Donkey by Joseph Geagan

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The donkeys are braying in the field, so I go out to scream at them. Scream at them to be quiet, and of course they do not heed me. Instead of stopping one especially vile sounding donkey decides to unsheathe his donkey dick, which is in color, size, shape and texture simply revolting. He mounts what I presume is a female donkey companion, who in turn launches into a symphony of noises – brays I suppose. It is the sound one might imagine one would make if one had a knife stuck directly into one’s gullet and then this knife was twisted. I am next to their pasture gate now and I feel like leading them into a ravine to perish. Pack animals. I don’t see why anyone would need them today. I run along the pasture gate, which excites them and certainly does not help to abate their braying. I feel near clinically insane and then I am stung by a wasp in the neck.
I wake up under the full moon. It is cool and dewy in the pasture. I am lying fully naked, and near me I can make out the form of a donkey grazing. I don’t ask how I woke inside the pasture, how I am naked, or any question that would serve reason. I know what I must do and so I do it. I climb the gate and leave the pasture walking straight on hilly incline towards the woods.

There are thistles and brambles that scrape at my shins and ankles, and although it is irritating I don’t think to avoid them. Instead I keep going straight towards the dark pit of the woods that lie in front of me. I can hear the sounds of nocturnal life, which creates a surge of feeling. I feel danger but the danger is arousing. I am still naked.

I want to eat dirt. I want to spit into dirt and cover myself with it and writhe on the wood’s floor. I want my bones to jump out of my body and rattle. I want to eat a tree. I want to bite into the trunk of a tree and break all my teeth, my jaw, and my neck gnawing on it. Again I feel crazed; it is the same feeling from before when the donkeys were braying. I clutch at the boil formed on my neck from the wasp sting. A viscous secretion is coming out and dripping down my back. It smells wretched but in a way that I enjoy. It is a secret pleasure I have to smell this discharge running from my neck. The smell overwhelms the darkness of the woods, and I am thrust and thrusting.

I look up at the sky but the moon is out of view. There is a map work of stars, galaxies and so forth I imagine. I do not like looking there, into the sky. It makes me feel ill. It makes me forget the dirt and the tree and the puss and the donkeys and the wasp. Even though my body aches to stay on ground, even though I want to put it in the ground, I cannot help but look upwards.

The donkeys are braying and I am yelling. I am naked and have scratches all over my body. My face is bruised and bloodied and my jaw is on fire, but that doesn’t stop me from yelling at these damn donkeys. I want them to be quiet because I cannot stop yelling until they stop braying. My neck is swaying to the side of my body. The wasp sting floats off somewhere out of my mind and I can only hear these donkeys braying in their pasture. A place where any decent creature would be ecstatic to live.