Who's the William Burroughs of today?

I don't know him because I'm from a pleb country, might check him out though
you're almost funny

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I was joking about Bobby Hall. He's a rapper who decided to write a book. I've heard the book's description compare it to Naked Lunch. Don't go into it with high expectations.

Wasn't Burroughs considered a pretentious hack by his contemporaries though?

Not really. The list of people who praise Naked Lunch is long and diverse.

what about Junky and Queer?

Tao Lin

Chuck Palito
Bobby asvaldo
Amy Hanley
Jack Sins
Thomas Pun
There are so many...

Lol

And the list who have rightly called it unreadable trash is longer.

I liked Junky when I was young and edgy but it's pure homopedophilic degenracy.

The problem with young writers that idolize William is that they think he was a good writer because of drugs alone. They want to get high and produce great work without taking the time to master the craft. It is a lazy approach of someone that wants to do great things through self-destruction without any of the construction.

Santiago sunset eyes wisped in a froth of yellow shutters half open to the hazel chestnut trenches of iris palpitations, the palette comparable only to the remnants of Van Gogh’s fever dreams. Artifacts of your fictional angular skull solely preserved in rotted pig pigment, darkroom negative copies, and few poorly marketed anglo history books collecting dust in the cardboard treasure-chests of their respective local thrift emporiums. Snubbed cherry nose protruding like a sore thumb surrounded by bruising blue foliage, upheld upon a blond walrus mustache mantle. How many near death experiences, near to deathbed of dearly beloved sculpted the pain preserved in every facet of your face? Eyebags blacker than trashbags, teeth dyed yellow and orange by the chastity of toothbrush, eyebrows furrowed like decaying amber bushels. Santiago smiling an earring to earring grin; strawberry pink lipgloss coating plump dignified stretched jutted morsels in a semi-translucent stained-glass cathedral of rubied bloom. Feet mummified in tar leather heels laced with straps, tied tight in shibari entanglement of worn-down wet nightly laces haphazardly entwined about the copper rungs. Soles firmly affixed to their coffin of a splintering canoe weathered by whitewater and hurricanes but now at ease breathing ripples upon the low tide relaxation of Lake Pontchartrain.

The gay gurus of 31st street snicker at bypassers strutting confidence in pastel cardigans bought on clearance at Clearview shopping center. They mock the meek single minded meandering fools fronting derivative fashion like AP calculus tests. Their mistresses named Esmeralda and Persephone share sly glances at one another as their subservient onlookers gawk above from their balcony perch. Alongside them beauticians sweating in their jean overalls purge the leaves from the sidewalks in swift rakes and vicious scrapes so that the 8-inch platform heels avoid skewering the fallen green leaves into a shish-kebab salad. Semi-surreal swirls of half-off Franzia containers slosh like distorted rainsticks filled with beads as the gurus chug what is left of the box. They spit the grape pulp upon the heads of middling tourists clutching tightly to their Velcro bound umbrellas who fear that the runoff from the rooftop utopias is piss.

Patio chair thrones staggered about the overlooks locked down with chains on railing.

Evergreen ghouls imprisoned in floorboard precincts. A bucket of tile and dried grout floating in the shower corner. Multiplying swaths of phthalo algae and greyish blue puddles of fungal infestation corrode and poison.

Fuck off with your alliterative drivel, cunt.

probably on the internet somewhere not writing a thing

hi

me

Neither did he until his 30s

It's got similar flow but the writing is much more clinical than Burroughs. I like the style though user, I think there should be more lit like this

tl;dr

probably that guy

ty
this was my last rejection letter

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this is cool, user

Man fuck off with this shit, you do not know what you’re talking about

me nigga

Good piece, original? If not, give more

>The gay gurus of 31st street snicker at bypassers strutting confidence in pastel cardigans bought on clearance at Clearview shopping center. They mock the meek single minded meandering fools fronting derivative fashion like AP calculus tests. Their mistresses named Esmeralda and Persephone share sly glances at one another as their subservient onlookers gawk above from their balcony perch. Alongside them beauticians sweating in their jean overalls purge the leaves from the sidewalks in swift rakes and vicious scrapes so that the 8-inch platform heels avoid skewering the fallen green leaves into a shish-kebab salad. Semi-surreal swirls of half-off Franzia containers slosh like distorted rainsticks filled with beads as the gurus chug what is left of the box. They spit the grape pulp upon the heads of middling tourists clutching tightly to their Velcro bound umbrellas who fear that the runoff from the rooftop utopias is piss.

reminds me of harvey goldner for some reason
a poem about lesbians and orangecrush hair or something but hey i'm drunk btw

maybe will self or summat i dunno

probably dead or in jail

tao lin?

Not really. Junky is kind of a pulp book and Queer is solely for shock value. The cut up trilogy is revered obviously and i forget the one late text he did, cities of the red plain i think its good, got good ratings.

Get pleb filtered faggot

it's just so fucking easy for pretty people. i wish i was pretty.
being an ugly midwit is worst then being boring retarded. you never fully suffer or enjoy.

It's the only photo he looks moderately attractive on and it's because it's blurry. Burroughs was ugly af.

My story is so avant garde that it literally includes every story every written as its cast of characters. You read it and you realize that it's stories folded within stories folded within stories, some of them spoken the same time through metaphorical subtext, all pretzeled together in impossible ways. At some time when reading the story YOU enter it itself as a character, and your entire perception of reality conforms to the model of narrative experience, where you are just one living stories existing among many "narrative entities." The book then becomes a philosophical treatise on the nature of story-telling, intersecting language, semiotics, metaphysics, biology, cognitive psychology, poetry, art, music, and human creativity itself. Then you realize that this apparent shitpost is actually a scrap of this work-in-progress that is being written right now, before it was posted, describing fantastic occurrences that seem to have some intellectual substance to them, certain similarities to certain lines of inquiry. So eventually you ask yourself, "What the hell IS going on with stories and what they do, anyways?" and you imagine the effect of stories on the world, and what they are used for. All of a sudden there's actual implications, because narrative activity is profoundly important to human problems. Who knows about this? Who is actually trying to do something... REALLY WEIRD with stories? What is the competition to make the weirdest story possible? Is it a competition? It definitely seems like there is some strong element of conflict to the activity of stories.

Who are you?

those hollow cheeks, that defined jawline, strong chin, those high cheek bones, sharp lips, matured hair line and low body fat
he is very pretty.

How about I fist your boipucci and speak in Kermit to your Piggy, butt puppet?

Dick out, post moar.

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>reading books published after the 1970s

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he was impotent due to his heroin addiction if that makes you happier.

That's not my name but close.

GOD FUCK I'm so fucking SPENT. Every few months I'll have these hyper-lexic episodes of rambling discourse and it's like I'm fucking possessed by the demons of improvisation and shit, meandering off into different tangents, mixing things up in different analogies and mutant freaks of a truly manic mind. It's orgasmic, it's like I've been inseminated in a 19-year fuck-fest of the best discursive fuckers I can find, made myself a whore to them, and are birthing their unholy child. FUCK it's ugly, hideous, easily mistaken for a giant shit. For one it's a huge mess, as it's the result of an improvisational process that organizes itself only what is minimally required possible to propel it forwards into i-dont-know-what-the-fuck, I don't even know what the goal is, or if there is one other than sexual gratification of the most perverse sort. Perversion is the goal, to wriggle into the slimy depths of the weird and cum, having found such an unholy destination. Is this all the result of xenophilia, a desire to fuck aliens? Some sort of xenophilic mating call?

Megan Boyle

Haruki Murakami

Based

>Who are you?

i am you, user

my story is so avant garde that it literally is your story except it's copied and pasted with a few tweeks here and there to make it more alien but also more relatable while it soars as the prevailing cosmological model for the observable universe from the earliest known periods through its subsequent large-scale evolution

also, dreams

OP here, my story is literally this thread and it's so avant garde that it includes your stories and you describing your stories

Many people know the story of stories. It's a goddamned trope by now. What matters is production value.

vimeo.com/271193975/8ed2369743

this thread is not even avant garde

"Not" won't get you anywhere.

i plan to stay anyway

Well then, where should we go now? What do you want to talk about?

I was inspired to try to write the story with more detail. It's hard because there's just so much detail, and opportunities for how to approach things. The world-building is unbelievable. Anyways here's what I have written so far:

pastebin.com/GnBgTU52

aaand now the story has been tossed back to /x/ to attempt to harness the power of condensed shizo-creativity:

You hold in your hands one the Great Books of our century fnord.

Some Great Books are recognized at once with a fusillade of critical huzzahs and gonfolons, like Joyce's Ulysses. Others appear almost furtively and are only discovered 50 years later, like Moby Dick or Mendel's great essay on genetics. The Principia Discordia entered our space-time continuum almost as unobtrusively as a cat-burglar creeping over a windowsill.

In 1968, virtually nobody had heard of this wonderful book. In 1970, hundreds of people coast to coast were talking about it and asking the identity of the mysterious author, Malaclypse the Younger. Rumors swept across the continent, from New York to Los Angeles, from Seattle to St. Joe. Malaclypse was actually Alan Watts, one heard. No, said another legend -- the Principia was actually the work of the Sufi Order. A third, very intriguing myth held that Malaclypse was a pen-name for Richard M. Nixon, who had allegedly composed the Principia during a few moments of lucidity. I enjoyed each of these yarns and did my part to help spread them. I was also careful never to contradict the occasional rumors that I had actually written the whole thing myself during an acid trip.

The legendry, the mystery, the cult grew slowly. By the mid-1970's, thousands of people, some as far off as Hong Kong and Australia, were talking about the Principia, and since the original was out of print by then, xerox copies were beginning to circulate here and there.

principiadiscordia.com/book/1.php

Post an excerpt of the piece.

it's only like 500 words, it's hard to post an excerpt

here's an excerpt of a novel I'm working on
>Crackles of static along your eyeline, a glance lifts them to level. Salt and pepper shakers are strewn across the floor. Disembodied hands clap behind beaded curtains. Oily visions of the other, and the other. A woman lies strewn on a bathroom floor. Bloatflies stream out of the little round grate-covered drain till a rancid cloud of them gathers and swells the room and beat their kin to the floor with sardine wings till the little pat pat rain of dead comrades becomes a downpour and the seams start to split and you hold your head and pray to the Lord it's just a bad hit but the smell is so real it's turning your stomach which you clutch in turn with claw-like fingers as the intensity hits fever dream. A towering arch with one edge, one side, twisting overhead, iceburged, emerging coyly from the boiling sand. The irradiated sound of insect carcasses rolls. Catabolistic armerments against tablets of emerald and bitumen; hacked metabolic codes cobbled together by sawbones equiped with the most primitive of biogenetic sciences. This is the beginning of the end of the world. Wolves named Trakl and Fenris fell swoop upon a waiting public, jaws turned out like lantern-fish and dripping. This is the end of the beginning of history. This is the becoming of the indeterminately determined. Cast iron bars are wrought around the future, black iron prisons for a furtive Christian in the chamberous Roman empire. A lemur never did a damn thing for me and if they want me for conscription they can get their damn stripey little asses in line. Grit slicked topology maps along striated vectors, plotting the frictional insicions or scratches along a surface chatacterized by melt, much like fabled sailing stones creeping along a desert floor. The relation to (and catalytic amplification by) the process of melt is characterized by scratching, deformity as the remains of trail or receipt. Ten billion points of light beyond reach, something has been lying in wait for us all this time. Close up ship because when this thing hits the water there wont be time to scratch your ass let alone batten the hatches, and crisis follows like a spent and unrelenting hound. Gun smoke over the evening towards the future of the West. We brought capitalism to China with fucking gunships, now we reap our cursed seed with distaste. Batten the fucking hatches if you still have a wooden leg to stand on; if your stumped, make yourself useful and roll yourself into the water; there is no more lumber where we're headed -- only ten billion points of bioluminescence who dance when we hit the water.

I prefer Edgar Rice

based

The piece is too self aware and awkwardly tries to mix personal drug visions with geopolitics. It reads like Lovecraft mixed with the schizo poster, and these elements don't feed on each other. Stick to either Infinite Jest drug episode or Landian theory fiction, not both.

Really enjoyed the prose when it wasn't over thought and self congratulating.

All fans of Burroughs should loom into Le Nécrophile by Gabrielle Wittkop, which is exactly what it sounds like. 90 pages or so of pure degenerate poetic prose. There’s an english translation available.

No I enjoyed this carry on user

I've met nobody who writes like me, about anything similar. I seek this more than anything: to find someone I can jive, jam, and enjoy with, our words and souls dancing together in sexual union. Those who write in this style have always been very distant to me, found only in books.

The genre is speculative science-fiction that could be described as "memepunk" (referencing the idea that occasions of experience are living evolutionary phenomenon not "internet memes") that seeks to take science-fiction to the furthest reaches of speculation: to imagine the un-imaginable that makes the un-imaginable imaginable. This science-fiction, and the science behind it seeks the source of creative inspiration, and to use it as technology. Narratives involving magic can involve such intensities, but spectacularly fail as they are the science-fiction of the past, not even of the present, much less the future. So throw away any idea about magic. The world-building is simple: everything must be hyper-naturalistic and hyper-realistic to qualify as scientific hyperstition. What is required for this is an organic realism so holistic and expansive the literally the entire world comes alive as a living processes of processes. With that we have a common reference point for speculation: the organic philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead, and what is inspired with it.

"A meme is a mutation in the mind" - Richard Dawkins

This Memepunk genre finds present social reality to be the ultimate dystopia; no greater dystopia can be imagined, as humans have already created it. All of humanity has become a global Doomsday device due to mutually and self-destructive patterns of human relationships. It speaks with the clearest and most horrified leftists who see the world burning in front of their eyes.

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With no worse situation imaginable, speculative horror is over. Any fictional monstrosities are kittens compared to fact, there is no new ground to be tread. The terrain of science-fiction speculation is entirely that of WONDER. And so it imagines the greatest wonder it can, a wonderous event of human history, culture, life, meaning, art, science, and philosophy. This event is a memetic singularity: an explosion of human creativity in all domains, and a global enrichment of the intensity of lived experience for all. This event is the arrival of the future to the fullest realization of it's possibility, analogous to the arrival of a hyper-advanced alien civilization on Earth as hyper-terrestriality. It is inspired by visions of the technological singularity but finds them extremely limited: what is imagined is recursive mutual improvement in human relationships, and by interdependence the entire biosphere of the world. The only term that truly encompasses this happening is "organic singularity" and it finds it's passionate determinations for the future of life in the green movement, but considers what is involved in such a movement to go down to the level of fundamental metaphysics, involving a universal language of languages.

There is a catalyst of this event: a visionary who has sought such a future with all the strength she could manage. This irresistible becoming was given by her absolute love of creativity in all of its forms, a life-long study and engagement with it, who identifies with creativity to the essence of her mortal soul. She is I, Eris Omniquery, and as the story of the future unfolds as reality and the Meme Wars resolve, so will mine.

vimeo.com/specalblend

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TL;DR you aren't going to find the "the William Burroughs of today" in someone who can show how horrifying and self-erasing they can be, but how wonderful they can be.

Dav Crabes

>awkwardly tries to mix personal drug visions with geopolitics
it makes more sense in the context of the book, but thanks for the input

Damn. Burroughs looked like that? What a handsome fag.

im conservative and do drugs so probably me

Cringe. Begone, queer.

That is the most agreeable picture of the two-bit hack. Only one where he doesn't look like the psycho junkie pedophile he is.