#auerhahn press

[magictransistor]

William Burroughs/Brion Gysin, The Exterminator, 1960.

[fragmentsandextracts]

HYPODERMIC LIGHT

It’s absurd I can’t bring my soul to the eye of odoriferous fire my soul whose teeth never leave their cadavers my soul twisted on rocks of mental freeways my soul that hates music I would rather not see the Rose in my thoughts take on illusionary   prerogatives it is enough to have eaten bourgeois testicles it is enough that the masses are all sodomites Good Morning the ships are in I’ve brought the gold to burn Moctezuma I’m in a tipi joking with seers I’m smoking yahnah I’m in a joint smoking marijuana with a cat who looks like Jesus Christ heroin is a door always opened by white women my first act of treason was to be born! I’m at war with the Zodiac my suffering comes on as a fire going out O beautiful world contemplation!

It’s a fact my soul is smoking!

*

That the total hatred wants to annihilate me! it’s the sickness of american pus against which I’m hallucinated I’m sick of language I want this wall I see under my eyes break up and shatter you I’m talking all poems after God I want the table of visions to send me oriole opium A state of siege It’s possible to live directly from elementals! hell stamps out vegetable   spirits, zombies attack heaven! the marvelous put down by   martial law, America fucked by a stick of marijuana paper money larded for frying corpses! HERE comes the Gorgon! THERE’S the outhouse!

         Come up from dead things, anus of the sun!

*

old after midnight spasm juke box waits for junk round about midnight music combing bop hair getting ready to cook Jupiter wails! heroins of visionary wakeup in light of Bird and The Going Forth By   Day the pipe’s spiritual brain winters off the Nile old hypodermic needle   under foot of Anubis                                          Mother Death I’m at the boat of Ra Set I’m Osiris hunting stars his black tail of the sun! It’s the end of melancholy       sad      bop      midnights.

*

They shot me full of holes at Kohlema’s hut! It’s your who’ll be butchered in my precise imagination It’ll be hard to withstand the reasoning of peyotl Rack

  many times my song went downstairs, people of entire hate and I burned you in basements without tearing my face up O people I hate the most! glass automobiles snake by to decay decay is   living anthill where yr automobiles lift their skirts and stiff pricks of dead indians going in reverse automobile graveyards where I eat fenders, bodies I crunch mustards of   engines I devour whole gallons of molding chrome I whip cheese   from cannibal hoods

O beautiful people of hate! your money fenders how creamy! your electric   eyes stinking! your geometric reconstructions against my   destructions!

   -- Philip Lamantia [Destroyed Works, 1962]

[boohooray]