let’s talk about it in the morning by K Raydo

The HAND FELL back into the sink when Marie disentangled her own fingers from it. She held it up to the sunlight beaming through the window: a clean human hand, with immaculately manicured fingernails, severed precisely at the wrist.
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Sometimes I Like to Google Things Just to Make Sure No One Is Thinking What I’m Thinking.

Most good conversations start out with, ‘hey, man, wanna see a pair of big tits?’ and if you’re a person who generally likes ‘big tits’ or ‘tits’ or ‘anything’ then you’ll probably say, ‘hell ya, I wanna see a pair of big tits. What do I look like a fucking loser?’

I saw this guy on the street and he was playing the trumpet and he had a top hat out and he was looking for ‘tips’ or ‘food money’ or ‘beer money.’ He was really jamming out and he looked like an uncle. The kind of uncle who's lanky and generally comes underdressed to family events and trips over everyone because he's already seven shots deep and no one knows how he got there because his license has been suspended and no one gave him a ride and there’s no way he took the bus because it’s not on a bus line and there’s no way he took a taxi because it’s a long story why he can’t take a taxi.

Brought to you by lack of coordination, the inimitable bloody nose!
And what’s more beautiful than blood in streetlight? Two symmetrical
drops like a bisected heart, red and wet as lips after a first kiss.
The farther one gets from one’s first kiss—farther, because the distance
between kisses can be measured in kisses—the closer one gets
to one’s next kiss. This is the truth of kissing. And also of bleeding.
The nose often intrudes on kisses, becoming entangled in the nostrils
of the other person, or worse yet, it smushes against a cheek, forcing
a sinus to drain, a trickle down the back of the throat that causes
the tongue to retreat a bit, a muffled gag. Once, a man, caught in the
ecstasy of a convenience store scratch-off, slammed his face on the counter.
The clerk took the man’s face in both hands as if to examine the damage
but slammed her mouth against his. The moment turned into something
of a transfusion, and they knew what each other smelled like at birth.

At night I dream of peacocks and butterflies and other divine creatures.

I fell in love with Phantasmagoria more than half a century ago and took her home with me; bathed, dressed, and adopted her for eternity, a cosmic breath.

My dream baby does not exist and yet she is real. Her name is Phantasmagoria.

She is the flow of turquoise at sunrise in the spring on the cool lake in Chimera.

I found her in an ancient book of secrets in the Library of Infinity. Was she inside the magical dictionary with no beginning or end?

Sweet Phantasmagoria tastes like hot apple pie with whipped cream on a sultry summer day. A zephyr brushes against my olive face.