left: untitled (hat ears), 2013, oil on canvas
right: light in studio, 2013, photograph
installation view of slow read, 2013, glass curtain gallery, chicago, il
Richard Hawkins. Vitriol chapter 4 (an interlude), 2014. A bit of shit, a little cheese, it’s hardly a shock, sitting sour on my tongue or the end of my nose when I’m rimming an ass or swallowing up a cock. I prize the shitty smell of each and every boy – a sharp scent, fresh, intoxicating, like an apple fermenting to cider. All those brown bristles, crazy for shit, my tongue burrows deeper, each sweet morsel driving my hunger forward. Then at the crotch I gently lick it clean, lap at each ball, circling the smart fat prick and then guzzling down the pink head of it. There my tongue zealously searches for more of the sweet delights it seems to crave: a little tart cheese to relish and devour. I pause a moment to probe at the pisshole and then, in an instant, swallow its fullness hard, deep and greedily and … just like that, it floods my mouth, filling my throat with short angry bursts of its generous liquid, warm pulsing gushes of cum … on which I dote, these little delicacies, these afternoon snacks.
— adapted from Paul Verlaine’s Little bits of shit and cheese, Hombres, 1891