A Tender of Earthly Delights DUET WITH CRAIGSLIST
Hey im lexi and im looking for a great time! While you either fuck me, or I suck your dick, I want my boyfriend to be doing the opposite! It'll be alot of fun to have two dicks at once!
O little chou, my twitter, my coo, love’s surely something more than an urge, this spoil, this itch, this churr. I do ask for a gift for my time.
But who’s to say? If interested 443 text or 908 email and we 3922 can set something up for now! Can you conjure the slough of despond? Let the moon burn all night in its offices white, if the maw of Paris were to swallow me whole . . . This is for TONIGHT ONLY so if you cant come now please dont respond. Send gift and how soon you can be in towson in FIRST RESPONCE. . . . what food could I feed it but love?
Randall Was Chewing on a Ham Sandwich
Randall was chewing on a ham sandwich, nibbling at the crusts. He sat before his computer, heedless of the crumbs on his pants. Randall’s keyboard said Fuck It and he typed Fuck It. He had, for the span of his lifetime, been genial, compliant, ready to please. Even as a child. So he typed. The words appeared before him on a small fuzzy monitor. They blinked at him and he blinked back. Randall had been dead just under four yearswhen he wakened on the 21st morning of a faltering April, hismouth dry, with a rush the length and breadth and width of his body. Then he looked at his monitor and he erased each word as light erases shadow, and the monitor blanked. The quadrangular eye of a blind man. Vacant. Cyclops eye coated with cataracts. Milk. No words. Nothing. Then, abruptly, it came alive again. As if a monitor could be either – dead or alive. Da Sun Can’t Hurt A Blind Man In A Hat it said. He wrote that, too. The keyboard said Touch My Titties and he wrote that, too. Two, it said. To, it said. Touch My Titties. Tickle Them, it said, and he tickled them. Just before the bat of consciousness, Randall had been tinkering,vaguely, with the personal (not the political, not the ethical, not even thebiological) notion of possible procedures to end pregnancy in a human female – a subject of no concern to him in his lifetime – a train of thought adding, slowly, up to a notion. A concept. A worldview. All of which he had cast upon the stage of his awareness in terms of a theatrical performance. Himself in the role of playwright. The keyboard wriggled like a drunken co-ed under his fingertips, almost corporeal. Do Me, it wrote. It was made of the same plastic they use for the button that will launch a thousand grenades into the nuclear night. A Billion Grenades it bragged, and he wrote A Billion Grenades. Randall thought about his eight fingers and two thumbs launching grenades. Marie and Lane, a couple of college age, were standing by the still mouth of a piano big as the sea. Neither beautiful. Both serviceable. They were wearing blue jeans, the twain, and he a musically-themed tee shirt. Everything she wore was either too tight or too loose. Her right hand was resettling her glasses, which had small hearts or small breasts pasted along each temple. Or maybe welded. He sat. SAT. The S is a Soldier, the A is his Arm, and when I hit T it will Throw. His belly rumbled. The keyboard perked up, took note. I Will Sunder Your Belly And Eat Your Bowels it said, I Will Flense Your Skin, but he had shuffled the crumbs from his lap by then and gone to the bathroom, and thus he shat unwarned. There was a single distracting breast or heart on the bridge, red as the retractable penis of a pony. It was clear to Randall that Marie had just disclosed the uncomfortable fact of her condition to Lane. When he sat back down he mourned the wolves of erasure. They had eaten everything. I Wish You Were A Typewriter, he said, but the keyboard said nothing in response. Then, finally, it whispered. Save My Soul. The young man was searching for some suitable reaction when he felt himself beginning to fade, like an organ, spent, and so his protagonist had formulated no response at all when Randall was forced to abandon the matter, which seemed to him random, even capricious, and slipped once again beneath the shovels of his long death.
Bio: Bruce Sager lives in Westminster, Maryland. His work has won publication through contests judged by Billy Collins, Dick Allen and William Stafford. Several new books are forthcoming in late 2016 (via Hyperborea Publishing and BrickHouse Books).