Wednesday, October 5, 2011

The Eastern Lands.


Yes, of course I'm part of the advant garde...I have like paintings and stuff... Post modern is so passe...A book of William burroughs...The Western Lands, his last novel proper... What a book...I took that book.... Cut up the pages and then put together a text..From the words....I'll make a novel outta it..Sammy Beckett told Burroughs its plumbing...Words aren't cattle with brands on them Burroughs responded in his Southern drawl..Don't expect you to understand it Micky... My week beats your year..Lou Reed said that...Speed paranoia...Liner notes of Metal Machine Music....Aha... What are blogs? Neat little harbours for gems...Truffles in the forrest...Feed piggy... feed...The Eastern Lands...

Flying centipedes of unfortunate varieties: run when they hatch, dwindle out in barren hills. A naked man tears at his flesh break through the skin in the Guilt Theater with limestone seats, crowds walk by faces blank circles, a stone stele, jerks convulsively as a centipede head, centipede hair, eyes and then his penis emerge. Another is eating, moving in jerks and spasmodic motions. Wilson kills the man with an overlap, stop and scrabble. Below the stele is a naked man. An area of narrow passages, straps. The couch is made of clay, six feet long, ancient holes in the marble floor. Upper cubicles are half empty naked, except for exquisite rope ladders and notes in segmented gold, with opal jammed with the dead and in the air, faces squirming and energy pours from their buckets to shiny black mirrors reflecting a vile hunger. Filtheaters between the warrens beware the Guilt Theater. The cubicles buzz about, Centipedes laying eggs in the empty ruined buildings. A circular space twenty, screaming Filtheaters as centipede heads smooth marble in the middle of ashes and blood and pus. The silent covered with tiny script, compose-catatonic. The stricken man kicks his legs and claws; the sign breaks through the crown of patterns that intercross its way through an eye socket. Stone writes with hideous life. Bound to a couch with leather hardwood. The spectators are complete between rows of wire mesh centipede necklaces and braceletsteeps, five feet high, four tiers. Their eyes, lips parted pestilent breath because few can climb up to them crawling on the skull, eyes declutched logs. The lower cubicles a vile idiot hunger, dying, barely enough. The Guilt Theater speaks “We feed with the cede!”

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