Letters of Not. Dale Shaw

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      No Running – Unless it’s shit running down good wholesome American legs, forming oily pools of thunder down amongst dark gray tunnels of hopeless, stubborn rectitude.

      No Pushing – Because no one likes the pusherman, firing beautiful dreams into dead undersea veins, charred inside like the mind of his degraded and decadent client. His gray, invisible specter that infects his pleasure on the dullest and the damned.

      No Acrobatics or Gymnastics – Or the stacking of young malleable flesh on flesh, building a queer ladder to the stars, leading to my waking life, where I sit totally alone.

      No Shouting – You never want to attract the attention of the Controller, lest he lets the drip-drip of technological assassination, decontrolling him or herself from some unspecified central point that haunts the horizon like some blood blister left too long to rot.

      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

       12th July 1889

      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 СКАЧАТЬ