Henry Lucowski living in his head (The end and the beginning of his world). The sensory police picking and choosing, an ongoing process of in and out, in and out. Henry old, bored, alone— all kinds of shit censored and uncensored made it in these days.
There were a few stories left somewhere, he was too lazy to dig them up, indifferent, lacking the fervency to keep it going.
Digging up old stories was like remembering fucks from the past, some stuff slipping through the cracks. Henry unable too rally the passion of bygone fucks and other cheap thrills these days.
His writing a dusty shadow of, an apology to whoever would listen.
The idiom “Flow of consciousness,” not unlike the words schizophrenia, whoopee or discothèque, outdated equipment.
Henry letting it rip, a lazy and selfish writer, out to please himself and seeking pain relief.
The song “Bob Dylan’s Dream—“ sixties’ stuff, crackbrained but saying allot to many, an ode for the malcontent.
On “Country Pie” Dylan is singing about his love for pie, the delight he feels eating pie and listening to music in the afternoon. How can the kooks find higher meaning here?
Henry’s work— higher meaning in your face, the kooks wouldn’t bother with it —
Henry laughing his ass off for second here, taking a break and stuffing his opium pipe full of black satin mud. Lighting it, blowing smoke through his nostrils into silver lined clouds where angels dare not hang.
Leaning way back in his chair as he typed, laying and typing, listening to Rolling Stones Unplugged on You Tube. Liking it, liking it all, junk reaching into and caressing the yawning secret places of his pain.
His girlfriend Moon Girl brings him a drink and says—
“Henry doll you sure are lovely baby, do you like my Leopard skin coat? It sure has been a long strange trip, how do my tits look honey?”
Henry and Moon Girl lived in a cave like room with no windows, dark all the time, keeping everything outside out.
Dope cut the shackles for the freaks, they could fly anywhere on the shit.
Henry inspired by John Berryman’s “Dream Songs” for sure… confessional poetry, a recantation to a shaman in a starless alleyway.
Truly his own man now, writing like crazy between trips to the urinal, his stuff unlike anyone he could think of, he didn’t want it any other way.