Spain & 42 St. Poem by William 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.