Where Do the Beats Go? (Happy Birthday William Burroughs! )

Blogger’s Warning: This post contains strong language and adult content. Reader’s discretion is advised.

This week marks the 101st birthday of William Burroughs, one of the pillar presences in the Beat Generation and post-modern American literature. Last weekend the reputable audio program, This American Life, paid him a proper tribute by re-broadcasting a fantastic radio documentary, commissioned by BBC in 2014. “Presented”(the English term for radio narration) by a somewhat unhinged Iggy Pop, whose 1977 hit “Lust for Life” was inspired by Burroughs’ “The Ticket That Exploded,” it was a fun listening hour for me to get reacquainted with this eccentric rebel, whose genteel appearance only accentuated the abiding dissonance to his life and works. Learning about Burroughs’ vicissitudes also propels me to revisit this ridiculously cliché argument—“Do vices really enhance literary work?”

I am always drawn to a dark narrative and mesmerized by its blunt and unapologetic exposition of the rawness in humanity. Most of the writers I admire such as Oscar Wilde, Scott Fitzgerald, Virginia Woolf, James Baldwin, Gore Vidal, Edmund White, Mary Gaitskill, etc., all dare to explore the cruel discourse of human conditions creatively, and establish themselves with certain controversial reputations personally. I often feel that for them words are a weapon to self-mutilate, with gory wounds as rewards, and denude human being’s quiddity for survival. The Beat Generation is markedly the epitome of this school of inherent vice (a la Thomas Pynchon, another one!). The dark knights–William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, and Jack Kerouac—relentlessly challenged their lifestyle perimeters, hoping to achieve the literary excellence existing in their overly indulgent minds, and ultimately bred the generations of restless and mostly listless acolytes, myself included.

As a writer I don’t have the gumption nor pampered selfishness to appeal and develop an addiction to heavy substances to set free the inner demons. But these literary daredevils (especially the Beats Boys) and their plangent beats resonate the cut-up texts, collaged and rearranged, in the back of my chaotically mental universe. Politically speaking I want to be a better writer and a better person, but sometimes I just fail miserably. My desperation for life, in the forms of artistic creation, intimate relationship, and congruous individuality, has been disarrayed and later morphed into a hallucinatory anaconda biting me long and hard, abetting the numbness, and worse, death wish. Therefore I take comfort in knowing other famous writers’ plights, sensing their struggles with morality and mortality, sympathizing with the contexts of cold and harsh human conditions, and admiring their mustered courage to write the heck out of self-destruction. Their cynical demise may lead to my singular salvation of waddling through the putridity in life, and I have no qualms about making this confession: yes, my literary beat is that potently narcissistic, ready to be burned at a stake saved only for a wiccan.

I am dedicating the below poem to William Burroughs. Happy Birthday, you charming silly fag!

A Hearty Nympho 

He says my vagina tastes like a string of pearls / Fuck me against a kitchen counter, fingers gaging my throat, solid and cold / Hair pulled tight, no face in sight, only pounded thighs

I bet a dictator’s dick must be limp / When squeezed hard between my supple and juicy racks / He’s too afraid to man his shiv cutting through my heart, rip it out in display

I dream of blue sky and plum blossom, a warm spring / The pink and blue, fresh and clean as my pussy / Spare bliss, raw libido vibrating every nook and cranny

I have 8 vaginas and each of them / births and breeds hilly tykes who betray and crucify / digressing into misogynists, persecute me and my fellow kinds

Rigor only hones the desire to survive, grinds my blowjob to a better vibe / claim confidently my femininity with no shame; head up, tits out / Radiate compassion to slay those rapy and flaccid motherfuckers

Eventually I am going for consistent and everlasting orgasm / To naysayers, turn around and show them my succulent butt cheeks and moist anus / They will never take away my salacious conviction, my robust appetite

I will have all, dick fucking and clitoris devouring, my erotic entrepreneurship / True revolution, make love to whoever at whenever and wherever / Squat and cough, brown vulva will be your eye shadow and chocolate milkshake

You want to beat me into servility?

Have my twat droop cum for mercy?

Beg slavishly for whipping, flogging, and defacing?

Suck my titties so you can be satisfied / Genius and generous, take no more from me / Lick my wet cunt, the pleasure is all mine

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