Rauan Klassnik was conceived and born in South Africa, achieved puberty in Dallas, TX, and now uses Viagra in Seattle, WA (just kidding, maybe?). He has two books of prose poetry through Black Ocean.
[ from Bug Time (3) ]
If he’s not praying, breathing slow, over young soldier dead, he’s praying drunk and mumbling and sniffing at a girl, as she leads him up stairs and into a small room. And the smell’s a lighthouse, throbbing, as they kneel together. And the smell’s a sea—ships heaped up in cold, silver, swollen, and trembling—as his mouth bug-smudges all over her dimpled flesh.
[ from Bug Time (5) ]
At the grave site the worms in the canopy have suddenly grown wings and they’re on my stomach, tickling. And they’re staring wistfully into my aching eyes. And they’re face down on the mattress—ass angled up. And my hands move back and forth on their engorged genitalia. And they’re groaning: kind of like a death rattle. A girl’s holding a dog. The trees are fierce. Everything’s turned to marble. A giant spreads his arms out. And flies.
[ from Bug Time (7) ]
I stared through the tiles at the pool’s edge and, then, lifted my body up, slowly, and ran through the ringing. I’d sworn off sex, alone in my jar, but then all this death, cringing about like an old dog. . .And I beat her, and I beat her, and I pulled her against me as we panted in the cold pain. . .Her face, in my arms, lit up. Then dried away. . .Nothing has stopped.
[ from Bug Time (12) ]
He sits behind her, for hours, and pulls bugs off of her. They used to be lovers and this feels great. But now she’s a friend, standing, topless, in a parking lot. And he’s kneeling down, licking, at her navel. The sky’s gold and red—smoke, lifting. On each birthday he sends her a small note.