unknown sanctions. . . Report meetings of Trak personnel are synchronized with other events as to a low pressure area. . . Benway was reporting so-called actually included almost the report meetings of Trak persons. . . Sometimes the Reservation is other persons and events in Trak guards sub type...
'Outskirts of Mexico City—Can't quite make it with all the guards around—Are you at all competent to teach me the language? Come in please with the images—'
Smell death bed pictures—Cooperation inane—Carrion in the bank—Passport bad—Average on level tore canines—Understand fee: Corpses hang pants open in erogenous smells to Monterrey—
Clear and loud ahead naked post cards and baby shoes—A man comes back to something he left in underwear peeled the boy warm in 1929—Thighs slapped the bed jumped ass up—'Johnny Screw'—Cup is split—wastings— Thermodynamics crawls home—game of empty hands—bed pictures post dead question—carrion smell sharp.
'Meester, jelly thing win you—Waiting for this?' Streets of idiot pleasure—obsidian palaces of the fish city, bubbles twisting slow linen to the floor, traced fossils of orgasm.
'You win something like jelly fish, Meester.' His eyes calm and sad as little cats snapped the advantages: 'And I told him I said I am giving notice— Hanged in your dirty movies for the last time—Three thousand years in show business and I never stand still for such a routine like this.'
Street boys of the green with cruel idiot smiles and translucent amber flesh, aromatic jasmine excrement, pubic hairs that cut needles of pleasure—serving insect pleasures of the spine—alternate terminal flesh when the egg cracks.
'This bad place, Meester—This place of last fuck for Johnny.'
Smile of idiot death spasms—slow vegetable decay filmed his amber flesh—always there when the egg cracks and the white juice spurts from ruptured spines —From his mouth floated coal gas and violets—The boy dropped his rusty black pants—delicate must of soiled linen—clothes stiff with oil on the red tile floor— naked and sullen his street boy senses darted around the room for scraps of advantage—
'You come with me Meester? Last flucky.' Stranger color through his eyes the lookout different, face transparent with all the sewers of death—Hard-ons spread nutty smells through the outhouse—
soiled linen under the ceiling fan—spectral lust of shuttered rooms —He left a shirt on my bed.
'Jimmy Sheffields is still as good as he used to be.'
'He was servicing customers shit, Meester—So Doctor Benway snapped the advantages—This special breed spitting notice: Egg cracks the transmitter—Rat spines gathering mushroom flesh—
The boy dropped around your room for scraps—Got the rag on body from vegetable—Dropped his pants and his cock.'
'Who are you—My boat—'
'Smells through the outhouse—A compost heap, Meester.'
Sacred Sewers of Death—Boy dropped under the swamp cypress flopping around in soiled linen—
(Started off on foot across the deserted fields—a little hut on the outskirts—The writer looked at both of us good as he used to be.) Idiot pictures started coming in—
'You win something like jelly with his knees up to the chin—sad little irrigation ditch—Parrot on shoulder prods that heart—Paralyzed, twisting in your movies for the last time—Out of me from the waist down—I never stand still for such lookout on street boys of the green— Happened that boy could keep his gas and violets—This spot advantages brown hands working in concert for a switch to the Drenched Lands—Cyclotron shit these characters— Come level on average smell under any image—Evil odors high around the other—Jimmy Sheffields is again as good—Street boy's breath receiving notice—Jelly routine like this—When the egg cracks our spines servicing special customers of fossil orgasm.'
Kerosene lamp spattered light on red- and white-striped T-shirt and brown flesh—Dropped his pants— Pubic hairs cut stale underwear fan whiffs of young hard-on washing odors—afternoon wind where the awning flaps—
'Get physical with a routine like this?—Show you something interesting: diseased flesh servicing frantic last fuck for Johnny—Film over the bed you know, eyes pop out—Naked candy around the room, scraps of adolescent image, hot semen in Panama—Then the boy drops his drag and retires to a locker—
Dust of cities and wind faces came to World's End— call through remote dawn soaked in clouds, shivering back to mucus of the world.
Dust jissom in the bandanna trailing afternoon wind —under black Stetson peeled his stale underwear— Kerosene lamp spattered light on .22, delicate legs and brown flesh—clothes stiff in the locker room rubbing each other—sullen as the other two watched—Stranger dropped his pants
—Brown hands spurt it to the chest—
'Find time buyer—Start job—Image under the same position—Change place of your defense—'
'A Johannesburg bidonville he was servicing—Customers shitting Nigger for an eyecup of degenerates— Ejaculated the next day as Johnny—Meal mouthed cunt suckers flow through you—
This special breed spitting cotton travel on a radar beam of service proof shortbread—Shivering junk sick told your reporter the sex chucks hit us in heroin slow down—The paranoid ex-Communist was there—Rubbed Moscow up me with a corkscrew motion of his limestones—Split is the wast-ings of the pool game—irritably for Mexico—By now we had floppy city in the distance, 1920's faint and intermittent—The track gave out forever an inch from the false bottom—
'They had torn down the transmitter—Rats was running the post—Somewhere North of Monterrey we meet in warring powers—Captured the spine clinic and cook down the prisoners for jelly—We are accused of soliciting with
