Mercy

B ig, bad cock. Wiping themselves on dirty women, then

writing home to mama by w ay o f G rove Press, saying what

trash the dirty women are; how brave the bad boys are,

writing about it, doing it, putting their cocks in the big, bad,

dirty hole where all the other big, brave boys were; oh they say

dirty words about dirty women good. I read the books. I had a

typewriter but it was stolen when the men broke in. The men

broke in before when I w asn’t here and they took everything,

my clothes, my typewriter. I wrote stories. Some were about

life on other planets; I wrote once about a wild woman on a

rock on Mars. I described the rock, the red planet, barren, and

a woman with tangled hair, big, with muscles, sort o f Ursula

Andress on a rock. I couldn’t think o f what happened though.

She was just there alone. I loved it. Never wanted it to end. I

wrote about the country a lot, pastoral stuff, peaceful, I made

up stories about the wind blowing through the trees and leaves

falling and turning red. I wrote stories about teenagers feeling

angst, not the ones I knew but regular ones with stereos. I

couldn’t think o f details though. I wrote about men and

women making love. I made it up; or took it from Nino, a boy

I knew, except I made it real nice; as he said it would be; I left

out the knife. The men writers make it as nasty as they can, it’s

like they’re using a machine gun on her; they type with their

fucking cocks— as Mailer admitted, right? Except he said

balls, always a romancer. I can’t think o f getting a new

typewriter, I need money for just staying alive, orange juice

and coffee and cigarettes and milk, vodka and pills, they’ll just

smash it or take it anyway, I have to just learn to write with a

pen and paper in handwriting so no one can steal it and so it

don’t take money. When I read the big men writers I’m them;

careening around like they do; never paying a fucking price;

days are long, their books are short compared to an hour on

the street; but if you think about a book just saying I’m a prick

and I fuck dirty girls, the books are pretty long; m y cock, m y

cock, three volumes. They should just say: I Can Fuck.

Norm an M ailer’s new novel. I Can Be Fucked. Jean Genet’s

new novel. I ' m Waiting To Be Fucked Or To Fuck, I Don't

Know. Samuel Beckett’s new novel. She Shit. Jam es Jo y c e ’s

masterpiece. Fuck Me, Fuck Her, Fuck It. The Living Theatre’s

new play. Paradise Fucked. The sequel. Mama, I Fucked a Jewish

Girl. The new Philip Roth. Mama, I Fucked a Shiksa. The new,

new Philip Roth. It was a bad day they w ouldn’t let little boys

say that word. I got to tell you, they get laid. T h e y’re up and

down these streets, taking what they want; tw o hundred