Allen Ginsberg

In Society

I walked into the cocktail party room and found three or four queers talking together in queertalk. I tried to be friendly but heard myself talking to one in hiptalk. “I’m glad to see you,” he said, and looked away. “Hmn,” I mused. The room was small and had a double-decker bed in it, and cooking apparatus: icebox, cabinet, toasters, stove; the hosts seemed to live with room enough only for cooking and sleeping. My remark on this score was under– stood but not appreciated. I was offered refreshments, which I accepted. I ate a sandwich of pure meat; an enormous sandwich of human flesh, I noticed, while I was chewing on it, it also included a dirty asshole. More company came, including a fluffy female who looked like a princess. She glared at me and said immediately: “I don’t like you,” turned her head away, and refused to be introduced. I said, “What!” in outrage. “Why you shit-faced fool!” This got everybody’s attention. “Why you narcissistic bitch! How can you decide when you don’t even know me,” I continued in a violent and messianic voice, inspired at last, dominating the whole room.

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