big noise, this unbearable static, some screeching, high-
pitched pain, and you can’t see they’re hollow because the
noise diverts you to near madness; big lovemaker with fifty
dollars to spend, seed to spill making mimetic magic, grind,
bang, it’s a boy, a big, bad boy who writes books, big, bad
books. I see the future and it’s a bunch o f pricks making a
literature o f fucking, high art about sticking it in; I did it, ma;
she was filth and I did it. O nly yo u ’ll get a Mailer-Genet beast:
I did it, ma, I did it to her, he did it to me. The cement will
grow them; sympathetic magic w orks; the spilled seed, the
grinding, bang bang, pushes the fuck out past the bounds o f
physical reality; it lurks in the biosphere; it will creep into
weeping wom bs; they’ll be born, the next generation, out o f
what the assholes do to me; I’ve got enough semen dripping in
me for a literary renaissance, an encyclopedia o f novellas, a
generation o f genius; maybe some o f them will paint or write
songs. Mother earth, magic vessel, the altar where they
worship, the sacred place; fifty dollars to burn a candle, or
pills, or a meal and money; bang bang ain’t never without
consequences for the future o f the race. N o reason the race
should be different from the people in it. There’s no tom orrow
I know of. I never seen one that ain’t today. It’s fine to be slut-
mama to a literary movement; the corporeal altar o f sym pathetic motherhood to a generation; his loins; m y ass.
Immortal, anonymous means to his end. It’s what the hippie
girls all glittering, flecked, stardust, want: to be procreatrix
with flowering hips and tea made from plants instead o f
Lipton; they recline, posh and simple, all spread out draped in
flowing cotton and color; they don’t take money; well, they
do, but they don’t say so upfront— from my point o f view
they are mannerless in this regard; mostly they just hang on,
like they have claws, it passes for spiritual, they just sit there
until he comes back from wherever he’s gone after coitus has
made him triste, they say it’s meditating but it’s just waiting
for some guy to show w ho’s left; they ain’t under the light,
they are o f it— luminescent fairy things from on high, just
down for a fast, ethereal screw. I been to bed with them;
usually a man and one o f them, because they don’t do women
alone— too real for the nitrous oxide crowd, not Buddhistic
enough— it’s got an I want right between the legs and it’s got
your genitals leading your heart around or vice versa, who the
hell knows, and it don’t make the boy happy unless he gets to
watch and the hippie girls do not irritate the love-boys by
doing things that might not be directly and specifically for
them. The hippie boys like bringing another woman into bed.
Y ou can shake some coke loose from them if you do it; or
money, which they pretend is like nothing but they hold onto
it pretty tight. Coke and orange juice is my favorite breakfast;
