Fiction - The Grey Area, Absinthe Literary Review
 

Poetics
by Sue William Silverman, Dennis Mahagin, and Jeff Crandall
  

The Cannibal Issei Sagawa Reflects Upon
His Love for His Girlfriend Renee

by Sue William Silverman

In my mind eat and eaten, it’s the same. – Issei Sagawa

I want to eat the young girl.
I’m short, ugly, small man.
I feel very weak, very sick.
More than one hundred times I thought about it.
Every night I walked around Paris—
I want to eat the young girl.

I want the energy of Renee, even the sunbeams.
I take the gun and aim, fire.
I take off the clothes, bite right hip. 
I choose little fork, I try to pick.
But I can’t. I take the big knife.
I want the energy of Renee, even the sunbeams.

Very soft, like the raw fish, without smell.
Corn appears. Fat is very yellow, like corn.
I thought the red meat would appear.
I cut, cut, cut—finally I find the red one—
I cut and I put in the mouth.
Very soft, like the raw fish, without smell.

The dead body is different from living girl.
There’s too much blood, her face completely pale.
I always admire big strong healthy white girl.
I didn’t absorb Renee’s energy or sunlight.
This day is very hot, very sunny.
The dead body is different from living girl.

I want to eat the young girl.
I want the energy of Renee, even the sunbeams.
Very soft, like the raw fish, without smell.
The dead body is different from living girl.

Source: “Cannibal: The Real Hannibal Lecters,” produced and directed by Katharine English, interview with Issei Sagawa, HBO, America Undercover Special.

 
© 2003 Sue William Silverman

Fare 
by Dennis Mahagin

In the backseat of the cab 
her baited breath and baby powder 
scent swirls in snowflake caress-puffs 
all along his ripcord neck. 

He gulps on his own fibrillating desire— 
transplanted hummingbird 
heart slipped 

from the bonds of its long 
convalescence, thrashing in his throat. 

The Laotian guy at the outcall agency 
had recommended her 
special: 

“She go slooow”, he’d said. “She so 
consooomate pro.…” 

Well she’s sure enough got it going on now 
and as she puts the condom on 
with her mouth, he bats back 
the eyelid splash of rushing 
purple dusk at the edges

and pulls the little pill-tin 
from his breast pocket 

dry-swallowing two nitro tabs
with the stiff resolve 
of a frontline grunt 
in a firefight. 

She sucks tenderly at the wet little nipple tip, 
and starts to hum, pulling down harder, 
ready to seal the deal. 

Her green eyes look up from his lap, 
flashing in the firefly shadows. 

“Ummmmm,” she whispers, “you okay baby?” 

She is a dead ringer for Gwen Stefani. 
She could be his daughter, but is 
most certainly not. 

She can kill him, he knows,
and probably will, 
but it’s worth it. 

She hikes up her pink silk skirt, 
lets him part the waters and slide on in

and he is John the Baptist gripping 
the slim shoulders of his lord and savior
at the moment of apprehension,

busy black wingtips thrashing through 
the restraints of his ankle pant-tangle, 

as if scrambling for the pedals 
of a double-seat bike he is just now 
remembering to ride, 

and in a voice not his own
he barks at the cabbie, telling him 
to keep on driving

no matter what happens, 

to floor it 
hard through the worst 
of the switchback curves on Terwilliger

“and let the fucking meter burn,” he croaks,

raising his haunches, 
over and over, from seething red coal bed
straight into the undulation-tongue 
of purest flame

as his open palm smashes 
through the dome light

and all is dark
at last.

 
© 2003
Dennis Mahagin

Exit 55
by Jeff Crandall

1:00 a.m. Parked at the rest stop
forty-five minutes out of town, 
he’s heard a man can get a blow job 
without the hassle of names and money; 
and his flask of whiskey is trying to tell him
a mouth’s a mouth as far as his dick’s concerned.
He knows what he’ll do 

if anyone tries to force him to the floor
and though it won’t be pretty 
he’ll laugh about it back at the Iron Grill. 
Right now he has no need to conjure
two big tits to get himself hard so he eases
out of the truck and heads toward MEN.

He pulls back the metal door fully expecting
the smell of piss but everything gleams
bright as a dime and two shoes
visible under the end stall tell him he’s not alone. 
He steps back. Washes his hands. Clears his throat.
Calls himself a fool for his pounding heart and
strides into the middle stall, drops his drawers and sits.

And waits.

The sneaker next door edges over

an inch, raises up at the toes.

A hand opens from under the stall and he figures
this is the signal to kneel and shove
his white thighs under. He feels the press
of another man’s hand on his cock, his balls, and
Oh god—the heaven of it.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do 
once he comes down this throat, 
but right now, under the flicker and hum 
of the overhead lights, this mouth 
is all he needs.
 

© 2003 Jeff Crandall

 

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