Friday, July 5, 2013

The Claude Sonata



Claude locked lips with a voluptuous virtuoso,
doing his best to keep from accidentally
sucking her in. She ran her ivory fingers
up and down the bumps of his spine, playing him
like a clarinet. He felt himself stir
and flop. He shifted and stretched.
She kept her mouth clamped over his,
sucking on each and every tooth,
scraping his ribs and slapping his love handles.
Claude’s chest pulled out. His belly bloated.
Great blasts emanated from his ears.
His instrument strained at its skin,
swollen fit to burst. A pipe organ,
a woodwind. She squeezed him
like a bagpipe’s bladder,
honked his testicles like the bulb of a horn.
Claude’s ass bleated the overture
of a symphony of flatulence.
The prodigy stuck a finger in every orifice,
pinched his lips shut, then blew
as hard as she could into the mouthpiece.
The sound of the explosion echoed for miles.
The audience broke into applause.
The soloist took a bow, wiping bits of Claude
from her brow.

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