Maybe somebody could help me fit a name to this upchuck. I shit all over my last/sheet of typing paper/early this morning/much to my toes' surprise/The janitor was called up and I had to tell him he'd be working/late again/He found no commas/nor any question marks/and I was/abruptly informed/that I would never make it past first base/Who's playing ball I asked/and where/but the hoboic master of ceremonies told me/to fuck off/and left with my blood-soaked pen/My typewriter still had no paper/so I called up my brother/for which I got a good shaking/You're lost he told/me No I told him/but the telephone went dead/or so he said the next time I ran out of paper. Buckets of Cheerwine thrown out to sea Water turns red like a cup of Boston tea Bodies a-floating, frozen in glee Hands stretch-ed forwards for an allimony plea Young girls come running, their pant hoses run Old bench-ed men sit watching for fun They all hang from nooses, shading the sun Needle wounds longing to taste of someone
there is somthing very Burroughs about this woman What kinda typewriter ya using? HHHMMNNN................
You don't know how much of a compliment that was. I'm reading Naked Lunch right now for the 2nd or 3rd time. It still amazes me how so utterly honest that man was. I sometimes think maybe that's what made him poetic. Underwood. She is the subject of many of my pieces.
