Rupture Blake Butler
Most nights there in the nights there the cat orgasmed in the wall, the
musked encrusting cracked woodcutting which would had set to keep my
bedroom from Tom Tuck's. The cat had had had gotten stuck there in the
wall meat inside the night when I was young, my rasp enwanting for
explosion and still could not find the wide black button up my wreck,
no matter how with which which hand or thumb or number up in me I
fumbled, the glisten of the lock. We'd had tried had to butter with
lure wire and with fish bit and with buzz to make the cat had had to
come back out, from in there in the wall because, it was the reason was
would being: nights the cat in heat would lather up, would go bust
around the wires in the wick, whole where before the man with no mouth
had had tried to interrupt our home, such with what I could make to
hear him laughing so hard in behind the mind of my mind when I would
touch myself as well, what walls inside me whirring whether I could wet
them when I'd gush. Having had heard there in the cat's sad suck sounds
did not arouse in me the slowest point of where I was, what with Tom
Tuck in in in there on the next side of the wall, our walls as thin as
skin over a hall, such with what that if and when I did rub or did put
my face against my face and try to eat, Tom Tuck through the wall in
his own lather would come around or through or at the wall and stand
and look and blink on me. Tom Tuck's eyes made melted handguns, still
strummed and burping at the seams, fat black with neon metal shoot
juice and the destruction of white men. Tom Tuck's chest was scarred
and ratty where had he would have had tried to pick the hot wet cat up
moaning in the night, in nights before she slid herself inside, into
the exit hid by our house hid and the other wars that we'd had ignored.
In the night there with his axe grip and his pustule skin lengths, the
combinations written in the wet flesh of his hands, combinations vast
for for forever and with which would come the wax by which we lit our
house(s), Tom Tuck, seeing me wanting, sniffing such stream of bubble
from my crotch, the white fright of whipped foaming in the gloaming of
the gash, would reach inside me with his hand his moaning meat. Tom
Tuck with his long arm, the way his lips would turn translucent,
burping Besy, Besy,
Besy, Besy, Besy, Besy, Bessssssss, his insistence there
beside me blistering his lips, which as in the bliss of sudden friction
and in stunning I came to understand our coming on: our days in days of
loosing, rattled, eating at the seams, the man inside the house of our
house where in the houses I'd would hide. Tom Tuck saying this other's
name of someone which also was my name aloud. As when his fist then
slithered rightly through my sternum, up my rut, and as I shuddered,
slowing, in my window of my window there was snow. As in the air there
with the stutter and pigeon wishing I could see the mind there in the
white, the years there where would I would get wider and would have
rubbed more rightly had I known. 
Blake Butler's Ever,
from Calamari Press, has just been released.
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