Brion Gysin (January 19, 1916 – July 13, 1986) was a painter, writer, sound poet, and performance artist born in either Edmonton Alberta, Canada or Taplow, Buckinghamshire
Gysin baby rocks the junk baby no good… read em and weep.
Gamble on it
master trader masturbated…they’ve traded their sexuality for a dollar.
Coinage castrato… a gysin moment…junk no good baby…read em and weep
again and again.
Junk baby junkie. smack that crack-crack that rap to the blue
man new man
brown shirts marching lock-step 4/4 time baby square it with
Man can can can – can do – react with a passion…passion no more
Yammer – constant pat on the back – congratulatory constipation.-
Ya can hear it in their voices – no regrets – no life lived – no regrets no life
white whine and cheese – noise incessant – inflicted – disgraced – far
too far – It’s calling . Calling those weak in spirit – dream to the dream machine
Psychedelic phallic fuck. Fuck you up …baby baby fucked up on the smack.
crack rap. See the end – feel the end game – run on the keys – feel
it – feel my
meter baby. Blue baby blue oh Mary Mary – Hail Mary Mary
the poor – it’s the low track bass line mainline. Alley riot. Diseases
their course – how time marches by – not so kind to some
baby crack smack – walking the Dunn Avenue industrial areas
seeing the time go by wait waiting – you know there is a
difference – drug time
baby blue , it’s only a matter of time baby blue till you
are found … found foundry
failings tailing. It’s industrial baby just like you. Smack that
crack rap… smoke… smoke that crack smack up rap mash up.
I was 6 when I saw the book and he was dead by the time I was
Desolation alley baby blue Mary blue… Merry Marry Mary
Transformed city streets shitty beats. Shitty city noises tracking tracking tracks.
Keep it that far – always that far but too arms length far – blue veined blue line mainline.
But does it have to mean a God Damned thing?
Mary Mary quite contrary where did the mainline go? Bop bopping till
the sun comes up on that tortured garden soul. Enchanted
evenings on lonely
streets…looking yet not looking – at past friends – families now divorced.
Lonely streets deserted except for thrash in bags or blowing away down alley ways
cacophonous – make a sex noise here – sloppy second sounds in the early morning dew.
Pagers vibrate on coffee house tables and old man wondering about the where’s and why’s and
whats the count so far.