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.

Detail of photo on main page courtesy of morena 7.

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