La Surrealista

Foreplay to layout

Howl, Allen Ginsberg, 1956

“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 after noon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox…”