The best writing in the world, period.  There is proof.
Oct. 22, 2002
volume i, issue v
Erotic Nightmares
Rick Spaulding

She pushes my head back to where it lay
and bids me finish my dinner
I am already awakened in the desert

Some distant place she is stroking and kissing me,
cooing gently about ourloveourloveourlove

The wet sounds of viscous flesh
and oily residue form silk sheets
resounding in my head.

I can only remember the others
when her arms are around me
her fingers in me.

Blessed rememberer
bringing in the sheaves of flesh form the ramparts of my gallows.
The whistling nerve of air in cavities and tongues in space
sneak me the poetry of the picture in the kitchen
and the reason the turtle there is smiling.

She notices my passé style as a challenge
and bears down faster, slowing me down.

A softened guard is the best attack,
into this the acid web the shared way.

Her fingers play caprice across the fetish of my soul.
Pain and a shower of shadowy denatured alcohol
in a pleasant peyote tea dropped by a rogue sparrow.
Abscond Abscond

She looks at me curiously from across the couch
where she is playing with my flesh, furrowing her brow.
She can see that my genes show no recompenses
no relaxing no arrow no comma.

She says something
about the base of my neck
while a fetid roach claws desperately
away - from the inside of her thigh.

The dog is smiling again at me.
He's seen the gun I'm carrying and is not afraid.
Down son.

Been to Cairo lately?
Not me.
I am still alone in here with her
and still so very alone when her friends seduce her.
Kau Si Hef and Ken Dao Chier, Waltiewing pr d sfting therr
And still she can't understand what I'm saying.

She's drunk and smoking her fingernails in a crushed crystal flute
with the names of crows and the lovers she's changed
and the devil will not let me forget this ever
so I write it in my address book
under the word for Cabbage I have discovered the Sumerians used.

Somewhere Bali is chanting to me again.
Somewhere she is calling.

Promising the eternal oneness and the ethereal skid row
and the dog and the pony and the sparrow
and anything else I find in the trash on my way out
it's all mine as long as I take my shoes off at the door.
I don't remember bringing any sandals to this dreamline.

She nods and I slide my pants off
as they beg and threaten
the harsh retort of the flame and the beating of my life
and it helps to reinforce my hate
for the now I used to be fucking
(but now I am only playing

and she is singing that soft little song again).

Job had nothing on me until I started talking again.

Pins and rods of steel slide through my shoulders
and up through outstretched and laced up fingers.
Promising the caress of silk and steel.
The grace of the bleached white bone.
Antlers from the elk in the hall
They're directing a concert of VanGogh reprints and Picasso photostints.

Flying windows whisking by on her computer
five feet away promise a place to dash into
an escape.
No rails though.
Gotta be careful there.

So close and so very far away and How I do long to make this last.

She wonders how I am feeling
and so I reach through the putty of my cells
and through  the coils of her nerve endings
and bundles of the electrostatic whore in me.
Grinning the grin of the maniacal oh so civil servant
I tie her to a bed post made of glass.

With every thrust
I am scratching my ancestors' names into her
In all the palaces she won't see
Until later.

Rick Spaulding ©2002
the thrust