I'm Not On Drugs, I Swear. I'm Just On Burroughs.
Just thought I'd post a little something I scribbled out in german today. Be warned, it's weird.
On the first day I shot a man just so I could watch him die. My eyes met his across the counter at the gas station and my fingers twitched for the gun hidden beneath my coat and I vaulted over the counter and fired. One. Two. Three. I slapped forty dollars down to pay for the full tank of gas and the three plastic cigarette lighters. His cheap nametag had read ‘Mick’. In his honor I slammed on my Rolling Stones cassette and drove all day and all night and all day and all night until eternity melted into a minute.
At dusk I stopped at a graveyard in Kansas and dug up the grave of William S. Burroughs and pulled his skull out of the coffin. We passed a bottle of sticky sweet wine and a cigarette(his lips so rotted he held it with his teeth) and he told me what it was like to have his insides eaten by a thousand creepy-crawlies, the feeling of his organs falling to a stew of rot. And when morning came I kissed him, skin flaking off beneath my fingers and the bitter flavor of rot, decay, death flowing into my mouth. I bid him goodbye as I placed his head on its torn silk pillow and he asked what was on the end of my fork.
Later, in a diner which smelled of stale grease where I sat drinking cup after bitter cup of horrible coffee I met Jack Kerouac. I told him I had seen his old lover. He simply smiled and invited me over, and for three days we talked obsessively and fucked as often as our bodies could tolerate until one night, with the junk still swirling translucent in our candy pink veins and the needle still nestled in the crook of his elbow we melded together, souls and bodies and minds, the atoms of our bodies interlocking. The next morning I awoke and he offered me a swig from a bottle of bourbon then let me go on my way.
At the side of a road I didn’t remember driving in the middle of a desert no one has bothered to name I happened upon a temple where the monks worshipped a god who was at once Buddha and Allah and a Goddess and Vishnu and Zeus and Apocatequil. They bathed me in sweet-smelling oils and combed my hair and dressed me in clean white robes and would not speak to me, only smile and kiss my hand. Then they came to me one night, creeping softly beneath the watchful eye of the stars, and each kissed my closed eyes, then my palms, then the soles of my feet, and then right above the swell of my breast where my heart beat.
When next I awoke I was on the curb of a street in New York. A bum offered me a map to the Garden of Eden in exchange for a meal. I gave him my wallet then burnt the worn piece of parchment with a plastic lighter. ‘Mick,’ I thought, then climbed the stairs to the roof of the tallest building and stood on the edge then closed my eyes and walked off.
On the first day I shot a man just so I could watch him die. My eyes met his across the counter at the gas station and my fingers twitched for the gun hidden beneath my coat and I vaulted over the counter and fired. One. Two. Three. I slapped forty dollars down to pay for the full tank of gas and the three plastic cigarette lighters. His cheap nametag had read ‘Mick’. In his honor I slammed on my Rolling Stones cassette and drove all day and all night and all day and all night until eternity melted into a minute.
At dusk I stopped at a graveyard in Kansas and dug up the grave of William S. Burroughs and pulled his skull out of the coffin. We passed a bottle of sticky sweet wine and a cigarette(his lips so rotted he held it with his teeth) and he told me what it was like to have his insides eaten by a thousand creepy-crawlies, the feeling of his organs falling to a stew of rot. And when morning came I kissed him, skin flaking off beneath my fingers and the bitter flavor of rot, decay, death flowing into my mouth. I bid him goodbye as I placed his head on its torn silk pillow and he asked what was on the end of my fork.
Later, in a diner which smelled of stale grease where I sat drinking cup after bitter cup of horrible coffee I met Jack Kerouac. I told him I had seen his old lover. He simply smiled and invited me over, and for three days we talked obsessively and fucked as often as our bodies could tolerate until one night, with the junk still swirling translucent in our candy pink veins and the needle still nestled in the crook of his elbow we melded together, souls and bodies and minds, the atoms of our bodies interlocking. The next morning I awoke and he offered me a swig from a bottle of bourbon then let me go on my way.
At the side of a road I didn’t remember driving in the middle of a desert no one has bothered to name I happened upon a temple where the monks worshipped a god who was at once Buddha and Allah and a Goddess and Vishnu and Zeus and Apocatequil. They bathed me in sweet-smelling oils and combed my hair and dressed me in clean white robes and would not speak to me, only smile and kiss my hand. Then they came to me one night, creeping softly beneath the watchful eye of the stars, and each kissed my closed eyes, then my palms, then the soles of my feet, and then right above the swell of my breast where my heart beat.
When next I awoke I was on the curb of a street in New York. A bum offered me a map to the Garden of Eden in exchange for a meal. I gave him my wallet then burnt the worn piece of parchment with a plastic lighter. ‘Mick,’ I thought, then climbed the stairs to the roof of the tallest building and stood on the edge then closed my eyes and walked off.