The Soft Machine

by William S. Burroughs

  The doctor’s face crimsoned: “I wish to state that I have been acting physician at Dankmoor prison for thirty years man boy and bestial and always keep my nose clean—Never compromise myself to be alone with the hanged man—Always insist on the presence of my baboon assistant witness and staunch friend in any position.”

  Mr. Gilly looks for his brindle-faced cow across the piney woods where armadillos, innocent of a cortex, frolic under the .22 of black Stetson and pale blue eyes.

  “Lawd Lawd have you seen my brindle-faced cow?—Guess I’m taking up too much of your time—Must be busy doing something feller say—Good stand you got whatever it is—Maybe I’m asking too many questions—talking too much—You wouldn’t have a rope would you?—A hemp rope? Don’t know how I’d hold that old brindle-faced cow without a rope if I did come on her—”

  Phantom riders—chili joints—saloons and the quick draw—­hangings from horseback to the jeers of sporting women—black smoke on the hip in the Chink laundry—“No tickee no washee—Clom Fliday—”

  Walking through the piney woods in the summer dawn, chiggers pinpoint the boy’s groin with red dots—Smell of boy balls and iron cool in the mouth—

  “Now I want you boys to wear shorts,” said the sheriff. “Decent women with telescopes can see you—”

  Whiff of dried jissom in a bandanna rises from the hotel drawer—Sweet young breath through the teeth, stomach hard as marble spurts it out in soft, white globs—Funny how a man comes back to something he left in a Peoria hotel drawer 1929—

  1920 tunes drift into the locker room where two boys first time tea high jack off to “My Blue Heaven”—

  In the attic of the big store on bolts of cloth we made it—

  “Careful—don’t spill—Don’t rat on the boys.”

  The cellar is full of light—In two weeks the tadpoles hatch—I wonder whatever happened to Otto’s boy who played the violin? A hard-faced boy patch over one eye parrot on shoulder says: “Dead men tell no tales or do they?”—He prods the skull with his cutlass and a crab scuttles out—The boy reaches down and picks up a scroll of hieroglyphs—“The map!—The map!”

  The map turns to shitty toilet paper in his hands, blows across a vacant lot in East St. Louis.

  The boy pulls off the patch—The parrot flies away into the jungle—Cutlass turns to a machete—He is studying the map and swatting sand flies—

  Junk yacks at our heels and predated checks bounce all around us in the Mayan ball court—

  “Order in the court—You are accused of soliciting with prehensile piles—What have you to say in your defense?”

  “Just cooling them off, judge—Raw and bleeding—Wouldn’t you?”

  “I want you to smell this bar stool,” said the paranoid ex-­Communist to the manic FBI agent—“Stink juice, and you may quote me has been applied by paid hoodlums constipated with Moscow goldwasser.”

  The man in a green suit—old English cut with two side vents and change pockets outside—will swindle the aging proprietress of a florist shop—“Old flub got a yen on for me—”

  Carnival of splintered pink peppermint—“Oh Those Golden ­Slippers”—He sits up and looks into a cobra lamp—

  “I am the Egyptian,” he said looking all flat and silly.

  And I said: “Really, Bradford, don’t be tiresome—”

  Under the limestone cave I met a man with Medusa’s head in a hatbox and said “Be careful” to the customs inspector, freezed his hand forever an inch from the false bottom—

  Will the gentle reader get up off his limestones and pick up the phone?—Cause of death: completely uninteresting.

  They cowboyed him in the steam room—Is this Cherry Ass Gio The Towel Boy or Mother Gillig Old Auntie of Westminster Place? Only dead fingers talk in braille—

  Second run cotton trace the bones of a fix—

  But is all back seat dreaming since the hitchhiker with the chewed thumb and he said: “If decided?—Could I ride with you chaps?”—(Heard about the death later in a Copenhagen bar—Told a story about crayfish and chased it with a Jew joke out behind the fear of what I tell him we all know here.) So it jumped in my throat and was all there like and ready when we were sitting under the pretties, star pretties you understand, not like me talking at all I used to talk differently. Who did?—Paris?

  “Mr. Bradly Mr. Martin, Johnny Yenshe, Yves Martin.”

  Martin he calls himself but once in the London YMCA on Tottenham Court (never made out there)—Once on Dean Street in Soho—No it wasn’t Dean Street that was someone else looked like Bradly—It was on some back time street, silent pockets of Mexico City—(half orange with red pepper in the sun)—and the weakness hit me and I leaned against a wall and the white spot never washed out of my glen plaid coat—Carried that wall with me to a town in Ecuador can’t remember the name, remember the towns all around but not that one where time slipped on the beach—Sand winds across the blood—half a cup of water and Martin looked at the guide or was it the other, the Aussie, the Canadian, the South African who is sometimes there when the water is given out and always there when the water gives out—and gave him half his own water ration with gambler fingers could switch water if he wanted to—On the street once Cavesbury Close I think it was somebody called him Uncle Charles in English and he didn’t want to know the man walked away dragging one leg—

  Mr. Bradly Mr. Martin, slotless fade-out of distant fingers in the sick morning—I told him you on tracks—Couldn’t reach me with the knife—couldn’t switch iron—and zero time to stop—couldn’t make turnstile—Bad shape from death Mr. Shannon no cept pay of distant fingers spilling old photo—At me with the knife and fell over the white subway—On tracks I told—The shallow water came in with the tide of washed condoms and sick sharks fed on sewage—only food for this village—swamp delta to the green sky that does not change—I—We—They—sit quietly where you made this dream—“Finnies nous attendons une bonne chance”—(Footnote: Last words in the diary of Yves Martin who presumably died of thirst in the Egyptian desert with three companions—Just who died is uncertain since one member of the party has not been found alive or dead and identity of the missing person is dubious—The bodies were decomposed when found, and identification was based on documents. But it seems the party was given to exchange of identifications, and even to writing in each others’ diaries—Other members of the expedition were Mr. Shannon, Mr. Armstrong, Monsieur Pillou, Ahmed Akid the guide—)

  As the series is soon ending are these experiments really necessary?

  Cross The Wounded Galaxies

  The penny arcade peep show long process in different forms.

  In the pass the muttering sickness leaped into our throats, coughing and spitting in the silver morning. Frost on our bones. Most of the ape-forms died there on the treeless slopes. Dumb animal eyes on “me” brought the sickness from white time caves frozen in my throat to hatch in the warm steamlands spitting song of scarlet bursts in egg flesh. Beyond the pass, limestone slopes down into a high green savanna and the grass-wind on our genitals. Came to a swamp fed by hot springs and mountain ice. And fell in flesh heaps. Sick apes spitting blood laugh. Sound bubbling in throats torn with the talk sickness. Faces and bodies covered with pus foam. Animal hair thru the purple sex-flesh. Sick sound twisted thru body. Underwater music bubbling in blood beds. Human faces tentative flicker in and out of focus. We waded into the warm mud-water. Hair and ape flesh off in screaming strips. Stood naked human bodies covered with phosphorescent green jelly. Soft tentative flesh cut with ape wounds. peeling other genitals. Fingers and tongues rubbing off the jelly-cover. Body melting pleasure-sounds in the warm mud. Till the sun went and a blue wind of silence touched human faces and hair. When we came out of the mud we had names.

  In the pass muttering arctic flowers. Gusts of Frost Wind. Bones and most of the ape still felt
. Invisible slopes. Spitting the bloodbends human bones out of focus. And ape-flesh naked human body. Caves frozen in my throat. Green jelly genitals. Limestone slopes cover our bodies melting in savanna and grass mud. Shit and sperm fed hot till the sun went. The mountain touched human bubbling throats. Torn we crawled out of the mud. Faces and bodies covered the purple sex-flesh. And the sickness leaped into our body underwater music bubble in the silver morning frost. Faces tentative flicker in ape forms. Into the warm mud and water slopes. Cold screaming sickness from white time. Covered with phosphorescent shed in the warm lands. Spitting ape wounds. Feeling egg flesh. Green pleasure-sounds warm our genitals. Blue wind of silence. Apes spitting sound faces thru pus foam. The talking sickness had names. The sound stood naked in the grass. Music bubbling in the blood, quivering frog eggs and sound thru our throats and swap we had names for each other. Tentative flicker-laugh and laughing washed the hairs off. Down to his genitals. Human our bodies melted into when we crawled out.

  And the other did not want to touch me because of the white worm-thing inside but no one could refuse if I wanted and ate the fear-softness in other men. The cold was around us in our bones. And I could see the time before the thing when there was green around and the green taste in my mouth and the green plant-shit on my legs. Before the cold. . . And some did not eat flesh and died because they could not live with the thing inside. . . Once we caught one of the hairy men with our vine nets and tied him over a slow fire and left him there until he died and the thing sucked his screams moving in my face like smoke and no one could eat the flesh-fear of the hairy man and there was a smell in the cave bent us over. . . We moved to keep out of our excrement where white worms twisted up feeling for us and the white worm-sickness in all our bodies. We took our pots and spears and moved South and left the black flesh there in the ashes. . . Came to the great dry plain and only those lived who learned to let the thing surface and eat animal excrement in the brown water holes. . . Then thick grass and trees and animals. I pulled the skin over my head and I made another man put on the skin and horns and we fucked like the animals stuck together and we found the animals stuck together and killed both so I knew the thing inside me would always find animals to feed my mouth meat. . . Saw animals chase us with spears and woke eating my own hand and the blood in my mouth made me spit up a bitter green juice. But the next day I ate flesh again and every night we put on animal skins and smeared green animal excrement down our legs and fucked each other with whimpering snorting noises and stuck together shadows on the cave walls, and ate surface men. . . The skin over my head and green taste and the horns and we fucked before the thing inside me would. We caught one of the hairy men animaled him over a slow fire eating my own hand, the thing sucked his screams green bitter juice. Those lived who learned to let the softness in, eat animal excrement in the brown bones. . . I made another man put on the skin green plant shit on animal stuck together flesh. So I knew with the thing inside always find animals to feed with our vine nets. Blood in my mouth made me spit up moving in my face like the next day I ate flesh again. . . Moved to knee legs and fucked each other twisted up feeling and stuck together shadows on our bodies.

  Glass blizzards thru the rusty limestone streets exploded flesh from the laughing bones. Spattering blood cross urine of walls. We lived in sewers of the city, crab parasites in our genitals rubbing our diseased flesh thru each other on a long string of rectal mucus. Place of the tapeworms with white bone faces and disk mouths feeling for the soft host mucus. The years. The long. The many. Such a place. In a land of grass without memory, only food of the hordes moving south, the dark armadillo flesh killed in the cool morning grass with throwing sticks. The women and their thing police ate the flesh and we fought over their shit-encrusted pieces of armadillo gristle.

  Glass blizzards without memory. Only food of flesh was the dank urine of the city. Crab parasites ate the flesh. Thru jungles of breath when we copulate with white bones faces. Place of nettles and scorpions for the soft host mucus. Intestines sprouting weed room in the cool morning walls. The women in our genitals and bowels. Fought over their shit, rubbing our diseased flesh-meat a mucus string: clawing thru shit place of tapeworms in some disk mouth. Larval bodies feeling the penalty. The years. The long. The many. Such shoots growing.

  Sitting naked at the bottom of a well. The cool mud of evening touched our rectums. We shared a piece of armadillo gristle, eating it out of each other’s mouths. Above us a dry husk of insect bodies along the stone well-wall and thistles over the well-mouth against green evening sky. Licking the gristle from his laughing teeth and gums I said: “I am Allah. I made you.” A blue mist filled the well and shut off our word-breath. My hands sank into his body. We fell asleep in other flesh. Smells on our stomach and hands. Woke in noon-sun, thistle shades cutting our soft night flesh.

  Evening touched our rectums. Mud shells and frogs croaking. Licking the gristle asleep with other flesh. The cool mud of breath, and our bodies we shared. Branches in the wind. His knees. Other mouths. Against the green evening sky. “We laughing teeth and gums,” I said. Hands woke in the noon sun soft night flesh. Smell on our stomach. Thistle shades cutting. Penny arcade peep show—Long process in different forms—Dead fingers talk in braille.

  Think Police keep all Board Room Reports—And we are not allowed to proffer The Disaster ­Accounts— Wind hand caught in the door—­Explosive Bio-Advance Men out of space to employ Electrician in gasoline crack of history—Last of the gallant heroes—“I’m you on tracks, Mr. Bradly Mr. Martin”—Couldn’t reach flesh in his switch—And zero time to the sick tracks—A long time between suns I held the stale overcoat—Sliding between light and shadow—­muttering in the dogs of unfamiliar score—Cross the wounded galaxies we intersect, poison of dead sun in your brain slowly fading—Migrants of ape in gasoline crack of history, explosive bio-advance out of space to neon—“I’m you, Wind Hand caught in the door”—Couldn’t reach flesh—In sun I held the stale overcoat, Dead Hand stretching the throat—Last to proffer the disaster account on tracks. “See Mr. Bradly Mr.—”

  And being blind may not refuse to hear: “Mr. Bradly Mr. Martin, disaster to my blood whom I created”—(The shallow water came in with the tide and the Swedish River of Gothenburg.)

  Appendix 1

  From The Soft Machine (1961)

  along the

  brass and

  copper street

  Motor scooter wings along the rubble road of sputtering arc lights. Nettles, mud wall, Indians shit in rows. Vultures fight for fish heads and tear entrails from other mouths in air, pink eyes pulsing carrion hunger. . .

  Patios and porticos littered with flops. An old man with white beard sleeps on the red tile floor, his temple pulsing in the violent dusk. On the Brass and Copper Street purple twilight. Faces of scarred metal. Copper youths spit bloody crystals from rotting lungs. Black gauze feelers on control spots of sex. Touched the head of an Indian boy. Fur of a plaintive rodent. Whistling on an empty plain. Vulture wings husk in the dry sound of insects. Giant centipedes in cocoons of black gauze. Green crab people in the broken stellae. Neon claws swept out in the blast of morning by an old junky coughing and spiting in the sick dawn. Blue morning blast. Stale sheets stained with crab time shit. Manipulated spasm serving the brain photo of sex. Scorpion men in tight black suits. Tattoo needle stings etch the frozen spine with cuneiform songs of the centipede goddess. Flickers from every eye. Lighting red pagodas and copper domes. The phosphorescent metal excrement and fatal spasms of the city: (a sleeping youth hanged in wet dream. Bones sucked out by the crab guards). Boy chrysalis in cobwebs of rancid jissom. Brain-eating birds patrol the iron streets. Porticos. Plazas of red tile where brass statues twist in metal combat. Tortured centuries. Copper youths stalk the centipede men. Spitting needles from eyes blue and cold as cocaine crystal. Red nitrous fumes sear the aching lungs of screaming larval peoples clawing at crab parts. In red clay cubicles
over a swamp of warm mud bubbles coal gas. The spine cylinder turns crystal locks of ejaculation. Penis flesh invades the face. Withers arm-legs to vestigial insect members. Centipede legs thru the diseased purple flesh. Monster crustaceans boil in black mushroom clouds of West. Fade out to green mist and lichen on ancient rock of Marwan. Under the static red sky.

  Pornographic puppets in steam of yellow light. In stale towel gum. In crystal mirror of smoke. His leg in dead crab prison masturbating afternoons. Catatonic flesh his bunk. Blood storms his body. Foe wind over a swamp of warm mud. Gauze feelers of spine time. Insect lust of dead lavatory ejaculates the time of giant insects. Shell of limestone flesh. Green mist and the lichen rocks of Marwan. Spit mirror baths. Cocaine glass and insect cops serving the black message. Sound warehouse from mouth and throat. Yellow tattoo of inspected meat. On the iron streets. Turn on crystal spine cylinders. In clay cubicles the black smell of coal gas. Vestigial symbol accounts. Tasting hands in the mica mirror. Invisible glass ejaculates wet dream flesh thru stale Weimar youths. Dead Rainbow. Postcard fjords. Black gum in the streets of liver. Metal lichen. Obsidian mirrors a static red sky.

  Yellow cub in pulsing pink light. Nettle mud wall. Tea tall excrement. Red pagodas and copper fight. Fatal spasms in air. Thru flesh patios. Boy chrysalis in old man white beard. Birds patrol the iron temple. Brass statues in slow combat street. Purple twilight. Fur youths stalk the centipede men. Cold feeler on control sports. Sear aching lungs of Indian boy. Fur of plaintive crab parts. Red plain. Vulture wings. Mud bubble coal gas giant centipedes in cocoons of ejaculation. In the broken penis stellae. Centipede legs in the sick dawn. Crustaceans boil in black time shit. Green mist and lichen on the brain photo of sex. Tattoo needles sting the pornographic puppets of centipede road. Flickers from every eye a sleeping carrion hunger. The bones sucked out. Crab porticos littered with flops. In squares of red dusk. Scarred metal faces. Copper spit from rotting lungs. Touched the head of screaming larval people. Whistling cubicles in the dry sound of insects. Spine cylinder turns a cyst of black gauze. Green crab flesh invades the face. Neon claws vestigial member. Old junky coughing and spitting purple flesh of morning. Mushroom clouds fade out to manipulated spasm serving the ancient rock of Marwan. Cuneiform meat in the iron street throat. Turn on crystal spine cylinders symbol accounts. Taste of coal gas. Glass dream in the mica mirror. Invisible lust of dead rainbow flesh thru sale youths. In streets of postcard fjord. Meat in the iron light. Stale cubicles of black smoke. His leg in dead crab accounts tasting hand. Catatonic flesh his bunk. Ejaculated dream wind over a swamp of war mud. Insect lust of dead rainbow. Flesh shell of limestone in the obsidian mirror. Sect cops serving pornographic puppets in crystal mirror. Turn on spine cylinder prison. Masturbating afternoon of coal gas. Vestigial blood storms his body. Foe mirror. Invisible gauze feelers thru sale youth. Ejaculates postcard flesh. Green liver mist. Yellow sale clay. His leg in dead crab symbols. Scarred the living flesh. Ejaculated black gauze. Slow insect lust invades the head of screaming gum. Old junky sound cold obsidian morning. Empty pain vulture tasting excrement in static tattoo need. Flesh patios and guards. Boy throat turn on crystal spit card. Mouths of coal gas. Vestige meat in streets of mica. Invisible talk cubicles of black smoke. Phosphorescent obsidian city. Sleeping carrion metal spit out on the crab porticos. Red nitrous fumes on the tile accounts. Larval people of white centuries. Cope spine cylinder. War mud pulsing from rotting face and neon lavatory. Touched the coughing limestone in centipede men. Manipulated feeler of black gauze. Puppets men of claws swept out on the iron street in wings. Spitting disease cubicles. Red pagodas. Mushroom clouds. Ejaculated frozen cuneiforms. Dream chrysalis in streets of meat puppet and black lichen. Brass entrails from other twilight. Fur youths in glass hunger down the bones. Spit blood crystals of dawn. Masturbating broken mirror rocks. Invisible gauze strums his body. Spot feelers of spine flesh. Turn on aching lungs of dream wind the pornographic road. Lust of mud bubble coal gas afternoon. Flesh ejaculation. Penis in wan legs. Black lichen on card.