While reading William S. Burroughs’ The Soft Machine (the British 1968 version), I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the incessant penile landscapes, so I wrote something ‘vaginal’ as a sort of innoculation against his relentless imagery. Then, to counter the seedy, dreary, crumbling, apocalyptic urban settings, I wrote a piece based on various recurring dreams I have had of utopian, postindustrial cities.
Endlessly expanding and contracting universe seen from an impossible God perspective – a video porn God with lense fixed on the Star of the Show – pulsating flesh tunnel, slick, glistening like foam-strewn stretches of beach, the glitter of half-exposed stone worn smooth by a billion years of a billion billion ocean waves, my fingers plunge into a murky wet grotto, curving round the hardness under the soft yielding muck and sand, producing star fish, jewel-like eggs and spawn. Fingers slide further in the coal sack slurpy darkness, the palpitating, gripping intensities. Dig farther, shove my whole head into the hole, I’m lost in the warm mush of stars slurring across inky oceans, of moon glistering on the frost sheen of damp packed sand, and the cold shock of wind bringing night to bear. Straining, then with a twist of the shoulders I’m through and floating, floating ever further onto the milky stream, rocking on her belly, the flavour of fish on my swollen tongue.
Dream city brief … gray gabled houses, gaunt and wind-worn like abandoned country barns. Teetering six storeys, interconnecting catwalks overhead and myriad improvised telecom and electrical wires. Glass glitters, great multipaned walls of windows. No roads through rugged terrain, houses perch on hilltops, nestle in folds, pathways of beaten dirt for pedestrians and cyclists. Tiny capillary streams circulate by pathway and under houses on stilts, springs bubble from rock outcrops. Trees proliferate, a forest city. Gardens grow on rooftops, plenty of food for all. Little markets of stalls, cafés open air, animals roam pets belonging to all, a cat purrs on a handy lap, horseback riders prepare for a journey. Overhead, kites red and orange against the cobalt sky, and hang gliders soar. The people are content. Dusk and you see them on verandas, smoking, singing to one another. Monkeys scamper across rooftops, bats chase mosquitoes through the night air. Musicians trade riffs across dark urban forestscape. Little candles on balconies, mellow glow of lanterns indoors. A crescent moon rises.