Filth —

©2021 Michael Raven

Warning: The following material may contain language of an adult nature that some readers may find offensive or disturbing. Discretion is advised.

eyes closed
in the hot shower
water washing down
and over me
my soaped hand
is your mouth and
my mouth shapes
your name
Photo by on

in a field where
the cattle graze and
pissing on a fence post
discovering, too late
its electric nature

languishing naked on the couch
a manwhore in waiting
cabernet dregs in the glass held limply
threatening to bloody the under rug red

shadow and silhouette in the doorway
an opium smile runways struts over
sliding moans -- slow, slick, and tight
with a wink and a devilish grin

a wine glass tumbles to the floor


I was both mortified and intrigued at the same time. Here I was on a date to see a play by a French author whom I had never heard of, some guy named Genet, at the incomparable Guthrie Theater — a theater known for the goddamn safety of it’s productions, the oatmeal served to secure donations from the wealthy to keep the company well afloat where other theaters subsisted on tickets sales hand to mouth — and I was watching a play where theatergoers were filtering out in disgust. After intermission, a full third of the audience had faded out the exit doors, disgusted by a production that, had they bothered to even read the fliers, would have known would challenge their values. Genet was a homosexual, an avowed lover of masturbation, a purveyor of the seedy side of existence. The fliers made some mention of “rough language” and rougher subject matters, but they came in their tuxedos and evening dresses all the same.


And I loved it, although it destroyed any hope I had of turning the not-date with a friend into a actual-date with someone I desired and called friend.

She was wide-eyed in horror as a sergeant in the Algerian army went into vivid detail about receiving a bullet to the head while he was in the ecstasy of taking a prolonged and near-orgasmic shit, describing the nirvana of emptiness as the turd pushed it’s way out of his anus just before the bullet shattered his brains. Was he upset with death? No, he was annoyed he wouldn’t be able to finish his ecstatic shit in a trench.

The man, this Jean Genet, was immediately forgiven for destroying any hope I might of had at romance with an old friend. I took her home and she hurried out of the car, giving me a strange look as, with half a heart, she thanked me for the show and hurried inside her house, not even looking over her shoulder to wave goodbye.

And I barely noticed until she refused to return my calls. I had fallen in love with a dead queer from France…

that pout
is dangerous --
your lip
begs to be

You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore’s glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover’s fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.

James Joyce, Selected Letters of James Joyce

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