3 Texts

Rauan Klassnik

Ron Silliman Dream #8

Ron Silliman approaches me in a bar.

“I like it rough,” he says. “I like it really rough.”

As quickly as we’re talking we’re rubbing up against each other.

“I want you to shit in my mouth,” he says.

At first I was turned on, incredibly so, but now he’s saying things like “I want you to stick a steak fork in my shoulder while we’re fucking” and “baby, you can rub vinegar into my asshole while I’m blowing you——and don’t let my screaming stop you.”

“There must be some sort of mistake,” I tell him. “I’m not interested.”

He looks baffled, then really offended.

“But I heard you were cool,” he says. “Zach Schomburg said you were really cool.”

I’m puzzled.

“Yeah,” he continues. “Zach Schomburg said you were tough. Really tough.”

He’s right in my face now and his breath smells terrible.

“Zach Schomburg,” I mutter, almost incoherently.

“Yeah, Zach Schomburg,” he shoots backs at me, almost spitting through his teeth. “The kid you went to high school with. The kid whose dog threw up over everything.”

“O,” I tell him, remembering a poem I read a long time ago, “You’re talking about David Berman.”

“I am not talking about David Berman,” he growls. “I am talking about Zach Schomburg, and Zach Schomburg’s never steered me wrong.”

Flustered, I turn and walk off, but even as I’m hustling my way into the parking lot, my sad little car parked under a giant cypress tree at its far end, I can hear Ron berating me:

“Zach Schomburg said you were One Hundred Percent Kosher. And when Zach Schomburg hears about this, buster, you’ll never work in this town again...Ya hear me...Ya hear me...”

Three Love-Visions
    (after reading Dodie Bellamy’s “Cunt-Ups” and kind of inspired also by Johannes Goransson’s more lively posts)

I’m putting you in a barrel. I am fucking you. I’m placing your head in a bag. I am fucking you. I’m smearing your blood all over your tits. I am fucking you. I’m slicing your cunt up like a smile, and I’m fucking your mouth. Your sliced-open bleeding mouth. Baby, don’t you just love these new storage bags? At the bottom of a lake. I’m kissing your tits. Kissing them to death. On a jetty. O, my baby. Only you.

My sweat’s dripping on to you as I fuck you. I am kissing you. I am slicing off your nipples. On the beach the sand in my hands is definitely not so white as I’d like it to be. The water not so green——the Cancun sort of green I adore. I’m rubbing my head against your jaw. I’m carrying you over my shoulder. You’re gurgling. And now you’re not. There’s so much blood. There’s hardly any at all. I’m posing you in a crucifix and I am kissing you and kissing you.

I’m in love with you.
And here’s my fantasy:
I’m fucking you from behind
And I’m taking your head in my hands
And I’m kissing your ears
Breathing into your neck
And snapping it...


I’m on the toilet in a storeroom.

I need to wipe my ass but two waitresses come in.

I turn to the side, shielding my penis, because I have a hard-on and I’m embarrassed.

But then I’m I wondering, all of a sudden, if a Penthouse Forum moment’s about to happen——but they go about their business, and I really need to wipe my ass, and my hard-on just won’t go down.

In the mean time they seem to be quite comfortable about me being there and they’re chatting.

It’s all quite interesting.

One of them’s American, I gather, and it’s her first week here. It’s great, she says. Brian and James came by earlier.

Rauan Klassnik is lost. Just fucking lost. His first book, Holy Land, came out in April but you won't find him there. He blogs avidly but you won't find him there. Then, where will you find him? Didn't you hear me, damn it, he's lost: just fucking lost