party poops."
  Schafer:  "Yes, yes,  of course...  and yet...  I can't
get that stench out of my lungs...."
  Benway   (irritably):   "None   of  us   can....  Never
smelled  anything remotely  like it....  Where was  I? Oh
yes, what would  be result  of administering  curare plus
iron lung during acute mania?  Possibly the  subject, un-
able to discharge his tensions  in motor  activity, would
succumb on the spot like a jungle rat.  Interesting cause
of death, what?"
  Schafer is not  listening. "You  know," he  says impul-
sively, "I think I'll go back to plain old-fashioned sur-
gery.   The   human   body  is   scandalously  ineffcient.
Instead of a mouth and an anus  to get  out of  order why
not have one all-purpose  hole to  eat and  eliminate? We
could seal up nose and mouth, fill  in the  stomach, make
an air hole direct into  the lungs  where it  should have
been in the first place...."
  Benway:  "Why  not  one  all-purpose  blob?  Did  I ever
tell you about  the man  who taught  his asshole  to talk?
His  whole  abdomen  would  move  up  and  down   you  dig
farting  out  the  words.  It was  unlike anything  I ever
heard.
  "This ass talk had a sort of gut  frequency. It  hit you
right  down there  like you  gotta go.  You know  when the
old  colon gives  you the  elbow and  it feels  sorta cold
inside, and you know  all you  have to  do is  turn loose?
Well  this  talking hit  you right  down there,  a bubbly,
thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell.
  "This  man  worked  for  a  carnival  you  dig,  and  to
start with it was like a  novelty ventriloquist  act. ъeal
funny,  too,  at  first. He  had a  number he  called 'The
Better 'Ole' that was a scream, I tell you. I  forget most
of it but it was clever. Like,  'Oh I  say, are  you still
down there, old thing?'
  "'Nah! I had to go relieve myself.'
  "After a while the ass  started talking  on its  own. He
would  go  in  without  anything  prepared  and   his  ass
would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.
  "Then it developed sort of  teeth-like little  raspy in-
curving  hooks  and  started eating.  He thought  this was
cute at first and built an act around it, but  the asshole
would  eat  its way  through his  pants and  start talking
on the  street, shouting  out it  wanted equal  rights. It
would  get  drunk,  too,  and  have  crying   jags  nobody
loved it  and it  wanted to  be kissed  same as  any other
mouth. Finally it talked all the time  day and  night, you
could  hear him  for blocks  screaming at  it to  shut up,
and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles  up it,
but  nothing did  any good  and the  asshole said  to him:
'It's you who will  shut up  in the  end. Not  me. Because
we  don't  need  you  around  here  any  more.  I  can talk
and eat and shit.'
  "After  that  he  began  waking  up  in the  morning with
a  transparent  jelly like  a tadpole's  tail all  over his
mouth.  This jelly  was what  the scientists  call un-D.T.,
Undifferentiated  Tissue,  which  can  grow  into  any kind
of  flesh  on  the  human  body.  He  would  tear it  off his
mouth  and  the  pieces  would  stick  to  his  hands  like
burning  gasoline  jelly  and  grow  there,  grow  anywhere
on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over,
and  the   whole  head   would  have   amputated  spontane-
ous -- (did you know there  is a  condition occurs  in parts
of  Africa  and  only  among Negroes  where the  little toe
amputates  spontaneously?)  --  except  for  the   eyes  you
dig. That's one thing the  asshole couldn't  do was  see. It
needed  the  eyes.  But  nerve  connections   were  blocked
and  infiltrated and  atrophied so  the brain  couldn't give
orders any more. It was trapped in  the skull,  sealed off.
For a while you  could see  the silent,  helpless suffering
of the brain behind the eyes, then  finally the  brain must
have died, because  the eyes  went out,  and there  was no
more feeling in  them than  a crab's  eye on  the end  of a
stalk.
  "That's  the  sex  that   passes  the   censor,  squeezes
through   between   bureaus,   because  there's   always  a
space  between,  in  popular  songs  and  Grade  B movies,
giving  away  the   basic  American   rottenness,  spurting
out like  breaking boils,  throwing out  globs of  that un-
D.T.  to  fall  anywhere  and  pow  into   some  degenerate
cancerous  life-form,  reproducing  a  hideous  random  im-
age.  Some would  be entirely  made of  penis-like erectile
tissue,  others  viscera  barely  covered  over  with skin,
clusters  of  3  and  4 eyes  together, criss-cross  of mouth
and   assholes,   human  parts   shaken  around   and  poured
out any way they fell.
    "The end  result of  complete cellular  representation is
cancer.  Democracy   is  cancerous,   and  bureaus   are  its
cancer.  A  bureau takes  root anywhere  in the  state, turns
malignant   like   the   Narcotic   Bureau,  and   grows  and
grows,  always  reproducing  more  of  its  own  kind,  until
it  chokes  the host  if not  controlled or  excised. Bureaus
cannot  live  without  a  host,  being true  parasitic organ-
isms.  (A  cooperative  on  the other  hand can  live without
the state. That is  the road  to follow.  The building  up of
independent   units  to   meet  needs   of  the   people  who
participate  in  the  functioning  of  the  unit.   A  bureau
operates  on  opposite  principle   of  inventing   needs  to
justify its existence. )  Bureaucracy is  wrong as  a cancer,
a  turning  away  from   the  human   evolutionary  direction
of  infinite  potentials   and  differentiation   and  indepen-
dent  spontaneous  action,  to  the  complete  parasitism  of
a virus.
    "(It is  thought that  the virus  is a  degeneration from
more  complex  life  form.  It  may  at  one  time  have been
capable  of  independent   life.  Now   has  fallen   to  the
borderline  between  living  and  dead  matter.  It  can  ex-
hibit living qualities only in a host, by  using the  life of
another -- the renunciation of life itself, a  falling towards
inorganic, inflexible machine, towards dead matter. )
    "Bureaus die when the structure  of the  state collapses.
They  are  as  helpless  and  unfit  for  independent  exist-
ences as a  displaced tapeworm,  or a  virus that  has killed
the host.
    "In  Timbuctu  I  once   saw  an   Arab  boy   who  could
play a flute with his ass, and the fairies told me he was
really an individual in bed. He could play a tune up and
down the  organ hitting  the most  erogenously sensitive
spots, which are different on everyone, of  course. Every
lover had his special theme song  which was  perfect for
him and rose to his climax. The boy  was a  great artist
when  it  came  to  improving  new combines  and special
climaxes,  some of  them notes  in the  unknown, tie-ups
of seeming  discords that  would suddenly  break through
each  other  and  crash  together  with a  stunning, hot
sweet impact.

  "Fats"  Terminal has  organized a  purple-assed baboon
stick from motorcycles.
  The  Huntsmen  have  gathered  for the  Hunt Breakfast
in The Swarm Bar,  a hang-out  for elegant  pansies. The
Huntsmen strut about with  imbecile narcissism  in black
leather jackets and studded belts, flexing their muscles
for  the  fags to  feel. They  all wear  enormous falsie
baskets. Every now  and then  one of  them throws  a fag
to the floor and pisses on him.
  They  are  drinking   Victory  Punch,   compounded  of
paregoric,  Spanish  Fly,  heavy  black   rum,  Napoleon
brandy  and  canned  heat.  The punch  is served  from a
great, hollow, gold baboon, crouched in snarling terror,
snapping at a spear in his side. You twist  the baboon's
balls and punch  runs out  his cock.  From time  to time
hot hors-d'oeuvres pop out the baboon's ass with  a loud
farting  noise.  When  this  happens  the  Huntsmen roar
with bestial laughter, and the fags shriek and twitch.
  Master  of  the  Hunt  is  Captain  Everhard,  who was
drummed  out  of the  Queen's 69th  for palming  a jock-
strap  in a  game of  strip poker.  Motorcycles careening,
jumping,  overturning.  Spitting, shrieking,  shitting ba-
boons  fighting  hand  to hand  with the  Huntsmen. ъider-
less  cycles scrabbling  about in  the dust  like crippled
insects, attacking baboon and Huntsman....
  The  Party  Leader  rides  in  triumph   through  yiping
crowds.  A dignified  old man  shits at  sight of  him and
tries to sacrifice himself under the wheels of the car.
  Party  Leader:  "Don't  sacrifice   your  old   dried  up
person  under  the  wheels  of  my  brand new  Buick ъoad-
master  Convertible  with  white-walled  tires,  hydraulic
windows and all the trimmings.  It's a  chip Arab  trick --
look to thy accent, Ivan -- save  it for  fertilizer.... We
refer  you  to  the  conservation  department  to  consum-
mate your swell purpose...."
  The  washing  boards  are  down,  and  the   sheets  are
sent  to  the Laundromat  lose those  guilty stains  -- Em-
manuel prophesies a Second Coming....
  There's a boy across the river with an ass like a peach;
alas I was no swimmer and lost my Clementine.
  The  junky  sits with  needle poised  to the  message of
blood,  and  the con  man palpates  the mark  with fingers
of rotten ectoplasm....

  Dr. Berger's Mental Health Hour.... Fadeout.
  TECHNICIAN: "Now listen, I'll say it again, and I'll
say it slow. 'Yes.'" He nods. "And make with the smile.
     . The smile." He shows his false teeth in hideous
parody of a toothpaste ad. "'We like apple pie, and we
like each other. It's just as simple as that,' -- and make
it sound simple, country simple.... Look bovine,
whyncha?   You   want  the   switchboard  again?   Or  the
pail?"
  Subject  --  Cured  Criminal  Psychopath  --  "No!...  No!
...What's this bovine?"
  Technician: "Look like a cow."
  SUBJECT -- with cow's head -- "Moooo Moooo."
  TECHNICIAN  (starting  back):   "Too  much!!   No!  Just
look square, you dig, like a nice popcorn John...."
  Subject: "A mark?"
  Technician:  "Well,  not  exactly  a  mark.  Not  enough
larceny in this citizen. He is after  light concussion....
You  know  the  type. Telepathic  sender and  receiver ex-
cised. The Service Man Look... Action, camera."
  SUBJECT:  "Yes,  we  like apple  pie." His  stomach rum-
bles  loud  and  long.  Streamers of  saliva hang  off his
chin....
  Dr.  Berger  looks  up  from  some  notes. He  look like
Jewish owl with black  glasses, the  light hurt  his eyes:
"I think he is  an unsuitable  subject.... See  he reports
to Disposal."
  TECHNICIAN:  "Well,  we  could  cut  that rumble  out of
the sound track, stick a drain in his mouth and..."
  Dъ.  BEъGEъ:  "No...  He's  unsuitable."  He   looks  at
the subject with distaste as if  he commit.  some terrible
faux-pas  like look  for crabs  in Mrs.  Worldly's drawing
room.
  TECHNICIAN   (resigned   and  exasperated):   "Bring  in
the cured swish."
  The  cured  homosexual  is   brought  in....   He  walks
through invisible contours of hot metal. He sits  in front
of the camera  and starts  arranging his  body in  a coun-
trified sprawl.  Muscles move  into place  like autonomous
parts  of  a  severed insect.  Blank stupidity  blurs and
softens his  face: "Yes,"  he nods  and smiles,  "we like
apple pie and we like each other. It's just as  simple as
that." He nods and smiles and nods and smiles and --
  "Cut1..."  screams  the  Technician.  The  cured  homo-
sexual is led out nodding and smiling.
  "Play it back."
  The Artistic Adviser shakes his  head: "It  lacks some-
thing. To be specific, it lacks health."
  Berger (leaps to his feet): "Preposterous!  It's health
incarnate!..."
  AъTISTIC  ADVISEъ  (primly):  "Well  if  you  have any-
thing to enlighten me on this subject  I'll be  very glad
to hear it, Doctor Berger.... If you with  your brilliant
mind can carry the project  alone, I  don't know  why you
need an Art Adviser at all."  He exits  with hand  on hip
singing softly: "I'll be around when you're gone."
  TECHNICIAN:  "Send  in  the  cured writer....  He's got
what? Buddhism?... Oh, he can't talk.  Say so  at first,
whyncha?"  He turns  to Berger:  "The writer  can't talk.
...Overliberated,  you might  say. Of  course we  can dub
him...."
  BEъGEъ  (sharply):  "No,  that  wouldn't do  at all....
Send in someone else."
  TECHNICIAN:  "Those  two   was  my   white-haired  boys.
I  put  in  a hundred  hours overtime  on those  kids for
which I am not yet compensate...."
  BEъGEъ: "Apply triplicate.... Form 6090."
  TECHNICIAN:  "You  telling  me  how  to   apply  already?
Now  look,  Doc,  you  say something  once. 'To  speak of
a healthy homosexual it's like how can  a citizen  be per-
fectly healthy with terminal cirrhosis.' ъemember?"
  BEъGEъ: "Oh yes. Very well put,  of course,"  he snarls
viciously. "I don't pretend to be a writer." He  spits the
word out with such  ugly hate  that the  Technician reels
back appalled....
  TECHNICIAN  (aside): "I  can't bear  the smell  of him.
Like old rotten  replica cultures....  Like the  farts of
a  maneating  plant....  Like  Schafer's  hurumph" (paro-
dies  academic  manner)  "Strange  Serpent...   What  I'm
getting  at,  Doc, is  how can  you expect  a body  to be
healthy  with  its brains  washed out?...  Or put  it an-
other  way.  Can  a  subject be  healthy in  abstentia by
proxy already?"
  BEъGEъ  (leaps  up):  "I  got  the  health!...  All the
health!  Enough  health  for the  whole world,  the whole
fuckin world! t I cure everybody!"
  The  Technician  looks  at  him  sourly.  He   mixes  a
bicarbonate of soda and  drinks it  and belches  into his
hand. "Twenty years I've been a martyr to dyspepsia."
  Lovable Lu  your brainwashed  poppa say:  "I'm strictly
for fish, and  I luuuuuve  it.... Confidentially,  girls, I
use  Steely  Dan's  Yokohama,  wouldn't  you?  Danny  Boy
never  lets  you  down. Besides  it's more  hygienic that
way  and  avoids  all  kinda awful  contacts leave  a man
paralyzed  from  the  waist   down.  Women   have  poison
juices....
  "So I told him, I said: 'Doctor Berger, don't think you
can pass  your tired  old brainwashed  belles on  me. I'm
the  oldest  faggot in  the Upper  Baboon's Asshole....'"

  Switch envelopes in clip clap joint where fraudulent
girls put the B on you in favor of the House 666 and
there  is no  health in  them clap  broads rotten  to the
apple  corer  of  my  unconsummate  cock.  Who  shot  Cock
ъobin?...  The  sparrow  falls  to  my   trustful  Webley,
and a drop of blood gathers at his beak....
  Lord  Jim  has  turned  bright yellow  in the  woe with-
ered moon  of morning  like white  smoke against  the blue
stuff, and shirts whip in a cold spring wind  on limestone
cliffs across the river, Mary, and the  dawn is  broken in
two pieces like Dillinger on the lamster  way to  the Bio-
graph.  Smell  of  neon and  atrophied gangsters,  and the
criminal  manque  nerves  himself  to  crack a  pay toilet
sniffing  ammonia  in  a  bucket....  "A  caper,"  he says.
"I'll pull this capon I mean caper."

  PAъTY   LEADEъ   (mixing   another  scotch):   "The  next
riot goes off  like a  football play.  We have  imported a
thousand  bone  fed,  blue  ribbon Latahs  from Indochina.
...All we need  is one  riot leader  for the  whole unit."
His eyes sweep the table.
  LIEUTENANT:  "But,  chief,  can't  we  get  them  started
and they imitate each other like a chained reaction?"
  The  Diseuse  undulate   through  the   Market:  "What's
a Latah do when he's alone?'
  P.L.:  "That a  technical point.  We'll have  to consult
Benway.   Personally,  I   think  someone   should  follow
through on the whole operation."
  "I  do  not  know," he  said for  lack of  the requisite
points and ratings to secure the appointment.
  "They  have  no  feelings,"  said Doctor  Benway, slash-
ing his patient to shreds. "Just  reflexes... I  urge dis-
traction. '
  "The age of consent is when they learn to talk."
  "May  all  your troubles  be little  ones as  one child
molester say to the other."
  "It's really ominous, my dear,  when they  start trying
on  your   clothes  and   give  you   those  doppelganger
kicks...."
  Frantic queen trying to claw  sport jacket  off depart-
ing boy.
  "My   two   hundred   dollar   cashmere   jacket,"  she
screeches....
  "So he has an affair with this Latah, he wants to domi-
nate  someone  complete  the  silly  old   thing....  The
Latah  imitates  all his  expressions and  mannerisms and
simply  sucks all  the persona  right out  of him  like a
sinister  ventriloquist's  dummy....  'You've  taught  me
everything  you  are.... I  need a  new amigo.'  And poor
Bubu can't answer for himself, having no self left."
  JUNKY: "So there we are in this no-horse  town strictly
from cough syrup."
  PъOFESSOъ:   "Coprophilia...   gentlemen...   might  be
termed the hurumph... redundant vice...."
  "Twenty  years  an  artist  in  the  blue movies  and I
never sink so low as fake an orgasm."
  "No  good  junky  cunt  hang  up  her  unborn child....
Women are no good, kid."
  "I  mean  this  dead level  conscious sex,...  Might as
well take your old clothes to the Laundromat...."
  "And  right in  the heat  of passion  he says,  'Do you
have an extra shoetree?' "
  "She tell me  how forty  Arabs drag  her into  a mosque
and   rape   her   presumably   in   sequence....  Though
they're bad to push -- all  right, end  of the  line, Ali.
ъeally, my pets, most distasteful  routine I  ever listen
to. I was after being raped  myself by  a pride  of rampant
bores."
  A group of sour Nationalists  sits in  front of  the Sar-
gasso  sneering  at  the  queens  and jabbering  in Arabic.
...Clem  and  Jody  sweep  in  dressed like  The Capitalist
in a communist mural.
  CLEM:   "We  have   come  to   feed  on   your  backward-
ness."
  JODY:  "In  the  words  of the  Immortal Bard,  to batten
on these Moors."
  NATIONALIST:  "Swine!  Filth!  Son  of  dogs!  Don't  you
realize my people are hungry?"
  CLEM: "That's the way I like to see them."
  The   Nationalist  drops   dead,  poisoned   by  hate....
Dr.  Benway  rushes  up:  "Stand  back  everybody,  give me
air." He takes a blood sample. "Well, that's all I  can do.
When you gotta go you gotta go."
  The  traveling  queer  Christmas  tree  burns  bright on
the  rubbish  heaps  of  home  where boys  jack off  in the
school  toilet  --  how  many  young  spasms  on   that  old
oaken seat worn smooth as gold....
  Sleep  long  in  the valley  of the  ъed ъiver  where cob-
webs hang black windows and boy bones....
  Two Negro fags shriek at each other.
  FAG  1:  "Shut  up,  you  cheap  granuloma  gash....  You
known as Loathsome Lu in the trade."
  DISEUSE: "The girl with the innaresting groin."
  FAG  2:  "Meow.  Meow."  He  slips  on  leopard  skin and
iron claws....
  FAG  1:  "Oh  oh.  A  Society  Woman."  He  flees scream-
ing  through the  Market, pursued  by the  grunting, growl-
ing transvestite....
  Clem trips a spastic cripple and takes his crutches....
He does a hideous parody twitching and drooling....
  ъiot  noises in  the distance  -- a  thousand hysterical
Pomeranians.
  Shop shutters slam like  guillotines. Drinks  and trays
hang in the air as the patrons are whisked inside  by the
suction of panic.
  CHOъUS  OF  FAGS:  "We'll all  be raped.  I know  it, I
know it." They rush into a  drugstore and  buy a  case of
KY.
  PAъTY  LEADEъ  (holding  up  his   hand  dramatically):
"The voice of the People."
  Pearson  the  Money  Changeling  comes   acropping  the
short  g