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



for Ron Allen

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. Finally, holding up A Living 900 Number by the hair.

I’m a cootie cut in half. I’m what the sawdust can’t cover.
I ration my tendons when people draw near.
Gatherings wilt me. When my rashes spread, I pay attention to the world.
Some statues wear their shit well. Abusus non tollit usum.
People are only good for organizing produce.
I dip through the gutter like an SSI charm.
These are my lover’s eyes tan beneath their death coin.
Blasphemy is the gift your god will leave you with when it goes.
Take a belief from the trough.
Eat like you want the ink to run off your autopsy report.
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. You’re all senators to me, senator.
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.
I’m in the spotlight now. A patron of it. But I’m unconvinced by my own shadow.
My prayers ricochet off the ceiling. Be my waitress and my food.
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.
What’s your favorite movie? More importantly, what’s your favorite deleted scene?
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?
They’ll sprinkle NutraSweet on your stretcher after I’m done. Now wag like it is.
I’d produce more art, but why suck a trophy to guess the climate?
The person you pretend to love smiles on your badge.

The molecules in your vision are the tiny pinpoint where birth has failed.
You’ve only ever donned a tourniquet of wardrobes.
I molest your birth certificate so you may age.
Continue acting out your happy meal.
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.
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.

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

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?
Humanity is the fluke that blows shit up. Dreams you clamor for deflate.
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.
Eh, 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.
I promise to never become anyone’s 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.
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.

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.
We fuck till our hearts stink.
They have to operate us away from each other.
We jerk inside one grave. Serve your kind and sleep in hell beside me.

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.

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 the only 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.
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.
I only want to be genuine at my flatline.
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 it lives.
I’ll produce anything for a backlash.
It’s Alzheimer’s every time we touch.
You’ve gone and made a life. How loud of you! Be an accident with me.
Twitch like a husband. Be my seeing-eye dog in bed.
Life’s that thing that asks: when will you return the lactate?
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.
I’m the hair-trigger satire of anyone in my pants.
A true caretaker maims herself in solidarity.

Sorry I missed your abortion. My show was on.
Ticked you never let me reach in
and squeeze the come-heads dead before settlement.
Remember we kept stubbing out cigars on your baby bump?
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.
I drink the hydrocephalic runoff of my loved ones.
Did you get your hysterectomy at Toys R Us?
Your underwear runs like a diseased egg through the humidity of my palm.
You love me with too much of your history intact.
They pretend to be insects, but are legit veins in your eye.
Traffic, by the way, is how you were circumcised.
I cried because the fire was beautiful, not because I loved my house.
So many other buildings the flames would never reach.
Time to fess up that, as a species, McDonalds is the full extent of our imagination.
We all belong to the second hand and time giggles while you shit yourself.
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.
You’re all inconsequential to what I’m about to do to you.
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.
Be my sushi under marriage, filibustering pollen to shield your ancestors.
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 flick my thrombosis through a telescope.
No one can empathize like your molester. Or is it emphasize?
Come closer, let’s share embalming fluid through the same straw.
Double suicide or it wasn’t love.

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