William S. Burroughs Ipsum

A cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. when you stop growing you start dying. and grow there. of the brain behind the eyes. is control controlled by its need to control? answer: yes. he is a boy sleeping against the mosque wall, ejaculates wet dreaming into a thousand cunts pink and smooth as sea shells... a curse. been in our family for generations. the lees have always been perverts. i shall never forget the unspeakable horror that froze the lymph in my glands when the baneful word seared my reeling brain - i was a homosexual. i thought of the painted simpering female impersonators i'd seen in a baltimore nightclub. could it be possible i was one of those subhuman things? i walked the streets in a daze like a man with a light concussion. i would've destroyed myself. and a wise old queen - bobo, we called her - taught me that i had a duty to live and bear my burden proudly for all to see. poor bobo came to a sticky end - he was riding in the duke devanche's hispano suissa when his falling hemorrhoids blew out of the car and wrapped around the rear wheel. he was completely gutted leaving an empty shell sitting there on the giraffe skin upholstry. even the eyes and the brain went with a horrible "shlupping" sound. the duke says he would carry that ghastly "shlup" with him to his mausoleum. danger is a very rare commodity in these times, monopolized by intelligence agencies and stuntmen. cat hate reflects an ugly, stupid, loutish, bigoted spirit. there can be no compromise with this ugly spirit..

After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say 'i want to see the manager.' admittedly, a homosexual can be conditioned to react sexually to a woman, or to an old boot for that matter. in fact, both homo - and heterosexual experimental subjects have been conditioned to react sexually to an old boot, and you can save a lot of money that way. in my writing i am acting as a map maker, an explorer of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space, and i see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed. love? what is it? most natural painkiller what there is. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. beating at it with his fists... in the end, not me... nerve connections were blocked... so, the brain couldn't what a horrible loutish planet this is. the dominant species consists of sadistic morons, faces bearing the hideous lineaments of spiritual famine swollen with stupid hate. hopeless rubbish. like spain, i am bound to the past. fear of death is form of stasis horrors. the dead weight of time. they say only love can create, so who the fuck could love up a centipede? he's got more love in him than i got. i had the feeling that some horrible image was just beyond the field of vision, moving, as i turned my head, so that i never quite saw it. god save the queen and a fascist regime ... a flabby toothless fascism, to be sure. never go too far in any direction, is the basic law on which limey-land is built. the queen stabilizes the whole sinking shithouse and keeps a small elite of wealth and privilege on top. the english have gone soft in the outhouse. england is like some stricken beast too stupid to know it is dead. ingloriously foundering in its own waste products, the backlash and bad karma of empire death needs time for what it kills to grow in. a curse. been in our family for generations. the lees have always been perverts. i shall never forget the unspeakable horror that froze the lymph in my glands--the lymph glands that is, of course--when the baneful word seared my reeling brain: i was a homosexual. i thought of the painted, simpering female impersonators i'd seen in a baltimore nightclub. could it be possible i was one of those subhuman things? i walked the streets in a daze like a man with a light concussion--just a minute, doctor kildare, this isn't your script. i might well destroyed myself, ending an existence which seemed to offer nothing but grotesque misery and humiliation. nobler, i thought, to die a man than live on, a sex monster. it was a wise old queen--bobo, we called her--who taught me that i had a duty to live and bear my burden proudly for all to see, to conquer prejudice and ignorance and hate with knowledge and sincerity and love. if, after having been in someone's presence, you feel like you've lost a quart of plasma - avoid that presence. no one likes to hear the word "vampire" used around here... it's kind of bad for our public image. may 4, 1985. i am packing for a short trip to new york to discuss the cat book with brion. in the front room where the kittens are kept, calico jane is nursing one black kitten. i pick up my tourister. it seems heavy. i look inside and there are her other four kittens. while in general i avoid the use of torture - torture locates the opponent and mobilizes resistance - the threat of torture is useful to induce in the subject the appropriate feeling of helplessness and gratitude to the interrogator for withholding it. and torture can be employed to advantage as a penalty when the subject is far enough along with the treatment to accept punishment as deserved. to this end i devised several forms of disciplinary procedure. one was known as the switchboard. electric drills that can be turned on at any time are clamped against the subject's teeth; and he is instructed to operate an arbitrary switchboard, to put certain connections in certain sockets in response to bells and lights. every time he makes a mistake the drills are turned on for twenty seconds. the signals are gradually speeded up beyond his reaction time. half an hour on the switchboard and the subject breaks down like an overloaded thinking machine..

How i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. nothing is true, everything is permitted. i am getting so far out one day i won't come back at all. nobody owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction. in the u.s. you have to be a deviant or die of boredom. smash the control images. smash the control machine. i miss you so much your absence causes me, at times, accute pain. i don't mean sexually. i mean in connection with my writing. did i ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? his whole abdomen would move up and down, you dig, farting out the words. finally, it talked all the time, day and night. like a tadpole's tail and grow there. except for the eyes, you dig? and then finally when i become death. death is the seed from which i grow. i was standing outside myself trying to stop those hangings with ghost fingers... i am a ghost wanting what every ghost wants-a body-after the long time moving through odorless alleys of space where no life is, only the colorless no smell of death...nobody can breath and smell it through pink convolutions of gristle laced with crystal snot, time shit and black blood filters of flesh. wouldn't it be great,as scott peck suggests, if all medical students had to undergo the symptoms and feeling of a spectrum of illnesses. from acute infections to terminal cancer - and kuru, the laughing sickness. just a month for each exposure, controlled of course, and a good heavy dose of excruciating pain. so they'll know what that feels like. everything jack says is to be taken with considerable reserve. (a boat in lake.) i was afraid it would turn over at high speed. in deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality. it is as final as the mountains: a fact. there it is. when you realize it you cannot complain. death needs time for what it kills to grow in. the self is like a pimping blackmailing chauffeur who gets you from here to there on word lines. control never be a means to any practical end. it can never be a means to anything but more control... like punk. the name's clem williamson snide. i am a private asshole..