Sean Kilpatrick 日 06/06/2018 · agentcooper89 No comments

GIL THE NIHILIST: A SITCOM: THE PLAY

ALL’S WELL IN HELL
A PLAY IN VERSE
WITH EXPRESSIONIST TABLEAUX

CAST:
WHITE BOY SPAGHETTI………………………
BLACK CHOWDER DESTROYER……………..
A LIVING 900 NUMBER………………………..
THE VICE PRESIDENT OF SANDWICHES…….

TABLEAU 1: CHOPPING UP CADAVERS IN A BATHTUB TO AUDIENCE APPLAUSE

TABLEAU 2: THE ANCIENT ART OF ALLEYWAYS

TABLEAU 3: BROADCAST LIVE FROM A CONDEMNED BUILDING WHILE STUCK BETWEEN FLOORS IN THE INSULATION AND GLANCING UPWARD AT THE ROTTED BOWELS OF SOME ANIMAL

(The title of each tableau written on the set like a signature – props: blood, body parts (foot, arm, poorly scalped scalp with hair), handsaw, bathtub or decorated contour thereof, raw meat, cigar, stuffed animal, portable analogue television set, urine, powder baggies, autopsy photos, baseball bat with nails, dead animals stuck to the nails, moldy sandwich – sound: stomping on creaking wood, sirens – actors may bear any resemblance, but have their respective stereotypes drawn in)

CHOPPING UP CADAVERS IN A BATHTUB TO AUDIENCE APPLAUSE

Bathroom strewn with blood. A bathtub: arms and feet sticking out. White Boy Spaghetti smoking, Urkel-voiced, stained track suit. Applause blasts as he saws meat with giant handsaw, pausing between lines for the increasingly malfunctioning laugh track.

WHITE BOY SPAGHETTI
I ration my tendons when people draw near. Gatherings wilt me.
I’m the prime fucking maniac of the species. Hear the scissors turning in my voice?
She put her lingerie on one late term abortion at a time.
This is propaganda in favor of divorce. All my bitches in the same stain.
Should I cremate you wearing stilts so the procedure lasts all day?
You’re all senators to me, senator. (To severed foot)
When my rashes spread, I pay attention to the world.
Sprinkle sawdust on my tears once they’re all out.
Should hurl you back in your mother’s pulse.
I’m cutting your cooties in half.
(Pauses to vomit blood into the tub, continues sawing)
Imagine empathy is possible beyond a self-conjectured cognitive placation grander than a sneeze. We’re not yet at the adolescent phase on a scale of how to suffer. Once we can finally communicate well enough to show out for anyone other, then we may understand loss. They say what abandons us begets our apogee. Some statues wear their shit well. Abusus non tollit usum.
(To bloody glasses) These are my lover’s eyes tan beneath their death coin.
Being born doesn’t poke your status into the air.
People are only good for organizing produce.
Blasphemy is the gift your god will leave you with when it goes.
I don’t process information, I stomach it. I’m the deputy of digestion because I’ve yet to raise my head from any burger. Eat like you want the ink to run off your autopsy report. Go ahead, nummies whore, no one takes their vitamins alone.
(To bloody panties) I admire anything that invalidates its abuser.
If you can’t bleed on the spot, you were never abused.
My plans for rigor mortis include you.
I like to encourage the grayer areas of consent. I’m only appropriate by myself.
They suggest therapy, but you can’t deep fry your puppet strings.
How I miss you involves extinction and so much less.
I cuddled you when you least expected.
That’s how you catapult yourself down those who love squeamishly.
You are owed a deficit of pain I can’t refill until you need me back.
No lover is better than his best felony. I import goods till my silos lurk.
Count your rosacea for me. I whisper in your trepanation.
Help us outlive goals. Think we’re separate objects from our waste?
Or are we just talking forts for the same continuous bowel movement?
Sentient rotisserie, unprong the batteries from your throat.
Whoever doesn’t love you back, burn their teeth, burn them by the tooth, even the teeth burn. Shucks about everything. Who out-fucks their betters fills no grave.
Which fucking commerce trained us so chatty? Who made you clit number one with a bullet?
Organisms are such carolers for their own decay.
Made this bitch bloat in cursive and wrung that into a will.
I’m in the spotlight now. A patron of it. I’m not even convinced of my own shadow.
My prayers ricochet off the ceiling. Be my waitress and my food.
(To bloody stuffed animal) You’re a little scalded chance taker. You yammer to your scald.
Even your stuffed animals think you’re a whore. Precum’s your one ration.
That only others brace you is the fluid by which you’ll hang.
What came first, mankind’s base gluttony for cunt or the fee womankind imposes to retain it?
Sorry somebody squinted through your C-section.
This is all the shit cliff notes eschewed.
Whenever I wear a wristwatch it shouts mockeries at my birth.
(To scalp with hair) What’s your favorite movie? More importantly, what’s your favorite deleted scene? I want a framed portrait of your self-esteem.
Technology placates the concept that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. There’s the pox below dedication I’ll swipe my kind on!
A million paychecks in one gleam. I was bungeed into the stirrups I’ve yet to upstage.
When I thrust into you, I don’t partake. I simply recoil from everything behind. Your whole ancestry is on trial for letting us meet. I’ll rape my way through them to the monkey that sprang you. You reek of belly shirts and gym.
My limousine sways wan dusks. It perfumes the rialto.
Are we huffy and in rooms? Then sayonara my poochies. They’ll sprinkle NutraSweet on your stretcher after I’m done. Now wag like it is.
(Waves arm at himself) I call this abstract cuckold wigging out. It’s a portrait of my lycanthropic blue balls cheating on you with your own cremains. Your kids could paint that, if they weren’t reciprocal pads of butter laminated into a dependency. You barely puttered while they tore your strip. I’d produce more art, but why suck a trophy to guess the climate?
When I drag you by the skirt, I miss your bra. When I drag you by the pigtail, I miss your bobbysocks. We’ll untwist your ringworm into the most becoming lipstick and writhe until our doll utterances boomerang. The person you pretend to love smiles on your badge. I pried your druthers from a hat. This place has a filthy map. If I go walking, no distance covered. The field shrinks. Killed everyone alive yet? Then you never won a fight. If I had my way, everyone would fall for their superior and live forever in service to the half-commendable scion that resulted, a continual state of near attainment. Fuck you if you said okay. How society structures a life, any goal is bait. Cast your eyes upward once and you lost your chance at heaven.
You’re all fired and beautiful.
(Pausing for applause, holds up A Living 900 Number’s head by the hair)
A LIVING 900 NUMBER
The molecules in your vision are a tiny pinpoint where birth has failed. Where I bled you into public through a tourniquet of wardrobes. I molest your birth certificate so you may age. Continue acting out your happy meals. I am the furnace of every disorder saying Christ inside a toy. I broke out my teeth to have teeth. I stapled my eyes shut so they could twinkle again. Playing victim comes with coupons.
(Spits blood at front row)
You’re in my clit’s way. You’re so beyond DNA.
Sprent me in your toilet stall. I’m here for crimes. I’ve done them all.
Now you flinch. I do not own the veins for this. Heartbeat regular as XXX.
I will meet you in the cubicle where they invented sex.

THE ANCIENT ART OF ALLEYWAYS

An overgrown alley. Black Chowder Destroyer stands holding a small, old television set. Vice President of Sandwiches stands upstage, facing away, wearing only underwear, smoking a crackpipe, periodically urinating an unnatural amount.

BLACK CHOWDER DESTROYER
I’ve come to lick the airport out of your hair, to play spades in your eyelids, to teach you how prisoners dance. When you straddle a cannon, the whole ghetto perks up.
I pioneered Darwin’s holiest weave when you were busy slumping in your egg.
I only compromise in jail. Color in the dots on my starvation.
Stand back! I am trained in the gibberish everyone’s inherently reduced to.
Out here partaking in them underwear stains.
I love my heart attack. Everybody loves my heart attack.
I have fleas. That’s how I wake up. Who else plays tag by spitting?
(Breaks fist through TV glass, spits inside it, stirs, removes nonstop animal organs, powder baggies, autopsy photographs)
I carry all manner of breads in my bitch-ass pocket.
Humanity is the fluke that blows shit up. Dreams you clamor for deflate.
Who’s the first lucky tickler to chin my ghouls?
I am wound around my tick and its feeding is the centrality of motion this world struggles to parody. It tickles me into an early grave but I tickle back!
We’re about to climb the lord’s scabbiest height.
Every moment I’m not in the backseat of a cop car is truly pretend.
I hush giddy up to the squaw that laid me. Bitch got cold feelers in her say.
If I remember how to masturbate, the planet could go blind.
Can’t reach up and tap the gutter from any position worth taking.
I’m the hibernating piranha that counts itself to sleep.
A flesh-eating virus stapled to the kiss you blew.
I tuck in the plague. I soothe exits from what came. Pluck cavities into speech.
I can tell you’re handsome from your shoes to your very chemical use.
Don’t know about you, but I mainly visit the nonchalant through a scope.
Ey, I fuck the bought.
Ever network the veneer of your pillow in order to bluff yourself closer to plight?
I can only love a misplaced mind. Now we bend you over to know who’s mine.
Everything that’s not about me is just verse. Never mind my bushido flavor guaranteed yours.
Swat the pretty mane of every verb. I soil myself for your benefit.
The one difference between me and Mussolini is Mussolini gave a fuck.
I promise to never become anyone’s fucking neighbor.
Once I’m a seller, I’m a seller gravity mistakes. Once I’m empty of mistakes, I’m a hole in the ground. Once I’m the air, you leave choking or just leave.
Check these lush outdoors. I want all leveled. Surveyed into Kleenex. Strumming the smoke of its young. Not one trike left to asphyxiate on. I will never cease killing everything on the goddamn other side of this glass, chief. Let’s take pains. I shatter carpets when I’m close. My crib was its own ghetto. I’m roving in oils, the forthright ruin of every birth. I can be your upstanding poodle. The pancake makeup on your Haiti. Whole families poof in my yap. Air is the more dependent fuck in the relationship. Ready for round two? Sex is pointless because cunts stretch bigger than their eventual baby.
(Picks up baseball bat with nails driven through it, dead rats and birds on the nails, one-arm aims it at back of Vice President of Sandwiches’s head, too many corpses to strike him hard enough – Vice President of Sandwiches’s throws down balled moldy slices of bread and rotten ham and cheese at the last minute. They pause)
BLACK CHOWDER DESTROYER
We were granted the democracy of our own cosmic leakage, poisoned through the condom to exist, squatting latex constitutions over the torture of a water based eye. Any cause is of its own destruction. A husband covets the quotidian a wife demands he incessantly transcend. Sustain their inkling a just amount. Stock them with a happy smidge of amenities until their fugues maroon them in vestmental shrubbery. Identify with me at your own risk. I follow orders to spite orders. The owned divide themselves on purpose.
(Enter A Living 900 Number, slinking)
BLACK CHOWDER DESTROYER
She uses her diabetes like a coloring book. Fashionably platonic by nature, telephones the lottery to brag about adulthood, conspires to sizzle, cleans the toilet with duct tape and voodoo dolls. This bitch drowns the block in hairless awe. I wear the inoculated scowl of cities, call myself into rooms where no one lives and riot piecemeal through the steadiest posture. I hate being unarmed and withstood. We empty our condoms for reuse by tying them to a car antenna.
Once you feel you have reasonably contributed to something, beyond a certain length of sled, is exactly the moment you become a hindrance to that endeavor.
(Black Chowder Destroyer raises his hand to slap A Living 900 Number. She instead falls over, as if struck, and vomits a large portion of blood)
A LIVING 900 NUMBER
Another whiff of sainthood might kill this flavor.
Wash your hands of every mindset. Wiffle bat your logos.
I believe in free assisted suicide for everyone who shakes my hand.
May my enemies bloat and be awesome.
Who I ram strangers my skin. Every reek I skim.
My surviving exes ignite in a dire shit of chemicals whenever I internet search them.
We break as the earth turns.
If I knew what colors were I’d turn one. Let’s call race another coughing up of skin.
Whatever the tan, I assure you you aren’t mint. Every slur is a found echo of my name.
Fuck me till our hearts stink.
BLACK CHOWDER DESTROYER
They’ll have to operate us away from each other. No one’s damage is important. I decided age is the adornment we retreat from until every wretched result seems momentarily okay. Moments never mattered. Time’s an unwearable fashion. I love my lover’s worst: disillusionment can last. We jerk inside one grave. Serve your kind and sleep in hell beside me.

BROADCAST LIVE FROM A CONDEMNED BUILDING WHILE STUCK DEEP IN THE INSULATION BETWEEN FLOORS AND GLANCING UPWARD AT THE ROTTED BOWELS OF SOME ANIMAL

White Boy Spaghetti, Black Chowder Destroyer, A Living 900 Number, and a section of Vice President of Sandwiches are visible, sticking out of frozen tableaux bodies, locked in place, heads forced upward, unable to move, difficulty breathing – they have been clipped into the architecture, are part of the set, built painfully though them. From above, nonstop stomping, dashing footsteps, sirens.

A LIVING 900 NUMBER
The bowel I’m trapped inside sags when I glance up.
I never met a guy who wasn’t the reason why the phonebook’s heavy.
You come like you’re somebody’s agent.
I have to enforce the tarot to keep us apart.
Sorry you never said on guard to the dictionary.
They give you your own army when you develop breasts.
My clothes are a bracket between me and other men. That’s why I need so many.
I soil myself on purpose for your legacy.
Your unfulfilled needs afford me my every strength.
Fuck the ruler. I am inches crowned.
Everyone is a ladle for mistakes and I am them.
My sonnets victimize the phone book.
I’m the kind of friend that comes with technical support.
I speak a thousand languages per sentence.
BLACK CHOWDER DESTROYER
I don’t police the stars revolving because I’m anxious of their height. I merely aim upward in order to stumble. You chitterling of rust, been scratching yourself since before dinosaurs. I’m running short on flesh. What mode of departure suits a suitor?
Suicide is the only option, whether you commit it or not.
A LIVING 900 NUMBER
I only want to be genuine at my flatline.
Wooed into households.
Every time I reflect on something the census taker nosedives.
Crickets applaud every time I am raped.
Now bustling politicians squawk their law inside me.
At night, I can almost pet the atmosphere, chew it from the sky like bark,
like a piece of gum my father left on the toilet seat.
We cut the tails off stray dogs to wipe ourselves.
I put my Lamaze on rerun whenever we hook up.
I am the rewound afterbirth iffy for cuddles. Being named is the meanest act!
Are you supposed to be patient zero for gentrification?
I can only emphasize what I mean by throwing my tampon at the ceiling and seeing if it sticks. That’s how you harken the phooey of what’s to come.
I only notice what mounts or tramples me and, honestly, nothing’s noticed.
What’s taking infant crib death forever?
The kids I relinquish will claw me into sport.
Aw. The sadder the whore, the longer he lives.
When I was a girl, I made everybody take turns carrying me, so my legs wouldn’t grow muscles. Years of this, then they put the Burger King crown on my head and told me to ride a hobbyhorse until it corroded. I delved in my saddle at a bride’s pace. I kissed the dandruff from its mane and dreamed of joining the Taliban. I am stock full of floors, big daddy. No one’s gourmet lap ever rooted me through crippledom. But my miscarriages all came out wearing the same kissy face and their welfare went into overtime. I don’t subpoena the damn things just because I care to watch their tiny breaths expire. I am a bitch fully thieved by being secure. My offspring are the scepters that phlebotomize me. Could I not remain soggy with the radical mishmash? Nine months of slander later, his slab is nipple-chafing you during tax time.
I’ll produce anything for a backlash.
It’s Alzheimer’s every time we touch. Twitch like a husband. Be my seeing-eye dog in bed. Been exiting the bathroom your whole career? You’ll never earn maggot one.
Your heart disease was far too mild.
WHITE BOY SPAGHETTI
I know you and the help shout gobble gobble when my back is turned. Takes nuclear clearance to vend my soy. I was the fucking chromosomal mutant renegade to parasite his cells and chime in lax with the primordial teste. What doesn’t kill us fucking should have by now. Place a beeper in the orgy of assistants and shoot whoever tries cancelling the sponge bath marathon. Nothing more to vomit except all I’m told. Care to buttfuck the logo of my supposed endurance? None can quite hoist the napkin for this inoperable life. Life’s that thing that asks: when will you return the lactate? We hardly equal the capacity of our bladders. We do a chintzy jig between bathrooms. We’re a toilet-prone malignancy. I say spoil the bowel of your peers with the kind of luck they build asylums around. Hang the citizenry under a sheet to confuse their ghosts.
Sometimes I pluck my castration stitches like a banjo.
A LIVING 900 NUMBER
I’m the hair-trigger satire of anyone in my pants. You hung from my pussy like the worst fruit. I’m supple in your dang pores. Survival means waiting out the next ear infection. Your first coherent thought was the death of you. I traded ponies in your filth. We withstand the herd. Whatever harmony my stretchmarks pledge.
You’ve gone and made a life. How loud of you! Be an accident with me.
This is who you are today: someone subjected to the malpractice of standing up. A true caretaker maims herself in solidarity. I mean relationships form. I was a different aproned bastard for him each sundown. I missed being distinct outside. All the microwaves ridden in one building. The world takes you with it when it rotates. Your thoughts revolve at that pace. Today you are the gold I gnash myself against and these plural accents delight you.
Who you are couldn’t fill a flashcard. You’ll never recapture the person you mistook me for, the person who noticed you on occasion, snug in your arrhythmia. Anyone who needs to find support deserves their fucking self. The first tragedy is my toes are painted black.
You return affection to the proportionate reduction of your own worth. We could have been decrepit animals together. How else will we bond with our fungus? The heat coming off us is pasturage for the observable universe of fungi working overtime on our laps. We are that fungi, unpausing itself to pipe up. I got one of everything in my pants, motherfucker.
All I am without you is Godzilla.
WHITE BOY SPAGHETTI
No one snores like you. You’re a singer in your sleep too. We used to be so prone. Sorry I missed your abortion. My show was on. I’m ticked you never let me reach in and squeeze the come-heads invalid before a singular settlement. Remember we kept stubbing out cigars on your baby bump? You’re a heave ho pittance, whining: closed casket for the sky. I’m a most vascular chimney, filing my own eulogy by the syllable. Every time I mow the grass my circumcision bloopers get reinstated. I fear for our normalcy.
Hey, I stick around till it’s nearly rape. I work the amount of hours deigning spousal abuse okay. The trick about me is I worship the sun not so as to aggrandize my crops, but as an aggressive act against the thing itself. Never dated someone who acknowledged our being in the same room. Who fell shrimped by marvel, hurting at the glans, malleable and lacquered through coitus, trounced petty, offering their tiniest all.
A LIVING 900 NUMBER
A dog bites its tail until gangrene sets in. Which means you love me, so our bodies no longer require food. I don’t go around having sex with a lot of people or mannequins. I drink the hydrocephalic runoff of my loved ones. The color of my hand is really just a radio. My radio is radio-colored. I put it on a trampoline instead of voting. Because I have a background in pornography. Did you get your hysterectomy at Toys R Us? The first contraceptive was old age. The second was your face. Let me explain. Your face is a trampoline for syphilis. Why do you make a habit of corners and excuse your tardiness with lewd photography? Your underwear runs like a diseased egg through the humidity of my palm. You love me with too much of your history intact. How many war zones occur when you shut those peepers? They pretend to be insects, but are legit veins in your eye. Traffic, by the way, is how you were circumcised.
I’m just a student of the heads collecting between my knees. Any good parent would have taught you all to duck by now. Brave these genes, I should beg, but I’ll be the curtain call of my bloodline, thanks. Men stick an objective on the end of their love.
I’m scared of people with pasts. How you hug, every heartbeat bruises. You sold me into the slavery of caring. Aboriginal sputum toiled caprice within the coupling, blasphemies promulgating to the very ground you clamber for. I’m done with shelter. I cried because the fire was beautiful, not because I loved my house.
So many other buildings the flames would never reach.
BLACK CHOWDER DESTROYER
Time to fess up that, as a species, McDonalds is the full extent of our imagination.
Panic schedules an audition, doles itself out on a rolling basis like a stone skipped across each lung, but the final moment comes, despite endurance, all your vain preparations lined up on a shelf. We all belong to the second hand and time giggles while you shit yourself.
WHITE BOY SPAGHETTI
My parents dressed like tag team wrestlers when they beat me. They dressed like Laurel and Hardy when they molested me. Doesn’t that thing between your legs feel like an incomplete masterpiece, my father was fond of saying. Nevertheless, scatological as it may sound, he was like a father to me, my father. We used a podium for our stains, oinked into garbage bags.
When I say fuck you in the ass I mean you specifically and by that I mean whoever. My mother was apologetic for failing to abort me. You can tell by the way I climb stairs.
Didn’t know life came with the perks that would always end it. Nature’s worse than in us. No one could reverse engineer a purpose from the orgasm they were never worth.
BLACK CHOWDER DESTROYER
You’re all inconsequential to what I’m about to do to you.
A LIVING 900 NUMBER
Tonight was one hell of a crunchy enterprise. No labor’s worth its plume. Catch me explaining once and it’ll be the mortar needed to keep your homicide at bay. What dudes riot up the sake of me staunches me a perfect defector, steadfast blunderbuss, chugging rouge, stabbed so well I finally belong. Be my sushi under marriage, filibustering pollen to shield your ancestors. Never been addressed on a beach and don’t plan on it. I’m a mantis on shore leave. I huff the skein off sex and molt devotion out my stud. Don’t frown when you suck me.
This night, fucking spotless, rambles mink, chuckling miasma I pin my mittens to. I never pounce, unless I do. Such a trooper for the mayonnaise of your former self.
On rare occasions, we pause our drowning to see. What persists from that nanosecond’s vacation is the spectacle of us…drowning further.
We sleep inside a phonograph that sings our dreams.
We fish the river for neckties. Our ponies are made of cardboard.
The river is just some girl’s spit. The ponies are in traction.
I have to flick my thrombosis through a telescope.
Well, no one can empathize like your molester. Was it emphasize?
Come closer, dudes in the front row. The wards pop out my cunt like snakes in a can, shouting Avon calling, shouting: let’s share our embalming fluid through the same straw.
Double suicide or it wasn’t love.
Bitch.

*

Surely I write not for the hopeful young,
Or those who deem their happiness of worth,
Or such as pasture and grow fat among
The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth,
Or pious spirits with a God above them
To sanctify and glorify and love them,
Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth.

For none of these I write, and none of these
Could read the writing if they deigned to try;
So may they flourish in their due degrees,
On our sweet earth and in their unplaced sky.
If any cares for the weak words here written,
It must be some one desolate, Fate-smitten,
Whose faith and hopes are dead, and who would die.

– James Thomson, “The City of Dreadful Night”

Literature is not an online game of bridge, nor is it a forum for the banal annotations of our chickenshit populace. For every blown out fifteen year list of publications, you get five random faux troll artists playing sociopathic games on you publically (their names escape me), five serious attacks from better published people you formerly respected (and will take revenge against (three left, I will keep saying their names until my mucus is the only big light they got), vague neighborliness from most others, and five or so friendly nods, two of which become regular contacts. The following amalgam of my earliest unfortunately poetic works Gil the Nihilist, with a little fuckscapes(last copy available with a perverse treat for the money maker) and Thank You, Steel China sprinkled on), remixed herein to their sparkliest maxims, with fresh cruelties of direction on the wobbly scaffolding below, must do to excuse itself as a successor to these earlier trials in the vacuum I mean to leave behind for no one. Reduced by any culture, any biology, in fact, to an anachronistic hobbyist, I just want the specific arrangement stated correctly before dipping out, for no reason outside pure fatalism. As an imbecilic nightmare munchkin careering (failingly, it turns out) through her arrogance once sprouted up and commented across my internet (always unprovoked, of course) like another cancerous pendant who enjoys being picked (commenters, the Chucky dolls my generation failed to abort (not to be above it, but no longer eighteen, I started net shit one time, unprovoked, with an affluent, artless moron and won’t again): “shut up.” I plan to, the scariest way possible.

Imagine venturing off your smart phone’s reach to a stage enthroned by litter in some Detroit alley. The players, making their lofty addresses mostly to a collection of needles scattered underfoot (sets from burnt houses), out-pronounce errant bass blasts. They outnumber the audience, who arrive confused and frustrated by the journey, remaining in that state throughout, uninformed of when the action begins or finishes, indifferent to the lineage of any art, save perhaps one deviant, astray in his purchase (for next to nothing) of one hour’s elation from the surrounding scold.

*

Sean Kilpatrick lives in Detroit, has studied forensic photography, literature, cinema, is finalizing his collected works, and is published in: New York Tyrant, Boston Review, Vice, Nerve, evergreen review, fluland, Hobart, Dog Hates Film, Columbia Poetry Review, The Quietus, Juked, elimae, Caketrain and Exquisite Corpse. Visit his website or find him on Twitter