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Bill Burroughs in Amsterdam
said: “I’m afraid I don’t have a book for you, but I do
have this.” Whereupon I popped a gram ball of
opium into the palm of his hand.
“Oh, I know what this is,” he said,
dividing the ball in two and immediately swallowing a
half.
“Say,” he then said, “allow me to return
the favor.”
And reaching into his jacket pocket, he
withdrew a slim plastic container full of little pink
pills and handed it to me saying: “Here, this is for
you. I scored them in Paris, but have more at the
hotel.”
They were codeine, a drug I wasn’t much
familiar with.
“Much obliged,” said I. “But ah, how
many should I take?”
I’m a thin chap. In those days with
particularly gaunt facial features. And so my question
somewhat startled William.
“How many? Dunno. Ten, maybe twelve.
Hell, take as many as you like, you’re an old veteran!”
Haha, Bill Burroughs reckoned I was a
fellow junkie!
There was still plenty of time to kill before
the reading, and everyone headed to the Melkweg by
William Burroughs, possibly Herbert Huncke’s
pal Louis Cartwright took the picture
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varied means, some individually, others in small
groups. By then Bill and I had gotten into conversing,
and so found ourselves walking together at a slow
pace far behind the rest. We discussed heroin (“How
much does it go for here?” Bill queried); guns (“In
New York if you’re carrying and shoot someone in
self-defense, no one will bother you,” he insisted,
much to this New Yorker’s surprise); his son Billy,
who was less than two years away from dying at age
33; Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, the founder of
Naropa University and Allen Ginsberg’s guru
(“He definitely has powers,” William stated
unreservedly, adding he saw that clearly
when Trungpa visited Billy in hospital). That
and all sorts of groovy stuff, with me doing
most of the asking and listening.
The event itself was a blast. With
the packed-house Fonteinzaal audience
paying rapt attention throughout. Deelder
rapped rhythmic Chicago-style jazz poetry;
Vinkenoog machinegun-delivered his usual
high-powered mixture of psychedelic magic;
Harry recited poems in English (the language
he’d adopted for his writings during a
lengthy stay in Ireland); William gravelyvoiced
read a number of short tracts,
including “Bugger the Queen” (that I
eventually arranged for International Times in
London to publish); with me reeling out my
own verses in between making the
introductions. Herman, who was nowhere in
sight until I caught a glimpse of him up in
the balcony sound room, I’d decided to save
for last. And now it was time.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I called out, “let’s
give an uproariously warm welcome to the one and
only Herman Brood.”
“I told you to wait, fucker!” screamed
Herman from God knows where. (He hadn’t told me,
but never mind.)
“Seems Herman’s not quite ready, folks,” I
laughed into the microphone. “So while he’s
powdering his nose [more discreet than saying
‘shooting up,’ eh], I’ll read a poem by Ira Cohen that
I’m sure Herman will especially appreciate hearing.
It’s entitled ‘A Brickbat for Herman Brood or P78
Meets Wild Romance in Paradiso.’”
I’ve no idea if Herman bothered to listen,
but the crowd was stunned as I belted out lines like
‘Let the bread stay in the breadbox, Herman’ and