The Soft Machine Page 17

  Yellow cub over the vulture domes. Phosphorescent lights nettle mud wall of the city. Sleeping copper fights. Fatal spasms in pink air. Acked out lung rot. On the tile squares. Red dusk. In old man with white centuries. Cop face of scarred iron. Slow street sex touched the head of screaming centipede men. Youths in the insect feeler. Crab flesh fur claws. Empty pain wings. Centipede legs boil in black mist. Static red need. Meat puppets of crab throat. Mouths of coal gas. Glass bones of mica mirror. Invisible insect cobwebs his street. Obsidian mirror of red sky. Sad copper in clay cocoon. Red nitrous fumes his leg in crab symbol accounts. Larval people whistling flesh. Eyes ejaculated spine mud. Black gum in member. Old junky coughing limestone in the obsidian morning: the sale mirror to red sky. Manipulated spasms puppets vestigial meat. Pulsing pink shell. Red pagodas and crystal accounts. Wet dream eyes hanged in lust of dead flesh patios. Boy chrysalis in streets of postcard. Eating birds patrol black lichen. Catatonic sports sear lungs of dream clay. Lust of mud bubble coal gas the insect street. Flesh ejaculation. Penis in the broken mirror rocks of Marwan. Serving the crystal dawn photo of sex. On the Brass and Copper Street.

  Appendix 2

  “Operation Soft Machine/Cut” The Outsider 1 (Fall 1961)

  Appendix 3

  From The Soft Machine (1968)

  I had as usual been railroaded into the most expensive hotel 3 PM eating lunch in the ornate gloomy dining room a bad lunch of many courses the room almost empty. . . a rich family sitting by the window bottles of medicine on the table a commercial traveller in one corner reading the soccer scores.

  Then a young man came in and without waiting to be directed by the head waiter sat down at the next table right opposite me you understand in this type dining room the guests are normally spaced out as far as possible an average distance of 23 feet. He was poorly dressed his white shirt very dirty his tie open. Two waiters converged on his table. They did not as I had expected ask him to leave. They took his order with respect and the smiling affection reserved for special clients. I had finished lunch and was smoking a cigarette when he walked over to my table.

  “I am Henrique de Santiago. May I join you for coffee?”

  Without waiting for my answer he sat down not in a rude or objectionable manner but as if he belonged there looking at me with a familiar smile. He was in his middle twenties very muscular the cheap black suit tight over his biceps. He told me at once in French that he was of the milieu—the underworld—but son of a well known family in Santiago one hour—he held up a dirty forefinger—from the capital. That would explain the waiter’s respect. Rich people may dress as they like and if it pleases them to play at being gangsters there is room for that as well. “I am also a Negro” he added in English “a smoke.”

  I shrugged. Mixed blood is very common in Latin America. The waiter brought coffee and I noticed that he looked like Henrique de Santiago. Come to think of it the entire staff of the hotel looked like Henrique de Santiago.

  “You must visit my mother in Santiago and see the coffee plantations.” He wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to me across the table. He had written on a sheet of yellow note paper “Monica Cocuera de Santiago Los Fuentes”

  “She is known as the ‘Black Mamba.’ You will find each other interesting. I myself cannot leave the capital during the season. Besides I am complicated in a matter of stupefying drugs very big you understand.” “unfortunately” died unuttered as if some one had placed a slow cool finger over my lips. I sat there dreamy and absent looking out of the window across a square empty in the afternoon sun a dog sniffing on the quai seeing all this sharp and clear as if through a telescope warehouses customs sheds and piers of the port the sea ahead. A crescent of land encircled the harbor. I could see a road there and a truck that seemed to be moving very slowly my eyes following the truck. In another few seconds the truck would reach the point. There was a building on the point I could trace its shadowy outlines at the edge of my vision. I turned my head slightly to the left and looked at where the building had been a sheet of silver flame. I threw myself sideways out of the chair floating down very slowly it seemed I saw the dog dragging its hindquarters . . . dust and smoke swept across the square and I hit the floor in a shower of broken glass.

  The building I never quite saw was the armory . . . 223 dead . . . thousands injured . . . whole water front quarter of the town destroyed by the explosion. I do not know what happened to Henrique de Santiago. There were many Henriques and many Santiagos in the list of dead. My own injuries were slight as usual and I was discharged from the hospital two days later. I had lost my luggage but I was traveling light an overnight bag a few purchases might as well have a look at Santiago. I hired a cab and asked the driver if he knew Los Fuentes de Santiago. The driver shrugged.

  “There is a fountain si in the Plaza but it is dry at this season.” The town was inland from the capital in the foothills white road dusty trees. I told the driver to take me to a hotel of the medium class decent inexpensive large room with a balcony opening onto the Plaza red tile floors brass bed. I went out and walked around the Plaza dusty youths the dry fountain long empty noon awning flaps there in the wind; Cafe de los Fuentes. While I was drinking my coffee a grey anonymous man put a slip of paper on the table. I glanced down . . . yellow circular: Hoy Estreno al Cine Espana . . . La Mamba Negra con Paco, Joselito, Henrique . . . huge black snake reared to strike man in shorts reaching for his pistol . . . at 7 and 10 . . . (This circular should appear on the page). I put the circular in my breast pocket intending to catch the 7 o’clock performance. After lunch at the hotel I retired to my room closed the shutters and lay down to sleep. I was awakened by three loud knocks at the door

  “Ouien es?” I called my voice muffled and distorted. The room was dark. I got out of bed and crossed the room my feet like blocks of wood. I opened the door. A thin figure fully eight feet tall stood there in a long black overcoat. I looked up high cheek bones a face as black as the coat. I could not be sure whether it was a man or a woman.

  “I don’t know you.” I said in the same muffled voice.

  The figure did not speak aloud but the words were there between us “I know you. See you Sunday.”

  The figure disappeared down the stairwell which was round and twisted around the elevator shaft. I closed the door. The catch was broken so I locked the door from the inside with a key I found in a pyjama pocket. I had gone to sleep in underwear shorts. Even in the dim light I could see this was not the hotel room in Santiago. And this was not my old body. Well that would explain the wooden feeling and the distorted voice. I had attempted to force my reactive patterns on another body. I had been too forward. Perceiving my error I moved back. The body regained ease and grace of movement but his heart was pounding. He switched on the light.

  I spoke distinctly spelling out the words in English.

  “Who was that at the door?”

  “There was no one at the door. I had a dream.”

  He was not surprised to find someone there in his body. Obviously he had experienced such visits before. I surmised the figure at the door had visited him once and that visit had frightened him so he could not remember. No use to press the matter at this point. I looked around. It was a typical garconniere a compact kitchen at one end of the room a double bed sofa and chairs in cheap imitation of Swedish modern, a door which I surmised led to the bathroom. My host was a young man about 20. He was still upset by his “dream” so he made a cup of Nescafé and sat down on the sofa smoking a cigarette. I sat there in him and listened. Yes this body had received a lot of visitors . . . pieces of finance on the afternoon wind . . . tin shares in Buenos Aires . . . deals across the table in Lip’s . . . playboys pretending to be drunker than they were hard alert eyes . . . Rome . . . Hollywood . . . all from the haute monde or marginal to it so far as I could see or hear which is pretty far I am an old visitor from back but this was not in my ar
ea at all reason for being here shirt open on the golf course. Quite by chance the same stranger here? hummmrich and powerful visitors but the young man was not rich money is something you can feel as soon as you settle in the spine you can feel it like age or youth junk or sickness a cold grey glaze over everything that’s big money and it wasn’t here. He was not poor either and the thought of selling himself for money would have outraged him.

  “I know nothing whatever about prostitution!” these words from a young man I visited long ago he hadn’t changed much you don’t unless you have to so not rich and not poor yet here he is a walking hotel of wealth and influence adds up his folks run a fancy hotel.

  At this point my host spoke in the supercilious tones I was to hear often enough in the days that followed. “Allow me to introduce your new self. I am Jean Emile Leblanc. My mother is Swedish and my father French. We run a Swedish restaurant in Paris and during the season a resort hotel in Corsica very exclusive. I doubt if they would let you in” trying to needle me is he? I said nothing. “Who are you?” I said nothing. I am an unobtrusive visitor until I come to the point of my visit you would hardly know I am there.

  “Don’t talk until you survey the area and figure the action.” The District Supervisor told me there in a shabby office years of grey pain in his eyes long long time you could tell by the shoulders “What are you some CIA slob? How they like to talk chewing it around like a cow with the aftosa and about as dangerous to other human cattle must protect the natives that’s what we are here for and small thanks we get for it as you well know.”

  “Charming Arab house in the suburbs magic street leaf shadows on the wall the old porter from Arabian Nights friendly nabors invite us in for chicken cous cous and other Moroccan delicacies” cold stale room smell of kerosene heaters that sputter and smoke hostile locals stoning the house screaming Moroccan pleasantries at the door rain outside the roof leaks whiffs of the clogged toilet green mold on my shoes yes I well knew the thanks we get. “In the immortal words of Dutch Schultz D.S. of the New York area and that’s a pretty important job Demolition 23 ‘Shut up you gotta big mouth!’ Bradly and that’s for keeping it shut” So he shoves five clams of Havana into my bim and goes into his Luce act. He makes these jokes to ease the pain I guess but it’s pretty boring for the kids in the office the “Chemical Corn Bank” we call him one time he calls me in and there he is writing in long hand dressing gown floppy black slippers a beret yet marmite simmering beside him which he is tasting every now and then between sentences with a long wooden spoon. So he bows over the spoon and says

  “I am Anatole France le vieux cadavre de France. Your assignment resuscitate me!”

  and he does a pratfall I have to give him the kiss of life most distasteful thing I ever bent down for and he’s got a bank full of this corn and I wanta tell you Bradly from all the kids in office you radioactive old bore any planet would blow up listening to you. A million years he takes to turn his gags to lead this Uranian shit house. “Bring on the nova and shut Bradly up for the love of Uranus!”

  However I had already opened my big mouth at the door. “Ah so you prefer to remain the unknown and probably for good reason. Are you a queer? I hate them.”

  He got up stretched and yawned. He frowned and put a hand to his head went into the bathroom and took two Veganine tablets and I saw in the mirror he hadn’t changed much subject to headaches morning light in the room someone knocking at the door. He puts on a blue dressing gown and opens the door slim model there long yellow hair photo grey eyes

  “Hi Fi!”

  “Long John!”

  (The D.S. retched into his handkerchief.)

  They embrace this “Hi Fi” and “Long John” yet and the shallow water came in with the tide and the Swedish river of Gothenburg that compost heap smell of sex changing Swedes. She makes coffee chattering away like a bird vibrating every throat for miles around she is a real throat walker that chick a little salute when she stands there bare assed and leans a pert little kiss they do it on all fours dog fashion in the climax throw back their heads and howl “Is it going to be published in Vogue?” They dress and dance a few records “High Fi” making the selections with shrill cries shake the fillings out of your teeth so off to the beach in his Folkswagon where I meet Mitzi and Bernard.

  Now you would think I found all this boring? Not at all. A visitor is never bored. You see what is boring is getting from here to there custom stops the laundry the post office shaving washing dressing packing looking for a hotel. I didn’t have to do any of these things. Jean did it all for me. Visiting is so comfortable and habit forming. Visiting is junk and junk is the oldest visitor in the industry I know what it is to kick a host habit yes that’s me there dim flickering on the tele from Spain. They all went away. No good. No bueno. Got time for a coffee kid? I’ll tell you a story vacant lot there by the florist shop tin can flash flare a young man waiting cobble stone street smell of ashes he was red haired his face streaked with coal dust.

  “Cigarette Mister?”

  My contact there sun cold on a thin boy with freckles fading streets a distant sky . . . sewage canal smell of coal gas black out falling . . . its windy here sweating fear like a vice . . . distant blurred 1920 street. “Here comes the old pencil man.”

  a creased red face a cheap blue suit “So remember the shabby quarters.” Outline of his body guard there grey suit brown face pencil gun ready

  “Razor blades . . . shoe laces . . . arm bands . . . pencils . . . chalk . . . sealing wax . . .”

  “We’ll be wanting two pencils” I said there on North Clark St trying to get at my shoulder holster.

  “Two yellow pencils from Pitman’s Common Sense Arithmetic never came out at recess time that afternoon I watched the torn sky bend with the wind . . . a thin boy with freckles . . . You know how to push this pencil, kid? the ‘Grey Pencil’ here trained with Ma Curie in the little blue school house we called her ‘Mother’ wouldn’t you taught me everything I am.” years of grey pain long long time you could tell by the shoulders. “I’ll say it country simple from Pitman’s Common Sense Arithmetic the lead in this pencil used to be radium a million radio active years here in this pencil draw it all the way back now push the pencil . . . nobody there distant 1920 wind and dust . . . Mrs Murphy’s rooming house remember it was a long time ago but not too far to walk there it is just ahead red brick building on a corner of the alley from the attic room you look across the playground of the orphanage with a telescope you can watch the boys at tall black windows of the dormitory a shock to see the boys I was diseased there now pieces of mutilated self blurred yellow ribs torn across the playground with a telescope ‘Windy 18’ there by the ‘Cement Mixer’ ‘Dusty Freckles’ hugging his knees naked on the shower floor.”

  “Shove his legs apart boys!” screamed the Director.

  “blurred yellow recess time 1920s sing you a scene between us where time had never written a thin boy looked like me in prep school clothes train whistles to a distant closing dormitory sad old human papers I carry diseased voice so painful telling you ‘Sparks’ is over New York. Have I done the job here? Will he hear it?”

  dim jerky far away some one had shut a bureau drawer in the dim attic

  “You only use a pencil gun once kid . . . phosphorescent stump of an arm and that was all I had to see him by last light left on a dying star . . . an old junky dunking pound cake in the grey cafe­teria a napkin under his coffee the ‘Priest’ they called him sold a special crucifix that glowed in the dark until he glowed in the dark himself cold coffee sitting right where you are sitting now you see son when you get a host habit you forget about other folks . . . the boy waiting there . . . Mrs Murphy’s rooming house . . . all the sad old showmen . . . remember her queer son in the kitchen shaving his chest hairs blowing into the soup and singing away like a bird a musical family remember ah here we are Rooms To Let curtains grey as
orphanage sugar a grey shadow always peeking out