A Poem by William S. Burroughs
Language like muttering pant smells running silver scanning
Passed down the Arab Street in the gutter patterns
Translucent medium from its like i talky you of a place
the vacuum of silent panic forgotten red mud flats
sharp fish syllables where is he now? he moved as sharp as water
assassins smile and drink he was caught reeds
broken into scanning patterns in the zoo of legs
dawn words falling fish talk the liquid typewriter spitting blood
where flesh circulates he strode toward flesh of red dusk laugh
purple gills stirring dead whistle stop Spain and 42 st.
its like reeds on the face circulates up through the dark excuses
where flesh identity dawn words falling stirring slow
gills of purple sleep he was caught in the zoo it is no death
where flesh circulates unbelief staring out from dawn skin
of Spain and 42 St.