Bulletins from Party Headquarters are spelled out in obscene charades by hebephrenics and Latahs and apes,
Sollubis fart code, Negroes open and shut mouth to flash messages on gold teeth, Arab rioters send smoke signals by throwing great buttery eunuchs—they make
the best smoke, hangs black and shit-solid in the air— onto gasoline fires in a rubbish heap, mosaic of melodies, sad Panpipes of humpbacked beggar, cold wind sweeps down from post card of Chimborazzi, flutes of Ramadan, piano music down a windy street, mutilated
police calls, advertising leaflet synchronize with street fight spell SOS.
Two agents have identified themselves each to each by choice of sex practices foiling alien microphones, fuck atomic secrets back and forth in code so complex only two physicists in the world pretend to understand it and each categorically denies the other. Later the
receiving agent wall be hanged, convict of the guilty possession of a nervous system,and play back the message in orgasmal spasms transmitted from electrodes
attached to the penis.
Breathing rhythm of old cardiac, bumps of a belly dancer, put put put of a motorboat across oily water.
The waiter lets fall a drop of martini of the Man in the Grey Flannel Suit, who lams for the 6:12 knowing that he has been spotted. Junkies climb out the lavatory window of the chop suey joint as the El rumbles past.
The Gimp, cowboyed in the Waldorf, gives birth to a litter of rats. (Cowboy: New York hood talk means kill the mother fucker wherever you find him. A rat is a rat
is a rat is a rat. Is an informer.) Foolish virgins heed the English colonel who rides by brandishing a screaming