The Ticket That Exploded

by William S. Burroughs

  “What is it?”

  “Marijuana. Ever try it?”

  “No” . . John lit the cigarette and passed it to Bill. “Take it all the way down and hold it. . That’s right. .”

  Bill felt a prickling in his lips. The wallpaper seemed to glow. Then he was laughing doubled over on the bed laughing until it hurt his ribs laughing. “My God I’ve pissed in my pants.”

  (Recollect in the officers’ club Calcutta Mike and me was high on Ganja laughed till we pissed all over ourselves and the steward said “You bloody hash heads get out of here.”)

  He stood up his grey flannel pants stained down the left leg sharp odor of urine in the hot St. Louis night.

  “Take them off I can lend you a pair.”

  Bill kicked off his moccasins. Hands on his belt he hesitated.

  “John I uh . .”

  “Well so what?”

  “All right.” Bill dropped his pants and shorts.

  “Your dick is getting hard ... Sit here.” John patted the bed beside him.

  Bill tossed his shirt onto a chair. He stretched his legs out and knocked his feet together.

  John tossed his shirt onto the floor by the window. He stood up and dropped his pants. He was wearing red shorts. He pulled his shorts down scraping erection and dropped the shorts over the lamp testing the heat with his hands. “All right,” he decided his gentle precise fingers on Bill’s shoulder fold sweet ecetera to bed — EE Cummings if my memory serves and what have I my friend to give you? Monkey bones of eddie and bill? John’s shirt in the dawn light? . . dawn sleep . . smell of late morning in the room? Sad old human papers I carry . . empty magic of young nights . . Now listen . . ugh . . the dust the bribe . . (precise finger touching dead old path) . . was a window . . you . . ten-year-old face of laughter . . was a window of laughter shook the valley . . sunlight in his eyes for an instant Johnny’s figure shone to your sudden “do it” .. stain on the sheets . . smell of young nights . .

  vaudeville voices

  Clinic outside East St. Louis on stilts over the wide brown river took in a steady stream of distant events — That week they could stay on the nod — time there after a rumble in Dallas — Music runs back to the ‘20s — Ten-year-old keeping watch — cracked pavements — sharp scent of weeds that grow in suburbs — pool hall and vaudeville voices —

  So we turn over steady stream of distant events and we flush out traces of a time that meanwhile i had forgotten — wet air thick and dirty on the garage — sharp scent of memory pictures coming in — Looked for him he was gone — I met everybody in deserted cemetery with wooden crosses — There was a mulatto about —

  “True? — i can’t feel it — Yes you have his face — healed and half-healed skin — Put it on — Without you i on pavement — perhaps if you had helped me — Good bye then — That silver film took it away from me — Well fade-out” —

  Trails my Summer dawn wind in other flesh strung together on scar impressions of young Panama night — Pictures exploded in the kerosene lamp spattered light on naked rectum open shirt flapping in the pissoir — Cock flipped out and up — water from his face — The street blew rain from spurts of his crotch — Young faces melted to musical clock hands and brown ankles —dead nitrous streets — fish smell in doorways —

  Look at the wired electric maze of the city — Stop — No good — Wait a bit — the long mat — It was an errand boy from the death trauma — The boy who entered the ‘20s had his own train — Room in the half-light source of second wind spread the difference between life and death — Boneless mummy was death in the last round —

  So we turn over what he did not know: Window people and sky pictures fade out at dawn — Hurry up — Hands crowd — In the tremendous flash your brain splintered on empty flesh — bleeding boneless panting death in the last round — the gate from darkened eyes of wine still loaded with physical skin — Put it on? ? End Of The Line —

  Remember i was fish smell and dead eyes in doorway — errand boy from last stroke of nine — room in the half-light beside you — Great wind voices of Alamout it’s you? — My duty has been remitted muttering: “Not think any more of your harsh thoughts” — But who am i to say more? — Empty is the third in vacant lot — Duty remitted— Sound of fear and i dance — crumpled cloth bodies empty — ash from falling tracks — open shirt flapping wind from the South — the throat designed to water — I stay near the basin and shadow pools — Invisible man on webs of silver cut tracks — Vapor trails writing the sky of Alamout and back i shall go — indications enough in the harbor — muttering of dry rivers — fish smell and dead eyes in doorways — The sirocco dances to sound of the crowds — harsh at this time of day — vultures in the street — Know the answer? — Around in vacant lot 1910 — weeds growing through broken towers — His face screen went dead — smell of healed and half-healed scars — silver film at the exits — Won’t be much left — Little time so I’ll say: “Good night” — not looking around — talking away — of distant events in green neon — You touched from frayed jacket — improvised shacks — mufflers — small pistols — quick fires from bits of driftwood — Shadow voices muttering in the dog rotation — Acoustic qualities couldn’t reach flesh — between suns desolate underbrush — sharp scent of weeds that grow in old Westerns — battered phonograph talking distant events — Important thing is always courage to pass without stopping —

  Naked boy on association line — i stay near right now — be shifted harsh at this time of day — The levanto dances between mutual erections fading in hand — trails my Summer afternoons — Slow fingers in dawn sleep tore the flesh from words — fish smell and dead train whistles — open shirt flapping — wind of morning in the harbor — My number is K9 — I am a Biologic from frayed jacket sitting out in lawn chairs with the St. Louis suburb — not looking around — talking away — arab drum music in the suburban air — fading khaki pants as we shifted this pubescent flesh murmur of human nights like death in your throat? — breathless — my name — faded through the soccer scores. Tuesday was the last day for signing years .. July 7 St Auberge — (ambiguous sign of an inn) .. stand in for Mr Who?? My name was called like this before rioters bleed without return . . We want to hear pay talk dad and we want to hear pay talk now. . Yes that’s me still there waiting in the empty Tangier street.. sunshine and shadow of Mexico . . a night in Madrid . . You let this happen?? (holding the laser gun in his hands) . . wrecked markets half-buried in sand . . smell of blood and excrement in the Tangier streets . . (“We wont be needing you after Friday returning herewith Title Insurance Policy No. 17497.”) . . You don’t remember me? showing you the papers I carry . . diseased bent over burnt-out inside . . coordinates gangrene . . Hiroshima gangrene . . “Frankly doctor we don’t like to hear the word ‘nova’ here . . bringing you the Voice of American . . This is November 18, 1963 . . This is Independence Day in Morocco . . The Independence is in the harbor of Tangier . . The Independence is an American boat . . The American Independence is in Morocco . . This is Independence Day in Morocco . . This is American Independence Day in Morocco .. This is July 4, 1964 in Morocco .. Brook’s Park . . the old swimming pool kinda run down now.. Mack the Knife over the loudspeaker . . (He has loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword) .. Ghostly looking child burned a hole in the blanket .. brief flight to Gib .. Our business now has no future . . know human limitations? Captain Clark welcomes you aboard.. Remember show price? — (holding the gun in his hands) . . You don’t remember this sad stranger there on the sea wall wishing you luck from dying lips? And remember the ‘Priest’. . They called him and he stayed . . (boat whistling in the harbor) . . Well that’s about the closest way I know to tell you and papers rustling across city desks . . fresh southerly winds a long time ago . . going through the files like this . . agony to breathe in sad muttering voices . .

  “Now how’s this for an angle, B.J.? a real American stand . . Everything America ever stood for in any man’s dream America
stands for now . . Everything this country could have been and wasn’t it will be now . . Every promise America ever made America will redeem now . .” agony to breathe in the Boy’s Magazine . . as I have told you sad guards remote posts . . came to a street half-buried in sand . . transitory halting place in this mutilated phantom . . smell of strange parks . . shabby quarters of a forgotten city . . his cold distant umbrella to the harbor office . . last intersection there smell of ashes . . tin can flash flare . . wind stirs a lock of hair . . a young man waiting . . hockshop kid like mother used to make . . distant hand lifted sad as his voice . . “quiet now . . I go . .” (flickering silver smile) . .

  “A militant writer’s union . . All American writers recalled to base . . Stand by for orders . . All you jokers in the Shakespeare Squadron return to base immediately and stand by for orders . .”

  The Frisco Kid he never returns .. in life used address I gave you for that belated morning . . agony to breathe in this mutilated phantom . . last intersection dim jerky far away voice . .

  “It’s the greatest story conference in history, B.J. . . All these writers assembled in the warehouse of the Atlantic Tea Company . . These writers are going to write history as it happens in present time. . And I don’t want to hear any Banshee wails from you skypilots . . Now the way I see it is this: America stands for doing the job and that’s what’s wrong with America today .. half-assed assassins . . half-assed writers . . half-assed plumbers . . a million actors . . one corny part . . So we write a darned good part for every actor on the American set . . You gotta see the whole scene as a show . .”

  “Remember show price? Know who I am? . . . ‘Good Bye Mister’ is my name . . . ‘Wind and Dust’ is my name . . ‘Never Happened’ is my name . . .”

  Soccer scores — The driver shrugged — His sound i could describe to the open street car passing whiffs of Spain — long empty face — his eyes the evening breeze where the awning flapped — Violence roared past the Café de France cleaving a heavy summons — Mr Bradly hurry up — Wind Ariel closed your account — Hurry up please its street — harbor lights gently moving water smiles dimmer at the edges — arab memory of flesh far now — Such people made a wide U turn back to the ‘20s —

  Totally green troops in the area — We come to shape the five new combat divisions through clear process in the United States — slow your brain area trade — Impressions of present time played electrical music — Faded guards blew red nitrous fumes over you — khaki pants fully understood all of idiot Mambo spattered to control mechanization — hot sex words crackling paper and punching holes in it —

  rectums naked in whiffs of raw meat — Jissom fell languidly bare feet afternoons — a Mexican about twenty shifting Johnny’s knees — He was in the room on genital smells finger shared meals and belches — feeling like scenic railways in sleep— suitcases all open — on association line electric spasms — burning outskirts of the city — dark street life of a place forgotten —

  Invisible passenger took my hands in dawn sleep of water music — Broken towers intersect cigarette smoke memory of each other — healed hands like ice — Won’t be much — Screen went dead — He dressed hastily shirt flapping — stared out from darkened eyes of wine gas —

  “Good bye then — I thought” — He walked through dawn mirror of Panama — Memory hit spine outside 1920 movie theater — sat down open shirts flapping — Many did not listen — silver film at the exits — Weilest du? — dead nitrous flesh — dirty look through glass — Who is that naked corpse? — Come along ladies and gentlemen — screaming on the deal in many lips? — She didn’t get it — Cut the image like back in the restaurant — Wait a bit — No good — half-healed electric needs — dead scars — Leave him to me — Won’t be much left — For a room in the shoeshine boy Swedish river of Gothenberg? — Release without more ado what? — When i left you hear little tune cut the image —

  “i am surrounded through cafés and restaurants — Rabble rousers fade in coffee cup reflections — Blood? — There is no Jewish blood flash scarlet invitations to young anti-Semites — Tourist as all the Jewish people i see myself impoverished tired hustler — Anti-Semite is buried forever in my deferential nods — Today i am as old in years as flapping human genitals in Mexico — i am surrounded— bodies and water everywhere — Blood runs in the pale door — My early rabble rousers give off a stench of rotten lips departed — nothing here — wind voices” —

  terminal street

  “Bradly passed through the twisting intestinal streets — terminal streets of Minraud — A boy of dead nitrous flesh wafted from a doorway of tarnished silver —

  “Me good sewage and frozen jissom — beautiful peoples” —

  They talk in clouds of scent from glands in the groin. — A whiff of KY and rectal mucus drifted out in propositions of memory orgasm — scent talk of dead film people — terminal guide here, Mister — He made of 1920 movie — In a vacant lot a scorpion boy was eating a pile of metal excrement — He peered up at Bradly from phosphorescent glittering eyes —

  “Me good guide, Meester — Here very bad peoples” — The boy vibrated his stinger — “Very bad peoples — So you fucked, Johnny” —

  They moved through paths in a vast rubbish heap — Came to a cliff city that towered out of sight in the hot blue sky — cubicles connected by catwalks and ladders and platforms — The guide moved on music currents waiting for the beats and chords that lifted them up ladders and ramps, swept them along perilous platforms over voids of billowing heat —

  “You learn quick, Meester — Music talk — In here” —

  They clicked through melodious turnstiles — The walls glowed with slow metal fires — Music currents swirled through the room — The guide twisted out of his scorpion shell — a being two feet tall covered by fine red hairs that vibrated in puffs of nitrous smoke — His head converged to a sharp beak — The penis of black gristle was covered with the fine red hairs except for the naked tip which came to a quivering point —

  “We fuck now — Then i taking you to the Elder — Very old — Very wise — You see” — Bradly took off his space suit and lay down on a pallet that pulsed to sex music — The fine red hairs penetrated his pores — His body dissolved in a choking erogenous mist of burning sex films — The pointed penis penetrated his rectum — He ejaculated spurts of red smoke —

  “Now we going to the Elder — He inside — Never come out” —

  Came to a round metal chamber lined with switchboards and view screens — Embedded in a limestone dais was a grey foetal dwarf, his brain clearly visible under a thin membrane pulsed with colored lights as he controlled the switchboard —

  “He make all music,” said the guide —

  The dwarf turned his eyeless face to Bradly — Bradly could feel radar beams map his outlines — Words passed through his mind on silver ticker tape —

  “No one of your race has ever been here before — As a visitor you are disastrous — That is why i attempted to block you — When i did not succeed i knew of course that our blockade was broken by intervention from the Saturn Galaxy — Now it seems we must submit to basic alterations — We do not have ‘emotions oxygen’ in our atmosphere— The heat here kills what you call ‘emotion’ — That is where centipedes and scorpions come from — a heat that kills emotion and animates a bundle of nerve wires — Very few were able to survive here and those few paid the price of specialization” —

  Last controls fade out at dawn — young faces moving absent bodies — empty source of second suit — open shirt in the dim light — Ejaculated skin back into dying forms — the face a picture — people gone —

  “Me good guide, Meester” — suffused a time that i had street boy head) —

  “i take you see all Garden Delights” —

  Boys hang from gallows, turn flapping against each other — dissolved in smoke and crumpled cloth — guided by metal music the doctor on stage —

  “i told you i would cover be
ing of healed scars — The doctor still am the Big Fix” —

  The whole being suddenly shut off in puffs of nitrous smoke — music cure last parasite — The face was broken — Do not have slow-motion flashes — Dying forms overtake “Mr Bradly Mr Martin” — moving slowly out of the sick lies — No trying source of second rectum tape — smell of empty condoms in the dim light — brain of Gothenberg moved on at dawn — bread knife currents — the cold adios without a shadow — here caught in the door — no shelter — A street boy’s head questions board room breath trade — Glittering eyes peered up and: “Man, like good bye” — Ding dong bell — Silence — Solitude — Bradly leaning say: “Good bye then in currents waiting for the carbon dioxide — Truly adiós’ — Bitter price — Martin is like pulp behind —

  A prospect of red mesas rising from blue depths — Suspended over the void a precarious iron city of cable cars, elevators, ferris wheels, scenic railways and plane rides all in constant motion — “Here” said the guide and clicked Bradly into a cubicle that permutated through the structure, floating in slow vertigo of ferris wheels, clicking along perilous tracks where wind whistled through the cables — The guide turned up his eyes like a blue torch cutting along the divide line of Bradly’s naked body — Electric needle fingers removed his skin, pulling it loose in red sheets of pain hung it on a peg — The guide slipped off his own skin like a garment, peeled penis pulsing red light, clouds drifting through his remote blue eyes — Hula hoops of color formed around the guide’s body and enclosed Bradly weak and torn with pain cool hands on his naked flesh as he sank in blood and bones and intestines of the other suffocation panic of spermatozoa sucked through pearly genital passages and spurted out in a scratching shower of sperm — sunlight through bodies without cover — soft luminous spurts drifting in the cold blue wind —