So I sit there with earphones, mind you West End of forgotten City East of what used to be a shade of time. Let’s not get into that again… machine gun fire loud & clear… airplanes moving in low & forgotten now like battles in the Pacific… distant artillery for the Americans don’t forget that buddy… sound of Japanese commandos… & Germany end of July 45, 17 sec. past the deadline… sunny morning in Hiroshima, stones trees houses people dust… it’s the 15th with transcribed music… cracks in the record, the unconditional surrender of Hollywood to TV…
Countryside after a picnic, East of Eton the wagons roll by. Garbled Western talk, muddy water behind the creek Indians moving in. Brrr amigo, dust & winds blowing across the plains, a saxophone, a Hammond organ callin’ in the cavalry. «I’ll finish that bastard.»«You’ll get him.» The voice reminds me of Melvin Purvis, the man who thought he got Dillinger. Domestique? The liquidation of agent 000 in Amsterdam, remember those last words? Sir, those are the chimes of the Town Hall. Buona sera, guten Abend meine Damen & Herren. It can’t be true. Haarlem Straat 74, come in. Oh Katie. For some reason I just sit there to follow the film to finish. Something moving down my spine, right around my balls. It might have been the way she sucks in those martinis after all. Or hunks her horn. Would you mind moving your car? Yessir what color was it? The homicide bureau, Richard Mason for you. KLM 64i roger. Call by Channel. Lima Oscar Romeo. Alpha November Receiver. Temperature 46 & 9 right. Each voucher is good for one rape. The Landlord & his wife were crooked & disgusting. The Road to Chicago, down State St. & back via tower. See that cop over there? You haven’t asked me yet. 96.5.4.3.1… right down the line. Then he passed out & I heard the shots outside. A stale grey backyard of the City. I stepped on an empty can.
«Where is Will Marlow?» the assistant director asked.
Well & I’m the Judge of Dallas. Three shots in the dark, the music cutting in. I didn’t know you had two guns… the sporting spirit of 1984. The Spanish Civil War was fought on cigarette paper, elaborado con las maximas garantias. The General sitting at the piano in his underground headquarters, distant cars going by. The jeweler next door has been robbed. Good night. «Where you think you are going kid?»«Wonna say hello to Mr. Rothstein.» Historic hallucinations… East across my memory till I get to the Havana cigars, trademark of the bigger shots fading into night. Will I pull through? Should have learned it when the Army paid me. Yeah.
«Let me have 309, Mr. Rothstein.» Who the heck are you? Bill has gone to Coney Island. Slot machines & piano music down the hall. Back alley after recent rain. Car stopping, machine gun fire. Rotten shadows, not a sound. So they got us again. Let’s get out of here…
All clear. Garbled messages out of walkie-talkies. The shallow tide north of the airways. The General’s habit was to play piano by the phonograph. I can hear it now.
«You don’t know who I am.»«I’m Legs Diamond…» Famous last shots, police siren moving up along the hotel that night. Behind screen door waiting for psychiatric treatment. A place in which you get scared of places. «No more easy language?» A gun battle waking him like someone staring out of Exile.
Joe DiMaggio, fisherman from San Francisco. A girl’s best friend… remember the gimmick of the noisy movie machine? Interviews, sleeping pills & the rest. «Yeah I do. Why I’ll go anywhere in the world with you now.» You & your God’s country… the last rat gang. A sister who had famous brothers. No road to these events? Marilyn’s last performance. Happy birthday to you. Small plane lost in publicity noise, baby.
I followed his eyes through the night. There wasn’t anything to see, at least not for me. Intelligence cut-ups of news? When it comes to this stage, use hand grenades not the telephone. Let’s go gentlemen. Some bullshit in his frozen breath. Cry of hyenas after a lot of curry these android apes. I started the day with scrambled eggs, cockroaches & ice cream. Tired eyes following the stale purple gin bottle. Last aviation. Just passing through the area, it stinks to come up with any word, written or said. Seldom see the moon slide behind those scraps any more… a small country town, cracking photographic time moving through my spine. Outside a wide milky sky. The heat of the roofs follows the smell of someone being carried away on a stretcher. Cracking bones, I keep asking myself where I am. Some unknown code has ruined me. Nazi papers & some letters where the signals turn green. Smell of Late Show.
by Jürgen Ploog, Aug. 73