The Soft Machine

old trestle—

Stale underwear of penny arcades slipping down legs, rectums feeling the warm sun, laughing and washing each other soapy hands in his crotch, pearly spasms stirring the warm water—whiff of dried jissom in the bandanna trailing sweet young breath through remote lands—soft globs on a brass bed in Mexico—naked— wet—carbolic soap—tight nuts—piece of soap in the locker room rubbing each other off to 'My Blue Heaven'—grinning as the other two watched—

The Mexican dropped his pants with a wriggle and stood naked in the filtered green light, vines on his back — Rubbing his crotch now into Billy's ass—Billy moved with it, rectum wriggling cock inside rubbing—

Ali squirmed teeth bared grinning—His thin brown stomach hit the pallet—'You is coming, Johnny?'— Sunlight on the army blankets—rectum wriggling slow fuck on knees ' asi como perros'—orgasm crackled with electric afternoon—bodies stuck together in magnetic eddies—

Squirming cock in his intestines, rectum wriggling felt the hot sperm deep in his body—

Shoved him over on his stomach kicking—The Mexican held his knees—Hand dipped a piece of soap— Shoved his cock in laughing—Bodies stuck together in the sunlight kicked whiffs of rectal mucus—laughing teeth and pepper smells—'You is feeling the hot quick Mexican kid naked Mambo to your toes Johnny. . . dust in bare leg hairs tight brown nuts breech very hot . . .How long you want us to fuck very nice Meester? Flesh diseased dirty pictures we fucking tired of fuck very nice Mister.' Sad image of sickness at the attic window say something to you ' adios' worn out film washed back in prep school clothes to distant closing dormitory fragments off the page stained toilet pictures blurred rotting pieces of 'Freckle Leg' dormitory dawn dripping water on his face diseased voice so painful telling you 'Sparks' is over New York. 'Have I done the job here?' With a telescope you can watch our worn out film dim jerky far away shut a bureau drawer faded sepia smile from an old calendar falling leaves sun cold on a thin boy with freckles folded away in an old file now standing last review.

'Maze of dirty pictures and vending machine flesh whispers use of fraud on faded photo—IBM

song yodels dime a dozen type overcoats—Not taking any adolescent on shit envelope in the bath cubicle— Come of your stale movies sings Danny Deever in drag—Times lost or strayed long empty cemetery with a moldy pawn ticket —fading whisper down skid row to Market Street shows all kinds masturbation and self-abuse—Young boys need it special.' silver paper in the wind distant 1920 wind and dust. He was looking at some thing a long time ago where the second hand book shop used to be just opposite the old cemetery.

'Who? Quien es?—Hable, senor—Talk loud and clear.'

'We are all from the American women with a delicate lilt—I represent the lithe aloof young men of the breed charmingly—We are all empowered to make arrests and enough with just the right shade of show you.'

' Belt Her—Find a time buyer before ports are now ended—These are rotten if they start job for instance —Blind bargain in return for accepting 'one more chance'—Generous?—Nothing—That far to the bait and it's curtains—Know what they meant if they start job for instance?'

'Dead young flesh in stale underwear vending sex words to magnetic Law 334—Indicates simple tape is served sir, through iron repetition—Ass and genitals tingling in 1929 jack-off spelt out broken wings of Icarus—Control system ousted from half the body whispers skin instructions to memory of melting ice— area of Spain—channels ahead loud and clear—Line of the body fitted to other underwear and Kiki steps forward on faded photo—sad image dusted by the Panama night.'

'So think before they can do any locks over the Chinese that abolition is war of the past—The end of hanging generous? Just the same position—Changed place of years in the end is just the same—

Going to do?—Perhaps alone would you? All good things come to about that was that—'

Call through remote dawn of back yards and ash pits —plaintive ghost in the turnstile—Shadow cars and wind faces came to World's End—street light on soiled clothes dim jerky far away dawn in his eyes. Do you begin to see there is no boy there in the dark room? He was looking at something a long time ago. Changed place?—Same position—Sad image circulates through backward time—

Clom Fliday.'

Case of the Celluloid Kali

The name is Clem Snide—I am a Private Ass Hole— I will take on any job any identity any body—

I will do anything difficult dangerous or downright dirty for a price—

The man opposite me didn't look like much—A thin grey man in a long coat that flickered like old film—He just happens to be the biggest operator in any time universe—

'I don't care myself you understand'—He watched the ash spiraling down from the end of his Havana— It hit the floor in a puff of grey dust—

'Just like that—Just time—Just time—Don't care myself if the whole fucking shithouse goes up in chunks— I've sat out novas before—I was born in a nova.'

'Well Mr. Martin, I guess that's what birth is you might say.'

'I wouldn't say—Have to be moving along any case —The ticket that exploded posed little time—

Point is they are trying to cross me up—small timers—still on the old evacuation plan—Know what the old evacuation plan is, Mr. Snide?'

'Not in detail.'

'The hanging gimmick—death in orgasm—gills—No bones and elementary nervous system—

evacuation to the Drenched Lands—a bad deal on the level and it's not on the level with Sammy sitting in— small timers trying to cross me up—Me, Bradly-Martin, who invented the double-cross

—Step right up—Now you see me now you don't—A few scores to settle before I travel —a few things to tidy up and that's where you come in—I want you to contact the Venus Mob, the Vegetable People and spill the whole fucking compost heap through Times Square and Piccadilly—

I'm not taking any rap for that green bitch—I'm going to rat on everybody and split this dead whistle stop planet wide open —I'm clean for once with the nova heat—like clean fall out—'