The Soft Machine

washing adolescent T-shirt—The blood smells drowned voices and end of the line—That's Panama—sad movie drifting in islands of rubbish, black lagoons and fish people waiting a place forgotten—fossil honky-tonk swept out by a ceiling fan—Old photographer trick tuned them out.

'I am dying, Meester?'

Flashes in front of my eyes naked and sullen—rotten dawn wind in sleep—death rot on Panama photo where the awning flaps.

Sad servant stood on the sea wall in sepia clouds of Panama.

'Boy I was washed face in Panama maybe undressed there, money, good bye.'

Johnny Yen's last adios out of focus.

1920 Movies

Film union sub spirit couldn't find the cobbled road content with an occasional Mexican in the afternoon a body sadness to say good bye smell of blood and excrement with the wind sad distant voices infer his absence as wind and dust in empty streets of Mexico.

'I am the Director. You have known me for a long time. Mister, leave cigarette money.'

Iron cell wall painted flaking rust—Grifa smoke through the high grate window of blue night—Two prisoners sit on lower iron shelf bunk smoking. One is American the other Mexican—The Cell vibrates with silent blue motion of prison and all detention in time.

'Johnny I think you little bit puto queer.'

' Si.' Johnny held up thumb and finger an inch apart.

'I screw Johnny up ass? Bueno Johnny?' His fingers flicked Johnny's shirt. They stood up. Jose hung his shirt on a nail, Johnny passed shirt and Jose hung one shirt over the other. ' Ven aca.' He caught Johnny's belt-end with one hand and flipped the belt-tongue out and opened fly buttons with pickpocket fingers.

'Johnny pants down, Ya duro. Johnny hard. I think like mucho be screwed.'

' Claro.'

'Fuck Johnny, Johnny come too?'

Jose moved into the bunk on knees: 'Like this Johnny,' he slapped his thighs. ' Como perros.'

He opened a tin of vaseline as the other moved into place and shoved a slow twisting finger up Johnny's ass.

'Johnny like?'

' Mucho.'

'Johnny flip now.'

He held Johnny's thighs and moved his cock in slow.

'Breathe in deep Johnny.'

His cock slid in as Johnny breathed in. They froze there breathing: ' Bueno, Johnny?'

' Bueno.'

' Vamanos.' Shadow bodies twisted on the blue wall. 'Johnny sure start now.'

'You is coming Johnny?'

' Siiiiiii.'

'Here goes Johnny.' Spurts cross the surplus blanket smell of iron prison flesh and clogged toilets, pickpocket finger on his balls squeezing the spurts, cock throbbing against his spine, he squeezed through a maze of penny arcades dirty pictures in the blue Mexican night. The two bodies fell languidly apart bare feet on the Army blanket. Grifa smoke blown down over black shiny pubic hairs copper and freckle flesh. Paco's cock came up in smoke.

' Otra vez, Johnny?' He put his hands behind Johnny's knees.

'Johnny hear knees now.' Mexican thighs: ' Como perros I fuck you.' Walls painted blue smoke through the grate. Finger up Johnny's ass moved two prisoners. He held Johnny's thighs and vibrated silent deep Johnny. His cock slid: 'Johnny, I in.'

'Let's go,' twisted the iron frame. ' Porque no?' ' Bueno, Johnny.' Candle shadow bodies. 'Johnny sure desnudate por completo. . . Johnny?'

' Siiii? '

'Here goes complete.' Plus blankets smell of iron and shirt on nail. Mexican pickpocket one shirt over the other. Spurts maze of dirty pictures. He pushed toe blue Mexican night Johnny pants down.

Part bare feet on the blanket. Black shiny pubic hairs.

'I think like mucho be Jose—Paco—Enrique.'

' Como perros Johnny like? Breathe Jose in there deep Johnny.'

His cock iron frame for what not breathing: 'Let's go bunk.'

'You is coming plus Paco.' Cross blanket smell of Johnny flicked one shirt. Go completo plus Kiki. He flipped the tongue street: 'You is coming for Johnny.'