It was a transitional period because of The Synthetics and everybody was raising some kinda awful life form in his bidet to fight The Sex Enemy—The results were not in all respects reasonable men, but The Synthetics were rolling off that line and we were getting some damned interesting types by golly blue heavy metal boys with near zero metabolism that shit once a century and then it’s a slag heap and disposal problem in the worst form there is: sewage delta to a painted sky under orange gas flares, islands of garbage where green boy-girls tend human heads in chemical gardens, terminal cities under the metal word fallout like cold melted solder on walls and streets, sputtering cripples with phosphorescent metal stumps—So we decided the blue heavy metal boys were not in all respects a good blueprint.
I have seen them all—A unit yet of mammals and vegetables that subsist each on the shit of the other in prestidigital symbiosis and achieved a stage where one group shit out nothing but pure carbon dioxide which the other unit breathed in to shit out oxygen—It’s the only way to live—You understand they had this highly developed culture with life forms between insect and vegetable, hanging vines, stinging sex hairs—The whole deal was finally relegated to the It-Never-Happened-Department.
“Retroactive amnesia it out of every fucking mind screen in the area if we have to—How long you want to bat this tired old act around? A centipede issue in the street, unusual beings dormant in cancer, hierarchical shit-eating units—Now by all your stupid Gods at once let’s not get this show on the road let’s stop it.”
Posted everywhere on street corners The Idiot Irresponsibles twitter supersonic approval, repeating slogans, giggling, dancing, masturbating out windows, making machine-gun noises and police whistles “And you, Dead Hand, stretching The Vegetable People come out of that compost heap—You are not taking your old fibrous roots past this inspector.”
And The Idiot Irresponsibles scream posted everywhere in chorus: “Chemical gardens in rusty shit peoples!!”
“All out of Time and into Space. Come out of The Time-word ‘The’ forever. Come out of The Body Word ‘Thee’ forever. There is no thing to fear. There is no thing in space. There is no word to fear. There is no word in space.”
And The Idiot Irresponsibles scream: “Come out of your stupid body you nameless assholes!!”
And there were those who thought A.J. lost dignity through the idiotic behavior of these properties but He said:
“That’s the way I like to see them. No fallout. What good ever came from thinking? Just look there” (another Heavy Metal Boy sank through the earth’s crust and we got some good pictures. . .) “one of Shaffer’s blueprints. I sounded a word of warning.”
His Idiot Irresponsibles twittered and giggled and masturbated over him from little swings and snapped bits of food from his plate screaming: “Blue people NG conditions! Typical Sight Leak Out!”
“All out of Time and into Space.”
“Hello, Ima Johnny The Naked Astronaut.”
And the Idiot Irresponsibles rush in with space-suits and masturbating rockets spatter The City with jissom.
“Do not be alarmed citizens of Annexia—Report to your Nearie Pro Station for Chlorophyll Processing—We are converting to Vegetable State—Emergency measure to counter The Heavy Metal Peril—Go to your ‘Nearie’—You will meet a cool, competent person who will dope out all your fears in photosynthesis—Calling all citizens of Annexia—Report to Green Sign for Processing.”
“Citizens of Gravity we are converting all out to Heavy Metal. Carbonic Plague of The Vegetable People threatens our Heavy Metal State. Report to your nearest Plating Station. It’s fun to be plated,” says this well-known radio and TV personality who is now engraved forever in gags of metal. “Do not believe the calumny that our metal fallout will turn the planet into a slag heap. And in any case, is that worse than a compost heap? Heavy Metal is our program and we are prepared to sink through it. . .”
The cold heavy fluid settled in his spine 70 tons per square inch—Cool blocks of SOS—(Solid Blue Silence)—under Heavy Time—Can anything be done to Metal People of Uranus?—Heavy his answer in monotone disaster stock: “Nobody can kick an SOS habit—70 tons per square inch—The crust from the beginning you understand—Tortured Metal Ozz Of Earthquakes is tons focus of this junk”—Sudden young energy—I got up and danced—Know eventually be relieved—That’s all I need—I got up and danced the disasters—”
Gongs of violence and how—Show you something—Berserk machine—“Shift cut tangle word lines—Word falling—Photo falling—”
“I said The Chief Of Police skinned alive in Bagdad not Washington, D.C.”
“Switzerland freezes all foreign assets.”
“Foreign assets?”
“What?—British Prime Minister assassinated in Rightist coup?”
“Mindless idiot you have liquidated the Commissar.”
“Terminal electric voice of C—All ling door out of agitated—Ta ta Stalin—Carriage age ta—”
Spectators scream through the track—The electronic brain shivers in blue and pink and chlorophyll orgasms spitting out money printed on rolls of toilet paper, condoms full of ice cream, Kotex hamburgers—Police files of the world spurt out in a blast of bone meal, garden tools and barbecue sets whistle through the air, skewer the spectators—Crumpled cloth bodies through dead nitrous streets of an old film set—Grey luminous flakes falling softly on Ewyork, Onolulu, Aris, Ome, Oston—From siren towers the twanging tones of fear—Pan God Of Panic piping blue notes through empty streets as the berserk time machine twisted a tornado of years and centuries—Wind through dusty offices and archives—Board Books scattered to rubbish heaps of the earth—Symbol books of the all-powerful board that had controlled thought feeling and movement of a planet from birth to death with iron claws of pain and pleasure—The whole structure of reality went up in silent explosions—Paper moon and muslin trees and in the black silver sky great rents as the cover of the world rained down—Biologic film went up . . “raining dinosaurs” “It sometimes happens . . just an old showman” Death takes over the game so many actors buildings and stars laid flat pieces of finance over the golf course summer afternoons bare feet waiting for rain smell of sickness in the room Switzerland Panama machine guns in Bagdad rising from the typewriter pieces of finance on the evening wind tin shares Buenos Aires Mr. Martin smiles old names waiting sad old tune haunted the last human attic.
Outside a 1920 movie theater in East St. Louis I met Johnny Yen—His face showed strata of healed and half-healed fight scars—Standing there under the luminous film flakes he said: “I am going to look for a room in a good naborhood”—Captain Clark welcomes you aboard this languid paradise of dreamy skies and firefly evenings music across the golf course echoes from high cool corners of the dining room a little breeze stirs candles on the table. It was an April afternoon. After a while some news boy told him the war was over sadness in his eyes trees filtering light on dappled grass the lake like bits of silver paper in a wind across the golf course fading streets a distant sky.
Male Image Back In
The Boy From The North came to The Rock on a cold Spring wind through court yards and cubicles painted inside opening on balconies connected by ladders, catwalks iron bridges—Wind of metal through The Boy From The North with the blue sickness of opium in his bones and the heavy mineral affinities in his cool blue eyes cloud mines and mills and oil derricks stretching iron claws of monopoly—The Master almost gave the order to remove the boy from the reservation—Then a move appeared on his chess board of agents and the order to remove the boy was canceled—
“Yes, Mr. Bradly Mr. Martin, a chess move—i Sabbah set Bradly in the door.”
Move The Boy From The North to Tanger present time—He walked on grey silent as a fish through shadow pools and doorways—Here comes a guide from The Blue Movies—Scatter on grey into dark windows
old gangster films and news reels fading in “Smoke Domino Cigarettes”—Dead neon in the noon sun—The guide did not see me—Spinning fractured light down all your streets and by the river junk sick in dawn mist took the ferry from Algiers to New Orleans—Grey powder in spoons shaking junk sick hands—Over the grey subway down Cook Street—Sliding between light and shadow—Word falling—Photo falling—Break through in Grey Room—Agent of Hassan i Sabbah along newsprint
WAS WEIGHTLESS—NEW YORK HERALD TRIBUNE PARIS APRIL 17, 1961—“One’s arms and legs in and out through the crowd weigh nothing—Grey dust of broom in old cabin—Mr. Bradly Mr. I Myself sit in the chair as i subways and basements did before that—But hung in dust and pain wind—My hand writing leaning to a boy’s grey flannel pants did not change although vapor trails fading in hand does not weigh anything now—Gagarin said grey junk yesterdays trailing the earth was quite plain and past The American he could easily see the shores of continents—islands and great rivers.”
Screens back and forth shifting star tracks we intersect—Scattered silver morning smoke down old photo—Flashed through all I said twisting hole in pain funnel—The grey photo falling out tracks I told—Wind hand caught in the door couldn’t make flesh in his switch—Back seat dream streets drifting smoke—Photo falling—Word falling—Break through in Grey Room—And word dust dirtied his body falling through the space between worlds—
Twenty initiates gathered at sun set on Red Mesa—They stripped off their clothes and climbed a ladder to a round roofless Kiva—On a raised shelf along one wall sat a drummer and two flute players—A boy about thirteen danced in front of the drummer, his body quivered to the drum beats like a dog, his penis floating in music and red light of the setting sun—He danced on tip toe hands above his head as if pulled up and held out of gravity—He twisted backwards until his hands touched the floor behind him body arched—As spurts of semen shot up like tiny rockets, his body lost outline in red mist—A pair of Javanese boys moved into the center of the room stabbing at each other with penises of flickering light—One boy bowed his head and spun around and the other moved in behind and danced his penis up the other rectum and they stood there in fluid circular gyrations, hands tracing delicate hieroglyphs of orgasm that hung visible in the air like swirls of color, bodies merging in a flickering rainbow of Northern Lights—Carl was pulled into the circle dancing opposite a Negro boy and felt the warm electric thrusts melt his stomach and genitals spinning him around the brown hands beating time on his diaphragm they moved in a slow half crouch—A taste of iron and blood in his mouth he threw out his arms and dived out of his body in spurts—
He woke in a vast dormitory of boy spirits jetting themselves around on broomsticks, turning cartwheels, making orgasm noises machine guns and train whistles—Slowly the boy sounds faded out in a great calm silence—Could make or break any place by his male image back in—
They stood now in a shower of orgasms—Carl felt dawns in the bath cubicle as a movement of rivers —Young faces spread behind him a slow Attic frieze—Greek vases taking off limestone centuries—“I wanta screw you” danced his penis up the boy’s ass—Slow crystal music of phallic flesh, each other for instruments—Rings of Saturn in the two bodies moving as one now out through the rectum gate—“You is coming?”—Body questions to their drum beats pounding the sky—He danced out of gravity light and cold in the door—Fluid waves of dawn shirt—Street dust turning faster and faster the hieroglyphs of death trauma—Tarnished mirrors behind him to the trade winds, threw his arms out over the water—“Good night”—Taking off movies in a vast dormitory of boy spirits—They stood in a shower of sun sets—The music started his stomach jungles dancing—Shuddering penis floated in other dawns, danced the two bodies as one out of gravity—Penis strained back to color fading out in red semen—“Wanta screw me dancing up the other rectum and they stood coming?”—Body questions tracing rainbows of orgasm—Carl was pulled now into the dust dance quivering to the drum hands—Odor of naked rectums hung visible in the air—“You is coming?”—Ebbing carbon dioxide of orgasm, brown hands with fingers fading—Greek vases taking off limestone—Now out through the rectum gates—
“I told you I would heal scars—Only one body there—Memory pictures forgotten, woke up in a dormitory of phallic flesh—Isn’t time, doctor, for instruments—Drum beat in last errand boy closing mirrors behind him—Silence healed boy spirits—”
As the car started we slipped off our ruined orgasms—Young faces over the midway careening subway dawns—Silver drums in a blue silence—Whistling boy spirits got up laughing centuries—Rings of dream in his head—Body questions spatter the cracked sky—
“Captain Clark welcomes you aboard.”
Dead Fingers Talk
Glad to have you aboard reader, but remember there is only one captain of this subway—Do not thrust your cock out the train window or beckon lewdly with thy piles nor flush thy beat benny down the drain—(Benny is overcoat in antiquated Times Square argot)—It is forbidden to use the signal rope for frivolous hangings or to burn Nigras in the washroom before the other passengers have made their toilet—
Do not offend the office manager—He is subject to take back the keys of the shithouse—Always keep it locked so no sinister stranger sneak a shit and give all the kids in the office some horrible condition—And Mr. Anker from accounting, his arms scarred like a junky from countless Wassermans, sprays plastic over it before he travails there—I stand on the Fifth Amendment, will not answer the question of the Senator from Wisconsin: “Are you or have you ever been a member of the male sex?”—They can’t make Dicky whimper on the boys—Know how I take care of crooners?—Just listen to them—A word to the wise guy—I mean you gotta be careful of politics these days—Some old department get physical with you, kick him right in his coordinator—“Come see me tonight in my apartment under the school privy—Show you something interesting,” said the janitor drooling green coca juice—
The city mutters in the distance pestilent breath of the cancerous librarian faint and intermittent on the warm Spring wind—
“Split is the wastings of the cup—Take it away,” he said irritably—Black rocks and brown lagoons invade the world—There stands the deserted transmitter—Crystal tubes click on the message of retreat from the human hill and giant centipedes crawl in the ruined cities of our long home—Thermodynamics has won at a crawl—
“We were caught with our pants down,” admits General Patterson. “They reamed the shit out of us.”
Safest way to avoid these horrid perils is come over here and shack up with Scylla—Treat you right, kid—Candy and cigarettes—
Woke up in a Turkish Bath under a Johannesburg bidonville—
“Where am I you black bastards?”
“Why you junky white trash rim a shitting Nigger for an eyecup of paregoric!”
Dead bird—quail in the slipper—money in the bank—Past port and petal crowned with calm leaves she stands there across the river and under the trees—
Brains spilled in the cocktail lounge—The fat macho has burned down the Jai Lai bookie with his obsidian-handled .45—Shattering bloody blue of Mexico—Heart in the sun—Pantless corpses hang from telephone poles along the road to Monterrey—
Death rows the boy like sleeping marble down the Grand Canal out into a vast lagoon of souvenir post cards and bronze baby shoes—
“Just build a privy over me, boys,” says the rustler to his bunk mates, and the sheriff nods in dark understanding Druid blood stirring in the winds of Panhandle—
Decayed corseted tenor sings Danny Deever in drag:
They have taken all his buttons off and cut his pants away
For he browned the colonel sleeping the man’s ass is all agley
And he’ll swing in ’arf a minute for a sneaking shooting fey.
“Billy Budd must hang—All hands aft
er to witness this exhibit.”
Billy Budd gives up the ghost with a loud fart and the sail is rent from top to bottom—and the petty officers fall back confounded—“Billy” is a transvestite liz.
“There’ll be a spot of bother about this,” mutters The Master at Arms—The tars scream with rage at the cheating profile in the rising sun—
“Is she dead?”
“So who cares.”
“Are we going to stand still for this?—The officers pull the switch on us,” says young Hassan, ship’s uncle—
“Gentlemen,” says Captain Verre “I can not find words to castigate this foul and unnatural act whereby a boy’s mother take over his body and infiltrate her horrible old substance right onto a decent boat and with bare tits hanging out, unfurls the nastiest colors of the spectroscope.”
A hard-faced matron bandages the cunt of Radiant Jade—
“You see, dearie, the shock when your neck breaks has like an awful effect—You’re already dead of course or at least unconscious or at least stunned—but—uh—well—you see—It’s a medical fact—All your female insides is subject to spurt out your cunt the way it turned the last doctor to stone and we sold the results to Paraguay as a statue of Bolivar.”
“I have come to ascertain death not perform a hysterectomy,” snapped the old auntie croaker munching a soggy crumpet with his grey teeth—A hanged man plummets through the ceiling of Lord Rivington’s smart mews flat—Rivington rings the Home Secretary:
“I’d like to report a leak—”
“Everything is leaking—Can’t stem it—Sauve qui peut” snaps The Home Secretary and flees the country disguised as an eccentric Lesbian abolitionist—
“We hear it was the other way around, doc,” said the snide reporter with narrow shoulders and bad teeth—
The Soft Machine Page 15
