B.J. (doodling muscle boys): “Nothing new. Just keep it going. They do need more money, otherwise they will go down in the same spiral as everybody else and they wouldn’t be the royal family anymore, could wind up in a semi-detached in Darlington. They are supposed to be a supernatural family, religious figures in fact, and the more potent in that they are not acknowledged as such. Just ask an upper-class English about the royal family and he goes all huffy and vague:
“‘It’s not important. . . .’
“‘Who cares about Philip.’”
“But you want the royal family to continue as such?”
(BJ. bulges a jockstrap.) “Well uh yes, we are a monarchy . . . excuse me.”
“What about this million a year?”
“We’re all together in this . . . couldn’t abolish titles and keep the royal family.”
“We’ve had to take cuts . . . why shouldn’t they take a cut too?”
“Mutiny in the ranks?”
(He doodles a boy peeling off plastic tits.)
“It could come to that. . . .”
(He doodles a boy looking at another boy’s ass. A light bulb attached to his head lights up.)
“So why not put the royal family in a Darlington semi-detached on a middle-class income and let them prove themselves in a TV serial?
“(Philip and the Queen are doing all right. She is known as ‘Queenie’ to all the nabors where she runs a small grocery shop. Every customer receives the same gracious smile and quick inquiry as to the family, she is good at remembering things like that and keeping a line moving at the same time . . . she learned that shaking millions of hands. Philip sells ecology equipment to factories. Good at his work and believes in it. . . strong middle-class message there. Charles is a successful pop singer. . . .)
“Why, they all get knighted in the end one way or another, and the wind-up is, back in Buckingham stronger than ever.”
CIA black: “Don’t you think there is some limit somewhere to what people will stand still for? Suppose the ecology equipment doesn’t work? Suppose the Queen’s gracious smile is reserved for her white customers, she has eyes for Enoch Powell and flying saucers? Suppose Bonny Prince Charlie—?”
“For Chrissakes, we’re building them up, not down . . . the Family. . . .”
“All right, call in the special effects boys and give them supernatural powers.”
“‘Never go too far in any direction’ is the basic rule on which Limey Land is built. The Queen stabilizes the whole sinking shithouse.”
“I tell you, anything that is not going forward is going out. You know what we can do with special effects and electric brain stimulation: some joker gets out of line, we press a button and he shits in his pants at sight of her. That at least would be a step in some direction.”
“For Godsake, not at this point. If the Queen tries to grab more than she’s got, imagewise, she will lose it all. . . uh I mean we will. . . . All the others are hopeless. Any of you jokers like to try propping up the queen of Denmark? I say leave it just where it is. It will stagger on for another five or ten years and that’s enough. We get smart at this point, and the English Republican Party will jump out at us . . . ERP ERP ERP. . . .”
“The Queen is an alien symbol, basically Germanic in origin. The Queen is also a white symbol. The White Goddess, in fact. Young people want that? Black people want that? Who wants a grovel symbol? Those who need such symbols to keep positions of wealth and privilege. Look at them. Look at Jennifer’s Diary. . . .”
“I mean, ERP could be dangerous.”
“That’s right. We got a good strong thing here, why muck about with it?”
“Why, the whole stinking thing could blow up in our faces.”
“Brings on my ulcers to think about it.”
“We could organize ERP . . . that way, we’d be ready to jump in either direction.”
“The word that made a man out of an ape and killed the ape in the process keeps man an animal, the way we like to see him. And the Queen is just another prop to hold up the word. You all know what we can do with the word. Talk about the power in an atom! All hate all fear all pain all death all sex is in the word. The word was a killer virus once. It could become a killer virus again. The word is too hot to handle—so we sit on our asses, waiting for the pension. But somebody is going to pick up that virus and use it: Virus B-23. . . .”
“Aw, we got the Shines cooled back with Che Guevara in a nineteenth-century set. . . .”
“Is that right? And you got the Tiddlywinks cooled too? You can cool anybody else who gets ideas? You going to cool this powder keg with your moth-eaten Queen? I tell you, anybody could turn it loose. You all know how basically simple it is: sex word and image cut in with death word and image. . . .”
“Yeah, we could do it.”
“But what about Washington? Our orders?”
“Just one test tube and SPUT. . . . ’What Washington? What orders?’”
FROM HERE TO ETERNITY
Mildred Pierce reporting:
I was there. I saw it. I saw women thrown down on Fifth Avenue and raped in their mink coats by blacks and whites and yellows while street urchins stripped the rings from their fingers. A young officer stood nearby.
“Aren’t you going to DO something?” I demanded.
He looked at me and yawned.
I found Colonel Bradshaw bivouacking in the Ritz. I told him bluntly what was going on. His eyes glinted shamelessly as he said: “Well, you have to take a broad general view of things.”
And that’s what I have been doing. Taking a broad general view of American troops raping and murdering helpless civilians while American officers stand around and yawn.
“Been at it a long time, lady. It’s the old army game from here to eternity.”
This license was dictated by considerations taken into account by prudent commanders throughout history. It pays to pay the boys off. Even the noble Brutus did it. . .
Points with his left hand in catatonic limestone . . . “The town is yours soldier brave.”
Tacitus describes a typical scene . . . “If a woman or a good-looking boy fell into their hands they were torn to pieces in the struggle for possession and the survivors were left to cut each other’s throats.”
“Well there’s no need to be that messy. Why waste a good-looking boy? Mother-loving American Army run by old women many of them religious my God hanging American soldiers for raping and murdering civilians . . .”
Old Sarge bellows from here to eternity:
“WHAT THE BLOODY FUCKING HELL ARE CIVILIANS FOR? SOLDIERS’ PAT.”
The CO stands there and smiles. Just ahead is a middle-western town on a river, thirty thousand civilians. The CO points:
“It’s all yours boys. Every man woman and child. God is nigh.”
“LET’S GET US SOME CIVVIES.”
“Now just a minute boys listen to old Sarge. Why make the usual stupid scene kicking in liquor stores grabbing anything in sight? You wake up hungover in an alley your prick sore from fucking dry cunts and assholes your eye gouged out by a broken beer bottle you and your asshole buddy wanted the same piece of ass. No fun in that. Why not leave it like this? They go about their daily tasks and we just take what we want when we want it cool and steady easy and make them like it. You see what I mean.”
The young lieutenant from camouflage sees what he means . . . BOYS . . . swimming pools and locker rooms full of them.
“Getting it steady year after year. Now that’s what I call PAY.”
Precarious governments march in anywhere and take over . . . war lords . . . city states fortified against foraging crowds from the starving cities . . . power cut . . . reservoirs blown up . . .
Crowds are looting the museums for weapons . . . stone axes, Fijian war clubs, Samurai swords, crossbows, bolos, boomerangs. . . . They put on costumes to match. Militant queens snatch up krisses . . . “LET’S RUN AMOK DUCKS IT’S FUN.” . . . They hit the street in loinclot
hs.
Drunken Yale boys put on armor and charge down Fifth Avenue on horseback skewering the passers-by.
A World War I tank with cheering doughboys is driven off a museum pedestal.
The militants raid government laboratories. Virus B-23 rages through cities of the world like a topping forest fire. In the glow of burning cities strange cults spring up.
The Vigilantes sweep up from the Bible Belt like a plague of locusts hanging every living thing in their path. Even horses are hauled into the air, kicking and farting.
The dreaded Baseball Team five thousand burly athletes in baseball uniforms all with special bats erupt into a crowded street. . .
“BEAT YOUR FILTHY BRAINS OUT . . .”
Smashing shop windows blood brains and broken glass in their wake . . .
The Chinese waiters charge with meat cleavers . . .
“FLUCK YOU FLUCK YOU FLUCK YOU . . .”
In ruined suburbs naked bacchantes chase a screaming boy. Now the roller-skate boys sweep down a hill on jet skates in a shower of blue sparks and cut the bacchantes to pieces with their eighteen-inch bowie knives. The new boy is issued a knife and skates. Splashed with blood from head to foot they jet away singing:
“FOR EVERY MASS MURDER LET US STAND PREPARED.”
SEEING RED
Arriving at Customs, Lee is ushered to the special shed where nine agents wait.
“Let’s see what this dirty writer is trying to smuggle through decent American Customs . . .”
The agent with one arm reaches all the way to the bottom of the wicker-work suitcase and pulls out the Picture . . . room with rose wallpaper bathed in a smoky sunset on a brass bed a red-haired boy with a hard-on sprawls one bare knee flopped against the greasy pink wallpaper he is playing a flute and looking at somebody standing in front of the picture. The agent stares and the red picture turns his face to flame. He makes a slight choking sound and looks helplessly at his fellow agents who look back dumb stricken faces swollen with blood. None of them can articulate a word. The agent stands there holding the picture looking from the picture to angry red faces as more and more agents crowd into the shed. No one looks at Lee. He closes his bags, hails an old junky porter and leaves the shed. Behind him a ripping splintering crash as the walls of the shed give way.
Outside the pier prowl cars converge like electric turtles disgorging load after load of flushed cops. Silent catatonic they crowd around the picture looking at each other the agent there holding the picture up like a banner of raw meat suddenly two jets of blood spurt from his eyes. Silently he proffers the picture to a fellow agent and sinks to the boards of the pier. A choking red haze steams from the purple faces. There is an occasional muffled report as blood vessels burst and sinuses explode. Wave after wave of silent cops crowd onto the pier which sags and finally gives way with a crash that host of cops sink like lead into the sea.
The picture in its rosewood frame floats there on the green water looking up at the sky and the cops keep coming. Texas Rangers with huge Magnum revolvers and pale nigger-killing eyes. The Royal Mounted faces as red as their uniforms.
The picture floats there in the green water where all plunge and perish . . .
The Piper pulled down the sky.
THE “PRIEST” THEY CALLED HIM
“Fight tuberculosis, folks.” Christmas Eve an old junky selling Christmas seals on North Clark Street, the “Priest” they called him.
“Fight tuberculosis, folks.”
People hurried by grey shadows on a distant wall it was getting late and no money to score he turned into a side street and the lake wind hit him like a knife. Cab stopped just under a street light boy got out with a suitcase thin kid in prep school clothes familiar face the Priest told himself watching from the doorway reminds me of something a long time ago the boy there with his overcoat unbuttoned reaching into his pants pocket for the cab fare. The cab drove away and turned the corner.
The boy went inside a building hummm yes maybe; the suitcase was there in the doorway the boy nowhere in sight gone to get the keys most likely—have to move fast. He picked up the suitcase and started for the corner made it glanced down at the case didn’t look like the case the boy had or any boy would have the Priest couldn’t put his finger on what was so old about the case, old and dirty poor quality leather and heavy, better see what’s inside.
He turned into Lincoln Park found an empty place and opened the case. Two severed human legs had belonged to a young man with dark skin shiny black leg hairs glittered in the dim street light. The legs had been forced into the case and he had to use his knee on the back of the case to shove them out.
“Legs yet” he said and walked quickly away with the case might bring a few dollars to score.
The buyer sniffed suspiciously. “Kinda funny smell about it . . . is this Mexican leather?”
The Priest shrugged.
“Well, some joker didn’t cure it.” The buyer looked at the case with cold disfavor. “Not even right sure he killed it whatever it is three is the best I can do and it hurts but since this is Christmas and you’re the Priest.” $ $ $ He slipped three notes under the table into the Priest’s dirty hand.
The Priest faded into the street shadows seedy and furtive three cents didn’t buy a bag nothing less than a nickel say remember that old auntie croaker told me not to come back unless I paid him the three cents I owe isn’t that a fruit for you blow his stack about three lousy cents.
The doctor was not pleased to see him. “Now what do you want? I told you. . . .” The Priest laid three bills on the table. The doctor put the money in his pocket and started to scream. “I’ve had trouble. The people have been around! I may lose my license!”
The Priest just sat there eyes old and heavy with years of junk on the doctor’s face.
“I can’t write you a prescription!” The doctor jerked open a drawer and slid an ampule across the table. “That’s all I have in the office!” The doctor stood up. “Take it and get out!” he screamed, hysterical. The Priest’s expression did not change and the doctor added in quieter tones: “After all I’m a professional man and I shouldn’t be bothered by people like you.”
“Is this all you have for me? One lousy quarter g? Couldn’t you lend me a nickel?”
“Get out! Get out! I’ll call the police I tell you!”
“All right doctor. I’m going now.”
Christ it was cold and far to walk rooming house a shabby street room on the top floor these stairs/cough/the Priest there pulling himself up along the banister he went into the bathroom yellow wood panels toilet dripping and got his works from under the washbasin wrapped in brown paper back to his room get every drop in the dropper he rolled up his sleeve. Then he heard a groan from next door room 18 a Mexican kid lived there the Priest had passed him on the stairs and saw the kid was hooked but he never spoke because he didn’t want any juvenile connections bad news in any language and the Priest had had enough bad news in his life heard the groan again a groan he could feel no mistaking that groan and what it meant maybe had an accident or something any case I can’t enjoy my priestly medications with that sound coming through the wall thin walls you understand the Priest put down his dropper cold hall and knocked on the door of room 18.
“Quién es?”.
“It’s the Priest, kid. I live next door.”
He could hear someone hobbling across the floor a bolt slide the boy stood there in his underwear shorts eyes black with pain. He started to fall. The Priest helped him over to the bed.
“What’s wrong son?”
“It’s my legs señor . . . cramps . . . and now I am without medicine.”
The Priest could see the cramps like knots of wood there in the young lean legs dark shiny black leg hairs.
“Three years ago I have damaged myself in a bicycle race it is then that the cramps start and . . .”
And he has the leg cramps back with compound junk interest. The old Priest stood there feeling the boy groan. He
inclined his head as if in prayer went back and got his dropper.
“It’s just a quarter g kid.”
“I do not require much señor”
The boy was sleeping when the Priest left room 18. He went back to his room and sat down on the bed. Then it hit him like heavy silent snow, all the grey junk yesterdays. He sat there and received the immaculate fix and since he was himself a priest there was no need to call one.
COLD LOST MARBLES
my ice skates on a wall
luster of stumps washes his lavender horizon
he’s got a handsome face of a lousy kid
rooming houses dirty fingers
whistled in the shadow
“Wait for me at the detour.”
river . . . snow . . . someone vague faded in a mirror
filigree of trade winds
cold white as lace circling the pepper trees
the film is finished
memory died when their photos weather worn points of
polluted water under the trees in the mist shadow of
boys by the daybreak in the peony fields cold lost
marbles in the room carnations three ampules of
morphine little blue-eyed twilight grins between his
legs yellow fingers blue stars erect boys of sleep
have frozen dreams for I am a teenager pass it on
flesh and bones withheld too long yes sir oui oui
craps last map . . . lake . . . a canoe . . . rose tornado in
the harvest brass echo tropical jeers from Panama
City night fences dead fingers you in your own body
around and maybe a boy skin spreads to something
else on Long Island the dogs are quiet.
THE RED NIGHT TRILOGY
the red night trilogy
by james grauerholz
William Burroughs did not come empty-handed to New York in 1974. He brought along a trunkful of writings from all periods of his career, including many photocopies from the 1973 archive-gathering project, but mostly material from the last few years—pages that had not found a home in Wild Boys, Exterminator! or Port of Saints (which was first published in late 1973 in England by Richard Aaron and Covent Garden Books). Burroughs’ overall literary output had dwindled, and he felt he had exhausted the possibilities of the cut-up technique and its applications to scrapbooks, audiotape, and film. In any case, these experiments had been met with editorial discouragement and little financial reward. But he kept busy, working on his class lectures and visiting old New York friends. His son Billy visited him at the Broadway loft, as did Brion Gysin, who came from Paris with copies of the French edition of The Third Mind. In April, John Giorno arranged for Burroughs and himself to give a reading at the Poetry Project in St. Marks Church, an event that announced Burroughs’ return to New York City.
Word Virus: The William S. Burroughs Reader Page 62