Sean Kilpatrick - The violent, sexual zone of television and entertainment is made to saturate that safe-haven, the American Family. The result is a zone of violent ambience, a ‘fuckscape’: where every object or word can be made to do horrific acts

Sean Kilpatrick, fuckscapes, Blue Square Press/Mud Luscious Press, 2012.


“The violent, sexual zone of television and entertainment is made to saturate that safe-haven, the American Family. The result is a zone of violent ambience, a ‘fuckscape’: where every object or word can be made to do horrific acts. As when torturers use banal objects on its victims, it is the most banal objects that become the most horrific (and hilarious) in Sean Kilpatrick’s brilliant first book.” – Johannes Goransson

“Pregnancy dream of poetry has this Sean Kilpatrick book by the fist. You learn to signal to others from the woken state, here, line-by-line. Do you have any extra money? Buy this book! If you have to skip lunch, buy THIS BOOK! “I held my breath so hard I ended up in the country.” Some poetry you read is forgotten, and never remembered. Some poetry, this poetry, Sean Kilpatrick’s poetry, is a manual for exciting the engine to throw you out of the vanquished pleasures. Here is your I.V. drip of sphinx’s blood.” – CAConrad
Excerpt 1:


dolemite


motherfucker my stains dance

in trumpet cast clouds

by faint progression like torn

skin off money

ho



physicians break my caravan

to crave a scalp this

low



bitch I doggy paddle the stars

in jars of petty absence

where love most is I slapped

a straight jacket on and got fancy

in the cunt of evenings gone



overture of pockets now

swiping my balls on god



yes yes yes (from fuckscapes)


beneath the drum hurt

axel of your breathing

white coins unfold

the gnawing jut

façade of lanterns

send cornea through a pinhole



we are pretending

to be heard

pretending to suffer

this warm lens

of movement



oh christ

the wetly tapped

morose codes



you are praying for distance

from the hands of your infancy



who cares who cares

i want you screaming

and pregnant



tap out your game show

all across my fuck





Rape Festival, Miscarriage Parade


You put out a fatwa on my uterus.

That’s how much you care.



Follow me with a soup can

for the miscarriage parade.



I squat over a noose all day.

Appreciate me.



I’m eleven when I celebrate

my first rape.



My uncle scarfs a cake

shaped like me.



I lead you into an alley

and fondle your eyelids.



You say this sex is like sitting

through your own autopsy.



Well, whack my clit with a staircase.



I’ll find someone who rents their penis

out to billboard companies.



Sit on that commercial

and tell me you don’t

come dollar signs.





the chorus of holes


sin of a thousand

clocks

plate the wall



for each row my psalms

have whimpered



your voice sieg heils

my eardrums



flip on the blenders

and pretend I have slept

with the dancing switchblade



you always bleed this cursive:



knife your cum

into my sinuses

i will gargle out

portraitures of us

smiling


Excerpt 2: