Nhạc sĩ: William S. Burroughs
Lời đăng bởi: 86_15635588878_1671185229650
Another installment in the adventures of Clem Snide, the Private ***.
So I walk in the junk this female hustler suits to park, and I think,
oh God, you're pulled to looks already.
I mean, it's like I see the gash before.
So I don't pay her no mind at first.
Then I dig she is rubbing her legs together and working her feet up behind her head,
shoves it down to give herself a deuce job with a gadget that sticks out of her nose
in a way a body can't help but notice.
Iris, half Chinese and half Negro, addicted to dehydro-oxy-heroin,
takes a shot every fifteen minutes,
to which end she leaves droppers and needles sticking out all over her.
The needles rust in her dry flesh,
which here and there has grown completely over her joint to form a smooth green-brown wing.
On the table in front of her is a samovar of tea and a twenty-pound hamper of brown sugar.
No one has ever seen her eat anything else.
It's only just before a shot that she hears what anyone says or talks herself.
Then she makes some flat factual statement relative to her own person.
My *** is a clue.
My *** got terrible brain juices.
Iris is one of Benley's projects.
The human body can run on sugar alone, goddammit.
I'm aware that certain of my learned colleagues who attempted to belittle my genius work
claim that I put vitamins and proteins into Iris' sugar clandestinely.
I challenge these nameless ***s to crawl up out of their latrines
and run a spot analysis on Iris' sugar and her teeth.
Iris is a wholesale American ***.
I deny categorically that she nourishes herself on semen.
And let me take this opportunity to state that I'm a reputable scientist,
not a charlatan, a lunatic, or a pretended worker of miracles.
I never claimed that Iris could subsist exclusively on photosynthesis.
I did not say she could breathe in carbon dioxide and give off oxygen.
I confess I have attempted to experiment, being of course restrained by my medical ethics.
In short, the vile slanders of my creeping opponents
will inevitably fall back onto them and come to roost like a homing stool pigeon.