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.