James D. Autio


Red hair in the mist, blackened mouth

kiss the creambush ivory stile. Such adequate.

Been head wrapped in white batten. Much

fuck glitch in the satchel drive, yet want

for a cute youth, belle époque in a bistro

with a biscotti drip, coffee at the know.

Cobblestone laid in ages blind the growing

crevasse even as inches above, the boot

and pump drift limp on a swirl of bedeviled leaf.

When rain start. Pull face to about to merge.

Pull girl to feel tits bother, hips jody a bit

and I’d sink to the wet brick fully out

of my bird, even rise like butterside

and leap the stile, beak wide and yodel.

Lurch a bucketful of rainbow

over graffitied masonry. Put.


James D. Autio is something of a filthist, though it's nothing a hot soak and oatmeal scrub wouldn't allay. James' writing has recently appeared (or is soon to appear) in Drunken Boat, North American Review, Jessy Randall's Huge Underpants of Gloom, and other fine journals (Venereal Kittens). For more Jameshttp://www.mnartists.org/work.do?rid=228906 , or just feel free to join him in the bathtub.