himself. Once stable, vines shot out from behind Karmel's back, around Lincoln's forehead.

"He's almost there."

"Yes he is."

"Think he'll stop?"

"Absolutely not."

Karmel glanced over at Erik, a smile zapping onto his lips at the mere sight of him. Maybe this'll impress him. Slowly and steadily, Karmel climbed up the side of Abraham's huge, angular face, facing a bit of difficulty around the ear area. Maybe this activity will make him 'man up', and out of whatever Erik made him dumb down to 'acting like a sissy.'

"You got this!" Erik yelled in slight encouragement.

"We believe in you!" Charles sighed; if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

"Beware, it goeth before the fall!" Karmel answered, not taking his eyes off where he was going. Erik's encouragement was some heart-racer for him. He groaned lowly, gritting his teeth in determination as he felt his internal organs flop when he went at an upside-down-like angle around Lincoln's ear."You have a nice face shape" Karmel whispered, chuckling as he made his way up Lincoln's smooth temple.

"He's quite driven" Erik noted, followed by a small 'huh.'

"Determination's filling him to the brim like an overflowing shot glass."

Karmel landed on his stomach atop Lincoln's head, coughing a bit."Does no one shower this thing? Dirty as fuck" he complained, taking his time to get up. Karmel put his fists on his hips, standing proudly on top of the 19-feet-tall statue of Abraham Lincoln, America's 16th president, in all his glory."I did it!"

"Yes you did!" Charles laughed through his words, clapping a bit like he was praising a child at a dance recital, or a school play.

Erik tilted his head, slowly getting up."Impressive, Karmel" he complimented, slowly clapping along."I wish I had your patience."

"Patience?" Karmel cackled."Erik, thank you, but this is pure determination. I have an endless uphill climb, this was it in a physical form" he specified."Hey, did you guys see Lincoln's hands? People think he's doing sign language for 'A' and 'L', his initials. Isn't that cool? It's 'cause back when he was alive, he was familiar with ASL. It also has something to do with him giving a university for the deaf- Gallaudet University- the authority to grant college degrees. There's other stuff to it, but I can't remember because holy shit, you two! Look at me! I'm ON Lincoln! The- The Lincoln Memorial, I’m ON the Lincoln MEMORIAL!” Karmel quickly corrected himself.

"Doesn't he have something to prove? Nothing to lose, that one" Charles whispered."His pace is relentless, I tell you. He'll waste no time of ours, or anybody's."

”Abraham Lincoln emancipated the slaves for ME!” Karmel yelled, at no one in particular.

Erik hummed in response, delving deeper into Karmel's character as he watched the vine mutant stomp on the statue's hair."Karmel doesn't hesitate."

"Exactly."

"He exhibits no restraint to these things. He'll take, and he'll take and he'll take if need be, he'll do what it takes to survive. He'll keep winning anyway, he'll change the game, he'll play and he'll raise the stakes with his restlessness. We'll need him on our team for this whole thing, no doubt. But..." Erik caught himself eyeing the man."We'll need someone to keep an eye on him."

Charles grinned, holding back from saying 'looks like we already have someone for that job.' He cleared his throat."I feel like you could keep him in check- allow me to explain" Charles put his hands up in defense."Karmel is very loyal to the people he cares about, possibly like this team. And from what I know, you both in particular, are similar in an array of ways. No doubt that if Karmel is approached by someone with possibly a similar view of the world to his, similar morals, similar character, he'll do as they say because you give him a sense of...stability? Stable familiarity, perhaps? If you told him to do or don't do something, he'll do it or won't do it, because you said so. You clearly mean a lot to him, regarding this, so he'll listen to you, despite whatever his anger is telling him in that moment. What'd'ya say?"

Erik looked at Karmel, and figured soon that attitude of Karmel's would be his doom. He nodded."I'll see what I can do."

"I'd say it's almost as if Karmel was raised to fend for himself, think for himself, act for himself...Be for himself, if that makes sense. I wonder what it was like for him, growing up."

"Most likely different from me" Erik piped up."He was raised here in America, I know that's for certain."

Charles looked between Erik and Karmel, Erik's gaze on Karmel softer than it used to be.

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englishlistwords · 5 years

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Howl, Parts I & II

Allen Ginsberg- 1926-1997

For Carl Solomon

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs! They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!

#allen ginsberg #howl

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alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry · 5 years

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Howl~ Allen Ginsberg

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johngoseyn · 6 years

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ALLEN GINSBERG

For Carl Solomon

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,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,