Monday, April 21, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream #31: A Major Pleasure

artists rendition of Ron and Me

During the 7th inning stretch I'm pissing next to Ron at a Phillies game. (I've always liked the Phillies).

"I want you to write my obituary," Ron says, as he shakes his cock about, quite elegantly. "And I want you to post it on my blog for me."

What can I even write, I wonder to myself, about such a rare and unique example of humanity? (I scratch my head, feeling for a moment that I'm in a hospital full of near-dead people all lined up for appointments they probably won't make it to).

"O, just say that I was one of the Titans of Modern Letters. Say that I was a major player. A major pleasure and player," Ron says, seemingly having read my mind.

And then he digs a nail into his cock and blood´s everywhere. People are streaming in and out of the restroom. And Ron's massively erect now and he's stroking himself so slowly and patiently and erotically that I've nearly lost my mind, I think, because, well, Ron should be bleeding to death and no one seems to care, and Ron keeps touching himself.

And where's the blood, now? Where's the blood?

(I am lost. I am lost.)             -----

Ron grunts me back into the moment with "O, Rauan, I love you so God Damned much." He is intense, phenomenal, a kind of Tour de Force, a natural freak, of the highest order, blah, blah.

"Say, my little bird," Ron continues, swaying a little now, "that women of all breeds, livid and glittering, sewed their breasts into the fountains and gymnasiums of more dominant women at huge parties thrown in honor of my poetry."

"Say I wasn´t just a pretty face with incredible sexual stamina! Say, say, say---Say I was the Burning Man of Modern Literature!"

("And by the way," he says, tilting, and leering, towards me, "watch Machete, that fine movie, to find my blog's password. Ho! Ho! Ho!"

And Ron's cock's rubbing against my stomach and as the tip of it glints, like a beak, I know that I am pregnant. And I can see—not far into the future—a child surrounded by vultures it keeps petting. And petting.)

"Say that my poetry talked dogs off the railroad tracks! And say I was the dark figure that fucked and fucked and fucked William fucking Shakespeare's cold-fucking brain!"

At this point Ron's jumping up and down, hand still on his cock, but not so slow and patient now. Disjointed, jerking, disfigured, but still massively potent. And massively compelling.

"Say that I was a New Religion!"

The blood's back now, foaming and splashing about, like a car wash.

"Say that I clawed and almond-assed at the world in a Brave New Conciousness!"

"And say, say, say---Say I was the Truth, my Love. Say the Truth. The Truth. The Truth!!!"

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