Reading Burroughs

There is rotten meat to the meaning,
and it is all too literal, too perverse,
too grotesque, too beat, to the point
at which it beats with the pulse of the Real,
raising its ugly husk as it spits acid
in a cyanide spray across the page,
scorching the littered letters, revealing
something far darker beneath,
a tall gaunt shadow strident,
scribe of the seedy underside.

Keep on reading.
Lacerate the symbolic,
smash the control machine,
plunge headfirst into a torrent of filth,
nose in the mud, hand clawing at the air,
the skeletal writer laughing in ivory tomb.

Chichester, April 2017

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