William Burroughs
William S. Burroughs, 1914–1997
William S. Burroughs was a Beat Generation writer known for his startling, nontraditional accounts of drug culture, most famously in the book 'Naked Lunch.'
William Burroughs became one of the founding figures of the Beat Movement. An addict for years, he crafted books like Junky and Naked Lunch, which were harrowing, often grotesque looks at drug culture. He is cited as a major influence on countercultural figures in the world of music as well and worked on several recording projects.
School and Travels
Born on February 5, 1914, in St. Louis, Missouri, Burroughs was born to Laura Lee and Mortimer Burroughs. Burroughs was named after his famous grandfather, an inventor who was a pioneer in adding-machine technology.
Burroughs attended prep schools and later studied English literature at Harvard University, where he graduated in 1936. He traveled to Europe and met and married Ilse Klapper for the purpose of allowing her entry into the United States. The two ended the union upon their entry into the states.
Meeting Fellow Beats Ginsberg and Kerouac
Trying different career paths to no avail, Burroughs eventually traveled to New York and met writers Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac in the mid-1940s. The three would be heralded as starting the Beat Movement, an artistic outpouring of nontraditional, free expression.
During the mid-1940s, Burroughs and Kerouac collaborated on a novel about the murder of a friend—And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks—that was published decades later posthumously. Burroughs developed a relationship with Joan Vollmer during this time as well and they would live together as husband and wife starting in 1945. Burroughs was also open about his attraction to men, and he and Ginsberg had been lovers.
Burroughs had started to use opiates and descended into heroin addiction. He was also a gun enthusiast and, while living with his family in Mexico City in 1951, played a drunken game of target practice with Vollmer and accidentally shot her to death. He did not receive major prison time, yet would struggle with demons for years to come as a result of the killing.
Writing 'Junky' and 'Naked Lunch'
Burroughs published his first novel, Junky, in 1953 under the name William Lee. The work featured an unflinching, semi-autobiographical look at drug, or "junk," culture. He continued to travel and eventually ended up in Tangiers, strung out and running out of financial resources. He realized he would perish if he didn’t change his path and so traveled to London to receive apomorphine treatments, which he credits as curing his addiction.
With the help of Ginsberg and Kerouac, Burroughs wrote the novel Naked Lunch in Tangiers, which continued to follow the exploits of William Lee in a disturbing drug culture journey. The book featured nonlinear narrative forms with elements of sadomasochism, metamorphoses and satire. Published in 1959, the book wouldn’t be released in the United States until the 1960s due to a highly publicized governmental ban over its content, which pushed Burroughs into the spotlight. He became a figure both acclaimed and spurned.
Around the time of Lunch's release, inspired by artist Brion Gysin, Burroughs began to experiment with the cut-up technique, where random lines of text were cut from a page and rearranged to form new sentences, with the intention of freeing reader's minds from conventional, linear modes of thought. Using this technique with elements of satire and sci-fi, the 1960s saw Burroughs releasing novels like The Soft Machine (1961) and Nova Express (1964), which indicted consumerism and social repression, and the nonfiction work The Yage Letters (1963).
Musical Influence
Burroughs played with audio cut-ups as well via tape recordings. He released his first album in 1965, Call Me Burroughs, which featured his readings of text from Naked Lunch and The Soft Machine. Burroughs not only made waves in the literary world but became a huge influence for many musical artists of the day. The acts Soft Machine and Steely Dan took their names from the writer’s work and Burroughs went on to collaborate with artists of the avant-garde like Laurie Anderson, Sonic Youth and Genesis P-Orridge.
Burroughs continued his literary pursuits as well in the early 1970s, publishing The Wild Boys: A Book of the Dead (1971) and Exterminator! (1973) and penning a screenplay, The Last Words of Dutch Schulz. By the end of the decade, he worked on a book with Gysin that delved into their cut-up philosophy—The Third Mind (1978).
Burroughs would face family tragedy yet again as his son Billy Burroughs Jr., also a writer, succumbed to substance addiction and died from alcohol-related trauma in 1981.
In 1983, Burroughs was elected to the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters, and in 1984 was awarded the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres by France. Jack Kerouac called Burroughs the "greatest satirical writer since Jonathan Swift," a reputation he owes to his "lifelong subversion" of the moral, political and economic systems of modern American society, articulated in often darkly humorous sardonicism. J. G. Ballard considered Burroughs to be "the most important writer to emerge since the Second World War," while Norman Mailer declared him "the only American writer who may be conceivably possessed by genius."
Death
Burroughs died in Lawrence, Kansas, in 1997.
The POETRY OF WILLIAM BURROUGHS:
An Ongoing Attempt to Collect the Poetry of William S. Burroughs:
William S. Burroughs is generally considered a novelist. To make the case that he was also a poet is neither revisionist nor perverse but absurd. After all, Burroughs paid about as much obeisance to genre or medium as he did to the law. His work consistently ignored the traditional boundaries between forms of creative production — to the point where, if you were really to collect Burroughs’ “poetry,” you would be hard-pressed to explain why you might leave out Naked Lunch. It may well be the most “poetic” text he ever wrote.
And what of the cut-up? Is it poetry, prose, or something else altogether? Oliver Harris has broached the question in his essay “‘Burroughs Is a Poet Too, Really’: The Poetics of Minutes to Go.” Harris writes that, in Minutes to Go, poetry “is not understood in terms of words on the page but as the ‘place’ reached by a particular use of chance operations on pre-existing words.” It is a method “to be grasped by doing,” not a “content to be understood by interpretation.” This insightful analysis could serve as an introduction to this somewhat quixotic attempt to collect the poetry of William Burroughs, and Oliver Harris has very graciously allowed RealityStudio to republish it.
Poems by William S. Burroughs
An extract from NAKED LUNCH (below)
Dead Whistle Stop Already End (Floating Bear 24, 1962)
Spain & 42 St. (Floating Bear 24, 1962)
Where Flesh Circulates (Floating Bear 24, 1962)
Cold Lost Marbles (1972)
My Legs Señor (1973)
Fear and the Monkey (Pearl 6, 1978)
Pistol Poem 2 (A William Burroughs Birthday Book, 1994)
Pistol Poem 3 (A William Burroughs Birthday Book, 1994)
Naked Lunch (an extract):
A waste of raw pink shame to the pastel blue horizon where vast iron mesas crash into the shattered sky, "It's all right." The God screams through you three thousand year rusty load....
Hail of crystal skulls shattered the greenhouse to slivers in the winter moon....
The American woman has left a whiff of poison behind in the dank St. Louis garden party. Pool covered with green slime in a ruined French garden. Huge pathic frog rises slowly from the water on a mud platform playing the clavichord.A Sollubi rushes into the bar and starts polishing The Saint's shoes with the oil on his nose....
The Saint kicks him petulantly in the mouth. The Sollubi screams, whirls around and shits on the Saint's pants. Then he dashes into the street. A pimp looks after him speculatively....
The Saint calls the manager: "Jesus, Al, what kinda creep joint you running here? My brand new fishskin Degagees..."
"I'm sorry, Saint. He slipped by me."
(The Sollubi are an untouchable caste in Arabia noted for their abject vileness. De luxe cafes are equipped with Sollubi who rim the guests while they eat -- holes in the seating benches being provided for this purpose. Citizens who want to be utterly humiliated and degraded -- so many people do, nowadays, hoping to jump the gun -- over themselves up for passive homosexual intercourse to an encampment of Sollubis.... Nothing like it, they tell me.... In fact, the Sollubi are subject to become wealthy and arrogant and lose their native vileness. What is origin of untouchable? Perhaps a fallen priest caste. In fact, untouchables perform a priestly function in taking on themselves all human vileness.)
A. J. strolls through the Market in black cape with a vulture perched on one shoulder. He stands by a table of agents.
"This you gotta hear. Boy in Los Angeles fifteen year old. Father decide it is time the boy have his first piece of ass. Boy is lying on the lawn reading comic books, father go out and say: 'Son, here's twenty dollars; I want you to go to a good whore and get a piece of ass off her.'
"So they drive to this plush jump joint, and the father say, 'All right, son. You're on your own. So ring the bell and when the woman come give her the twenty dollars and tell her you want a piece of ass.'
" 'Solid, pop.'
"So about fifteen minutes later the boy comes out:
" 'Well, son, did you get a piece of ass?'
" 'Yeah. This gash comes to the door, and I say I want a piece of ass and lay the double sawski on her. We go up to her trap, and she remove the dry goods. So I switch my blade and cut a big hunk off her ass, she raise a beef like I am reduce to pull off one shoe and beat her brains out. Then I hump her for kicks."
Only the laughing bones remain, flesh over the hills and far away with the dawn wind and a train whistle. We are not unaware of the problem, and the needs of our constituents are never out of our mind being their place of residence and who can break a ninety-nine year synapses lease?
Another installment in the adventures of Clem Snide the Private Ass Hole: "So I walk in the joint, and this female hustler sit at the bar, and I think, 'Oh God you're poule de luxe already.' I mean it's like I see the gash before. So I don't pay her no mind at first, then I dig she is rubbing her legs together and working her feet up behind her head shoves it down to give herself a douche job with a gadget sticks out of her nose the way a body can't help but notice."
Iris -- half Chinese and half Negro -- addicted to dihy-dro-oxy-heroin -- takes a shot every fifteen minutes to which end she leaves droppers and needles sticking out all over her. The needles rust in her dry flesh, which, here and there, has grown completely over a joint to form a smooth green brown wen. On the table in front of her is a samovar of tea and a twenty-pound hamper of brown sugar. No one has ever seen her eat anything else. It -is only just before a shot that she hears what anyone says or talks herself. Then she makes some flat, factual statement relative to her own person.
"My asshole is occluding."
"My cunt got terrible green juices."
Iris is one of Benway's projects. "The human body can run on sugar alone, God damn it.... I am aware that certain of my learned colleagues, who are attempting to belittle my genius work, claim that I put vitamins and proteins into Iris's sugar clandestinely.... I challenge these nameless assholes to crawl up out of their latrines and run a spot analysis on Iris's sugar and her tea. Iris is a wholesome American cunt. I deny categorically that she nourishes herself on semen. And let me take this opportunity to state that I am a reputable scientist, not a charlatan, a lunatic, or a pretended worker of miracles.... I never claimed that Iris could subsist exclusive on photosynthesis.... I did not say she could breathe in carbon dioxide and give off oxygen -- I confess I have been tempted to experiment being of course restrained by my medical ethics.... In short, the vile slanders of my creeping opponents will inevitably fall back onto them and come to roost like a homing stool pigeon."
Many an ill-starred actor has felt the icy blast of Slashtubitch's displeasure: "Get out of my studio, you cheap four-flushing ham! Did you think to pass a counterfeit orgasm on me! THE GREAT SLASHTU-BITCH! I could tell if you come by regard the beeg toe. Idiot! Mindless scum!! Insolent baggage!!! Go peddle thy ass and know that it takes sincerity and art, and devotion, to work for Slashtubitch. Not shoddy trickery, dubbed gasps, rubber turds and vials of milk concealed in the ear and shots of Yohimbine sneaked in the wings." ( Yohimbine, derived from the bark of a tree growing in Central Africa, is the safest and most efficient aphrodisiac. It operates by dilating the blood vessels on the surface of the skin, particularly in the genital area. )
Slashtubitch ejects his monocle. It sails out of sight, returns like a boomerang into his eye. He pirouettes and disappears in a blue mist, cold as liquid air...fadeout....
On Screen. Red-haired, green-eyed boy, white skin with a few freckles... kissing a thin brunette girl in slacks. Clothes and hair-do suggest existentialist bars of all the world cities. They are seated on low bed covered in white silk. The girl opens his pants with gentle fingers and pulls out his cock which is small and very hard. A drop of lubricant gleams at its tip like a pearl. She caresses the crown gently: "Strip, Johnny." He takes off his clothes with swift sure movements and stands naked before her, his cock pulsing. She makes a motion for him to turn around and he pirouettes across the floor parodying a model, hand on hip. She takes off her shirt.
Her breasts are high and small with erect nipples. She slips off her underpants. Her pubic hairs are black and shiny. He sits down beside her and reaches for her breast. She stops his hands.
"Darling, I want to rim you," she whispers.
"No. Not now."
"Please, I want to."
"Well, all right. I'll go wash my ass."
"No, I'll wash it."
"Aw shucks now, it ain't dirty."
"Yes it is. Come on now, Johnny boy."
She leads him into the bathroom. "All right, get down." He gets down on his knees and leans forward, with his chin on the bath mat. "Allah," he says. He looks back and grins at her. She washes his ass with soap and hot water sticking her finger up it.
"Does that hurt?"
"Noooooooooo."
"Come along, baby." She leads the way into the bedroom. He lies down on his back and throws his legs back over his head, clasping elbows behind his knees. She kneel down and caress the backs of his thighs, his balls, running her fingers down the perennial divide. She push his cheeks apart, lean down and begin licking the anus, moving her head in a slow circle. She push at the sides of the asshole, licking deeper and deeper. He close his eyes and squirm. She lick up the perennial divide. His small, tight balls.... A great pearl stands out on the tip of his circumcised cock. Her mouth closes over the crown. She sucks rhythmically up and down, pausing on the up stroke and moving her head around in a circle. Her hand plays gently with his balls, slide down and middle finger up his ass. As she suck down toward the root of his cock she tickle his prostate mockingly. He grin and fart. She is sucking his cock now in a frenzy. His body begins to contract, pulling up toward his chin. Each time the contraction is longer.
"Wheeeeeeee!" the boy yell, every muscle tense, his whole body strain to empty through his cock. She drinks his jissom which fills her mouth in great hot spurts. He lets his feet Hop back onto the bed. He arches his back and yawns. Mary is strapping on a rubber penis: "Steely Dan III from Yokohama," she says, caressing the shaft. Milk spurts across the room.
"Be sure that milk is pasteurized. Don't go giving me some kinda awful cow disease like anthrax or glanders or aftosa...."
"When I was a transvestite Liz in Chi used to work as an exterminator. Make advances to pretty boys for the thrill of being beaten as a man. Later I catch this one kid, overpower him with supersonic judo I learned from an old Lesbian Zen monk. I tie him up, strip off his clothes with a razor and fuck him with Steely Dan I. He is so relieved I don't castrate him literal he come all over my bedbug spray."
"What happen to Steely Dan II"
"He was torn in two by a bull dike. Most terrific vaginal grip I ever experienced. She could cave in a lead pipe. It was one of her parlor tricks."
"And Steely Dan II"
"Chewed to bits by a famished candiru in the Upper Baboonsasshole. And don't say 'Wheeeeeeee!' this time."
"Why not? It's real boyish."
"Barefoot boy, check thy bullheads with the madame."
He looks at the ceiling, hands behind his head, cock pulsing.
"So what shall I do? Can't shit with that dingus up me. I wonder is it possible to laugh and come at the same time? I recall, during the war, at the Jockey Club in Cairo, me and my asshole buddy, Lu, both gentlemen by act of Congress... nothing else could have done such a thing to either of us.... So we got laughing so hard we piss all over ourselves and the waiter say: 'You bloody hash-heads, get out of here!' I mean, if I can laugh the piss out of me I should be able to laugh out jissom. So tell me something real funny when I start coming. You can tell by certain premonitory quiverings of the prostate gland...."
She puts on a record, metallic cocaine be-bop. She greases the dingus, shoves the boy's legs over his head and works it up his ass with a series of corkscrew movements of her fluid hips. She moves in a slow circle, revolving on the axis of the shaft. She rubs her hard nipples across his chest. She kisses him on neck and chin and eyes. He runs his hands down her back to her buttocks, pulling her into his ass. She revolves faster, faster. His body jerks and writhes in convulsive spasms.
"Hurry up, please," she says. "The milk is getting cold."
He does not hear. She presses her mouth against his. Their faces run together. His sperm hits her breast with light, hot licks.
Mark is standing in the doorway. He wears a turtleneck black sweater. Cold, handsome, narcissistic face. Green eyes and black hair. He looks at Johnny with a slight sneer, his head on one side, hands on his jacket
Pistol Poem No. 2
Who Controls The Control Men
Who Controls The Men Control
Who Controls Control Men The
Who Controls Control The Men
Who Controls Men The Control
Who Controls Men Control The
Who The Control Men Controls
Who The Control Controls Men
Who The Men Controls Control
Who The Men Control Controls
Who The Controls Control Men
Who The Controls Men Control
Who Control Men Controls The
Who Control Men The Controls
Who Control Controls The Men
Who Control Controls Men The
Who Control The Men Controls
Who Control The Controls Men
Who Men Controls The Control
Who Men Controls Control The
Who Men The Control Controls
Who Men The Controls Control
Who Men Control Controls The
Who Men Control The Controls
Controls The Control Men Who
Controls The Control Who Men
Controls The Men Who Control
Controls The Men Control Who
Controls The Who Control Men
Controls The Who Men Control
Controls Control Men Who The
Controls Control Men The Who
Controls Control Who The Men
Controls Control Who Men The
Controls Control The Men Who
Controls Control The Who Men
Controls Men Who The Control
Controls Men Who Control The
Controls Men The Control Who
Controls Men The Who Control
Controls Men Control Who The
Controls Men Control The Who
Controls Who The Control Men
Controls Who The Men Control
Controls Who Control Men The
Controls Who Control The Men
Controls Who Men The Control
Controls Who Men Control The
The Control Men Who Controls
The Control Men Controls Who
The Control Who Controls Men
The Control Who Men Controls
The Control Controls Men Who
The Control Controls Who Men
The Men Who Controls Control
The Men Who Control Controls
The Men Controls Control Who
The Men Controls Who Control
The Men Control Who Controls
The Men Control Controls Who
The Who Controls Control Men
The Who Controls Men Control
The Who Control Men Controls
The Who Control Controls Men
The Who Men Controls Control
The Who Men Control Controls
The Controls Control Men Who
The Controls Control Who Men
The Controls Men Who Control
The Controls Men Control Who
The Controls Who Control Men
The Controls Who Men Control
Control Men Who Controls The
Control Men Who The Controls
Control Men Controls The Who
Control Men Controls Who The
Control Men The Who Controls
Control Men The Controls Who
Control Who Controls The Men
Control Who Controls Men The
Control Who The Men Controls
Control Who The Controls Men
Control Who Men Controls The
Control Who Men The Controls
Control Controls The Men Who
Control Controls The Who Men
Control Controls Men Who The
Control Controls Men The Who
Control Controls Who The Men
Control Controls Who Men The
Control The Men Who Controls
Control The Men Controls Who
Control The Who Controls Men
Control The Who Men Controls
Control The Controls Men Who
Control The Controls Who Men
Men Who Controls The Control
Men Who Controls Control The
Men Who The Control Controls
Men Who The Controls Control
Men Who Control Controls The
Men Who Control The Controls
Men Controls The Control Who
Men Controls The Who Control
Men Controls Control Who The
Men Controls Control The Who
Men Controls Who The Control
Men Controls Who Control The
Men The Control Who Controls
Men The Control Controls Who
Men The Who Controls Control
Men The Who Control Controls
Men The Controls Control Who
Men The Controls Who Control
Men Control Who Controls The
Men Control Who The Controls
Men Control Controls The Who
Men Control Controls Who The
Men Control The Who Controls
Men Control The Controls Who
3. Where Flesh Circulates
Its so hard to remember in the world - - Weren't you there? Dead so you
think of ports - - Couldn't reach flesh - - Might have to reach flesh from
anybody - -
And i will depart under the Red Masters
for strange dawn words of color exalting their
falling on my face impending attack satellite in a
Gold and perfumes of light city red stone
shadows brick terminal time wet dream flesh creakily the
the last feeble faces fountains play stale
spit from crumpled cloth Weimar youths on my face
bodies where flesh circulates Masters of color
exalting their dogs impending attack of light
unaware of the vagrant shadows on the Glass and Metal Streets
silver flying scanning patterns electric dogs
dark street life "Here he is now" staring out
from the dawn he strode toward the flesh jissom webs drifting
where identity scarred metal faces masturbating
"Who him?" spitting blood laugh on the iron afternoons
ejaculates wet dream flesh in red brick Terminal Time
red nitrous fumes under the orange gas flares
grey metal fall out on terminal cities
to the shrinking sky fading color sewage delta
caught in this dead whistle stop post card sky
dead rainbow flesh and copper pagodas flickered on the
in a city of red stone black skin work fish smell and
dead eyes in doorways red water words spitting blood laugh
sharp as water reeds fish syllables
stirring this Moroccan sunlight vagrant noon station
spent in the mirror dawn jissom webs drifting rainbow
speeded up from afternoon's slow ferris wheel flesh.
4. Fear and the Monkey
This text arranged in my New York loft, which is the converted locker room of an old YMCA. Guests have reported the presence of a ghost boy. So this is a Oui-Ja board poem taken from Dumb Instrument, a book of poems by Denton Welch, and spells and invocations from the Necronomicon, a highly secret magical text released in paperback. There is a pinch of Rimbaud, a dash of St-John Perse, an oblique reference to Toby Tyler with the Circus, and the death of his pet monkey.
Turgid itch and the perfume of death
On a whispering south wind
A smell of abyss and of nothingness
Dark Angel of the wanderers howls through the loft
With sick smelling sleep
Morning dream of a lost monkey
Born and muffled under old whimsies
With rose leaves in closed jars
Fear and the monkey
Sour taste of green fruit in the dawn
The air milky and spiced with the trade winds
White flesh was showing
His jeans were so old
Leg shadows by the sea
Morning light
On the sky light of a little shop
On the odor of cheap wine in the sailors' quarter
On the fountain sobbing in the police courtyards
On the statue of moldy stone
On the little boy whistling to stray dogs.
Wanderers cling to their fading home
A lost train whistle wan and muffled
In the loft night taste of water
Morning light on milky flesh
Turgid itch ghost hand
Sad as the death of monkeys
Thy father a falling star
Crystal bone into thin air
Night sky
Dispersal and emptiness.
5. Spain & 42 St.
Language like muttering pant smells running silver scanning
Passed down the Arab Street in the gutter patterns
Translucent medium from its like i talky you of a place
the vacuum of silent panic forgotten red mud flats
sharp fish syllables where is he now? he moved as sharp as water
assassins smile and drink he was caught reeds
broken into scanning patterns in the zoo of legs
dawn words falling fish talk the liquid typewriter spitting blood
where flesh circulates he strode toward flesh of red dusk laugh
purple gills stirring dead whistle stop Spain and 42 st.
its like reeds on the face circulates up through the dark excuses
where flesh identity dawn words falling stirring slow
gills of purple sleep he was caught in the zoo it is no death
where flesh circulates unbelief staring out from dawn skin
of Spain and 42 St.
6. Cold Lost Marbles
my ice skates on a wall
lustre of stumps washes his lavander horizon
he's got a handsome face of a lousy kid
rooming-houses dirty fingers
whistled in the shadow
"Wait for me at the detour."
river… snow… some one vague faded in a mirror
filigree of trade winds
clouds white as lace circling the pepper trees
the film is finished
memory died when their photos weather-worn points of
polluted water under the trees in the mist shadow of
boys by the daybreak in the peony fields cold lost
marbles in the room carnations three ampoules of
morphine little blue-eyes-twilight grins between his
legs yellow fingers blue stars erect boys of sleep
have frozen dreams for I am a teenager pass it on
flesh and bones withheld too long yes sir oui oui
Crapps' last map… lake… a canoe… rose tornado in
the harvest brass echo tropical jeers from Panama
City night fences dead fingers you are in your own body
around and maybe a boy skin spreads to something
else on Long Island the dogs are quiet.
7. My Legs Señor
attic room and window my ice skates on the wall
the Priest could see the bathroom pale yellow wood panels
toilet young legs shiny black leg hairs
"It is my legs señor."
lustre of stumps rinses his lavender horizen
feeling the boy groan and what it meant
face of a lousy kid on the doctor's table
I was the shadow of the waxing evening and strange window panes.
I was the smudge and whine of missed times in the reflected sky
points of polluted water under his lavender horizen window pane
smudge scrawled by some boy cold lost marbles in the room
the doctor's shabby table…his face…
boy skin spreads to something else.
"CHRIST WHAT'S INSIDE?" HE screams
flesh and bones rose tornado
"THAT HURTS"
I was the smudge and whine of shinny back leg hairs
silver paper in the wind frayed sounds of distant city.
8. Cut-Up Poems from Minutes to Go
at land coccus germs
by a bacilmouth Jersy phenicol bitoics
the um vast and varied that
specific target was the vast popul - - - -
the vast
cancers that surgery and Xrays C
In the United States the Americi
is considered well worth our feet. . .
Ociety racks up the score like
sons will become new cancer pee
a third of them. . .
Surgery & Radiation be saved
this leaves 225 000
resistant o rso widely
surgeons and radiologists
These individuals are marked foe. . .
"For these the
the opinion of Dr. Robert P
Dushinski with £ fluoro
he helped synthesize
cancer men
growth in some cases
is worth 12,000 dollars $$$$
cancer men. $
. . . these individuals are marked foe. . .
Cut up New Clues To Cancer Cures
The Saturday Evening Post
Oct. 31, 1959 Past Time
9. Dead Whistle Stop Already End
Ahab to his companion falling over there in any out from the dawn
skin staring stirring unbelief he strode towards a long
drink and looked into the the actors ourselves become
muzzle of Spain and 42 St. old banner illustrating
I was standing by the wax before dead whistle stop already
cross the red moon terminal time scarred end.
scanning patterns on my face me in your back, pal"
dawn words falling will say it all consists in irradiating
this dead whistle stop in the language before creation
he strode towards the actors in the city "Here he is now"
obsidian morning sniffing quivering need masturbating afternoons
spitting blood dead rainbow flesh he moved as sharp as
on the iron streets fish smell and dead eyes water reeds
scarred metal faces running into the mines liquid typewriter
flickered on field where flesh circulates red fish talk falling
he strode towards pant smell language like muttering
Spain and 42 st. running in the gutter where is he now?
the actors dead dawn word falling he was caught in the zoo
whistle stop already scanning patterns jissom webs drifting
slow ferris wheel running rainbow flesh over the White Subway
10. Pistol Poem No.3
Power Is Often Very Quiet
Power Is Often Quiet Very
Power Is Very Quiet Often
Power Is Very Often Quiet
Power Is Quiet Often Very
Power Is Quiet Very Often
Power Often Very Quiet Is
Power Often Very Is Quiet
Power Often Quiet Is Very
Power Often Quiet Very Is
Power Often Is Very Quiet
Power Often Is Quiet Very
Power Very Quiet Is Often
Power Very Quiet Often Is
Power Very Is Often Quiet
Power Very Is Quiet Often
Power Very Often Quiet Is
Power Very Often Is Quiet
Power Quiet Is Often Very
Power Quiet Is Very Often
Power Quiet Often Very Is
Power Quiet Often Is Very
Power Quiet Very Is Often
Power Quiet Very Often Is
Is Often Very Quiet Power
Is Often Very Power Quiet
Is Often Quiet Power Very
Is Often Quiet Very Power
Is Often Power Very Quiet
Is Often Power Quiet Very
Is Very Quiet Power Often
Is Very Quiet Often Power
Is Very Power Often Quiet
Is Very Power Quiet Often
Is Very Often Quiet Power
Is Very Often Power Quiet
Is Quiet Power Often Very
Is Quiet Power Very Often
Is Quiet Often Very Power
Is Quiet Very Power Often
Is Quiet Very Often Power
Is Power Often Very Quiet
Is Power Often Quiet Very
Is Power Very Quiet Often
Is Power Very Often Quiet
Is Power Quiet Often Very
Is Power Quiet Very Ofen
Often Very Quiet Power Is
Often Very Quiet Is Power
Often Very Power Is Quiet
Often Very Power Quiet Is
Often Very Is Quiet Power
Often Very Is Power Quiet
Often Quiet Power Is Very
Often Quiet Power Very Is
Often Quiet Is Very Power
Often Quiet Is Power Very
Often Quiet Very Power Is
Often Quiet Very Is Power
Often Power Is Very Quiet
Often Power Is Quiet Very
Often Power Very Quiet Is
Often Power Very Is Quiet
Often Power Quiet Is Very
Often Power Quiet Very Is
Often Is Very Quiet Power
Often Is Very Power Quiet
Often Is Quiet Power Very
Often Is Quiet Very Power
Often Is Power Very Quiet
Often Is Power Quiet Very
Very Quiet Power Is Often
Very Quiet Power Often Is
Very Quiet Is Often Power
Very Quiet Is Power Often
Very Quiet Often Power Is
Very Quiet Often Is Power
Very Power Is Often Quiet
Very Power Often Quiet Is
Very Power Often Is Quiet
Very Power Quiet Is Often
Very Power Quiet Often Is
Very Is Often Quiet Power
Very Is Often Power Quiet
Very Is Quiet Power Often
Very Is Quiet Often Power
Very Is Power Often Quiet
Very Is Power Quiet Often
Very Often Quiet Power Is
Very Often Quiet Is Power
Very Often Power Is Quiet
Very Often Power Quiet Is
Very Often Is Quiet Power
Very Often Is Power Quiet
Quiet Power Is Often Very
Quiet Power Is Very Often
Quiet Power Often Very Is
Quiet Power Often Is Very
Quiet Power Very Is Often
Quiet Power Very Often Is
Quiet Is Often Very Power
Quiet Is Often Power Very
Quiet Is Very Power Often
Quiet Is Very Often Power
Quiet Is Power Often Very
Quiet Is Power Very Often
Quiet Often Very Power Is
Quiet Often Very Is Power
Quiet Often Power Is Very
Quiet Often Power Very Is
Quiet Often Is Very Power
Quiet Often Is Power Very
Quiet Very Power Is Often
Quiet Very Power Often Is
Quiet Very Is Often Power
Quiet Very Is Power Often
Quiet Very Often Power Is