pictures and drinking aromatic medicine from a red plastic eye cup and never touched my penis during the sex act.
Through customs checks and control posts and over the mountains in a blue blast of safe conducts and three monkey creatures ran across the road in a warm wind— (sound of barking dogs and running water) swinging round curves over the misty void—down to end of the road towns on the edge of Yage country where shy Indian cops checked our papers—through broken stellae, pottery fragments, worked stones, condoms and shit-stained comics, slag heaps of phosphorescent metal excrement—faces eaten by the pink and purple insect disease of the New World—crab boys with human legs and genitals crawl out of clay cubicles—Terminal junkies hawk out crystal throat gristle in the cold mountain wind—Goof ball bums covered with shit sleep in rusty bathtubs—a delta of sewage to the sky under terminal stasis, speared a sick dolphin that surfaced in bubbles of coal gas
—taste of metal left silver sores on our lips—only food for this village built on iron racks over an iridescent lagoon—swamp delta to the sky lit by orange gas flares.
In the flash bulb of orgasm I saw three silver numbers —We walked into the streets and won a football pool — Panama clung to our bodies stranger color through his eyes the lookout different.
Flash bulb monster crawling inexorably from Old Fred Flash—the orgasm in a 1920 movie, silver writing from backward countries—Flapping genitals in wind— explosion of the throat from peeled noon drifting sheets of male flesh to a stalemate of black lagoons while open shirts twist iridescent in the dawn—(this sharp smell of carrion.)
'Take it from a broken stalemate—The Doctor couldn't reach and see?: Those pictures are the line
— Fading breath on bed showed sound track—You win handful of dust that's what.'
Metamorphosis of the Rewrite Department coughing and spitting in fractured air—flapping genitals of carrion—Our drained countess passed on a hideous leather body—We are digested and become nothing here— dust air of gymnasiums in another country and besides old the pool now, a few inches on dead post cards— here at the same time there his eyes—Silver light popped stroke of nine.
Dead post card you got it?—Take it from noon refuse like ash—Hurry up see?—Those pictures are yourself— Is backward sound track—That's what walks beside you to a stalemate of physical riders
—('You come with me, Meester?')—I knew Mexican he carried in his flesh with sex acts shooting them pills I took—Total alertness she is your card—Look, simple: Place exploded man goal in other flesh—dual controls country—double sex sad as the Drenched Lands.
Last man with such explosion of the throat crawling inexorably from something he carried in his flesh—Last turnstile was in another country and besides knife exploded Sammy the Butcher—
Holes in 1920 movie— Newspaper tape fading, after dinner sleep ebbing carbon dioxide—
Indications enough showed you calls to make, horrors crawling inexorably toward goal in other flesh —What are you waiting for, kid?—Slotless human wares?—Nothing here now—
Metamorphosis is complete—Rings of Saturn in the dawn—The sky exploded question from vacant lots—youth nor age but as it were lips fading—There in our last film mountain street boy exploded
'the word,' sits quietly silence to answer.
'You come with me, Meester to greet the garbage man and the dawn? Traced fossil countenance everlastingly about the back door, Meester.' sick dawn of inane cooperation—dead post cards swept out by typewriters clatter hints as we shifted commissions—Hurry up please—Crawling inexorably toward its goal—I— We—They—sit quietly in last terrace of the garden— The neon sun sinks in this sharp smell of carrion— (circling albatross—peeled noon— refuse like ash)—
Ghost of Panama clung to our throats coughing and spitting in the fractured air, falling through space between worlds, we twisted slowly to black lagoons, flower floats and gondolas—tentative crystal city iridescent in the dawn wind—(adolescents ejaculate over the tide flats)—Dead post card are you thinking of?— What thinking?—peeled noon and refuse like ash— Hurry up please—Make yourself a bit smart—Who is the third that walks beside you to a stalemate of black lagoons and violet light? Last man—Phosphorescent centipede feeding on flesh strung together we are digested and become nothing here.
'You come with me, Meester?'
Up a great tidal river to the port city stuck in water hyacinths and banana rafts—The city is an intricate split- bamboo structure in some places six stories high overhanging the street propped up by beams and sections of railroad track and concrete pillars, an arcade from the warm rain that falls at half hour intervals— The coast people drift in the warm steamy night eating colored ices under the arc lights and converse in slow catatonic gestures punctuated by immobile silence— Plaintive boy-cries drift through Night Of the Vagrant Ball Players.
'Paco!—Joselito!—Enrique!—'
'
'Where you go, Meester?'
'Squeezed down heads?'
Soiled mouth above a tuxedo blows smoke rings into the night, 'SMOKE TRAK CIGARETTES.
THEY LIKE YOU. TRAK LIKE ANY YOU. ANY TRAK LIKE YOU. SMOKE TRAKS. THEY
SERVICE. TRAK TRAK TRAK.'
Los Vagos Jugadores de Pelota storm the stale streets of commerce—Civil Guards discreetly turn away and open their flys to look for crabs in a vacant lot—For the Vagrant Ball Players can sound a Hey Rube Switch brings a million adolescents shattering the customs barriers and frontiers of time, swinging out of the jungle with Tarzan cries, crash landing perilous tin planes and rockets, leaping from trucks and banana rafts, charge through the black dust of mountain wind like death in the throat.
The trak sign stirs like a nocturnal beast and bursts into blue flame, 'SMOKE TRAK
CIGARETTES. THEY LIKE YOU. TRAK LIKE ANY YOU. ANY TRAK LIKE YOU. SMOKE
TRAKS. THEY SATISFY. THEY SERVICE. TRAK TRAK TRAK.'
'Vagos Jugadores de Pelota,
