Burroughs Inspired Freewrite
the necessary equipment is two halves. the thingliness of the thing and sexual conflict is the other where a great excess. programs the sewage of her veins. let us start with a stupid junky. the junk god lives in him and operates. he sees himself as whole until the junk machine breaks down. present time form. i want to dictate the use of criminals to fuck up your shit. helpless to intervene when green capitalism tells us it'll be ok on the view-screen. we'll make it safe. if there is one idiosyncracy i will hold onto my thousands of human agents who give themselves over to my life so that i can protest green capitalism and dance naked with my pink flamingos. light and shade departed. in the open air i masturbated blind in the view of the sun. i was the ship and we drowned. i want red knife in the heart, this time, leave my second chakra alone! lets ebb carbon in the veins. a dream bends down and eats the silver flakes from our paintings when we deprint them, 1920's movies, brainwaves. clinked windchimes like the fuck-me drink we toast and down. was it brandy? did i suck whisky from your asshole?
soft blue bent over eyes sound like dusty semen on the radio static, times ten in the shadows. but not when you're listening because it's not yet ten years from now when we are dead and not quite numb in inner ovens. the enemy planet always wins, because their bodies though hard and green are still more flexible than ours lying broken, unresisting in bars searching for association lines. these human spots never found by converged cow-eyes. old women and little boys surrounded by american suburbs, cracked concrete, too empty, too clean and never blue or green enough. the doorways always empty with no eyes and i wish they were chemists' shops vibrating with miniscule orgasms of galaxies like tarot cards. meanwhile we will forget this time and our mutual erections will evaporate like nitrous oxide panicking in our dusty brains moving in slow-motion. i might have to take a shower afterwards because it gets in my hair.
pesto joe stood naked in the sense withdrawal room. rectums orgasm quivering like a burning dollar pile. nitrous film lining my esophagous as i swallow this giant scalpel-lined cock. pearly lust across the shape of your chest crown. soundtrack is your underwear pattern. flipped out sex freak dummy punk funk. immediately i enveloped the applicant cock at the earliest possible moment. i drummed out hard crusty throat of the prostate council. the council itself flapped window filibustering in khakis for days. they slept at night eating shadow eggs and slept in flower petals. i meanwhile iridescent eel, obsidian cities that networked like veins across the face of a countryside. bled green children. i sucked creatures off the ground, black and squirmy, tender and crunchy. explosion of frog pimples and finally i smoked pack after pack of dogs, down to the filter every time. and slept in a pond with naked ugly bitches who toxined my flesh with their tongues and fattened my gullet at night.
let me take another bite of this. chew it throughly. this unseen presence that afflicts me like a disease paralyzing me. note: this is not a shallow land-crab superstition. switch on switch off. all these parties and lunches. vibrating cosmic rectum laughter in my bones won't last as long as these space photographs that you love more than me. rusty slow jelly movements the color of your sperm is not blue like your crumpled body. i don't know where you keep your meatballs. do you ever stop pulsating? do you ever stop ejaculating? do you ever stop waiting for the sunrises? our body sounds in the streets writhing like tapeworms with risky expedience. science or miracle? no matter. this loneliness is as urgent as flowerbeds of rockets. viscous spines melting together in the streets. do you ever stop squirming? do you ever stop ejaculating?
