Interlude peeved throat 
William S. Burroughs
Helen ,
The breeze is coming. One evening
windy in the country.
I was to handle the stove, logs per log. On the round, I had a soup base, which cooed, laying in the house of intimate fragrance. You know full well that I have always been fond of the smell. Thus I came to you. As the breeze.
I remember already comfortable when you restored thy skirt vanilla. I sought to place on your thighs with kisses sweet, chilly. Your eyes red from having cried so frightened, even after all this time. Life does thee never made gifts. No error. Life does thee never presents. You spend all your time in the past. So you worry too inventing, memories. The same, of black.
With all that, I could not put me in mind certain coincidences. Was I making an idle tone? Initially, I was much too keen to point out the danger. Not least, I told myself. Your fear every time we stretched, under the sheets, sheets if our cats, I always had the effect of a surprise. Baroque, clownish, any relaxation became illusion: I could not live with you as fragmented by the mysteries that you hid in the depths of your black pupil.
And to be black you were, even more than the sky at the end of October. In those days, our love dovetailed, became difficult. I made you constantly pink. It just did not care if I do not gripe against the wind, you just décoiffer, décoiffer your head if ... What say? This beautiful woman's head, not quite experienced, not old, nor young, but exquisitely beautiful, or something like that, anyway, something like that.
I think that's how I saw you. In my pallor, my life by the light and dark wan, I did that for me you uncap, to make me gush a quiet madness, almost ordinary. I could marry for hours on your skin on my hands of soul, feeling the pain as a specific desire. I only wanted you no harm, but I felt trapped. I saw in you a single delusion. However, it is in your touch I knew something immensely important, cavernous, would soon occur. Therefore, I wanted to protect you.
After all, Helen, fire of my loins, light of my rails, I loved you for loving you I loved you as one loves a delicate music, music that makes us dream, which helps us to sleep when the night is too long. Long nights.
"No Alex ... I assure you any glue for the better ... Do not worry about me ... Poor you! You cease to make bile ... The bad blood is for idiots ... " And perhaps was I stupid. Because I do not believe you. I had a conviction so bitter, really clear, like what you were going to soon fall into the clutches of a sordid temptation. The situation, though, and soon hopelessly dull, transported me into a trance.
First, your lies. Your past false that thou was creating. Unless and until a beautiful autumn morning sickly, you came, in a dressing gown, opened the chest, so that a glimpse of nipple soft and transparent, you came to tell me trifles, and tales awake.
"Alex ... This can not continue like this! I torment! I get so violent with you ... You know that brother and sister is not tomorrow the day we can go out in broad daylight ... in front of everyone! Can you imagine? What does one say? " I put your hallucinations on the back of passion ... I could hardly believe that you had started thinking that we were the same blood. At this time exactly as I started to develop my plan: we had to get out of jail, take you elsewhere. I chose the campaign.
I chose to cut yourself with scissors in my madness.
On the round, I have a soup base. Thyme, beef broth and all your skin. I slashed warm this morning, with little dabs of beer caps. Brother! Oh! If you never ever attic my chaste prayers of thy beauty psychopath, I'll see you at least in my soup.
That I prepare on the stove ... Things are heating up and I turn ... I turn around.
