From The Living God Cock flows a stream of lubricant into a limestone trough green with algae.
The priests arrange the initiates into long dog-fuck lines molding them together with green jelly from the lubricant tanks. Now the centipede skin is strapped on each body a segment and the centipede whips and cracks in electric spasms of pleasure throwing off segments kicking spasmodically uncontrolled diarrhea spurting orgasm after orgasm synchronized with the flicker lights. Carl is taken by the centipede legs and pulled into flesh jelly dissolving bones—Thick black hair sprouts through his tumescent flesh—He falls through a maze of penny arcades and dirty pictures, locker rooms, barracks, and prison flesh empty with the colorless smell of death—
Cold metal excrement on all the walls and benches, silver sky raining the metal word fallout—Sex sweat like iron in the mouth. Scores are coming in. Pretend an interest.
In a puppet booth the manipulator takes pictures of bored insolent catatonics with eight-hour erections reading comics and chewing gum. The impresario is a bony Nordic with green fuzz on his chest and legs. 'I get mine later with the pictures. I can't touch the performers. Wall of glass you know show you something interesting.'
He pulls aside curtain: schoolboy room with a banner and pin-ups, on the bed naked boy puppet reading comics and chewing gum with a hypo.
Ghost your German. Spit penny arcades, tattoo booths, Nordic processions, human performers, trapeze artists. Whores of all sexes importune from scenic railways and ferris wheels where they rent cubicles, push up manhole covers in a puff of steam, pull at passing pant cuffs, careen out of the Tunnel of Love waving condoms of jissom. Old blind queens with dirty peep shows built into their eye sockets disguise themselves as penny arcades and feel for a young boy's throbbing cock with cold metal hands, sniff pensively at bicycle seats in Afghan Hound drag, Puerto Joselito is located through legs. Ghost slime sitting naked on tattoo booths, virus flesh of curse, suffocating town, this. Ways to bury explorer.
Old junky street cleaners push little red wagons sweeping up condoms and empty H caps, KY
tubes, broken trusses and sex devices, kif garbage and confetti, moldy jockstraps and bloody Kotex, shit- stained color comics, dead kitten and afterbirths, jenshe babies of berdache and junky.
Everywhere the soft insidious voice of the Pitchman delayed action language lesson muttering under all your pillows 'Shows all kinds masturbation and self-abuse. Young boys need it special.'
Last Hints
Carl descended a spiral iron stairwell into a labyrinth of lockers, tier on tier of wire mesh and steel cubicles joined by catwalks and ladders and moving cable cars as far as he could see, tiers shifting interpenetrating swinging beams of construction, blue flare of torches on the intent young faces, locker room smell of moldy jockstraps, chlorine and burning metal, escalators and moving floors start stop change course, synchronize with balconies and perilous platforms eaten with rust. Ferris wheels silently penetrate the structure, roller coasters catapult through to the clear sky—a young workman walks the steel beams with the sun in his hair out of sight in a maze of catwalks and platforms where coffee fires smoke in rusty barrels and the workers blow on their black cotton gloves in the clear cold morning through to the sky beams with sun in his hair the workers blow on their cold morning, dropped down into the clicking turnstiles, buzzers, lights and stuttering torches smell of ozone. Breakage is constant. Whole tiers shift and crash in a yellow cloud of rust, spill boys masturbating on careening toilets, iron urinals trailing a wake of indecent exposure, old men in rocking chairs screaming antifluoride slogans, a Southern Senator sticks his fat frog face out of the outhouse and brays with inflexible authority: 'And Ah advocates the extreme penalty in the worst form there is for anyone convicted of trafficking in, transporting, selling or caught in using the narcotic substance known as nutmeg. . . I wanna say further that ahm a true friend of the Nigra and understand all his simple wants. Why, I got a good Darkie in here now wiping my ass.'
Wreckage and broken bodies litter the girders, slowly collected by old junkies pushing little red wagons patient and calm with gentle larcenous old woman fingers, gathering blue torch flares light the calm intent young worker faces.
Carl descended a spiral iron smell of ozone. Breakage is of lockers tier on tier crash in yellow cloud as far as he could see of indecent exposure on toilets. Swinging beams construct the intent young faces.
Locker room toilet on five levels seen from the ferris wheel, flash of white legs, shiny pubic hairs and lean brown arms, boys masturbating with soap under rusty showers form a serpent line beating on the lockers, vibrates through all the tiers and cubicles unguarded platforms and dead-end ladders dangling in space, workers straddling beams beat out runic tunes with shiny ball peen hammers.
The universe shakes with metallic adolescent lust. The line disappears through a green door slide down to the subterranean baths twisting through torch flares the melodious boy-cries drift out of ventilators in all the locker rooms, barracks, schools and prisons of the world. 'Joselito, Paco, Enrique.'
Jacking off he is whiff stateroom that is always kept locked—and word dust dirtied his body falling through the space between worlds—
The third kif pipe he went through the urinal sick and dizzy. He just down from the country. He just down from the green place by the dog's mirror. Sometimes came to a place by the dogs... Jungle sounds and smells drift from his coat lapels. A lovely Sub that boy.
Ghosts of Panama clung to our bodies—'You come with me, Meester?'—On the boy's breath a flesh—His body slid from my hands in soap bubbles—We twisted slowly to the yellow sands, traced fossils of orgasm—
'You win something like jellyfish, Meester.'
Under a ceiling fan, naked and sullen, stranger color through his eyes the lookout different—fading Panama photos swept out by an old junky coughing spitting in the sick dawn—
(phosphorescent metal excrement of the city—brain eating birds patrol the iron streets.) Hospital smell of dawn powder—dead rainbow post cards swept out by an old junky in backward countries.
'I don't know if you got my last hints as we shifted commissions, passing where the awning flaps from the Cafe de France—Hurry up—Perhaps Carl still has his magic lantern—Dark overtakes someone walking—I don't know exactly where you made this dream— Sending letter to a coffin is like posting it in last terrace of the garden—I would never have believed realms and frontiers of light exist—I'm so badly informed and totally green troops—B.B., hurry up please—'
(Stopped suddenly to show me a hideous leather body)—'I'm almost without medicine.'
It was still good bye then against the window outside 1920's movie, flesh tracks broken—Sitting at a long table where the doctor couldn't reach and I said: 'He has your voice and end of the line—
Fading breath on bed showing symptoms of suffocation—I have tuned them out—How many plots have been forestalled before they could take shape in boy haunted by the iron claws?— Meanwhile a tape recorder cuts old
