Joan Vollmer
plead insanity when someone asks me about my heroes. I do not like talking about it. I do not really respect tender and ignored by those whom they consider heroes and role models to football clubs, artists, writers, etc.. Or mocking indulgence to which mental melt and economically productive beings of some sort of postmodern fantasy, saviors of the world through vulgar unearthly powers: Superman, Batman, Flash, Rambo ( read the world like the United States ).
My heroes do not have any fame or commercial label, but save as, travel and extol the everyday world seem to have super powers.
I admire and would like to be like the janitor who smoked marijuana the night in a corner near my house to do their job after cleansing and aesthetics. Or that I always find myself wandering in the small pond who more than survive living telling stories about their battles against evil beings beyond which defeats the diary, fear, disease, infection, the police Madriz and violations of crazy that permeate his sleep.
I admire my friends the prostitutes who perform miracles and revitalizing lift souls on the brink of death giving physical pleasure magic who pay and be guided by their land in hotel rooms, milky and smelly. I admire your strength, dedication, vigor, and of course his super powers, I give thanks and raise an altar to the camel that sell substances that purify and expand my mind to raise it to beyond the end where he looks at me with eyes of wonder and divine clairvoyance asking me to go. Joan Vollmer
admire her not because of being the wife of William S. Burroughs - but I must confess that I met through this - but rather by the way he lived: alcohol from young woman, addicted to amphetamines, women who broke traditional patterns of his time moving about freely, following their basic instincts and more wild than a absurd moral cover for the most immoral perversions.
plead insanity when someone asks me about my heroes. I do not like talking about it. I do not really respect tender and ignored by those whom they consider heroes and role models to football clubs, artists, writers, etc.. Or mocking indulgence to which mental melt and economically productive beings of some sort of postmodern fantasy, saviors of the world through vulgar unearthly powers: Superman, Batman, Flash, Rambo ( read the world like the United States ).
My heroes do not have any fame or commercial label, but save as, travel and extol the everyday world seem to have super powers.
I admire and would like to be like the janitor who smoked marijuana the night in a corner near my house to do their job after cleansing and aesthetics. Or that I always find myself wandering in the small pond who more than survive living telling stories about their battles against evil beings beyond which defeats the diary, fear, disease, infection, the police Madriz and violations of crazy that permeate his sleep.
I admire my friends the prostitutes who perform miracles and revitalizing lift souls on the brink of death giving physical pleasure magic who pay and be guided by their land in hotel rooms, milky and smelly. I admire your strength, dedication, vigor, and of course his super powers, I give thanks and raise an altar to the camel that sell substances that purify and expand my mind to raise it to beyond the end where he looks at me with eyes of wonder and divine clairvoyance asking me to go. Joan Vollmer
admire her not because of being the wife of William S. Burroughs - but I must confess that I met through this - but rather by the way he lived: alcohol from young woman, addicted to amphetamines, women who broke traditional patterns of his time moving about freely, following their basic instincts and more wild than a absurd moral cover for the most immoral perversions.
He married and had two children with a writer, homosexual consummated Burroughs, with whom he lived for a time in Mexico City (exactly in the Roma, in the Rue de Orizaba)
His place was never on earth, always been without. Spent more time fighting in distant galaxies and chatting - nobody knows beings - always carried by alcohol and pills that are getting into. It was not a writer or painter or super girl. He had no pretensions even met, lived and took the thick part of the beatnik movement as Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Lucien Carr and others.
And I admire and extol the woman who is carried as a source of inspiration, companion of the finest human perversions, and made her own.
just the human race would not exist without these heroines. Joan, who constantly sought the death playing with it (no one gets meth and alcohol on a daily basis without knowing the tragic fate that awaits him) was killed when William Burroughs an attempt to imitate William Tell style put a glass over his head and shot on target: the temple of his wife ... The alcohol, pills and the company of old William served their purpose.
And the fact itself was triggered to fruition ideas and creations insurgent embodied in books that will last forever in the hearts of those who know the works of Burroughs.
Devils and demons! We should sanctify who dares give his life as a source of inspiration for more exquisite and complex that human beings can do: writing. Bless you Joan!
I would not try to kill someone, but I go by the world stealing hearts, scents, smell, breath, sounds, touches, looks to pursue the creation and spiritual comfort me.
is why today I toast to Joan, for my friends drunk and drug addicts every day with their looks tempting and discoverers, and other superpowers, save me from the evil keeping me in this world.
toast to the women who surrounded me taught me that happiness exists, even momentarily, to overcome fears and anxiety that causes loneliness, for those old tramps who have shared blankets and alcohol me to take care of cold and warm my spirit of the fighters fighters, with their blood bullfighters calm in me the need to see my own sidewalk shed on indecent.
For you, unsung hero, this is what I can offer ...
Don Fer. February 2008
toast to the women who surrounded me taught me that happiness exists, even momentarily, to overcome fears and anxiety that causes loneliness, for those old tramps who have shared blankets and alcohol me to take care of cold and warm my spirit of the fighters fighters, with their blood bullfighters calm in me the need to see my own sidewalk shed on indecent.
For you, unsung hero, this is what I can offer ...
Don Fer. February 2008
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