NOVA EXPRESS

echauffe. From the French, meaning a dish of food warmed over, a reash. Exit the Naked Lunch disguised as the Nova Express. Chef william Burroughs presents the menu. Soupe de jour sputters on and out though the interplanetary Crab Nebula. Various characters explode in kiddie ars in the scientific, philosophic, photographic montage. Diners eating steaks of insecurity watch as spirited junkies roll the Nova police, recite the Ave Maria, turn into the Nova mob. Now the maitre de, amidst the salads of yesterday, meets the Bureaucratic Big Butcher. Everything out of focus in focus. Diners wiping lipst. Blue show. Ectoplasmic socio-sexual exploitation experentation. And on a great cry of fold-in technique (Do you observe my Waste Land, my Karamazov, my Kafka?), Burroughs, acclaimed as the most original talent of out day, produces the final self-metamorphosis: a literary spitball. Ah, what a bonanza for the alka seltzer trade.