Body tension in genital rings and he fell into the explosion of sperm — Contraction turnstiles ejaculated bodies without cover — Iridescent orgasm floated from pale adolescents — Slow movement of body hairs ejaculated the creature who talks in color blast — iridescent weak and torn by pain, decay breathing from years spurting out through the orgasm death in black lust of the swamp mud — black fish movement of food, intestines shifting color orgasm reflected in the obsidian penis — Silver films in the blood and bones tear his insides apart — He was sucked from penis suffocation and released dream flesh in a scratching shower of sperm — sunlight through pubic hairs — soft luminous spurts of memory riding the wind — Pieces of cloud drifted through someone walking — Mountain wind around his body trailing sweat drew him into other body alterations, sky blue through viscera of the other — solitude of morning cool on his skinned flesh —
last round over
Now for me — the story of one White — That’s why darkies were born — way human skin inflated “Master” — a long good night in metal valve at base of the spine — now for the story of one absent today far from the old folks — softly singing Old Black Joe to “music” (i made an ambiguous gesture) of cold crystal grave — ghost rectums of cotton — Semen fell like opal cane — Weep no more — absent tenants — silence to say good bye adiós — controllers from the ancient white planet of frozen gasses — a vast mineral consciousness near absolute zero thinking in slow formations of crystal — silent female navigators blank space eyes swept by Northern Lights — yeti men with burning metal eyes and long claws covered with purple hair shock troops carried by the navigators — controllers of the White Smoke and the utilities, monopolized and froze the earth — The White Smoke and the White Light keeps the Djoun forces away and in darkness they assume malignant forms — So you need the White Light to keep them away —
“It’s the old junk gimmick — Freeze the mark — Thawing hurts you got it? — Sex and pain forms hatching out in paralyzed flesh — and hatching out hungry — so you need more and more of the white stuff to keep your ass in deep freeze — Junk is not blue and it is not green — Junk is White White White — like the colorless no-smell of death from kicking addicts — That’s where they get the White Smoke, from sick addicts — bottled in precinct cells of America — in Lexington, Kentucky — You got it? — Sex and pain form flesh identity” —
At far end pale flesh blooms slowly out of a life cannot exist in pictures — bleeding formations of crystal — that body without a shadow without relics — blank face, healed and half-healed dream flesh hatching from the death trauma — outside East St. Louis a cold adiós — silence — weary — They tell you of distant coffin — Won’t be much left on Panama night — empty condom ticket — erogenous cotton flesh lying there streaked with phosphorous — someone walking —
“Man, like good bye then” —
(In the lunar caves black newt boys, eyes lips and genitals glowing with slow metal fires — penis rose in a smell of phosphorus — blue radium symbols on the wall) —
Now explosions of Colored South from mixture — surges of silence from long metal night weaves people and sky story of one absent today — on a slow boat to China, Master, a long good night — the cold adiós — Got no home? — So we’ll sing one song: a big bank roll and Cousin Miranda making a Monday line—So we’ll sing one song in your dreams — And that heart grows weary — They’ll tell you of money in the cold cold grave? — on a slow boat to China, adiós — keeps on rolling a big word line — sugar line — secondhand erogenous corn — softly singing Old Black Joe to: “i’m tired of you and i’m checking out” — Just to raise the price of a ticket angle voices calling Old Black Joe — orgasm death in the cold empty condom — Look, Master, God’s wind blew icicles in black slow-motion faces — singing phosphorus in flash darkies weeping — broken glaciers and skin of cotton — Weep no more — absent tenants — ghost voices calling false human hosts— (i made an ambiguous gesture) — Cold crystal semen fell like opal cane — slow motion sky swept by Northern lights — Thawing hurts — White form hatching in painted human skin inflated “Master” — long hunger of the spine — Story of your ass in deep freeze? — Semen fell like opal canes from phallic statues of ice under Northern Lights — the cold of interstellar space in his spine — sex and pain explosions of colored flesh hatching out — That’s why darkies were born — way the White Stuff keep “Master” — Colorless Utilities monopolized land of the free — Keeps the Djoun forces in secondhand erogenous corn — So you need more and more of death because your ass is in deep freeze — White White White spurted again and again from death of kicking addicts — need the White Light to check out — It’s the old gimmick — Darkies are the pipes you got it? — sex and pain price of a ticket — flesh hatching out in cotton-covered orgasm cocoons —
(The ship came apart here like a rotten undervest — The yeti thawed to stings of white-hot scorpion people in the Ovens — Blasted his way out white sheets dripping purple fire — metal eyes burning in nova) —
Earthquakes and hurricanes exploded setup of mineral dreamer — space eyes blank as polar moon of morning — The question caught our ticket that exploded — need the White Smoke to circumstance — Remember i was the door — It’s the old naked dream beside you — You got sex and pain information? — mouth of hair? —
(An orchid with brilliant red and green flowers hanging over the swamp mud — As i touched the plant long tendrils covered with fine erectile hairs stung my naked body, liquid fires feeling into mouth and penis and rectum) —
ancient evil odors on the trade winds — bottled female smells in corridors of silence —
“We intersect on empty kingdom where picture cannot exist — Bleeding i made this dream five times without a shadow without relics in the last terrace of the garden — Sex dawn and dream flesh left no address — For i have known East St. Louis good night — Isn’t time is there left? — So we’ll sing a song in white to give you — odor of deluge and money in dreams — Distant coffin overtakes me — bitter darkies caught in the door — ordor of drowned suns — Cold empty condom the price on our ticket that exploded — Any case divide line melted before circumstances — Remember i was the cotton flesh lying there — icicles at the far end of evening — broken dream beside you and the dreamer gone — with dirty shirt boy’s lips fading out — Dark body smell filled the cave of dust — We made it all in spurts of burning phosphorous — on the walls slow radium circumstances — You can say could give no flesh identity — fading such words — What have i my friend to give? — pale roots where flesh blooms slowly out of life i led — read formations of crystal — Healed and half-healed shade departed from the death trauma — outside the body of a God bending cold adiós — Bitter, my friend, weary they tell you of courage to let go — Someone walking stopped suddenly to question cold grave — The pipes are calling Panama alterations — someone walking and we drown — erogenous naked flesh empty in the trade winds at dawn whisper — Man, like good bye” —
A young man of high condition gives you phosphorescent eyes and lips — lunar knife welded into his twisting shadow — phosphorescent dust tracing a colorless dreamer — wrote explosion of dawn and dream — ebbing night far from shirt in another — stopped suddenly to crown a God bending the cold adiós back to mineral silence— a big bank roll and Cousin Miranda falling — odor of no home — Silver flakes closed your account — recorder music in the throat of God — Won’t be much left on the mirrors — empty tape — 1920 movie — Erogenous dust falls from demagnetized patterns — Rectums dissolve in blue dawn explosions of color sky — old Westerns rotting through slate music and nitrous fumes — Light layers peel off story of one absent today —spectral smell of empty condoms down along penny arcades and mirrors — silence to say good bye —
Now rewrite Mr Bradly Mr Martin — The separation gimmick that keeps this tired old show on the road — i have said Martin’s life line is the human add
ict — That is why he is at such pains to keep the addict uncomfortably short — It is the need, the colorless death smell arising from sick addicts that keep his whole universe of junk time and monopoly in operation — “the White Smoke” bottled in precinct cells of America, in Lexington, Kentucky — With “the White Smoke” in one hand and “the Blue Heavy Metal Fix” in the other he has human hosts the way he likes to see them: caught in the switch — And if they make it out of that switch the Garden of Delights is there waiting with “Orgasm Death” — Make it out of there? — “the Ovens” down in the hole — All right, so you sewed up a planet — Now unsew it — Is that clear enough or shall i make it even clearer? ? — Reverse all your gimmicks — your heavy blue metal fix out in blue sky — your blue mist swirling through all the streets of image to Pan Pipes — your white smoke falling in luminous sound and image flakes — your bank of word and image scattered to the winds of morning — into this project all the way or all to see in Times Square in Piccadilly — Reverse and dismantle your machine — Drain off the prop ocean and leave the White Whale stranded — all your’word line broken from mind screens of the earth — You talk about “responsibility” — Now show responsibility — Show total responsibility — You have blighted a planet — Now remove the blight — Cancel your “White Smoke” and all your other gimmicks of control — your monopoly of life, time, and fortune canceled by your own orders — Pay, Mr Bradly Mr Martin — wracked and answer a God melted the recorders — out of the sick lies — no rectum tape — empty music cross the water — Characters walk in and out of silver film — smoke words recorded on scar impressions — Permutating the door, Mr Martin — A hand scattered word and image to the winds for all to see — Ding-dong bell — Silence — Mr Bradly Mr Martin, leaning say:
“Good bye then — Your machine drains off picture dioxide — Truly adiós” —
bitter price — whale stranded — the colors released, Martin is like pulp behind — Now remove all your gimmicks in setting forth — This dream be your orders — Your ticket now ended — All Martin’s recorded speech fade-out — Mr Bradly Mr Martin, now show blighted planet the dog tape empty of control —
“Man, like vaudeville voices under the story” —
“Mirrors of Mr Bradly Mr Martin — calm his face — dream shut off — I fold the Old Doctor twice — in the gutter cosmic dust of nova — outside East St. Louis last good bye — memory pictures — the story over — back to invisible shadow — Yes you have bitter indications enough in empty room — someone walking — truly good bye then in Summer dawn wind — saucers in the morning sky — silence of the sick lies — ‘Marks?’—Identity melted before daybreak — Like little time in tarnished offices — splintered on empty flesh — evening finger fading — God Of Panic talking” —
“Like good bye then, Willy the Rat — Remember i was the dreamer with dirty flesh — known end of the line outside 1920 movie streaked with violence — Film flakes drift adiós — Showed you your air — The Doctor on stage — The pipes are calling — September left no address — For i have known last air — The days grow short — Isn’t time is there left? — Waiting game and we drown — naked — short — indications enough — at dawn last film flakes — written on the door the sick lies now are ended — Vast Thing Police speak into air — any case silence to answer — i fold in story — A street boy’s courage exploded the word — last round into air — like good bye then — story of absent dreamer — Last September fades streaked with violence — surges of silence ebbing, stranded, and we haven’t got courage to let go — a great leisure when you reach September — Days grow short — Vacant dawn whispers: Game, Hamburger Mary — Five times terminal — Man, like dawn and dream — Silence to say ‘ebbing carbon dioxide’”—
Outside East St. Louis our revels now are ended — These events are melted into air — paper forgotten — Yes you have his bitter spirits — A God bending your summons, commands these visions —
“Like good bye, Johnny — naked, empty as ding-dong bell — What is St. Louis after adiós? — faded story of absent world just as silver film took it — Remember i was the movies — Rinse my name for i have known intervention— Pass without doing our ticket — Forgotten shadow actors walk beside you — mountain wind of Saturn in the morning sky — From the death trauma weary good bye then” —
“Intervention overtakes Mr Bradly Mr Martin — distant coffin in empty room — tape ebbing, picture splintered on empty flesh — last round, boy — good bye in lips fading — Remember i was the ship gives no flesh identity” —
“You can say could give no last good bye — In fading breath you can say last round over — stranded, ebbing carbon dioxide, man like identity fading out — Any case a God questions board room circumstances — Remember i was your account — nova dream falling — played the flute in wind and rain streaked with violence — played the Doctor on stage — five times good bye” —
“Last parasite — no shelter — Last morning washed good bye then — stream of distant fingers fading — vaudeville voices absent today — Man questions the dreamer — fade-out overtakes lies — nothing here now but bleeding dream without a shadow without relics — i fold in story of last penny arcade — roller skates before stranded to give you? — hands down — a great leisure in solitude of Saturn” —
Time to squeeze out the welchers, kid, who can’t cover their bets and never intended to cover — The “Hassan i Sabbahs” from Cuntville USA backed by yellow assassins who couldn’t strangle a hernia — Self-appointed controllers of “the Rotting Kingdom” strictly from Grade B Hollywood who couldn’t get their dead nitrous film foot in the door — And all the “Mr Martins” who are trying to buy something for nothing — You can’t even con you can’t even hustle — You couldn’t roll a paralyzed flop—All right all of you cover your bets or shut up and get out of the game — You can take your welching two-bit business to Walgreen’s we don’t want it — Out out out the whole miserable fucking lot of you — strickly from Moochville —
call the old doctor twice?
You see, son, in this business, welchers who can’t cover their bets angle in the “Hassan i Sabbah” from Cuntville strictly from con cop — It’s an old vaudeville act — Dead nitrous film foot takes both parts — “Mr Martin,” trying to buy a nice quiet easy pitch, you can’t even con you can’t even hustle — old Western flop — All right all of you cover for a buy or check out — We are walking into the game — Out — Out — A long ride for the white sucking lot of you strictly from heavy metal — Time to squeeze out the dummies — They never intended to cover — But boy the pipes are calling, Cuntville USA — be in the bread line — Self-appointed controllers holding wrist and ankle for a ticket — grade B Hollywood, ghost writing in the sky The door — And all the “Mr Martins” won’t do you a bit of good on the trip that you’re gonna take — something for nothing? — You had every weapon in three galaxies you couldn’t roll a paralyzed flop — From Florida up to the old North Pole cover your bets or take your welching two-bit business to Walgreen’s — You got the Big Fix down in the hole — Hello yes good bye, Moochville —
Now some write home to orgasm death — welchers, kid, who can’t cover their bets — And that “White smoke” — ? ? Man, the “Hassan i Sabbahs” from Cuntville Valley say you are going on a slow boat to China strictly from a big bank roll and a nitrous film foot — if they lost his old blue hands — “Martins” who are trying to buy trips — Can’t even con can’t even hustle — Quiet — Yes they lost that old flop — All right all of you: Cover — So the louder they scream: Out of the game — You can take your old ace in the hole to Walgreen’s— We don’t want it — Strictly from money that they’ve lost and spent and they may flash a big word line — But as word dust falls they’ll be in the bread line without clothes or a dime — “Marks? What marks?” i’m aleaving Martin — Trying to buy that camera gun? It won’t do you a bit of good — You can’t even con you can’t even hustle the
trip that I’m gonna take — I’ve had every con in three galaxies pulled on me — All right, cover that old North Pole or get out of the game — You can take your Big Fix to Walgreen’s — Out — Out — Out in the bread line without clothes or a dime the whole sucking lot of you strictly from: Adiós —
In three-dimensional terms the board is a group representing international big money who intend to take over and monopolize space — They have their own space arrangements privately owned and consider the governmental space programs a joke — The board books are records pertaining to anyone who can be of use to their program or anyone who could endanger it — The board books are written in symbols referring to association blocks — Like this: $ — “American upper middle-class upbringing with maximum sexual frustration and humiliations imposed by Middle-Western matriarchs” % — “Criminal street boy upbringing — oriented toward money and power — easily corrupted” and so forth — The board agents learn to think in these association blocks and board instructions are conveyed in the board book symbols — The board is a three-dimensional and essentially stupid pressure group relying on money, equipment, information, files, and the technical brains they have bought — As word dust falls and their control machine is disconnected by partisan activity they’ll be in the bread line without clothes or a dime to buy off their “dogs” their “gooks” their “errand boys” their “human animals” — liars — cowards — collaborators — traitors — liars who want time for more lies — cowards who cannot face your “human animals” with the truth — collaborators with insect people, with vegetable people — with any people anywhere who offer them a body forever — traitors to all souls everywhere sold out to shit forever —
“So pack your ermines, Mary — we are getting out of here — i’ve seen this happen before — Three thousand years in show business — The public is gonna take the place apart” —
The Ticket That Exploded (Burroughs, William S.) Page 12
