cowboy boots still on, he dances the Liquefactionist Jig, ending with a grotesque can-can to the tune of
'
Couples attached to baroque harnesses with artificial wings copulate in the air, screaming like magpies. Aerialists ejaculate each other in space with one sure touch. 43
Equilibrists suck each other off deftly, balanced on perilous poles and chairs tilted over the void. A warm wind brings the smell of rivers and jungle from misty depths. Boys by the hundred plummet through the roof, quivering and kicking at the end of ropes. The boys hang at different levels, some near the ceiling and others a few inches off the floor. Exquisite Balinese and Malays, Mexican Indians with fierce innocent faces and bright red gums. Negroes (teeth, fingers, toe nails and pubic hair gilded), Japanese boys smooth and white as China, Titianhaired Venetian lads, Americans with blond or black curls falling across the forehead (the guests tenderly shove it back), sulky blond Pollacks with animal brown eyes, Arab and Spanish street boys, Austrian boys pink and delicate with a faint shadow of blond pubic hair, sneering German youths with bright blue eyes scream 'Heil Hitler!' as the trap falls under them. Sollubis shit and whimper. Mr. Rich-and-Vulgar chews his Havana lewd and nasty, sprawled on a Florida beach surrounded by simpering blond catamites:
'This citizen have a Latah he import from Indochina. He figure to hang the Latah and send a Xmas TV short to his friends. So he fix up two ropes --one gimmicked to stretch, the other the real McCoy. But that Latah get up in feud state and put on his Santa Claus suit and make with the switcheroo. Come the dawning. The citizen put one rope on and the Latah, going along the way Latahs will, put on the other. When the traps are down the citizen hang for real and the Latah stand with the carny-rubber stretch rope. Well, the Latah imitate every twitch and spasm. Come three times.
'Smart young Latah keep his eye on the ball. I got him working in one of my plants as an expeditor.'
Aztec priests strip blue feather robe from the Naked Youth. They bend him back over a limestone altar, fit a crystal skull over his head, securing the two hemispheres back and front with crystal screws. A waterfall pour over the skull snapping the boy's neck. He ejaculate in a rainbow against the rising sun.
Sharp protein odor of semen fills the air. The guests run hands over twitching boys, suck their cocks, hang on their backs like vampires.
Naked lifeguards carry in iron-lungs full of paralyzed youths.
Blind boys grope out of huge pies, deteriorated schizophrenics pop from a rubber cunt, boys with horrible skin diseases rise from a black pond (sluggish fish nibble yellow turds on the surface). A man with white tie and dress shirt, naked from the waist down except for black garters, talks to the Queen Bee in elegant tones. (Queen Bees are old women who surround themselves with fairies to form a 'swarm.' It is a sinister Mexican practice.)
'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. 'Jeeeeeeeeeeeeee-sus!' 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.' 44
'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.... Deactive 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 when the junky copes. A moment of stillness and won-der. Even the Commuter buzzes clogged lines of cholesterol for contact.
Hassan shrieks out: 'This is your doing, A.J.! You poopa my party!' A.J. looks at him, face remote as limestone: 'Uppa your ass, you liquefying gook.' A horde of lust-mad American women rush in. Dripping cunts, from farm and dude ranch, factory, brothel, country club, penthouse and suburb, motel and yacht and cocktail bar, strip off riding clothes, ski togs, evening dresses, levis, tea gowns, print dresses, slacks, bathing suits and kimonos. They scream and yipe and howl, leap on the guests like bitch dogs in heat with rabies. They claw at the hanged boys shrieking: 'You fairy! You bastard! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!' The guests flee screaming, dodge among the hanged boys, overturn iron lungs. A.J.: 'Call out my Sweitzers, God damn it! Guard me from these she-foxest' Mr. Hyslop, A. J.'s secretary, looks up from his comic book: 'The Sweitzers liquefy already.' (Liquefaction involves protein cleavage and reduction to liquid which is absorbed into someone else's protoplasmic being. Hassan, a notorious liquefactionist, is probably the beneficiary in this case.)
A.J.: 'Gold-bricking cocksuckers! Where's a man without his Sweitzers? Our backs are to the wall, gentlemen. Our very cocks at stake. Stand by to resist boarders, Mr. Hyslop, and issue short arms to the men.'
