Bill Burroughs Won't You Please Come Home?

"Nothing is true...everything is permitted"

I miss you, Bill, your nefarious centipede dreams in one

room third floor walk up bare mattress on the floor

peeling paint water stained walls, floors years filthy

grey plastic over broken window hot plate can of beans

infiltrated by G men faeries con men second story men

flaks fakes flakes factotums junkies crooked Peruvian police

assassins that kill you with breath through crooked teeth

shootout in the Boulder cemetery

I'm sure at one point this was my life.