William S. Burroughs is arguably my favorite author, mostly due to the fact that I knew more about him before I read his writing due to reading the tragic tale of Billy Burroughs Jr., his sad whose story of epic proportions is both a compelling and depressing example of what lackadaisical parenting can bestow on a person. Billy was always looking for his strung out father, his absent father who could not connect, his father who was once described as having a reptilian repertoire who brought him to the fantastically dark Tangiers of the 1950s, the father who was such an outlaw of American morality, the one who professed to enjoying living in foreign slums rather than the suburban environment of Palm Beach, Florida. This is a man whose work is rather obscure, nearly unreadable at times. William S. Burrough’s work The Soft Machine is a hodgepodge of queer sex, references to his young Moroccan lover Kiki (an impoverished male prostitute), and bizarre ramblings of a dirty old man. Whatever his age, at the end of the day Burroughs was a dirty old man.
Using his cut-up technique, I devised the following from The Soft Machine:
slower hours dripping down coming like machine guns she cocks polite flour films and some cloths. Milky warmly shitting himself under the noose spurt slow, flour flights in dirty brown Chinese jade. Face blurred sprouted semen identical in film smoke. FEd up with being in position he found the massive shadow. The warm smell, he walked said, before they get to respectfully covered his gun. Broker police pumped Japanese wrestler flopped in the sun. Within an earshot broken sex bloody green jelly strapped on spasmodically “i’ll get mine later” he pulls aside curtains.