The Subliminal Kid charters your attention please – Burroughs

Beyond great bored cathedrals and inebriated streets, weary of coffee-houses and of the wine bars, I come to rest by the banks of
the Seine. Trying my hardest to live in the present, refusing to take photographs of floating beer cans, cigarettes and soggy baguettes.
City lights, human slaughter house.

This pellucid emblem, a Truth atrophied, dealt the fatal blow and eased screaming into a further caress — not unlike that intimate maneuver from kiss to kill. A malevolence in her movements, a further purpose to her overtures, her hands have reached regardless into the forbidden hospice of sleep, now awoken.

I remember you said, as we looked from the window of your little room above Boulevard Voltaire, at Sacre Coeur in the distance — the shadow, just a theory, a reminder of self, to not go stalking the messiah in cathedrals built by whores. Some uncertain planetary gender, insect and repulsive.

A busted umbrella among other junk by the tracks, a puppy running into traffic , ash from abattoirs sifted on trees. A flower under
a tractor wheel, a child who dies laughing at a cartoon. Those abandoned panties in the shadows of the tenement building where the air blows cool.

A horse, sunk in a drying lake, sensing death as the farmer strokes her head and then takes aim. The windowpane your fist goes through when receiving unwelcome news, the wine stains on your sheets, probably blood. All the lies you have told, when you meant to tell the truth.

In bed, Faith says — I dreamed of suicide. Her lover, Futility, absent-mindedly smoothing back his hair, intones — you should do it, but only after Promise breaks the deal. Promise unfastens her bra and steps clumsy toward them, like a lady drinking milk on a train, at once iconic and awkward.

Had Futility contemplated the implications (making his bed and sleeping in it too), he would not have been surprised that afterwards Faith still slit her wrists. Promise left her lingerie. He thought about that for hours. His heart a stood on insect, a cacophony of grey splayed across the floor.

Several swans dying on a septic pond after a man with a rotting god in his pocket walked along the shore, a fugitive singer with a stolen song. He also baited nearly every dog in town, arsenic in beef steak — still salivating as they foamed, friends until the very end.

She, examining her injuries – insignia to the disaffected, token of real emotion, (no joke) now reaches back into the insincere mouth and assaults the tongue. Photographs of mad pale gardens and love-soaked satin – that noble tenuous bull throbbing for the wound — the worm, desirous for an eternity, now a serpent.

O Agony! I could die beneath the balcony of your breasts, you love me like a butcher. You cause in me, an epilepsy of the soul. These, among Futility’s various post-romantic notions, failed to move Faith;. She rose, an inodorous nautilus, shadowing him with the optical immensity of antique wings.

I awake in a clairvoyant morning burdened with ancestry. Promise, bathing with the door open. Whereat Zeus would seduce her, I close my Aristotelian eyes, disgusted with image and similitude. I await the covenant, some new secret creed to teach my children, some sweet sad rhetoric to seduce the reader.

Seriously, what, beyond our aspirations? But one kiss from Jesus beneath the clerestories and the machinations fail, endemic cities going dark, the techno-feudal dawn — *1 until this morning and this snow. The kind old sun will know — his caress only blasphemous to the undead, straw-men and the damned.

Met a mad sculptor by the Seine. He said something in French I didn’t understand, but I nodded, pretending. *2 And I would rather have my sweet, though rose-leaves die of grieving. Odysseus, an immortal and divine vagabond, dances at this party, but not to our music.

The Hustler on the hill in Paris, where the burning man watched Margot smile as he died, in all white ADIDAS, took my money and ran. My intention to smoke hashish at the grave of Baudelaire — dashed. I ventured on the Met to Montparnasse, and cried there in the rain.

Faith said, clinging so hard to sanity she has broken nails, that she doesn’t understand Creationists, that — God seems to me an imaginary friend, the end, when it comes cannot be seen as an act of love, no matter how you spin it. Studying evolutionary biology does that to you.

This for entertainment – a woman drinking the ejaculate of pack animals from her own womb using a specially designed glass pipe – becomes animal herself, the sheer intensity of the carnal moment literally stamps out the angel, a discarded cigarette under a stiletto spike – also available in high definition, commercial free.