Uploaded July 2017 | Updated September 2026, 5 hours ago
Song cut along typographical magnetic lines from Anibasis St. John Perse Illuminations Rimbaud “say only this should have been obvious from her fourth grade junk class”: song for her your heart the red night jargon muffles. Double sex sad as the drenched lands. At the service of second thigh and that time of the assassins. Marching and roused the pure principle of violence dictated out gently. On the threshold of a great turn in their accounts. Wounds of yellow wind. Lust of the soul. Smoke of dreams in new body. Crystal arms in corridors of black gauze. Have told noone to wait. Banner of raw meat against the hum of seashells and the eaves. Came such a one. Have not sniffed such a stranger. Far shudder of space shaking old flames. INvisible and insistent dream. Who talks of frost bill? Still heard. Still felt. (Nor weak the friend.) Weary of a great bird on my face. Painted eats in that belly where sleeps the drum. Spice and death of monkeys gently moving: exploitations. This is theft leg. Betraying the least sober soul orders. Lets go a great pestilence of night. “I hate you all” fashions. Stale smell of morning from the old assassins. : “Pas de commission.” Pure song of new before the travellors. Scarlet burst in the flesh. Our bones clothed the dead powder of earth. Land more chaste than whistlings of death and circle. They who at birth laid bitter fruit in out hands what have they to do with us.
William Burroughs,
“Paris 1960” (Untitled Text from Takis Catalogue)
Howard Wise Gallery, New York, 1967
boomkat.com/products/pendules-magnetiques-le-siecle-de-kafka
Song cut along typographical magnetic lines from Anibasis St. John Perse Illuminations Rimbaud “say only this should have been obvious from her fourth grade junk class”: song for her your heart the red night jargon muffles. Double sex sad as the drenched lands. At the service of second thigh and that time of the assassins. Marching and roused the pure principle of violence dictated out gently. On the threshold of a great turn in their accounts. Wounds of yellow wind. Lust of the soul. Smoke of dreams in new body. Crystal arms in corridors of black gauze. Have told noone to wait. Banner of raw meat against the hum of seashells and the eaves. Came such a one. Have not sniffed such a stranger. Far shudder of space shaking old flames. INvisible and insistent dream. Who talks of frost bill? Still heard. Still felt. (Nor weak the friend.) Weary of a great bird on my face. Painted eats in that belly where sleeps the drum. Spice and death of monkeys gently moving: exploitations. This is theft leg. Betraying the least sober soul orders. Lets go a great pestilence of night. “I hate you all” fashions. Stale smell of morning from the old assassins. : “Pas de commission.” Pure song of new before the travellors. Scarlet burst in the flesh. Our bones clothed the dead powder of earth. Land more chaste than whistlings of death and circle. They who at birth laid bitter fruit in out hands what have they to do with us.
William Burroughs,
“Paris 1960” (Untitled Text from Takis Catalogue)
Howard Wise Gallery, New York, 1967
boomkat.com/products/pendules-magnetiques-le-siecle-de-kafka
