Thomas Cayne

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 7, 2013

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T. H. Cayne is an American artist and thinker, living in Europe at this moment. Although being a prolific painter and writer since the beginning of time, he started to publish his visual and written artwork only recently, having already accepted poems in several languages. A B.A., M.A. and Ph.D. in Anthropology, he left the field completely and is now in search of the path.I am Thomas Henley Cayne.

 

 The poem –

 

VASE

 

Empty life. Broken glass. Bootleg shit.

 

Urine is all around (us). And in.

 

And this is night. We are disease. (We sleep

at tables.)

 

We come inside. We come outside.

 

And at the end of the day. We buy flowers.

 

 

 The artistic process –

 

§1. I did not remember when I got here, in this nice and cosy place.

What I did remember is that I had about ten shots of

brandy, and it made me feel warm. I tried to imagine

the deep questions I wanted to think about, but nothing

came. Except the thirst for another shot. Which I asked.

 

§2. At a table right beside me, a couple in their thirties also

had too many drinks, I guess. The woman was sitting on

the man’s lap, his right hand under her skirt. She had no underwear,

and I saw clearly (taken that I had ten shots) that his right

index finger was inside her poophole. Apparently he

used a lot of spit, since it was dripping from her anus to the ground.

I couldn’t see his other hand.

 

(I noticed a vase on their table, cause I really had to go. Some of the tables also had cylindrical finger stained leathery brown pots which casted red shadows on the table leaves.)

 

Her right hand was firmly on his cock, which she had taken

out of his pants without even thinking that I was seeing the whole movie

from row one. Now his right hand was doing some other stuff

(in another hole). Her tits were hanging outside the yellow blouse

– that is, her nipples were at least. I didn’t know what to do

(I also had a hard one, and my self-control was gone – I was waisted, remember), so I put one of my own index fingers slowly but deeply in her tight ass. She noticed at once that the finger wasn’t one of her lover’s (he only had two hands). I have big hands by the way. But she did not

seem to mind.

 

(By the way, this place has beautiful old tables. They are

made out of hardwood (perhaps chestnut I dare say), brushed and whitened with some kind of  lime wash. The table leaves are rectangular,

and contain a slightly smaller rectangle consisting of porcelain enamel tiles, in green, blue and red pastel colors. All of them bear the engravings of time, the drunk and cigarette butts.)

 

§3. The waitress came, gave my a double brandy (good idea),

and looked at me with  vague surprise – I guess because I was fingering

the ass of the woman sitting next to me on her boyfriend’s lap. I think

she was drunk too, because she went back to the bar, minding her own

business.

 

(Maybe I must be clear to you, my dear reader, that this wasn’t a fancy

café where I was having a ball. Rather, it was a filthy basement

in the middle of night, in the remains of an old Victorian  style brothel, and in this place you minded your own business, or you got no drinks. And that would have been a disaster. I have seen men falling asleep in their own vomit here. I have seen one guy pass away while he was shitting himself. I’ve seen it all. But maybe the most startling thing I have seen was the very actual fact that two guys had a boner in the basement – most of the men here were  way past the stage in which alcohol still would allow them to  have a boner without viagra.)

 

§4. Suddenly I had this brilliant idea for a poem, which I tried to

write down on a beer map. (Mind you, I am right-handed, so this

wasn’t easy to do because my right index finger was in the poophole.

But it worked out fine with my left hand.)

 

“VASE”

 

was what I wrote down. As a title. I put the pen down, and tried

to jerk off (still with the left hand), which went rather smoothly. The woman wasn’t blind, and she watched me with a smile. Then I ordered another drink.  I had the impression that hubby was falling asleep, which was  a good thing, because I really needed to come in this little

slut’s glory hole (the poet in me spoke).

 

“Empty life. Broken glass. Bootleg shit.”

 

This went rather well. He was definitely sound asleep now (as was

his dick – or should I say “Richard” ?).

 

“Urine is all around (us). And in.”

 

I rose, and slowly started to slide my cock in the

spitty ass of the lovely lady.

 

“And this is night. We are disease. (We sleep

at tables.)”

 

It finally went in nicely. She really had big and soft boobs. She loved having me around.

 

“We come inside. We come outside.”

 

After some minutes I gave her my best shot, pulled myself

away discreetly, and sat down again. Had some thirst, to be

honest.

 

“And at the end of the day. We buy flowers.”

 

And that is what I always do.

 

 

 

 

  The aftermath –

 

Condylomata. Painful itch. Need to rub imiquimod cream three times a week on glans during several months.

 

More drinks.

 

 

 

 

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