Naked Lunch

If all pleasure is relief from tension, junk affords relief from the whole life process

In lifeproof houses they hover over the young, sop up a little of what they shut out. Only the young bring anything in, and they are not young very long

smell like a compost heap

Please Boss Man. I’ll wipe your ass, I’ll wash out your dirty condoms, I’ll polish your shoes with the oil on my nose . . .

He kisses the D.S.’s hand thrusting the fingers into his mouth

he cruises the precincts and bribes the turnkey to let him in with a cell of junkies

takes on an ominous grey-green color.

rancid magic of slot machines and roadhouses.

back to the old Ford V-8.

“A quart of PG and a hundred nembies.”