by a baying pack of People. ( Note: People is New Orleans slang for narcotic fuzz.) The Old Chinaman dips river water into a rusty tin can , washes down a yen pox hard and black as a cinder. (Note: Yen pox is the ash of smoked opium.) Well, the fuzz has my spoon and dropper , and I know they are coming in my frequency led this blind pigeon known as Willy the Disk . Willy has a round , disk mouth lined with sensitive , erectile black hairs.He is blind from shooting in the eyeball , his nose and palate eaten away sniffing H, his body a mass of scar tissue hard and dry as a wood . He can only eat the shit now with that mouth , sometimes sways out on a long tube of ectoplasm , feeling for the silent frequency of junk. He follows my trial all over the city into rooms I move out already , and the fuzz walks in some newlyweds from Sioux Falls.                                                             “All right Lee!! Come out from behind the strap-on! We know you ! “and pull the man’s prick-off straight  away. Now Willy is getting hot and you cane hear him always out there in darkness (he only functions at night ) whimpering, and feel the terrible urgency of that blind   seeking mouth. When they move in for the bust , Willy goes out of control , and his mouth eats a hole right trough the wall .If the cops weren’t there to restrain him with a stock probe, he would suck the juice right out of every junky he ran down .                                     I knew  , and everybody else knew they had the Disk on me. And if my kid customers ever hit the stand : ” He force me to commit all kinda awful sex acts in return for junk.”I could kiss the street good-bye.

I know this one pusher walks around humming a tune and everybody he passes takes it up.He is so grey and spectral and anonymous they don’t see him and think it is their own mind humming the tune.So the customers come in on Smiles,or I’m in the Mood for Love,or They say We’re too young to Go Steady,or whatever the song for that day. Sometime you can see maybe fifty ratty-looking junkies squealing sick, running along behind a boy with a harmonica , and there is The Man on a cane seat throwing bread to the swans , a fat queen drag waliking his Afghan hound through the East Fifties , an old wino pissing against an El post , a radical jewish student giving out leaflets in Washigton Square , a tree surgeon , an exterminator , an advertising fruit in Nedick’s where he calls the counterman by his first name. The world network junkies , tuned on a cord of rancid jissom , tying up furnished rooms, shivering in the junk-sick morning .( Old Pete Man suck the black smoke in the Chink laundry back room and Melancholy Baby dies from an overdose of time or cold turkey with drawal of breath .) In Yemen , Paris, New Orleans , Mexico City and Istanbul- shivering under the air hammers  and the steam shovels , shrieked junky curses at one another neither of us heard and the Man leaned out of a passing steam roller and I coped in a bucket of  tar.( Note : Istanbul is being torn down and rebuilt , especially shabby junk quarters, Istanbul has more heroin junkers than NYC .) The living and the dead , in sickness or on the nod , hooked or kicked or hooked again, come in the on junk beam and the Connection is eating Chop Suey on Dolores Street , Mexico D.F. dunking pund cake in the automat , chased up Exchange Place

patient and cautious and slow , dropped into their bloodless hands a few hours of warmth. I made the round with him once for kicks . You know how old people lose all shame about eating , and it makes puke to watch them ? Old junkies are the same about junk . They gibber and squeal at sight of it . The spit hangs off their chin , 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 .                                                                                                     ” Well , my boys will be like that one day , ” I tought philosophically .”Is’nt life peculiar ?”        So back downtown by the Sheridan Square Station in case the dick is lurking in a broom closet . Like I say it could’nt last. I knew they were out the powowing and make their evil fuzz magic , putting dolls of me in Leavenworth . ” No use sticking needles in that one, Mike .” I hear they got Chapin with a doll . This old eunuch dick just sat in the predict basement hanging a doll of him day and night , year in year out. And when Chapin hanged in Connecticut , They find this old creep with his neck broken . ” He fell downstairs,” They say.You know the old cop bullshit . Junk is surrounded by magic and taboos, curses and amulets . I could find my Mexico city connection by radar . ” Not this street, the next, right…now left. Now right again ,” and there he is , toothless , old woman face and cancelled eyes.

Rube flips in the end , running trough empty automats and subway stations,screaming : ‘ Come back kid!! Come back !!’ and follows his boy right into the East River , down through condoms and orange peels , mosaic of floating newspapers, down into the silent black ooze with gangsters in concrete , and pistols pounded flat to avoid the proibing finger of prurient balistic experts .”  And the fruit is thinking : “What a character !! Wait till I tell the  boys in Clark’s about this one.  ” He’s a character collector, would stand still for Joe Gould’s  seagull act .  So i put it on him for a sawski and make a meet to sell him some ” pod ” as he calls it, thinking .”I’ll catnip the jerk ” (Note : Catnip smells like marijuana when it burns. Frequently passed on the incautious or uninstruced.)  ” Well” I said , tapping my arm , ” duty calls. As one judge said to another : ‘ Be just and if you can’t be just , be arbitrary .’ ” I cut into the automat and there is Bill Gains huddled in someone else’s overcoat looking like a 1910 banker with paresis  and Old Bart , shabby and inconspicuous , drunking pound cake with his dirty fingers , shiny over the dirt . I had some uptown customers Bill took care of , and Bart knew a few old relics from hop smoking times , spectral janitors ,grey as ashes,phantom porters sweeping out dusty halls with a slow old man’s hand, coughing and spitting in the junk-sick dawn , retired asthmatic fences in theatrical hotels , Pantopon Rose the old madam from Peoria , stoical Chinese waiters never show sickness. Bart sought them out with this old junky walk,

vest with a hunka tin on it and a lariat slung over his shoulder.                                                “So I says : ” What’s with you ? You wig already ? ”                                                                 “He looks  at me and says : Fill your hand stranger and hauls out an old rusty six shooter and I take off across Lincoln Park , bullets cutting all around me . And he hangs three fags before the fuzz nail him . I mean the Vigilante earned his moniker . . .                                   “Ever notice how many expressions carry over from queers to con men ? like ‘ raise ‘ , letting someone know you are in the same line ?                                                                    “Get her ! ”                                                                                                                                ” ‘Get the Paregoric Kid giving that mark the build up ! ‘                                                          ” ‘Eager Beaver wooing him much too fast ‘.                                                                           “The Shoe Store Kid ( he got that moniker shaking down fetishists in shoe stores ) say : ‘ Give it to a mark with K.Y. and he will come back moaning for more .’                                   And when the Kid spots a mark he begin to make a breathe heavy. His face swells and his lips turn purple like an Eskimo in heat . Then slow, slow he comes on the mark , feeling for him , palpating him with fingers of rotten ectoplasm .

” The Rube has a sincere little boy look , burns through him like blue neon . That one stepped right off a Saturday Evening Post cover with a string of bulleheads , and preserved himself in junk . His marks never beef and the Bunko people are really carrying a needle for the Rube . One day Little Boy Blue starts to slip , and what crawls out would make an ambulance attendant puke . The

But the subway is moving .                                                                                                      ” So long flatfoot ! ” I yell , giving the fruit his B production . I look into the fruit’s eyes, take the white teeth , the Florida tan , the two hundred dollar sharkskin suit , the button-down Brooks Brothers shirt and carrying The News as a prop . ” Only thing I read is Little Abner.” A square wants to come on hip … Talks about ” pod ,” and smoke it now and then , and keeps some around to offer the fast Hollywood types. ” Thanks, kid ” I say ,” I can see you’re one of our own .” His face lights up like a pinball machine , with stupid , pink effect . ” Grassed on me he did,” I said morosely. ( Note : Grass is English thief slang for inform .) I drew closer and laid my dirty junky fingers on his sharkskin sleeve . ” And us blood brothers in the same dirty needle . I can tell you in confidence he is due for a hot shot .”      ( Note : This is a cap of poison junk sold to addict for liquidation purposes. Often given to informers .Usually the hot shot is strychnine since it tastes and looks like junk .)                   “Ever see a hot shot , kid ? I saw the Gimp catch one in Philly. We rigged his room with a one-way whorehouse mirror and charged a sawski to watch it. He never got the needle out of his arm . They don’t if the shot is right. That’s the way they find them , dropper full of clotted blood hanging out of a blue arm . The look in his eyes it-hit Kid, it was tasty…          “Recollect when i am travveling with the Vigilante , best Shake Man in the industry . Out in Chi … We is working the fags in Lincoln Park . So one night The Vigilante turns up for work in cowboy boots and a black

  Naked Lunch

I can feel the heat closing in , feel them out there making their moves , setting up their devil doll stool pigeons , crooning over my spoon and dropper I throw away at Washington Square Station , vault a turnstile and two flights down the iron stairs , catch an uptown      A train … Young , good looking , crew cut , Ivy League , advertising exec type fruit holds the door back for me . I am evidently his idea of character . You know the type comes on with bartenders and cab drivers , talking about right books and the Dodgers , call the counterman in Nedick’s by his first name . A real asshole . And right on time this narcotics dicks in a white trench coat ( imagine tailing somebody in a white trench coat – trying to pass as a fag i guess ) hit the platform . I can hear the way he would say it holding my outfit in his left hand , right hand on his piece ” I think you dropped something , fella . “

” It isn’t writing at all , it’s typing ” Truman Capote

This ” Inside the head of William burroughs ” is a performative act that represents the diagram of my mental history . It is born with the intention of retyping word for word “Naked Lunch ” written by Burroughs . One page  a day until the end of the book ,without adding introduction or afterward . Also i’ll write a memoir that will tell the impressions around this journey .

The performative journey perpetrated through the use of writing allows you to navigate the text , find out what moves around it .Be involved with The language . Read the text in an active manner . Not only the opportunity to type the same words as Burroughs but travel across the signifiers derived from the act of writing .Using the original text written in English (foreign language alien to me  ) allows me to measure myself on another level of listening and the ownership of meaning through the unconscious . there may be “new errors” in the text  that will give new meanings or they will upset the journey itself. The destruction of the border between author and reader. Instead, my mind drifted to those aspiring painters who fill up the Louvre Museum every day, spending hours learning by copying the Old Masters. If it’s good enough for them, why isn’t it good enough for us?         This represents not only a concentration exercise , strenght or learning but also an impassive experiment of textual criticism,A forced and inexepressive tribute to one of most free and expressive autor of the 20th century .