In The Beat Hotel— Colonel Bill and Alvah Goldsplat— Flaming Blue Meringue pie washed down with decanters of Moroccan Coffee and clove. “Cock Sucker Blues," By the Rolling Stones on the colored radio, WBXR, shaking off layers of raw-hide and croc-skin.
A Marrakech boy siting on Alvah’s lap, Alvah reading him the Torah and Howl, stuff from future and centuries past.
Out back on an old sofa, Bill loaded his shotgun, blowing up beer cans, watermelons, baby dolls and old TV set.
Henry chanting with Bill, poetic stuff from dreams.
Saying—
“ Embrace all that’s dark and wicked Henry, meet them head on son, lie down and hold them tight kid, it’s the stuff of dreams”.
Mainlining a speedball, lapsing into dreams full of color, living the Life of Pi, planting Gospel Trees. Knowing there’s no place like Nashville and Memphis rock n roll, tossing seeds to the wind, two straw men asleep at the wheel.
Chuck Berry singing “I Love You," On out of focus radio, wooly stuff loose and free, it was a summer afternoon in New York City, Hippy women bathing naked in Orchid Sea, a beautiful day full of rainbows.
“Isn’t it a Pity," By George Harrison playing on Colonel Bill’s radio the room began to sway as the celling parted and rained down powdered cocaine, bathed in white light.
Old Bill whispers to Henry—
“ Remember Henry words belong to no one and break the law when you write”.
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