Letters of Not Lite. Dale Shaw
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Название: Letters of Not Lite
Автор: Dale Shaw
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Юмор: прочее
isbn: 9780008117214
isbn:
No Ducking – Certainly not ducking the empty smell of many years, tied into the deviance that can only come through boredom and the parasitic craving that must be fed though a paranoiac insanity of hopelessness.
No Petting – No vetting, no fretting, no bedwetting. Cut off all biological necessity, it will only make you hard and unsound. Sadistic faces beaten with spiritual famine, hell bouncing off the walls, sickness welcomed like a damaged organism.
No Bombing – We need to suffer to show that we are alive and feel that needless, dead-eyed pollution that atrophies and seals off the seductions of the skull.
No Swimming in the Diving Area – Hanging off the board with our ghost fingers, the pink blood filters releasing the odor below you, waiting for you to drop. Above you your enemies circle, waiting to control, like a stuffed animal with glazed eyes bearing down from the wall of a gentleman’s club. Below a pool of savage, distended insects all with the face of a burnt nun.
No Smoking – You enter the Smoke Shop and then you see them. Princes of the spirit, arbiters of pang, bureaucrats who equivocate the past, judges who pass sentence on your future, Gods of Zogoth with fiery temples and split, bitter eyes, doctors turning disease into customary abuse, sick children playing with the larvae at their feet, scientists infecting that larvae, the shrill crone beating you for the rent, the bland, majestic soothsayers tearing up your dreams of death and the stiff, sharp seductress squatting over you with their jutting bones and insect ecstasy. Trunk rental available at the snack bar.
A model writes to Auguste Rodin
Dear Monsieur Rodin,
This is the lady who recently posed at your studio for your sculpture ‘The Kiss’. Do you happen to have the name of the other model that posed with me? I have some sort of blister that has appeared on my upper lip and I think I may need to get in touch with him.
Warmest regards,
Sophia
Lou Reed writes to a television producer
8th March 1975
Hey Barry, Barry.
Great meeting you at Andy’s the other week. You said if I had any ideas for the TV I should drop you a line. Well, I was just sitting here at Max’s Kansas City with some friends and we came up with a dynamite idea for a show. Sorry for writing this on bar napkins, wanted to get this down while it was still fresh in my head.
So, here’s the idea – BLADIAC!
I play a hard-bitten New York Cop in a leather jacket called Lou Bladiac who investigates New Wave crimes in the music industry. Bladiac don’t take no shit and plays by his own rules, while also playing some sweet guitar licks.
You know I did ‘Walk on the Wild Side’? So I know quite a bit about the noir stuff and the dark side of life. Well, imagine that song in a TV cop show format. And get this, at the end of each show Bladiac can sing a song about the investigation (which I’ll write and perform). Something like ‘It was the drummer who did it / he just went ahead and did it …’ You see, I just came up with that off the cuff. Imagine how great it would be if I’d put some thought into it. Wait … what … what? Hold on Barry, someone’s shouting at me … what? Yeah, I said about the song …
Sorry Barry, so yeah. And Bladiac is handy with a blade, hence his name. That’s his main weapon in fighting crime, he uses a switchblade. He don’t kill people, just stabs them up a bit before arresting them.
What? Hold on, Rachel’s yelling something. No, we said we weren’t having the Indian Spirit Guide. No! That’s dumb. Oh great, now he/she’s crying …
Forget all that Barry, so yeah Bladiac goes undercover and gets in with all these New Wave groups who are doing crimes or are having crimes done against them. He uses disguises and he’s a real one for the ladies. And the dudes. He has a female alter ego called Shofanna who’s completely convincing. And he has a real great car. And I mentioned the knife thing, right?
God, sure there was more to this than that. Lemme think. Bladiac. Cop. New Wave. Blade. Shofanna. Car. Song at the end. Yeah, guess that’s it.
Oh wait, guest stars! Yeah, we can get tons of guest stars and people to be in it. I can ask Andy, he loves TV. Maybe he can be the police chief or something. That would be pretty funny. Bowie can be like a snitch. No wait, Iggy can be like a snitch, maybe Bowie can be like a jewel thief or something. Then I, like, stab him up and arrest him.
What did you say? I’ll just have a gimlet. Yeah a gin one, they’re always gin. Shit, stop distracting me, I keep writing this shit down. Sorry Barry. People keep distracting me. I look really good as a cop. I’ve got shades and leather jackets, so we can save money on that. And I’m good at playing the tough guy (and the opposite in Shofanna’s case). Think this will be a total blast. Put a record out at the end of every season with all the songs I’ve sung about investigations. Bladiac! I came up with the name first.
Lou Reed
P.S. Wait, what? What was that? Oh sorry Barry, that wasn’t about you.
Now, for the weekending and the weekening of the daze and the dillydallying concerning the abstagnation and the never nearlyness, the chump who chunders the pagination of the month and the moth, hovers and heaves into views notwithstanding. Oh yes it does! Trussed up in clingarounds, sandy stones scarring the soles. Banished I have ole Greggster from desked-neighbourly, suffering with his sulphurous excursions and exertions, my nasal hole burnt aron it, ironic and a tonic. Nevermore the tea totalling prowess of old Annie the pro-ess, her Queen of the Prawns and never a round brought in, but always of excepting like a bergamont and a lackspittle. A throat cut! Her sister there, is it hairyditty? A showdow not cross the kettle nor neither. Let the big forms of their bodices be hexspelled from the witchery of my headspace. Oh releaf, under a bough and bow as the branches blanche old Blanche the Blough. But the worms flashed back returned into your binbox? Contrusion puddles the poodle in your noodle, yawcrazy and wisha, wisha, wisha, clamber an ants were. Pitee thee! Petee thoo! Potty too! Mister Typhus! Him clother the dor! In his mitt and ants wer! Cry not yet! A can-on-diced man! Not just a stoutfellow but with that a nascent nearsaint, stars arc when ham-mused but in cups then inn sane. Forward go thee, to the whole inside papyr for reptilecation. His throne will hillruminate my drams, as I squander on the rox, a ail, ailing my day’s tail, ma happydermus toasting a tan, tan, tan. On retrieving, lo a casket, a basket a brisket of bonbons, desecrated with seens of palmed treens and a salty sombrero, nevermore. Bynoon, a dessert in there, hand to mouth and vice and verses, blood boils and black bowls and abasing the baldyqueen. Tails tolled of clemency and awfulas belie from Delie, with knitbrows on the counterstaff СКАЧАТЬ