14/10/2020

“But where is the statuary?” He talks out of one side
of his face, the other is twisted by the Torture of a
Million Mirrors. He masturbates wildly. The Queen
Bee continues the conversation, notices nothing.
Couches, chairs, the whole floor begins to vibrate,
shaking the guests to blurred grey ghosts shrieking in cock-bound agony.
Two boys jacking off under railroad bridge. The
train shakes through their bodies, ejaculate them, fades
with distant whistle. Frogs croak. The boys wash
semen off lean brown stomachs.
Train compartment: two sick young junkies on their
way to Lexington tear their pants down in convulsions
of lust. One of them soaps his cock and works it up the
other’s ass with a corkscrew motion. “Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeesus!” Both ejaculate at once standing up. They move away from each other and pull up their pants.
“Old croaker in Marshall writes for tincture and sweet oil.”
“The piles of an aged mother shriek out raw and
bleeding for the Black Shit. . . . Doc, suppose it was
your mother, rimmed by resident leaches, squirming
around so nasty. . . . De-active that pelvis, mom, you disgust me already”
“Let’s stop over and make him for an RX.”
The train tears on’through the smoky, neon-lighted June night.
Pictures of men and women, boys and girls, animals,
fish, birds, the copulating rhythm of the universe flows
through the room, a great blue tide of life. Vibrating,
soundless hum of deep forest—sudden quiet of cities