Remember: “Strangely strange can be welcomed change and is usually oddly normal…”

Gah, yes, I know. It’s time to go down in the basement of our collective mind. It is damp and musty, poorly lit, a very low ceiling and in places very dark. It is an underground space and what you see is very much like what you’d see when a large rock is lifted up off a damp floor – ugly basement-like Things that are scurrying ‘bout. Hey jus’ maybe this is my Naked Luncheonette imagination working overtime and thinking, “Hmm, whatever” – Bottom-line ; This is the place ya wanna be at…

Said the ugly basement-like Thing…
”THE CRAP YOU ARE ABOUT TO STEP INTO AT THE NAKED LUNCHEONETTE IS DEDICATED TO ALL THOSE ONLINE WHO…UNDERSTAND ME AND MISUNDERSTAND ME AS WELL AS, TO ALL THE ‘HEELS’, WHO WOULD JUST LOVE TO STAND ON ME”

STEP HERE ——> AND THEN THERE..

——————–
– ooznozz

Ahh, but the dice cannot read their own spots,

i’m poking ‘round in the archaeological digs

Of a used and improbably mind

Fumbling among the skipped parts

& finding that my tongue

Is the enemy, of my well executed smarts…?

My inner voice spoke softly ‘bout loud issues

“Stay an inch or two outta kicking distance…

And take note of the sanity lost

From the tears that i cry for it all to stop”

“Echo, tears, embodiment” says the angel as I fall upon my knees

(Oh my empty moon, when looking up the skirt of the night sky,

A dizzying stillness amongst liquid but razor sharp moonbeams

Revealing my reflection, a “warts and all” kind,

Now i’m anchored to the moon’s mournful nightlight

… Shadows caught in the act)

Ghostly scars are a potent voice

There’s no LOPSIDED GRACE / when jus’ trying t ’stay human

My brain had been dissolved in the roaring circuitry

That flows far within this skull beneath the skin…

Can’t do what i really feel

When you hear someone saying “trust me”

Sinful and angry in the light, No voice (it’s been turned off),

There’s no strength of decency,

…And certainly no laughter

When wedging myself between barely visible and God, i’m cursed.

Tearing loose, i hear its echo

“Erosion”, forget-me-not…“Erosion”,

As bulldozed splinters of pain fleck off

When I’m knocked to my knees

i bemoan, “That which is pushed eventually must fall over”

And freedoms breath is cupped with this action, a suffocating squeeze

Fingers of tumultuous jostle me –

Attempting to throw me hard toward kingdom-come…

i just push them aside,

Yes, truth blackens all vision

And remorse burns introspection until blurred

i am helplessly helpless, no restoration

As whirlwinds of self-analysis triggers a flapping numb

i bemoan, “There’s so much bitterness and bad memories consigned”

Human suffering,

“Can this drama, the supreme embodiment of the human condition,

Possibly be okay?”

My stomach knots

Outward with an undulating motion, a forceful agitation-
the harder the rules became

When i FUCK UP,

It’s a true 10 on a 10 scale.

Perfect. i’m a haunted person

With my soul as a battle-ground,

i can’t get my dead man’s eyes off of myself

There is nothing else… i am nothing more

i used to control and command
now, one day i started telling everyone that
god dammit, something must’ve gone wrong

i go down full throttle, examining my head

Playing tug-of-war with this rueful rolling mix of brain waves

Flowing freely, And with concentric outward ripples of fading memories
i’m sitting up late at night, nothing for no one, nowhere to see

And here comes the reckoning day
on judgment day

Maybe even a…Last gasp?!?

It’s all scary.

Especially when i hear the question echo –

What hurts?

And you may wonder where I’m supposed to be going?

Yes; I have been blackened!

And bullied!

Why bellow?

I’m yellow!

This build up had made me

So Blue…

My heart maneuvers through the scenery; a block of ice

Oh weary me.

It is oh so terribly

Cruel!

(The angry tongue splinters and then bullies, why?)

Problem, have i got a problem?

That’s a problem, problem, and problem

How deathly afraid was i now of my frayed angel hair (a tangled mess)

i don’t think any one man’s life is really that important…

But what he does with it and leaves behind is

The ticking clock comes singing / all angry and accusatory

Often not much has changed in our actual life –

Yes, i get into the same bed each night trying to go to sleep,

Thinking that if i look away,

It might be gone by the time i look back

It can be worse than this

Once you’ve been marked it’s finished, done

So, run my friends, and hide your face – cower in fear

Now there’s nothing left to say, as turmoil builds in me

Built from the bones (i cling onto ‘em like a life raft),

Of my once-upon-a-time friends

All are gone, all but one

The one on each die that tumbles away from me

I keep on lookin away when i stare down at ‘em… screaming SNAKE EYES in frustration

I know not to mess with the snake eyes

“Where Flesh Circulates”

– ooznozz

I used to cut them out of the newspaper daily and saved them… I moved so many times over the years, they got lost……….

Where can I see and read them again………

I am publishing under CC creative commons non-commerical attribution currently, thanks

Yet, for all of Mr. Harris claims about the pervasive failures of criticism, he’s approach to cut-ups is, it seems to me, quite theoretical. For by focusing on the “resemblance” between the methods used to create a cut up and the cut-ups themselves, he is still reading cut-ups for what they might reveal about the creative process followed by Burroughs and not for what they are or might be according to the context hey are read.

Take just one example:

‘Cancer tests… brown blood.. live babies.. proof of virus. vacine? Bio-control the London conference.. it was out sheep cattle and animals have wild system…. Blood time brown blood’.

“You could say that further interpretation is simply not possible; but the cumulative effect of such texts, enhanced by repetition of words and phrases across several of them, is still clear enough; to invite us to infer a calculated relation between language and the genetic code, twin deterministic systems subject here to systematic scrambling by the use of chance procedures.”

Mr. Harris fills in the gaps of this cut-up with a definitively interesting interpretation (however clear he insists this cut-up is) that you could say was directly borrowed from Noam Chomsky’s highly questionable and ahistoric approach to language acquisition and the predetermination of grammar. In any case, I can’t deny that the attempt of Mr. Harris to find out how Burroughs wrote cut ups or Naked Lunch is really enjoyable. It tells a lo of his faith and hope that humans can actually control and give sense to chaos. I’d say, however, that if control played a central role in the creative processes of Burroughs it is only because it was the means to attain an all together different “purpose”: to escape control. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. For like all “brujos” know, the machine can only be fought with the machine: “the way in is the way out”.