Arthur S. Halsey, Jr

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 15, 2017

 
Arthur S. Halsey, Jr. is a member of an online agency whose number and membership are both uncertain. He is the author of several texts of decomposed literature.
 
 
 
 
 
TRAIN-WORKING

Kitteridge, on a train now. Examining numbers. Living by a big plan.
With the whole formula. Looking out carefully. Behaving too quietly.
Gazing always away, at the window. Rolling-by countryside falls down
the deep timber farewell. Sits high in the seat. Hands up on table are
clear. Pen in breast pocket howareya. Leather flip-book at ready
goodbye. Telephone number to-do. Having made the connection okay. Now
must arrive to the ta-ta. On the train today. Kitteridge, yep, enemy
agent on way.
 
 



HOW’S THE SEX

Gloria Macfarlane’s gangly & aging, 1/2-century vintage, darkpermed
hair’s strongly odourous, white-ribbed turtleneck & suede vestly
dressed, cooling milked-coffee before her, licking chops dutifully
absently and-somehow-off-blankly as she awaits—some reply, for this
question’s casual talk, it’s what’s inside the lining of all of her dreams

 
 
 
 

SEAWARD

“I can see them” — the voice has some echo to it — “there are rocks
— there are the occasional rocks — I can see them, I can see them —
I can see them — yes they are mine”
 
 
 



DREAMBOAT

    Out on the lake, in the boat, Frederick Barnes is cruising and
high. He has been drinking his gin. The world is

    on fire. A new newspaper, set up at the edge of a nondescript
country town in an undesirable state, chronicling —

     not an American city, but the new online world, a city in the
real, in the online world.

     The girl, who is real, finally sees him. Her red rose is
blooming, is expectant and wide.

     She is happily smiling. All your life has been a roughage,
dolloping near, ejecting it here

 
 


PIERCED GENTILITY

It was the day when the great chrome megacities were growing. There
were round domes that would glint hazelwood in afternoon light, that
lay like fat teardrops, with long razor-sharp nipples and spikes, that
lay exhausted in clusters in the heart of the gold-glowing chrome of
the city, far off on an edge horizon that would later seem storybook.
 
 
 

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