Spain & 42 St.

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.