Dead Fingers Talk by William S. Burroughs

Author:William S. Burroughs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-03-28T16:00:00+00:00

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Fumbling through faded tape at the pick-up frontier, a languid grey area of hiatus miasmic with yawns and gaping goof holes, Lee found out that the young junky standing there in his room at 10 a.m. was back from two months’ skin diving in Corsica and off the junk.

“Here to show off his new body," Lee decided with a

shudder of morning junk sickness. He knew that he was seeing—all yes Miguel thank you—three months back sitting in the Metropole nodded out over a stale yellow eclair that would poison a cat two hours later, decided that the effort involved in seeing Miguel at all 10 a.m. was enough without the intolerable chore of correcting an error —(“what is this a fucking farm?”) which would also entail current picture of Miguel in much used areas like some great, inconvenient beast of an object on top in the suitcase.

“You look marvellous,” he said, wiping away the more obvious signs of distaste with a sloppy, casual napkin, seeing the grey ooze of junk in Miguel’s face, studying patterns of shabbiness as if man and clothes had moved for years through back alleys of time with never a space station to tidy up.

‘‘Besides by the time I could correct the error—Lazarus go home—Pay The Man and go home—What 1 want to see your old borrowed meat for?"

“Well, it’s great to see you off—Do yourself a favor.” Miguel was swimming around the room spearing fish with his hand.

“When you’re down there you never think about horse.” “You’re better off like this,” said Lee, dreamily caressing a needle scar on the back of Miguel’s hand, following the whorls and patterns of smooth purple flesh in a slow twisting movement.

Miguel scratched the back of his hand—He looked out the window—His body moved in little, galvanized jerks as junk channels lit up—Lee sat there waiting. “One snort never put anybody back on, kid.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“They always know.”

Miguel took the nail file.

Lee closed his eyes: “It’s too tiresome.”

“Uh thanks that was great.” Miguel’s pants fell to his ankles. He stood there in a misshapen overcoat of flesh that turned from brown to green and then colorless in the morning light, fell off in globs onto the floor.

Lee’s eyes moved in the substance of his face—a little, cold, grey flick—“Clean it up,” he said. “Enough dirt in here now.”

“Oh uh sure,” Miguel fumbled with a dustpan.

Lee lived in a permanent third-day kick, with, of course, certain essential intermissions to refuel the fires that burned through his yellow-pink-brown gelatinous substance and kept off the hovering flesh. In the beginning his flesh was simply soft, so soft that he was cut to the bone by dust particles, air currents and brushing overcoats while direct contact with doors and chairs seemed to occasion no discomfort. No wound healed in his soft, tentative flesh— Long white tendrils of fungus curled round the naked bones. Mold odors of atrophied testicles quilted his body in a fuzzy grey fog.

During his first severe infection

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