Last act, the End, this is where we all came in. The final
Apocalypse is when everyman sees what he sees, feels what he feels,
hears what he hears. The creatures of all your dreams and nightmares
are right here, right now, solid as they ever were or ever will be,
electric vitality of careening subways faster faster faster stations
flash by in a blur.
Pan. God of Panic, whips screaming crowds, as millions of faces
look up at the torn sky:
OFF THE TRACK! OFF THE TRACK!
The planet is pulling loose from the moorings, careening into
space, spilling cities and mountains and seas into the Void,
spinning faster and faster as days and nights flash by like subway
stations. Iron penis chimneys ejaculate blue sparks in a reek of
ozone, tunnels crunch down teeth of concrete and steel, flattening
cars like beer cans. Graffiti eats through glass and steel like acid,
races across the sky in tornados of flaming colors.
Cherry-pickers with satin brushes big as a door inch through
Wall Street, leaving a vast souvenir postcard of the Grand Canyon.
Water trucks slosh out paint, outlaw painters armed with paint
pistols paint everything and everyone in reach. Survival Artists,
paint cans strapped to their backs, grenades at their belts, paint
anything and anybody within range. Skywriters dogfight, collide
and explode in paint. Telephone poles dance electric jigs in swirling,
crackling wires. Neon explosions and tornados flash through
ruined cities, volcanoes spew molten colors as the earth’s crust
buckles and splinters into jigsaw pieces
The household appliances revolt: washing machines snatch clothes
from the guests, bellowing Hoovers suck off makeup and wigs and
false teeth, electric toothbrushes leap into screaming mouths,
clothes dryers turn gardens into dust bowls, garden tools whiz
through lawn parties, impaling the guests, who are hacked to
fertilizer by industrious Japanese hatchets. Loathsome, misshapen,
bulbous plants spring from their bones, covering golf courses,
swimming pools, country clubs and tasteful dwellings
Skyscrapers scrape rents of blue and white paint from the sky,
shredding, peeling, nitrous ochres and red eat through bridges,
which fall into the rivers splashing color across . my back I always
hear . piers, streets AMOK art . Hurry up please, it's time
. floods inorganic molds . Time's winged chariot hurrying
. stirring passion of . near. Closing time , gentlemen . metal and
glass steel . these our actors as I foretold you . girders writhe .
actors frantically packing in theatrical . mineral lust . hotels... are
all spirits.
Oh don’t bother . burst from concrete . with all that junk,
John . were all sprits, John . covers . the Director is on stage
and are melted into . walls . air and you what that means in
show business . of glass. melt into thin air. Hurry up please, its
time. Caught . burn . In New York beneath the animals of the
village . with madness . the Piper pulled down the sky. This
insub . billion crazed . stantial pageant faded leaves not a. roads
buck . wrack behind. Closing time, hurry . sidewalks run ahead
. up it's time.
At my back . faster and faster . I always hear hurry up .
energy ground down into . please, it's time closing . sidewalks and
streets by billions of feet and tires erupts from manholes and
tunnels break out with volcanic force let it come down careening
subways faster and faster stations blur by, Pan whips screaming
crowds with flaming pipes millions of faces look up at the torn
sky OFF THE TRACK OFF THE TRACK the planet is
pulling loose from its moorings, careening off into space spilling
cities and mountains and seas into the Void faster and faster.
This is where we all came in blue and white paint from when
Everyman sees color nightmares are right here warehouse and piers
electric energy floods inorganic molds subways faster and faster,
glass steel girders Pan God of Panic whips screaming concrete, faces
look up at the torn sky and burn with madness. TRACK the planet
is pulling bucking cars and trucks careening into space faster and
faster into the Void spinning walks and streets flash by like subway
stations in a reek of ozone.
Force let it come, skyscrapers scrape rents of the final Apocalypse
in the sky, dream rivers splashing color across solid roads and
buildings, AMOK art vitality stirring passions of metal blur by
writhing in mineral lusts, walls of glass melt OFF THE TRACK
OFF a billion crazed eyes, the sidewalks run feet and tires, chimneys
ejaculate blue tunnels break out graffiti village pulled across the sky
in flaming colors.
Skyscrapers scrape rents of blue and white paint from the sky,
the rivers swirl with color, nitrous ochres and reds eats through
the bridges, falling into the rivers, splashing color across
warehouses and piers and roads and buildings, AMOK art
floods inorganic molds, string passions of metal and glass, steel
girders writhing in mineral lusts burst from their concrete covers,
walls of glass melt and burn with madness in a billion crazed
eyes, bridges buck cars and trucks into the rivers, the sidewalks
run ahead faster and faster, energy ground down into sidewalks
and streets by billions of feet and tires erupt from manholes and
tunnels, breaks out with volcanic force:
LET IT COME DOWN
Caught in New York beneath the animals of the village, the
Piper pulled down the sky.
Poem from “Apocalypse” written by William Burroughs