Gentle Reader, The Words that I write will leap on you with leopard man iron claws, it will cut off fingers and toes like an opportunist land crab, it will coil round your thighs like a bushmaster, fuck you long and hard and inject a shot glass of rancid ectoplasm ...
"Ai! Si qierdo! Fuck that ass, mijo..."
The Words that I write are divided into units which be all in one piece and should be so taken, but the pieces can be had in any order being tied back and forth, in and out fore and aft like an innaresting sex arrangement. This blog will spill off the screen in all directions, kaleidoscope of vistas, medley of tunes and street noises, farts and riot yipes and the slamming steel shutters of commerce, screams of pain and pathos and screams plain pathic, copulating cats and outrages squark of the displaced bull head, prophetic mutterings of brujo in nutmeg trances. Snapping necks and screaming mandrakes, sigh of orgasm, heroin silent as dawn in the thirsty cells, Radio Tijuana screaming like a berserk tobacco auction, and flutes of Ramadan fanning the slick junky like a gentle lush worker in the grey subway dawn feeling with delicate fingers for that green folding crackle.
Walk out into the world, Fellow Desolation Angels, and write what you SEE:
All around the square are open-air restaurants, vine trellises, baths and sex cubicles. The boys walk around the square propositioning each other and comparing genitals. The college Zapatistas compare theories of war and population control. How to implant concepts of direct hatred. How to produce epidemics, hurricanes, earthquakes. How to collapse currencies. The final strategy is stopping the world, to ignore and forget the enemy out of existence ... No troops can get through the Deserts Of Silence and beyond that is the Blue Light Blockade. We don't need the enemy anymore ... The last carnival is being pulled down.
Turn the page, baby, I wanna see what's next...
The apartment on Calle Matamoros where the boy died ...Eduardo? Enrique? There is a wounded animal in the courtyard. At first it looks like a dog then turns into a boy. Very slowly the boy stands up and walks toward the door that opens onto the courtyard. I can see now that ... the rooms around it are in ruins. I am standing in the doorway as he walks toward me, a strange sad fixed smile on his face ... Now I can see his face clearly, he has come a long way ... he has come a long way to die here ... When I open the shirt I see that there is a knife wound in the chest and the shirt is caked with blood ... Sad shrinking face. He died during the night. He died very unhappy.
Fucking junky sits on the cracked sidewalk and stirs spit with a stick.
He has the mark of a certain trade or occupation that no longer exists. If junk were from the earth, there might still be junkies standing around in junk neighbourhoods feeling the lack, vague and persistent, a pale ghost of junk sickness.... So this man walks around in the places he once exercised his obsolete and unthinkable trade. But he is unperturbed. His eyes are black with an insect's unseeing calm. He looks as if he nourished himself on honey and Levantine syrups that he sucks up through a sort of proboscis.... What is his lost trade? Definitely of a servant class and something to do with the dead, though he is not an embalmer. Perhaps he stores something in his body - a substance to prolong life - of which he is periodically milked by his masters. He is as specialised as an insect, for the performance of some inconceivably vile function.
You know how old people lose all shame about eating, and it makes you puke to watch them? Old junkies are the same about junk. They gibber and squeal about the sight of it. The spit hangs off their skin, and their stomach rumbles and all their guts grind in peristalsis while they cook up, dissolving the body's decent skin, you expect any moment a great blob of protoplasm will flop right out and surround the junk. Really disgust you to see it.
So here I am are in this no -horse town strictly from cough syrup. And vomited up the syrup and drove on and on, cold spring wind whistling through that old heap around our shivering sick sweating bodies and the cold you always come down with when the junk runs out of you... On through the peeled landscape, dead armadillos in the road and the vultures over the swamp and cypress stumps. Motels with beaverboard walls, gas heater, thin pink blankets. Interant short con and carny hype men have burned down the croakers of Tijuana...