More recently, in the wake of the James Frey debacle, it was revealed that Barrus had published three volumes purporting to be the memoirs of a troubled half-Navajo named Nasdiij. The books won raves for their intense prose; I'm almost tempted to take a look at one of them and see if I recognize the author's voice.
INTENSE RECTAL PAIN; or,
THIS AIN'T ROCK'N'ROLL, THIS IS...
Genocide: The Anthology
by Tim Barrus
"A LeatherLit Book."
224 pp.
$8.50 paperbound
Genocide: The Anthology is a collection of allegories or parables for the Age of AIDS. Some are set in the indefinitely distant future; the first, for instance, "The Dependency of Variables", has two young men traveling in a faster-than-light spacecraft piloted by a sentient computer named Tsan. Others are set in a time which seems to differ from the present only in that PWAs are hunted down and quarantined. Each section is followed by a poem. Some of the poems seem to me not bad, but perhaps this is only by contrast with the prose, which is unspeakable. But that's just one queen's opinion. Try a sample.
Reaching for the realm Tsan discovered surrender. It was a definition more powerful to his sensors than information from the genocide stars. Lao plunged into Jia violently. There was a sensual, anguished glint of madness to the sex that could only be matched by the penetrating, pulsing madness, the blackness, the sweet swallowing blackness which surrounded them. Madness and need. It was the definition of an endless spasmed dream. It was glorious fuck and Jia shook from it. Screamed with it. Begged and pleaded for it.
Redefine who and what I am. Pour your semen into my bloody guts and split me into a hundred thousand unerring pieces. It was religion.
It was ecstacy.
It was the now of now. . . .
“Fuck him,” Tsan said. It was almost a whisper. “Fuck his ass.”
Tsan scanned blood pressure. Heartbeat. Increased adrenalin levels.
Intense rectal pain.
Whew; that was a moment. If the preceding looked good to you, go for it: Genocide: The Anthology, $8.50 plus tax at your nearest gay bookstore. Personally, I never thought I'd find a writer who'd make William S. Burroughs look good to me. Barrus has a certain raw energy that might have carried me along if I hadn't kept tripping over sentences like “Kandyapple applekandy”, “Chinatown Chinatown”, or the climactic “Heroin razzle heroin dazzle.” On the back cover, he writes: “My concept is one of irreversible annihilation. If you see hope in this work, that's your stuff, not mine.” Don't worry, Tim. You'll be pleased to know that I see no hope in this work at all.