“Writers don’t own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody? ‘Your very own words,’ indeed! And who are you?”
– Brion Gysin
As there can live no hatred in thine eyes,
Thine eyes, that taught the squares to think,
As I for thee, not for myself, dig freakish highs
Yet who knows hipness is not born of ink.
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered
To her that bears the strong offence’s fines,
All hyp’d and scourg’d with mellow leathers,
which I have skinned off unsuspecting minds.
On both sides thus is solid truth suppress’d:
Desiring this chick’s cool, and that cat’s scope,
Though in thy groovy pad I once confess’d
That love’s oppression is not eas’d by dope.
Like, nimble thought can beat both time and space,
My car-sick Muse cut out to ‘nother place.
Summer break! Last entry for a while…
Scenes from Anthony Balch’s Cut Ups (1961-1965) featuring Brion Gysin & William Burroughs
Peter Bies © 2013