The Wild Boys

The Wild Boys by William S. Burroughs Read Free Book Online

Book: The Wild Boys by William S. Burroughs Read Free Book Online
Authors: William S. Burroughs
Tags: Humor, SF, post apocalyptic, Dystopia
from ferris wheel … flash of white legs, shiny pubic hairs, lean brown arms …
boys
masturbating under a rusty shower.
    Naked
boy
on yellow toilet seat sunlight in pubic hairs a twitching foot.
    Boys
masturbating in bleak public school toilets, outhouses, locker rooms … a blur of flesh.
    Farja
sighs deeply and rocks back hugging his knees against his chest. Nitrous fumes twist from pink rectal flesh in whorls of orange, sepia, rose.
    Red fumes envelop the
two bodies
. A scream of roses bursts from tumescent lips roses growing through flesh tearing thorns of delight intertwined the quivering bodies crushed them together writhing gasping in an agony of roses.
    What happens between my legs is like a cold drink to me it is just a feeling … cool round stones against my back sunshine and shadow of Mexico. It is just a feeling between the legs a sort of tingle. It is a feeling by which
I am
here at all.
    We squat there our knees touching. Kiki looks down between his legs watching himself get stiff. I feel the tingle between my legs and I am getting stiff too.
----
    cadavers. Electron microscope shows cells, nerves, bone.
    Telescope shows stars and planets and space. Click microscope. Click telescope.
----
    He
wasn’t there really. Pale the picture was pale. I could see through him. In life used address I give you for that belated morning.
    Young
ghosts
blurred faces boys and workshops the old February 5, 1914.
    I
am
not a person and I am not an animal. There is something I am here for something I have to do before I can go.
    The dead
around like birdcalls rain in my face.
    Flight of geese across a gleaming empty sky … Peter John S … 1882-1904 … the death of a child long ago … cool remote spirit to his world of shades … I was waiting there pale character in someone else’s writing breathing old pulp magazines. Turn your face a little to eyes like forget-me-nots … flickering silver smile melted into air … The boy did not speak again.
    Cold stars splash the empty house faraway toys. Sad whispering
spirits
melt into coachmen and animals of dreams, mist from the lake, faded family photos.
----
    Museum bas-relief of the
God
Amen with erection. A thin boy in prep school clothes stands in the presence of the God. The boy in museum toilet takes down his pants phallic shadow on a distant wall.
    All the
Gods
of Egypt
    The
God
Amen the boy teeth bare gasping
    Clear light touching marble porticos and fountains … the
Gods
of Greece … Mercury, Apollo, Pan
----
    Light drains into the red walls of Marrakech
----

Le Gran Luxe
    April 3, 1989 Marrakech … Unlighted streets carriages with carbide lamps. It looks like an 1890 print from some explorer’s travel book. Wild boys in the streets whole packs of them vicious as famished dogs. There is almost no police force in operation and everyone who can afford it has private guards. My Marrakech contact has kindly lent me two good Nubians and found me suitable quarters.
    Waves of decoration and architecture have left a series of strata-like exposed geologic formations. There isn’t a place in the world you can’t find a piece of it in Marrakech, a St Louis street, a Mexican cantina, that house straight from England, Alpine huts in the mountains, a vast film set where the props are continually shifting. The city has spread in all directions up into the Atlasmountains to the east, south to the Sahara, westward to the coastal cities, up into the industrial reservations of the north. There are fantastic parties, vast estates and luxury such as we read about in the annals of the Roman Empire.
    The chic thing is to dress in expensive tailor-made rags and all the queens are camping about in wild-boy drag. There are Bowery suits that appear to be stained with urine and vomit which on closer inspection turn out to be intricate embroideries of fine gold thread. There are
clochard
suits of the finest linen, shabby-gentility suits, Graham Greene outfits for seedy agents who are bad

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