junky's connection lived in a trailer park, but junky lived in long beach. so, what's the difference? junky hung out at a corner bar. drank till he passed out. junky made boring confessions of sin. walked home down an alley behind the rockabilly50. stood under a streetlight. lit a cigarette with a silver lighter with his name engarved on it. junky smoked his cigarette between his cracked lips. held it between his first two fingers betty davis style. he blew smoke out his nose like exhaust fumes from an edsel. junky was a defiant queer. a militant limpwrist new york city jew. one shoulder lower, another higher than the other, twisted by a handicap.
junky took showers with boys from the paradisio in amsterdam. he was well-hung like a chain suspended from the ceiling. junky hears a door open and shut. someone puts away the keys, hanging them on the door. they dangle and rattle his soul after five days of bad. junky gave the landlord two days notice. he pasted it on the bathroom wall. junky had a hangover. he prayed on the cement floor. junky's motel room reeked of used tampons. it had the nauseating stench of sincerity cascading down from the top of a cathedral. "just a cheap aphrodisiac", he thought. "urban fat for the new art. for the new jazz. for the sake of the dead." junky had nothing to say. pointed his middle finger in an obscene gesture: a red tattoo of a heart painted below the bottom knuckle of his middle finger, right hand.
junky had a short fuse. his world was a pothole. he slept on the floor of a rock house, jonesin' bad and sickly. his black junky netherworld bottomed out. he had a vision: estimez qu'il n'y a rien ici qui est (think that there is nothing here that is). junky thought about it. "to know is to die", he thought, "but to not-know is to live." knowing was inhumane. not-knowing was human. to know was mortality. to not-know was immortality. so junky hung upside down with his mouth open wide hanging by his neck from the center of the room. junky was exiled from the jazz city. he saw the new order. he ate on the floor with dogs. he saw creatures nobody saw but him and the dogs.
no matter how bad it got, and it got really bad, he could still get an erection. he was a mean drunk who smelled bad. addiction was a gift. a big bass drum pounding in his head gave him visions of the apocalypse: pregnant women beating their fists against their stomachs to wake up the fetus. worms in the womb.
junky slept on roses and thorns, and he gave himself an enema. he slept naked and dreamt that he planted his germ inside the woman. she was collateral damage. it was right for him to irrigate her. he had dominion of the earth. it was right for woman to be his property. he swallowed the oracle for the sake of the world and transformed hatred for the many into love for the few. he was a predator. a farmer with a tractor. in the end, junky was traumatized and drowned in mud. his semen floated in the trash can in an alley somewhere in a big city. in the end, he floated face down in the waters of decency. his breakdown was a failure. we were all pathetic. he didnt want to suffer but for junky, life itself was suffering enough.
junky took showers with boys from the paradisio in amsterdam. he was well-hung like a chain suspended from the ceiling. junky hears a door open and shut. someone puts away the keys, hanging them on the door. they dangle and rattle his soul after five days of bad. junky gave the landlord two days notice. he pasted it on the bathroom wall. junky had a hangover. he prayed on the cement floor. junky's motel room reeked of used tampons. it had the nauseating stench of sincerity cascading down from the top of a cathedral. "just a cheap aphrodisiac", he thought. "urban fat for the new art. for the new jazz. for the sake of the dead." junky had nothing to say. pointed his middle finger in an obscene gesture: a red tattoo of a heart painted below the bottom knuckle of his middle finger, right hand.
junky had a short fuse. his world was a pothole. he slept on the floor of a rock house, jonesin' bad and sickly. his black junky netherworld bottomed out. he had a vision: estimez qu'il n'y a rien ici qui est (think that there is nothing here that is). junky thought about it. "to know is to die", he thought, "but to not-know is to live." knowing was inhumane. not-knowing was human. to know was mortality. to not-know was immortality. so junky hung upside down with his mouth open wide hanging by his neck from the center of the room. junky was exiled from the jazz city. he saw the new order. he ate on the floor with dogs. he saw creatures nobody saw but him and the dogs.
no matter how bad it got, and it got really bad, he could still get an erection. he was a mean drunk who smelled bad. addiction was a gift. a big bass drum pounding in his head gave him visions of the apocalypse: pregnant women beating their fists against their stomachs to wake up the fetus. worms in the womb.
junky slept on roses and thorns, and he gave himself an enema. he slept naked and dreamt that he planted his germ inside the woman. she was collateral damage. it was right for him to irrigate her. he had dominion of the earth. it was right for woman to be his property. he swallowed the oracle for the sake of the world and transformed hatred for the many into love for the few. he was a predator. a farmer with a tractor. in the end, junky was traumatized and drowned in mud. his semen floated in the trash can in an alley somewhere in a big city. in the end, he floated face down in the waters of decency. his breakdown was a failure. we were all pathetic. he didnt want to suffer but for junky, life itself was suffering enough.
