BLACKMORE'S VISIT. (STRONG LANGAUGE)

[dadio]

You should have retired
Years ago, Bill, Blackmore
Says lighting a cigar and
Watching his former agent

Standing against the wall
Inhaling from a cigarette,
The business is not for old
Men; let the young bucks

Have their turn. Retirement’s
For the dead, Bill remarks,
Or those fucked in the head.
Blackmore puffs heavy. You

Remember the dead’s faces?
Do you see their dull eyes?
Bill shakes his head, lets loose
A line of smoke artistic like.

No, not any more, no more
Than I recall the young guys
I fucked in dingy rooms in
Years past. Blackmore exhales

Bluey smoke, puts a hand in
His pocket. Have regrets? Bill
Walks to the unmade bed by
The window, looks out at the

Dark sky. Regrets are pointless.
They’re histories wrapped in
Yesterday’s papers, stinking
Of what might have been and

Moral shit puked by preachers.
Blackmore looks around the
Dingy room, the tired wallpaper,
The naked bulb above the bed.

If I were one of those mediums,
I’d see plenty of your victims
Around this room, sitting on
Your bed, staring, tut-tutting

With a shake of the head. Bill
Blows smoke against the dark
Windowpane, the cigarette
Hanging limp between fingers.

I don’t give a fuck for the afterlife
Or who survives or lingers, Bill says,
Seeing Blackmore’s image reflected
In the glass, the portly frame, the

Fat chops, the cigar stuffed between
Thick lips. You heard about old
Smithson? Blackmore asks, studying
Bill’s ass tight in the black pants,

The tall thin frame. Yeah, blew his
Head off in his retirement home,
Made a mess of the pretty wallpaper
And spoilt the carpet for his old girl

To tread, Bill says, the selfishness
Of the dead. Blackmore sighs, looks
Over Bill’s shoulder at the dark sky.
Some folk can’t live any more with

Themselves, some folk have to die,
He mutters. You going to be here
Much longer? Bill asks, got a young
Punk coming over here for sex and

Sauerkraut. Blackmore nods his head,
Puffs heavy once more on his cigar,
Remembers the whores he’d had over
His grimy past, the poky rooms, the

Filthy sex, the tired days, the black ops,
The Big Boys in Washington, the dirty
Washing, the lies. See you then, Bill,
He says, watch your back with the

Young bucks. Bill watches Blackmore
Leave, reflected in the windowpane,
The fat ass, the bull like neck, the faulty
Heart and smoke lingering like a wet fart.

[dadio]

The poem has nothing to do with William Burroughs or his life. I admire Bill Burrough's work and think he's one of the best the U.S.A has produced. The photo inspired the poem although I cannot say why. That is the way with art sometimes, it gives but doesn't say why or how.