Lord Thrilling and I were twitching one fine spring morning south of Bemis Road when we spotted a Caspian Tern in a flooded cornfield-

"Sir," ejaculate Lord Thrilling, handing me the spyglass, "mark this day. That is the most beautiful bird I have ever seen in all my 300 years."

Tawny Bonnie left me with nothing but this blank page and barely the power to fill it.

The Great Spirit did not create all Zazegaa-ikwes equal dig.

Slothy drive his Vega all the way to Miami. 1,400 miles of billboards and cheeseburgers and lonely filling stations. 23 hours to ruminate on the rotten 20th Century.

With its southern death row stink and big hobo dick and faded, jaded palm trees all the way down to the end of the continent.

‘Don’t the warm humid air feel so queer in February?’ axe Lord Thrilling, sucking on a doob.

What follow are the charred remains of Slothy’s manuscript. There was above 8,000 pages at the height of the Empire back in 1993 in Ypsilanti. Much has been lost due to mold, mildew, mice and even a conflagration that once consumed Slothy’s flat on Emmet Street–

‘Tut, tut, Sir,’ saith Lord Thrilling; ‘unlike Marlboro Reds, manuscripts do not burn.’

Slothy enter the Adult Bookstore [Inkster, I think it was] and proceed to the ‘private viewing booths.’ Inside they is a low res screen playing gay porn for free. To his left is a Gloryhole the size of a 12” pizza and pinesol pervade the aire—

“Pull down yore pants, Slothy,” saith Lord Thrilling, “who knows, but you might make a great good contribution to Western Literature.”

'All Empires must Fall.'

I [done] seen Lord Thrilling spray paint that once on a boxcar outside of Buffalo, New York. We was so drunk, we was throwing up on snowbanks.

I'm am nothing if not an Historian, Dear Fixxx. I mean to give the present and future critics [and traducers] an honest living.

4:00am. A warm rain fall on Covington. Lord Thrilling saunter down the street, resplendent in black trench coat and top hat, ivory-handled cane tapping the pavement, joint dangling from wizened lips.

The old man covers the whole neighborhood around Rosie's Tavern twice and then bends his steps toward the levee. Cincinnati blinking [you dig] in the summer heat across the river.

It was a work of Art really, the way the buildings arranged themselves around Reverb Stadium. I should, if I were an author, make a better description of soiled semi-tractor trailers centered perfectly against cushioned loading docks.

And roadies rolling amps with recessed latches up ramps. Yass, yass.

Slothy's WorLd Processor gets pushed into the [cement] Arena last. Dig.

Writing is pointless -- always was. The future is a crock of shit. And Tawny Bonnie, man, she a thousand miles down some lonesome Intestate out west.

I was living in great stile. Writing my novel upon postcards. One paragraph at a time. Sending them out to My Dear Friend, Dear Fixxx.

Slothy and Thrilling sat up in The Coach and Horses all Tuesday afternoon [and what a grey afternoon it was too] swilling pints and smoking Marlboros Reds at the tables outside.

And Slothy he stumble down the stairway to the loo and piss in the pisser and wonder if this was the wary same pisser that Jeffrery Benard pissed in when he was pissed.

For breakfast, Lord Thrilling and I had Egg Florentine Sandwiches across from Great Portland Street Station. Our hangovers were severe, but nothing a shot of espresso and fifth Smirnoff couldn’t cure. Once we steadied ourselves, we proceeded to Regent’s Park to twitch.

The first day we sawyer a Magpie, a Carrion Crow, a Rose-ringed Parakeet, a Common Wood-Pigeon, a Tufted Duck – my favorite, looking so regal with a bluebill and faraway look in his eyes, a Coal Tit, a Long-tailed Tit and a Eurasian Wren.

These Prose is spray-painted on the side of old beat-up Boxcars. Rolling through the rain on they way to Detroit, Chicago, Miami -- who the fuck knows?

Precisely at 7:01am EST the whole Universe entered the top of Lord Thrilling's skull and exited [out] through his left ankle. The strongest Buzz yet My Lordship had ever been administered.

He heave up and forward and dig his fingernails into the oaken arms of his tormentor. Some of the witnesses looked away, others cried, and some never forgot what they saw for the rest of their lives.

The doctor put the stethoscope up to Thrilling's rib cage and nodded to the Warden who lowered the shades. Slothy hand Lord Thrilling a fifth of Jack and tell him: "that was the best show yet!"

Correctional Officers quickly ushered them out the back door of the Death House where a long black limousine was waiting.

The next day all the northern Florida newspapers reported: '...in his final statement, the Condemned extinguished his Marlboro Red upon the arm of the Chair and proceeded to tell the Warden: "Sir, I am ready to get high."'

I write this for all the failed Poets in Ann Arbor. And surrounding countryside and environs of Detroit City. No comely lass can save me now. They as foreign to us as pubs we once frequented 30years ago. Perhaps a trifle of talent may have lifted this venture off the ground. What?

Lord Thrilling roll up a thousand beat up boxcars and rusty gondolas into a huge joint and smoke it down greedily--

"Damn, this is some good shit," saith His Lordship, with smoke pouring out of his ears; "Hope I don't wig out."