I frothed on eating the skin of chicken when I was a young pup. So salty and oily and delicious. But now…it's skin. It's a fucking organ. "I like to eat skin" sounds like a line out of a snuff film. To bite into someone’s skin is to pierce their persona, their image to the outside world, without which they would have so much less distinguishing features, so much less allure and general smoothness to behold.
To envision the flesh and bone underneath the skin is to take the substance out of our idea of society and to leave behind in our minds the bare naked bones of the biological reality of humanity, the inescapable truth that underneath cliquey clothing trends, grey suits or cat outfits, we all exist as a skeleton formed into it's particular shape via millennia of genetic encoding.
All of this philosophical wondering came to me one night when I was in a club watching Opiuo bangin’ out unreleased brain-melters; I found myself within all these EDM fans and various punters going nuts, raising their hands and getting down. Needless to say I was pleasantly intoxicated by the energy in the room, a welcome natural high after railing an unsuccessful synthetic concoction several hours prior to the gig (man just can't make drugs like god can). Then, in the act of observing all the other out-of-control mind-altered creatures on the dancefloor, my reality mode switched and thus in front of me I saw not humans, but skeletons all around. They were of all different sizes and with that constant weird grin that skeletons always have, y'know, due to the mandible being fixed in shape, leaving the skin of the face alone to create all visual emotion.
All these skeletons wriggling around, making full use of the maneuverability of their joints and looking up to this one skeleton up behind the musical altar just tapping electrical devices in a barely recognisable pattern – that was one hell of a trip-out. But it got weirder when I walked downstairs past numerous skeletons leaning on the walls, some of them embracing each other as if under the control of some powerful higher force. Dazzling. Coming out to the street I saw a couple of big skeletons standing straight-backed with arms folded, a smaller skeleton standing confrontationally in front of one of them, moving it's hands and head aggressively and quite un-cautiously. Shameful. On the roadside, a skeleton sitting inside a big buggy with a light on the top was picking up three stumbling little skeletons, all leaning on each other's shoulders and rearing their heads up in demented shrill cackles, their feet clasped tight and held in unnatural tip-toe positions by strange artificial plastic hooves. Frightening.
My mind raced as I came to grips with the wider world of skeletons, from the skeletons in the kebab shop across the road, to the skeletons sitting and leering at smaller skeletons wriggling around metal poles wearing the same artificial hooves in the strip-club down the street. I eventually rested upon the realisation that we ourselves are, in fact, all skeletons. We are all with big evil grins in front of our hard spheres housing a grey puddle of goo held in suspension by a membrane of mucus, processing all this information second by second.
I have since come to terms with the skeleton that holds the seat of my consciousness aloft, and I rather enjoy knowing that I am my own creature to look after. When you really think about it, we are our own pets.
Sometimes, delightfully, you are in lucid control of this pet (you are the pet; you put on your favourite music and roll around on the floor – good boy/girl!), and sometimes, you're uncontrollably guided by survivalist instincts (you are the owner forced to look after the pet, go to the shop and get some proper organic food without any grease or chemical fucking wank, or I'll report you for cruelty to yourself!). In both instances, should you have the mental girth to be able to grasp it, this is now your skeleton reality: may you do well amongst it.