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.. "If God made anything better he kept it for himself," the Sailor used to say, his transmission slowed down with twenty goof balls. (Pieces of murder fall slow as opal chips through glycerine. ) Watching you and humming over and over "Johnny's So Long At The Fair." Pushing in a small way to keep up our habit.. "And use that alcohol," I say slamming a spirit lamp down on the table. "You fucking can't -- wait -- hungry junkies all the time black up my spoons with matches.... That's all I need for pen Indef. the heat rumbles a black spoon in the trap.... "I thought you was quitting.... Wouldn't feel right fucking up your cure. "Takes a lot of guts to kick a habit, kid." Looking for veins in the thawing flesh. Hour-Glass of junk spills its last black grains into the kidneys.... "Heavily infected area," he muttered, shifting the tie up. "Death was their Culture Hero," said my Old Lady looking up from the Mayan Codices.... "They got fire and speech and the corn seed from death.... Death turns into a maize seed." The Ouab Days are upon us raw pealed winds of hate and mischance blew the shot. "Get those fucking dirty pictures out of here," I told her. The Old Time Schmecker supported himself on a chair back, juiced and goof-balled... a disgrace to his blood. "What are you one of these goof-ball artists?" Yellow smells of skid row sherry and occluding liver drifted out of his clothes when he made the junky ges- ture throwing the hand out palm up to cope... smell of chili houses and dank overcoats and atro- phied testicles.... He looked at me through the tentative, ectoplasmic flesh of cure... thirty pounds materialized in a month when you kick... soft pink putty that fades at the first silent touch of junk.... I saw it happen... ten pounds lost in ten minutes... standing there with the syringe in one hand... holding his pants up with the other sharp reek of diseased metal. Walking in a rubbish heap to the sky... scattered gasoline fires... smoke hangs black and solid as excre- ment in the motionless air... smudging the white film of noon heat... D.L. walks beside me... a reflection of my toothless gums and hairless skull . flesh smeared over the rotting phosphorescent bones consumed by slow cold fires... He carries an open can of gasoline and the smell of gasoline envelopes him. .Coming over a hill of rusty iron we meet a group of Natives... Hat two-dimension faces of scavenger fish.... "Throw the gasoline on them and light it.... QUICK... white Hash... mangled insect screams . I woke up with the taste of metal in my mouth back from the dead trailing the colorless death smell afterbirth of a withered grey monkey phantom twinges of amputation... "Taxi boys waiting for a pickup," Eduardo said and died of an overdose in Madrid. |
