what a brilliant dirty old man he was
like no other
degradation a lauph
he died a common death and thats fine
because their will truely never be another bastard like burroughs, what an oddity
may the worms eat whats left of his physical
and future beats consume the rest
their aint much for a fan to miss with so much material left to enjoy,
may those worms consume his flesh

Y'know, it was my parents who told me to check out WSB's work in the first place....I remember the time that I sat down and read Naked Lunch....whilst eating my lunch. Something that many prudish types would find impossible was generated and brought together by the sheer brilliance, the genius of the style and violated, kicking and screaming, into something so appealing and enjoyable the memory is as fresh as an hour-old burn on the tissue of my cerebellum. And it's strange to think that the artist who brought it all together and into being, seemed so close as I read and felt what his maniacally affable mind, manner and style evoked....something in me awakened that day, however many hours it was....something that influenced me in untold ways and pushed me on to better things. It was like having someone ravenously chew on one of your nipples.....painful, but strangely attractive and genuinely fulfilling. I gave the book to some friends, sheilded from such by the usual powers-that-shouldn't-be who filter anything but mind-numbing, soul-destroying crap from our literary and philosophical diet, and they knew that it was something special too.....but, I digress. It's time to say goodbye to Lee, at least until the next time I open up one of his books, or in some way feel his work, his presence.....goodbye Bill, we miss you....

Goodbye, dear Billy Lee, god of chaos, end of language, my real father.

ALOAS

"Stop breathing down my neck, I'm coming to that..."
say hey to gysin. see you in the last museum.
and for the last time, stay ouuta my dreams, billy boy

"It is very certain that it is the effect of conversation with the beauty of the soul, to beget a desire and need to impart to others the same knowledge and love." Emerson

so, he has passed too.
I stood in the grass, Montagnola, Bologna, and staring at the sky. Fabio has tried to find something out from The Soft Machine for the last two days... Agatha smiling... we didnt know.
it was a strange day, we were so soft and the railway station musical comment was all for it, strage strage strage della stazione di bologna...
now I got a new day to remember, and I really dont want, I felt so safe in this world, just knowing that the Old Bull Lee was alive and still sharing air with us, somewhere...
I love you Bill
I'll keep the password you once gave me, I'll keep it tattooed in my face, try to be...
everyone of us has got something with him

Well bill it istime for you to jump on the eternal road to no wheres vile.
I hope you hoped a quick ride, with a good driver (you know a good driver the minute the touch the wheel).
You made them bite the inside of their cheeks old boy- they had to call you "artist"- And i'm glad they hated it.
go in peace

Doctor Benway to surgery! You've crossed into the western lands your pockets bulging with cat coins, welcome to Johnsonville.

Burroughs gave the courage to remain differn't.

I never knew you, but I miss you already.

Tom

TOO much said, its a sad story ,
When, it is now. without this medium
we can all aspire to despair, elation, freedom
Socratic-empirical-existential beat.
No Junk. will see the iNterzonal without it.
change yourself not others

My first touch with Burroughs came after buying a worn copy of Naked Lunch at a used bookstore. It entertained me for hours. After that came The Soft Machine and then Junky. His influence on one of my absolute favorite songwriters Lou Reed was obvious. Later I got heavily into Bowie, once again the influence obvious. Just a couple of days ago I was very excited to get William's P.O. Box address, through this website in fact. I was to send him my new single and a copy of a 'zine that I was working on, in which I quoted him talking about Bowie. Well the single's out and the 'zine is completed but William is gone. I wish I could have shared my creations with him, as he has shared his with me. You know, about a year ago I rented a documentary on his life entitled simply, Burroughs. Watching it, a thought occured to me... I couldn't think of a more intelligent man. Lonesome Cowboy Bill..... he's something else.

Those of Interzone University Remember You!

With Love, Rest in Eternal CHAOS.

You Have served the Earth Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.

With Love. I'll see you when I get up there too.

Still remember that sunny summer Saturday afternoon
and I just got JUNKY and NAKED LUNCH for a buck.
The way NAKED LUNCH changed everything.
Jacking off to THE WILD BOYS afternoons after school.
One day faking sick so I could stay home and cut up the newspaper and Mom's old romance novels.
The way you could calm brutal chaos with a simple image of the quiet eternal
(a falling leaf...old newspapers down a windy street...a boy's open shirt flapping in the breeze).
The music of your voice through my speakers...
"...we see God through our assholes in the flash bulb of orgasm....Through these orifices
transmute your body....The way OUT is the way IN...."
Goodbye old man...thank you.

The sunflower in my backyard
planted after Ginsberg's death
has finally started to bloom.

Berea, Ohio
6 Aug 97

GATHERING?!

So long old Bull, you're back with Cody, Jack, and Allen.
Although you weren't much of a "lush roller", you're other talents made us all realize what an interesting place this life on earth can be. You'll always be "benevolent Father Murphy" to me. You're the true Drugstore Cowboy.I hope there's some heavenly Dilaudid on the other side. The immaculate connection indeed. So long.........................

Ironically enough, i was told that Burroughs had died by
my flat-mate, at just before I opened a collection of poems
by the Czech poet Miroslav Holub. The poem in question was
entitled "A brief reflection on Death" and included a
quotation from Burroughs: "How do you know you haven't
died yet?"
He was and always will be a personal hero of mine, the last
High Modernist, a survivor, a surrealist who paradoxically
had a fearsomely logical mind. I wrote to him to pose a
question concerning my undergraduate thesis three years ago
and was more than surprised to get a humorous, courteous
reply, mostly concerned with cats rather than my original
question. I regret not writing back.

Interzone Blues 8.5.97: Now a few days after first learning of WSB's death the depression intensifies-- overwhelming frustration and disgust. The most innovative author of the twentieth century (I suppose that title is shared with Joyce and Pynchon), whose books with Swiftian sharpness transmit blueprints for psychic self-defense in the Trak/ Interzone psychogeography: subliminal totalitarianism, the time-birth-death-CONTROL gimmick, internalized oppression like twitching surgical steel centipedelegs in the abdomen a familiar feeling of loss and grief. Dissections of the control machine.
Burroughs' impact on my life has been second only to my parents. I'm standing in my room, my head is pulsing with the noisy chaos of a grief-headache. I'm surrounded by books and records directly influenced by WSB's work. I'm thinking about his work and about my work-- my writing, my sound experimentation, my collages. I'm at a loss: "and I guess I just don't know..." He was 83...I'd even written a punk song called "Uncle Bill's Gonna Die." I had often half-joked that I hoped to meet/interview him soon, "'cuz he could die any day..."--the time-birth-death gimmick--" if anybody had sussed it out, it was WSB. Perhaps it was a smart exit before the whole shithouse goes up in some ugly nova-- out the back as the fuzz bust in. I don't know what my reaction is, beyond loss in waves of nausea and an inability to collect my thoughts. I don't know. flickering celluloid image of deviant genius. Calling Dr. Benway: scalpel corroded with eery finality. Obit shares page with headlines of BOMBS UFOs BUDDHIST MONKS MARCH FOR PEACE CIA etc. etc. Now: Their Garden of Delights is a terminal sewer: Storm the Reality Studios.

in the words of wsb, cryptic and infinitely resonant as ever at times "the sky is thin as paper here" and yes another hole has been torn in the fantasies which sutain us, sometimes, and of course we knew he couldn't live forever but it would have been nice to make it to the next century. Anyway he died with his boots on, smart till the end so it seems and that at least is some little thing we could all aspire to. We'll miss him but his spirit has been sown in each of us and will go on as long as a few questioning brains survive somewhere in some bottles looking for a way to break out and never stop looking. not rest in peace but keep going forever in the live minds where it counts, wsb, most imperfect old human that he were. No illusions and no hagiography please. Thanking you very kindly for the use of the space.

Drop A Little Tear For William, Lee...