high above the treeline

Nembutal and codeine

blue, colors, vistas

complete bisexuality is attained

spam and canned pineapples

sad little park

‘plants grow out of your cock’

 

the same as ever

now he hated it

206 East 7th Street

a stamped tin ceiling

like an English governess

fuse the field

 

no toilet, no place to sit down

 

in the new town

fifty-two banks

the shoeshine set

with shoeshine boys

unable to tell them apart

another was Bill Finley of Philadelphia

 

in future

nothing was left

nothing is worse

red clay roads and farmers

‘what about me’

 

no kissing

 

write and rehash

all his life in my hands

staying at the Hotel St. George

 

in his right mood the next morning

a horrible end

‘poverty, our friend poverty’

 

wind in an iron tree

‘how Bill’

like a cat

 

on the third floor

still dithering

like a dog kennel

 

a favorite raconteur

he was thirty

each day

unusual for Bacon

it was ready to offer

‘objects abandoned in a hotel drawer’

 

dull as ever

no bars as such

the missing scent

 

$26 a month

 

the nightmare is cleared up overnight

sniff it, rather than inject

still had sawdust

hot rum on a cold night

 

cots and long coaches

washing Gregory’s puke off the stairs

 

thin, pale, unsteady

a lost cause

in closeness

tolerant, intolerant