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

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Sean Kilpatrick, Gil the Nihilist: A Sitcom, Lazy Fascist, 203.


"Blurring the boundary between screenplay and poem, Gil The Nihilist one-ups Pound's modernist dictum ("make it new") by additionally making it "now." Right now. Right this instant. More timely, relevant, and compelling than anything else on the market. In no uncertain terms, Kilpatrick has produced the first truly radiant nightmare of the 21st century. To put it in movie-speak, it's Clark Coolidge meets Andrzej Zulawski meets Kathy Acker's Blood and Guts in High School meets Richard Kern's Fingered meets Death Grips meets John Waters. Moreover, this book pulses with the word porn of word stylists meshed with the intoxicating visuals of our everyday hyper-reality." - Christopher Higgs

"Sean Kilpatrick, like some godlike producer, must've got Joyce, Sade, Jarry, and Trecartin together in a Star Waggon. This book's a sick channel for all our channels, a gnarly and hilarious script of the human animal's entertainment... Kilpatrick presents a new zone in American fiction. Who must I destroy to get this show made?" -Ken Baumann

"Sean Kilpatrick is a lunatic and an instigator. This book is a restraining order. Stray from summary. Please don't have opinions. Try to enjoy it and see yourself trying to weigh in. Then, laugh at yourself for that. Then, give him a hug." - Elizabeth Mikesch

I went buck with Sean Kilpatrick for his new book Gil the Nihilist: A Sitcom, now available from Lazy Fascist Press as a Secret Summer Release. I don’t know anyone who can splurge a word like Sean, and, as expected, things went batshit crazy. Gil is a mushroom cloud of splayed out wreckage, a garbled mess of Hummers and tacos and Kmarts and smegma. It’s as close to getting a surgeon general’s warning as a book can. This text is a health hazard. It’s a beautiful rind of pitch black beef.

Is there any word that shouldn’t be spoken? Burned if written?

Would to coin each sizzle. Enough may recycle us our garrote. I climb my garrote for the true laxative. Provide no bowel its motion without first being staked. Words peel iffy. Our mass shooters are wider read and vastly integral by their poems. I never writ a poem sans the gun most disco in my mouth. Fuck it. Everyone plugs their nose when they speak.
In what ways did you twist Gil differently than fuckscapes? How did you cope going from poetry to the screen?
fuckscapes condensed years of fast food. Vast nugget placement. Fussy shifts. Gil was influenced by lettuce wraps and online dating. A zigzagging series of palpitations to the fundament. I made pow noises while writing. The smells of gym. Would revise mid-speech as a version of um. I cleared my throat in the sound to correct, but wouldn’t go back. Refused fixing post-peddle. It monologues about a girl I love. What to revise about who you lost. Love never occurred before the natal stretch. No heart left in us to pinch the page? Good. Now we’re all babies of the ‘huh?!?!?!’
“You and me, we’re both beyond taste. And ultimate slaves to it.” Here, I see shredded, greasy bits of Seinfeld, Curb, and The Honeymooners. Did you study any particular shows with GTN in mind?

Nearly struck the word ‘both’ from that line. But these characters need to emphasize each other’s inclusion. And make ‘b’ sounds. Probably because I cry really keen pesos. Everything Vernon Chatman does. Tim and Eric and Eric Andre Show are my favorite and important and sublime. That they exist in our money-sphere allows that the sphere’s not always palaver. The best palaver ruins you different than what’s watched. Gil is as far from money as anyone living in America shouldn’t produce.
Are there any celebrities you would like to see play Gil, Starr, Aigner, Edmund?

Here’s some daydream: Eric Andre for Edmund, beautiful manic bust ups. Hannibal Buress for Gil, deadpan, occasional animated disgust. Aubrey Plaza for Starr. She’s dreamy. David Bennent for Aigner. I got some hipster blood in my kidney to this particular confusion. I am the ugliest hipster to ever bite a free-range rat.
What do you think of the ‘writerly vogue?’ How do you cope?

I’ve entered my last decade. Censorship is in its career. Very self-conscious, balanced. If Google hasn’t lost you a job, your pages are asleep. Censorship has marketed itself as the most profound likeability. Abundantly, I never cope.
What’s your mindset when approaching the page? More meditation or frenzy?
Direct frenzy 24/7. I wrote Gil so hard I still get trouble breathing. The hospital had no answers. Fuck the hospital. Ultrasound shoulda shown a quill. They grease your credit. Too many writers know their fucking credit score. Why’s everything with the officials such a shrill cornball jocularity? I was busy giving birth to the blowjob which might end my nervous system.
“I hate how you think talking works.” You own the moniker ‘word salader’ like a badge of pride. How do you fricassee detractors of this practice?
They will never fricassee. They’re the Teflon humanity still braving the word human. Responsibly tucked sure at vast homes, twirling a light bulb with their thighs, loitering in wines and Marx. Literature’s sociology now, right? I’m pretty sure I’m not a person. Just some fica sipping its pesticide. I intend everything I write and worse. These non-sequitur youths today and how Satan’s making a comeback both thrill me.
Would you ever translate your work into another language? Which, and if not you, who?

French a lot. I love Claro. I was put into Croatian by some Croat gangsters who I believe in. It’s legal to sip one’s hide with a submachine gun there. (Libra Libera!) I’m translating Rimbaud into fucktard. Someone kindly commented that this is called a mondegreen. I was told also this was called transliteration. It’s called Rimbaud’s crack-smoke, though.
Here, people become spaces and spaces become people. Zones are constantly shifting. Do you envision a future in which personhood becomes post-?
I doodle myself a veneer, hoard a pungent grappling under the tutu. I’ve never danced in my life. I’ve been known to ordinance a boogie hereafter. I’ve walked to and fro worse than some. I stone my corpse with body hair. If I feel a locale coming on I fucking straight up treat it. Never met a gender worth the pickaxe brought out of it. Goddamn, I keep going tee hee when my back is turned.
Sex drips from this – any response to the word ‘sadomasochist’?
Loving someone honestly and with great vulnerability is the best unintentional masochism. I used to booty call the difference I thought I made. Whosoever fancies a roomier cast deserves margarine in their fracture. There was never even an outside providing hermitage. My frolic won’t trend. I’m a tranny on empty, son.
Your sonic dissonance is a blown-out, creepy-crawly twitch. Any childhood memories you care to share that affected such a cadence?

Detroit ghettos grow you hating the whole rainbow. The buildings got a skunk rhyme to their droop. Though no pride should be had anywhere. Rocks fit my head. I turned less tall in the mask. Gangs said hi. I waddled, pants ankle-clad, sharing my chips. Later, I even went to college. To pull up my pants, it is implied, involves consequences.
Where are you in real life? Should we be concerned?
I just taste-tested an Austin ghetto, not a real ghetto for sure. Man, fuck Austin. Just. They got I <3 i="" video=""> and the theaters which are amazing, otherwise fucking scores of vastly wedged lilters tapped at their own skinny dirge. Ding dong on that shit.
Your thoughts on “hipster twentysomethings?” “Tumblr teens?” “Soft grunge scene queens?”
I have the first serious writer’s conscientiousness in my stoma. It’s getting fancy to accuse a writer of his beard. We mind fashions now? Yes? Mostly upwardly mobile folk  whose smug doings bar their ability to fester in one – whether the choice is theirs or beyond the crib or wife which fucking minds them. Cheers to die alone. I troll myself at the wake up point. Run smoother than your hurt into the hands of more. A writer only tosses salad now for his two snide detractors and the mental vacation they verily assess. The internet’s been pinching in its tinkle for twenty years. Our generation came down with an adolescence domed for snuff. No one knows half of where went up our skirts. I’m not going to own silverware, promise. This book is by the trounced, for the trounced.
Do you write in silence?
I’ve been death rattling since I fell from the ejaculate that teethed me. - Interview by Barrett White



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.” – CA Conrad

“Every rogue bowel moves daddy’s cabana / for the comb through bib tied high and dangling you,” is the first sentence of Sean Kilpatrick’s fuckscapes, an 85-page onslaught of entirely hyper-textured language destruction recently released from Blue Square Press. Don’t worry that you don’t know what that sentence means, because you do. You have closed your eyes a lot and seen a shitload of hidden colors. You have eaten at Arby’s and grown lard. You have been very near many people who were not you and you will never see again. Such is the nature of some of the ways the word of Sean Kilpatrick has been preparing in you throughout your life. You know, like a tumor, or like the most stubborn segments of your fat.
There is a sense of something very volatile lurking all the space of where these words work. Kilpatrick’s language seems to challenge the very space where it’s been placed, the paper heavy like a toy box stuffed with flesh. While others known for working in the supposed shock systems still seem to produce menace and disgust in how it becomes layered among calmer points, Kilpatrick’s tenor is so unrelenting, the words so beaten down by each other word he’s rammed in between, that where we end up is immediately the high register, as if the notes all fall well beyond the frame where the feedback has been clipped: “which one of you gave my sister tennis elbow / and nailed the blinds shut / closed the refrigerator door on Pooky's tail /  put dishes under car tires for a block / all our neighbors are pigs / written in lipstick / mine / across Mrs. Bottleby's greenhouse / cigarette butts stuck to the ceiling / gramma's lazy boy / mutilated by patches of still-hot jism / everything's tinted yellow.” The result is text of such implicit tension that the tension has killed itself and waits to rise again; we can hardly measure where the spikes are, nor where the bed is. “Gravity will be replaced by AIDS,” Kilpatrick predicts, and here certainly it is: an imminent virus in the mechanism of what has held the world against itself.
And again, this is an illusion. Underneath the fucked veneer and the endless ramming, what wells up during the course of fuckscapes is not only a wide white field that seems more everyday than we’d like to admit, but exists an understanding of language and how proper manipulation of the syllable and sentence can create something at once both previously impossible and always having been. The codes Kilpatrick ejects one after another in furious lineage in mass form a kind of alchemical fire for new speech, and here that speech even is grafted to nowhere. “In ten years I’ll be writing stories about my mother for New York magazines,” Kilpatrick writes in a text titled Business Plan. “I’ll be chewed by sundials until cancer fills my pocket.” You hear a lot in the writing world about the necessity of the prowess of a sentence, of a piece of writing’s ability to invoke the shape of something like a trance, but where so many of the syntaxes of these writings still deal in the trade of emotional human relationships, Kilpatrick goes beneath. His writing, if not vital to your mother, is something monstrous, terrifying, invertedly anthemic in its tenacity for shaking at the place where many would prefer it slept, then shaking that shaking. I’m saying Sean Kilpatrick makes Lars Von Trier and Marquis de Sade look like they paint in watercolor. And it feels vital.
“While this play makes light of incidents such as Columbine which hadn’t occurred at the time of its writing,” says a character to the audience in the herein included post-post-Ionesco play, Progress, “the play is guilty of shock value because it betters the world by explaining the world to you because you need that kind of explanation to continue being part of the world. Goodnight.” Goodnight is right. Where the overload the book works in hits, it hits like a whole body kind of bruise, so that you can’t really see the skin all getting changed. I like the idea of an inert thing working, words that in their arrangement seem to be saying ten different things at once, therefore creating not a literal image or an action, but a kind of barfing floor to walk on, toward what.
OK, that’s enough of my going on. Sean Kilpatrick is the shit, man. One of the realest heads we have. You should just eat some." - Blake Butler

“O you cancer victims, O you hemorrhoid sufferers, O you multiple sclerotics, O you syphilitics, O you cardiac conditions, O you paraplegics, O you catatonics, O you schizoids, O you paranoids, O you hypochondriacs, O you carriers of causes of death, O you suicide candidates, O you potential peacetime casualties, O you potential war dead, O you potential accident victims, O you potential increase in the mortality rate, O you potential dead.” – Peter Handke, Offending the Audience
Reading Sean Kilpatrick’s first full-length poetry book fuckscapes is an experience that brings to mind Hart Crane’s dictum to create “a new word, never before spoken and impossible to actually enunciate.” Sean Kilpatrick’s poetry gives me that feeling. It is the feeling of a new language. Of expression so impossible I can barely begin to put into words how it makes me feel. But I can tremble before it. This book is insane and suggestive. Its brashness smolders like a confluence of spirit. He says, “bitch I doggy paddle the stars,” and “motherfucker my stains dance.” No thought is too outrageous, no obscenity unspoken. “Did you get your hysterectomy at Toys R Us?” This is not just poetry with an edge – no, it is beyond all edges, from the other side of the abyss, like gazing into an obsidian mirror at your non-human self.
“I am the temperature of sound
a carbon monoxide ballroom
dreaming public toilets in Sicily
I am the pauper of glows
fraught with bow wow
I am the furnace of every disorder
Saying Christ inside a toy”
What makes Kilpatrick’s poetry really outrageous is its annihilation of meaning. This is nothing new, but under Kilpatrick’s eye it is totally alive, and puts shame to the “half-assed English majors” and other beholders of vision. In lines like, “time for sanitarium gods to moisturize the day,” it’s like he’s sabotaging the nature of expression. Words like ‘absurd’ and ‘surreal’ come to mind, but they are historical commodities, and in no way adequately describe the wild violence Kilpatrick demonstrates.
This book contains every shade of darkness refracted through a fine crystal. This is the curious threnody of integrated circuits. Its contingent vacuity is a nebulous beam – a spiral into ether gushing with waves and intoxication. There is deformation and mutation. It is the glowing confluence of a billion black suns! His singular vision levitates a wave so grand, its core so fresh, it feels inexhaustible. Kilpatrick’s poetry – undoubtedly obscene, grotesque, perverse, even sadistic – offers a new experience of language. This is the full flight of teenage dementia. “Let’s do the Charleston on your restraining order.” This is discord as hilarity. Its spirit is the union of divergent energies all powered by the light of unseen dimensions. The highlight of the book for me is “a spurious lobotomy,” a sort of insane medical journal:
“My medical training is limited both to the proximity of the wounds I create for myself and to the punctuality of human rot: a minor self-injurious culture of paltry accumulation. I know, for instance, enemy means anyone. I refer to the mating process. As a doctor, I am no fan of reducing body counts.”
This sparks with the explosive energy of a dark fire. Its essence is vicious and exciting. It feels to me like the core spirit of all poetry. Kilpatrick’s work exemplifies moving beyond individual consciousness and the personal self and into the abyss of black thought. This is poetry in love with its sickness. Glistening with violence and profanity, his words take me to a space where language is compacted into a kind of glossolalia that violates itself, like a dark field expanding in all directions and interacting with infinitude. Kilpatrick uses Fulcanelli’s “green language,” the ethereal “language of the birds” of medieval occultism, to convulse poetry with energy so wrong it feels impossible. This is the fusion of blank elements. And its ugliness transfigures the very idea of alchemy. It is completely beyond any autonomous zone of transference and in an insane sphere of singularity all its own. The uproar here is internal, annihilating ego and self in ways so singular it is disquieting. “Another whiff of sainthood might kill this flavor.” This new voided alchemy, this digestible dilemma, harkens to the abyss of black thought, like Bhairava playing the role of poète maudit.
Another highlight of the book are the two plays, an outrageous confluence of Antonin Artaud as imagined by Frank Booth: “This play took many generations of actors to perform. The writer masturbated for research. I wrote this play once. The avant-garde is a candle of ruin. I am occasionally fascist. I go to school against my better judgment. And yours. I live at home. Or not at all.” Kilpatrick siphons insane energy out of the air. He speaks in tongues. Reading fuckscapes is to be contaminated with its own diseased energy, and I welcome the infection this book gave me. Kilpatrick has fondled the celestial fire and he also jerked off in it. His aesthetic exemplifies the art’s omega point in its annihilation of meaning. What it aspires to is “this killing of the sky with surgical rhythms.” He knows that “Nothing’s been okay since the big bang.” This book’s violence is like a diseased prayer, like the dance of vatic sores. This rain of language coagulates much like all the invisible forces throughout the world that are waiting to become visible. This book’s annihilating energy destroys lesser expression in that it navigates interior structures that are seemingly formless and in tune with hidden layers of reality. - Chris Moran

Takes guts to call your book Fuckscapes — among other reasons, because you’ve immediately raised the reader’s expectations. "This is not Poetry’s poetry," you’re saying, and you’d better be right.
    No worries. Fuckscapes is brimming with guts, a vomitous gush of violent, horrific imagery that reads like the burst amnion of a new kind of poetry. Sean Kilpatrick wants to pummel every one of your puny human senses into submission, from the opening flurry "fistfucking rules" to the last splash "The Fuckscapes" (a kind of post-Beckettian play featuring, among others, two characters called The Penetrator and The Penetrated). He will rub your face in feces and urine and every other form of bodily emanation, and he will use Nazi imagery until it loses its shock value and becomes just another smoldering pile of ordure in his anti-pastoral screed. Most surprisingly, perhaps, given the lanced-wound drip of pus-laden word-blood, Kilpatrick will make you laugh. Or at least cackle.
     I would argue that Fuckscapes is in fact a kind of human comedy, and that Kilpatrick’s skillful evisceration of the hipster-headed angels among us is at least second of all funny. Humor is a necessary counterpoint, anyway, to the more unpleasant imagery, but calling a piece (for instance) "führer" is in the first place silly, an adolescent  provocation, but works precisely because it is not about its title except in the most oblique way possible, and ends with the line "and flopped down purring like a truckload of bellybuttons," which is almost LOLCats-cute, and undermines (in a good way) the occasionally scabrous blather that comes before.
    Kilpatrick’s wild, dissociative, loping tropes are never random, however off-handed his poems (I’m going to call them poems, because I don’t know what else to call them, and maybe, too, because that’s what they are) might seem. Every surreal turn, every jarring juxtaposition is deliberate, and he knows how to pull back from the edge just before tumbling into the abyss. His constructs (fine, POEMS) repel and attract in equal measure and seem designed to evoke sensations rather than sense, which is not to say that Fuckscapes is nonsense; quite the opposite. I’d call the writing painterly, except that doesn’t mean anything. I’d call it impressionistic, but that’s worse than painterly. The book embodies the body — partakes of a corporal poetics. It’s like Pasolini’s Salò except with an acute awareness of popular culture and situated very specifically in the now. I haven’t watched Salò in a long time, and I’m not getting paid enough to watch it again, so I don’t remember if that film had anything approaching the sense of humor Kilpatrick shows here. In any case, Fuckscapes is much less single-minded, but in its fearless exploration of every kind of psychosexual degradation (to the point of transcendence, I would argue), just as relentless.
There is real beauty amid the squalor, too. I’d be remiss if I did not point out Kilpatrick’s evident lyrical gifts. He has a well-tuned ear and his sense of rhythm drives the reader smoothly (well, as smoothly as possible) over the 85 pages of Fuckscapes. I may not know what "dummy pardons paint you hard / snots whose womb I midget / audience all abortion" (from "who else here") means, exactly, but its sure-handed lyricism reminds me of, oh, I don’t know, certain Guided By Voices lyrics, for instance. That is not faint praise.
    What else? There’s an "Ode to Lynndie England" that makes barely-glancing reference to its subject and yet creates a portrait of existential horror with pointillistic precision. There’s a poem called Trans Am that begins "I build a twenty minute sorrow in cop bedrooms, confessing up and down the street," which compresses more melancholy into one line than Lars Von Trier has dreamt of in his philosophies. There’s a court transcript that is of course not a court transcript. There are text messages between Lynndie England and Charles Graner that are not text messages between Lynndie England and Charles Graner but something much, much finer; something that somehow examines the human impulse to degrade at the root of the Abu Ghraib prisoner torture, without explicitly referencing the incident itself.
    There is not, so far as I can determine, any didactic intent, nor is the primary purpose of Fuckscapes to shock. The repetition of Nazi and/or religious imagery, the pile of body parts, the laundry list of depravities real or imagined, the viscosity of the various in fact, if you read the book through, all at once, have a kind of numbing effect at least on me so that the cumulative effect is one of recognition. I recognize Sean Kilpatrick. As a human being, as a writer. His book is a fine magic trick, all the more impressive for laying all its cards on the table before it begins. This is (literally) coruscating stuff. Don’t tell me you’re not thirsty: just drink. - James Greer

[I tried to write a more straightforward review of Kilpatrick’s fuckscapes, but everything I wrote seemed like an act of containment. So instead I wrote this, a long line of associations, images, things that came to mind…I should also say that I mean ‘signifying nothing’ as a compliment…]
 with apologies to Godard, Abramović,  Lynch, Buñuel, Artaud, Yoko Ono, Pynchon, Flaubert, Guyotat, and Foucault
 bloody your hands on a cactus tree / wipe them on your dress / and send it to me
                                                            – The Pixies, Cactus
fuckscapes is a book adrift in the cosmos, found on a garbage heap, signifying nothing.
fuckscapes started as a red pulse in the center of a blue light, a light whose edges are perpetually bleeding.
fuskscapes begins with three centimeters of cheese turning blue, and then purple, in a refrigerator located in the exact center of a New Jersey garbage dump.
fuckscapes is the espresso spilling from the film producer’s lips and on to the table, and then on to the plush red carpet, and then through the various fibers of the carpet, and then through the floorboards, and then into a basement where a very short man in a Luciferian suit is masturbating while watching the opening scene of Begotten.
fuckscapes is a dog dance at the edge of the volcano, many of which carry rabies, and all of which harbor fleas.
fuckscapes is the fascist orgy taking place on the ship Anubis in which “two of the waiters kneel on deck lapping at the juicy genitals of a blonde in a wine velvet frock, who meantime is licking ardently the tall and shiny French heels of an elderly lady in lemon organza busy fastening felt-lined silver manacles to the wrists of her escort,” etc., and so on, for many, many lines.
fuckscapes is the flag of torn corduroy pants which blows from the pole outside the cave and launches out to the overly-still sea.
fuckscapes is a mystic who believes in nothing.
fuckscapes brings with its several types of noise, some of them with soft pink bellies, others with cracked marble skulls.
fuckscapes about which the 85 year old philosopher Michel Foucault writes while sitting on a beach in northern California: In it “relations between individuals and sexuality are openly and completely reversed, perhaps for the first time; they are no longer characters which are effaced for the benefit of elements, structures or personal pronouns; sexuality moves to the other side of the individual and ceases to be ‘subjectified’…the individual is no more than a pale form which arises for a moment from a great stock that is both stubborn and repetitive. Individuals — the pseudopodia of sexuality, quickly retracted.”
fuckscapes is the Depression-era musical version of Begotten which was only recently discovered in a Finnish mental institution, having for years been used to entertain inmates during quiet time.
fuckscapes is neither foreground nor background nor middle distance.
fuckscapes is the burnt-out ruins of the vantage point.
fuckscapes is The Passion of Marina Abramović as performed in Naples in the early 1970s by a choir of fire ants.
fuckscapes is a conspiracy theory against itself.
fuckscapes is both noun and verb of pig shit, a desert creating its own red light, a mirror exhausted with its own reflection.
fuckscapes is the hip that doesn’t move, covered with summer flies.
fuckscapes is the dinner we can never eat surrounded by the feast we can never leave, cold plates strewn with cold chicken parts, half-conscious gizzards, a lace glove with blood along its fingertips, a warm revolver under each chair.
fuckscapes is about two twins of unknown origin who remove their clothes and stand nude in the doorframe of a bomb shelter waiting for Robert McNamara to stroll by, though he never does.

fuckscapes is Darling Black Francis Candy sitting here on a cement floor, wishing he just had something you wore.  - James Pate

It is difficult to imagine even the most orthodox technophobic hermit not being at least a little afflicted by the smiling, foamed-over corporate sheen that has inundated all aspects of, as we have come to know it, the Americana of our collective minds. Under the guise of political correctness and Disneyfied jabber, sex and violence are openly touted in the form of sleek personal devices and candy-coated web browsers, the pervasive crush of advertising, and "family friendly" network programming projected on the brightest HD screens. Time Square's freakish luminescence foisted in the broadest swashes possible. But for every slicked-down dream of saturation, there exists a vicious underbelly, a realm where seething erotica and brutish misanthropy remain at the forefront of every thought, where the real impulses guiding what has become a truly sinister modernity are lain naked and extracted in chillingly disjointed yet brilliant and indelible detail -- the fuckscapes we are all milked to carry within us. In his eponymous collection of poems, Sean Kilpatrick bravely eviscerates himself by entering this plane head (and cock) first. He returns with a breathless bog of image-ravaged verse, equally remarkable for its zeitgeist-vomiting pervasiveness as for its ability to probe the vilest juxtapositions and emerge with constructions that are as disturbing as they are strangely transcendent. A frantic and complex triumph of transgressive literature.
At first glance, the poems in fuckscapes read like the internal monologue of a dyslexic yet highly imaginative Tourette's sufferer with a dual degree in pop culture and gynecology. Little regard is shown for punctuation or syntax in this stream-of-surreal-blasphemy, where eyelids are fondled by noose aficionados, where guns shoot ejaculate like embalming fluid, where it is perfectly normal for one to ask a colleague to "knife your cum into my sinuses / I will gargle out portraiture of us smiling." Grotesque visions of impossible genital mutilations are as omnipresent as the narrators' delight in infestations of "alzheimer's piping a tangle / humped cute by girljuice nylon." An easily jarred reader might quickly cry misogyny, but Kilpatrick doles out bodily violence on an equal-opportunity scale, featuring psychotic narrators both male and female. Entangled amidst the densely packed verses, and inundated by a constant showering of smegma, sperm, scalps and abortion residue, one cannot help but wonder if we're dealing with full-blown hatred of the highest order, Sartre at his grouchiest with the slick-jawed resolve of a Gen-Y Patrick Bateman. That's too simple. Kilpatrick is providing the reader with a complete, fascinating (albeit highly fucked up) cross-section of the darkest -- and I'd argue, most interesting -- parts of a shared psyche in this far-from-stable era. What impresses me the most about the poet is his ability, in just a few lines, to convey a panorama of searing emotions in a language that is as adventurous as it is sonically beautiful and arresting:
sometimes I pluck my castration stitches like a banjo
whispers groin the chord of every scar
called wife may all her cancer be inoperable
whose pubic straw about such talking flexes
I built this house whose tongue along bright slithers
come speech impediment louder than bible
session sneeze until my wounds reopen
wallpaper cunt in envious spit the glory
of marriage all its bureaucratic fluid exchange
loving someone is a fearful routine

It's all here -- fear of death, emasculation, loss of identity, the politics of romantic entanglements and the frustration they cause, the strokes of disjointed-life-as-squalor told in the confusion in which it's lived. Read aloud. It rolls.
In a collection so dismissive of formal construction within the verses themselves, Kilpatrick takes delight in messing with a wide variety of both surprisingly classic and raucously post-postmodern forms: his twisted dabbling in scatological odes, all-caps text message conversations in which one person reminds the other "YOU'RE NEARLY PAST YOUR ROCK STAR DEATH DATE," court transcripts "covered in his AIDS dance screaming someone else's name," cover letters admitting to mannequin rape, short plays that bemoan and demolish a not-so-young-anymore generation without a clue as to "why we collectively never produce or contribute." These variations and amalgamations maintain a commonality in relentlessness, the same bullet-blasted tone, aspects of some of the most vicious and ingrained cycles in humanity's current mire. The choice to position the "plays" as the very last pieces in the book is, for me, an apt one, as they fully encapsulate the unique realm and mantra oozing uncontrollably from Kilpatrick's fingers. The message, if there is one, may be one not easily digested by your average American escapist junkie: that the culture-mongers have already succeeded in creating a state of surface-level passive numbness, where the unsavory but vital emotions and bodily functions are utterly repressed and left to simmer, allowing monsters to grow, unchecked in the undercarriage. Perhaps the poet is imploring us (smartly) to peel back the exposed flesh and release the festering energy, to embrace the notion that denial is something to be screamed at and stomped out at all costs. That salvation might only be possible by embracing the fuckscapes, both personal and collective, that lurk in even the most outwardly chaste mind. After all, "Suicide is the only option. Whether you commit it or not." -    Chris Vola     

'Reagan invented crack deep within his racist bowels, pummeling his vagina with a log, shellacking his penis with Russia, his bullet wounds sporting wigs of diamond. He lives the century backward from all saying, is all about turning the skyline his. The cult of Reagan explodes litter from every hole, super-sized and baying the dust of queens, a doo-wop monarchy ripe with frowns, a dollhouse built of cocaine. Our desks are full of the blisters our halos said. Reagan carried out abortions with his stride, updated the bible with quarantines about himself. Reagan fucked his jewelry and had it killed. Reagan is behind the chatty nature of every drug. The yeast beneath his wrinkles is the twenty-first century’s calendar.

'We are the speech of sutures. We have missiles in our hug.

'Our flag is made of scars. We worship our own corpses instead of singing songs.

'Our poems are lice in the eyes of prosperity and culture.

'Our poems won’t survive: the rat trap stuck on a wet jacket of skin. Trailed through the kitchen, in a V of blood, the rat twitching, muscular system exposed, three feet away, dead but free, pointless effort, but amazing, a genius magic trick we bow to, the artist on the tile.

'We coddle our waste by ranking it. There is no hierarchy in a coffin.

'Pussyfooters of snark, academic wine aficionados tied callow by their stringy balls, the Reich of snoozy nitpicks, to the pissy art of edifice, ideals baked gimpy by courts, courts and their parasitic pews, the pious and ordained, to the clock for being slow – may you all be granted lives long beyond living.

'Save for the flail and its evening, our shedding gasoline in expensive rooms, the vulnerable and their beautiful hate, the hate that grins, for the bullet and its path, for Columbine and Christmas, for crack and all its fucked helicopters that let one see, for the rat glowing outside its skin, the lush bounce our heads piffle, for the audience of cuticles, we grow vast inside our blood.

'Now the graft whittles loose by the noise of its being snorted, borrows everything we love and performs arson in the gradation of its own jury’s severed wet.

'The smoke rising from us is our property.' -- Sean Kilpatrick

from FUCKSCAPES

A man strangles a woman. She is lifted into the air. Their bodies lit, frozen. These are paintings wobbling on a series of backdrops, actors' heads poking through.
MAN: I'd like to get to know you. If that's okay. I'll fetch myself wrecked by movement. Treasure you about an inch. I'll ruin your sense of alarm. I'm building a home of every sneak you snuck, dude. Where I rid you of bitchiness with a single tusk. You give snippets of approval here and there just to keep me conscientious. (Small explosion). I bow through your moods ready to reply. Are you self-conscious about your body? Spaces don't count if they haven't been torn there. That pussy claps around. An altar for crime, my crimes, mega-plural. They start when I wake up. Approximate the joke. No, someone looking good as you ain't required to contribute. (Explode). I hug you a lot. You get annoyed because I'm kind of silly and your disappointed expectations have turned you constantly quite serious. Cute toenails. I cheat on you with the television. A man does not love outside whatever maximizes relaxation. Screen the socket where my nuts guess. Objective distance quells you. I always keep within my rights. Still, I sleet apologies. (Explode). Offspring, build a roster. Basically garage my expellant. Our chum silent bitch-girl. Her groin is ours recycled. Mmm, sliding contour through feigned darks. We are the proud infectors of a life. My main job: jabber everything's okay. Nothing's been okay since the big bang. Anyway, roll baptismal juice fallow districts from change. Bomb the new. I believe in free assisted suicides for everyone who shakes my hand. I believe outside my house is all pennies. Step back, my hygiene dines on itself. I liposuction our crabs because they touch. You hike into nests. (Her period covers his arm). Aw, love every pain you've had. I swaddle your feces. I'm a flea jockeyed in your stoma twenty-four seven. Pagan in that feed. The testimony of everything right about being alive becomes activated the moment you flinch.
WOMAN: Boy, I'm the calamity being said. Note the sorry varnish. Note your propensity for shrinking. All this would and could. Such male tutelage ralphing its own veneer. Now let me visit gravity as a second pan full of tame spitties spat by saying rawr. You poorly steer the immaculate. You're an ingrown patient beeping his Hot Wheels. Plus, the ceiling's dirty. Plus, I shower in your tools. Hello! I give out the belly buttons here, fuck-flak. Men pass through my prayers throat-banged by mountainous clit. Meanwhile, your every succinct point gets clenched through my halo. When I rip loose our little boy he's going to wear each dress I hate until his peener swabs the deck. I keep snoring through the trial they'll give me for his death. Men who best themselves at love equal unvacuumed fetus I've yet to huff. Oh, and all silence is not stoic. Yours feels practiced. Set me over by my flowers. They tell me what to do. They span the gimmie gimmie this home constantly booms. This home, this home! I've planned an escape from debt so fucking long I've learned to despise whoever hands me gifts. I'll tangle your daydream. We'll pursue drawn-out deaths. 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. Where are all the self-improvement books I keep molesting you with? Why don't their clipped paragraphs line your unhygienic foreskin? But I do enjoy being an object bound higher than maybe television. I have good stories. I'm shiny. I have relatives that hate you and give off radiation. Your unfulfilled needs afford my every strength. Looky-look, I'm your gunky dame, like, bondage is over. I can sit through anything you try. Thus I'm better organized than all beliefs. Not much will do. At least I conquer. All the way Disney.
Man bent behind another, arm inserted to the shoulder. 
PENETRATOR: Knock the hum. Out your boo-boos. Juice those jammies. Help the labyrinth hail gloom. Oh, fully your son back here. The buck-most baby left a precipice. You ate something angry. Will Adorno fan the pretty-please? I see heaven and nickels. My knuckle-bones shimmy heinous, such mousetraps, yum, shelters grown cowardly never yawn. I pet pink a muscle, velvety, ravenous, ha. The glow I've been chasing since adolescence let me down. Fast rivets soupfly our knowing. I'm mom twice over. Ha to the strings. Ha to all who scowl behind aesthetics. I stage your surgery mid-air. Born wearing the same hat, we make starving decadent. One last uppercut and love turns us blonde. Fuck the ruler. I am inches crowned. I'm the only stump your function has. Every stretch of ground I've faked walking. Industry in a handful. How's my tickle? Trench the shock further adjectives, slick-ticker. Fulminate platform diabolical hymen, my tin grip, all Frankenstein claiming pets, pet, kitty likes. What's the horrible thing say? A whisper or crouch? Bunch of sanguine fur shitting heresy? My fillings ejaculate gosh-like metals. Mommy won't buy anymore puppets to cripple, help the car keep breathing, fend off those college loans, scooch sweet conjecture. I haven't let ventriloquism mean everything outside our place not my retracting cuticles. Tap, tap, tap, blood pressure's here. He needs a caning from your smoke. Beloved cluck, hammers never shush. I love you lacking stricture. I love you faster than coffee.
PENETRATED: Roadrunner deep, bowels for season, for the cancer I know you are, loping assward through shelter, for that shelter's loss, everyone's loss so always. Bask in my gobble, basketball the gulp sixty kilometers, seventy – the bong you can't share. If you think for a second I will sneeze and break your arm. It will be blown off the planet unloved and sizzle nightly in the sun's paler pussy. Everyone is a ladle for mistakes and I am them. Be the wizard of my dong's removal, because it would take fucking days, then sip near the tippy-hole, going: wishes hurt! What hurts: being groped or being fed? The night you turned over in your sleep and I ran toward you screaming was our last shared experience. I tan your osmosis, dissipating your reach. Careful, there are scraggily broads bicycling the sunset through suburbia like white-flight orbs rewound. Happy worth seeks its kind. Privilege withdraws, especially from me. Still, I am a man unarmed against the diplomacy of his own tang. I am newspaper hollow. Hen fucked. An anti-beard. Be my eyes Mohammedan laughter? Psh. Ask Vlad, nothing manufactured visits my tum. My sonnets victimize the phone book. I'm the kind of friend that comes with technical support. I have arms like a dentist. Ways you can't clobber. I sense fat before I'm near it and smile in any situation. My pre-cum feels vintage. Post like Formica. I speak a thousand languages per sentence. This is working out.

Ode to Lynndie England By Sean Kilpatrick

Praise She Luciferian Wombat Goddess
Who molested our birth certificate so we could age
Drove a unicycle up our foreskin to explain what dangles
She taught us leukemia secrets carved party hats into our hats
No one complains with a cumshot my address is most half loved men
We could smell our brains in the rejected pale we gave the dresser every sleeve
Met other hallelujahs in the salve and avoided phones out of self-defense
Mommy of stereos barking mouthwash at our jeans
Silent disemboweler of smooches how clouds disguise the planet
Her period contorts our eyes like player pianos crucified by seeing
O lost egg of Satan the pill we grew our tongues for breathing is a last resort
In the cannibal dingy our grand odors for a nattier Christ
Whose Sistine anus squeezes epic babies from the rain
Wills bladders with Nazi crayons weeping gold
Regardless the bastard sores a fancy masochist chats nonstop
We calamity goons showpony our bling hint rubble necklaces hum
Dickclamp memories shucks about everything shucks about life
A squeeze of chemical precision files obituaries down to trophies
She hasn’t opened her pores in twenty years to sweat cream-slick
Like a gravity of hornets in our cystoscope malfunctioning flowers
Hustle to bloat plant the knife wrist to happy tremble the prostate fatter glees
The rope shat from Mother around our neck in the shape of a heart
As the girls starve we keep their showers warm as the till box
Becomes lush with freckles we peer review big-ass wounds

You’re all senators to me senator

She of American     garbage betrayed     by her separate arms     calling tornados
Barbie     satellites     big-tooth jello     a pond-scum of bosses     lived her smile
pumped game in trailers     boys administering itsy foam     roaches petted the floor
perfumed leathers gleamed     molecular     measured her untucked maidenhead
a tag for no use     voodoo bust chafing     masturbating to the weather channel
dynamite regulated her puberty     a Boy George kind of night     from tree house
to honky tonk marriage     she did laundry like Satan     or hid dreams in meat
all who postured grit     missed good neurons     mean games of footsie
dressed up as Mark Twain     dust of hickeys     an almost mother’s pucker
squatted over mirrors     sorting the stillborn     gender from her whip  
scooting three saintly     haystacks over     she stuck the storm
eyes worn fancy     tampon for the drill     she straightened a mouse maze
with her germs     helped gravity become humungous     G-force was handy
saddled a friend     baby chickens     giggling sexless hymns     torn
nine to five     barked at rivers     her revenge to knit endlessly
awesome tradition     brassiere stank like pig sex     bruised tattoos     manning up
heavy sinew     collided dandruff     like lollipops of church     the daisy gnome
supple guardian     pimento gal of much recession     the pinups had Chlamydia  
jump ropes in their underwear     sang icy of high school     ate lunch with the alpha
broadbanger     pubes stuck in his burger     they collected blood alimonies
her piss let hens breathe     she had this hyper sensitive skill     little advertised
showed the stripe     huts smaller than a fingernail     clue of bowels
imagine tattling how deserts vibrate     no one ever noticed     caucasians in the sand
thought of concrete     munched eight hours      thought of collocating flesh     thumbs up
jerked her face a second corner     sir that shit’s a triangle     a tangled pyramid of butt
he flossed her sourballs with a textbook     she posed gloat     quicktime motherfucker
broke the corpse thumbs     to show them nicer     stress positions     the petite furnace
giggled nasty yoga     her baby curdled forth     in slaughter she knew
weeping fat cabbages     for safe order     bland S&M     front page nothing
the dogs were peeping     flat Valhallas     directions for their own hair
prayed in jail kitchens     sat free at bars     hunching bung     hero of getting named


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


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 (from fuckscapes)

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 (from fuckscapes)

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


CPR: An excerpt from your poem “victimolgy” from your book fuckscapes that came out earlier this year will be featured in the 25th issue of Columbia Poetry Review. Could you discuss your process for crafting this piece?
Sean Kilpatrick: Yessir, this poem is composed of the few somewhat better lines taken from discarded poems over the years yanked through their stoma into an also ugly composite both pining and Pantera-esque; no girls I like like me. The woman this might be about turned psychologist.
CPR: I’m intrigued by your answer because I was curious as to how much emphasis you place on revision in your work. I am also interested in the tension you create using sexuality/gender. Can we talk about that? Can we talk about the cover of fuckscapes? There’s definitely some dominance being asserted there, no? Porno facials and stuff.
SK: Full emphasis on revision, hurt the piece. I want fuckscapes cut so bad it thinks sleep’s too dark. I’m trying for these poems as Lara Glenum’s mashed with and warring Gordon Massman’s offspring’d with Blake Butler’s heart, Danielle Pafunda’s knife, and Johannes Göransson is Lord. I was lucky to land David Peak and Ben Spivey’s Blue Square Press. Ken Baumann’s cover is the perfect beauty. Being amalgam, my poems here can’t dominate from their lack. It’s through hatred alone that they anywhere become. My voice wants for hate from rejected worship, weak and simple, scat about the clothes. Nothing can be dominated from below. The violent tone, as it is much meant, and therefore unfriendly reading, comes from a past of having too much loved the wrong people. All movement means porno. Do cumshots subordinate their landing space? I always fluke my origin where without casting. Ah, but if poetry could retaliate.
CPR: Some seem to revel in their drenching, a give-and-take kind-of worship. The right person’s rubbing petroleum jelly into their face somewhere waiting. Anywho, This hate that your voice wants is evident and presented in such a way that some would call fuckscapes absurdist. Do you consider yourself an absurdist? How does the term “language poetry” hit the gut in your pecker? Is this kind of name calling helpful or damaging?
SK: Any damage is radiant. I crave that absurd mantle. Going outside equals absurd. Some people pretend their pieces ain’t using language – wows my prostate. Oprah wins. Writers have a causeless pincer. We’re together at the bottom. fuckscapes addresses holes and peckers addressing. Pointless, yes. Absurd for absurd sake, please. Is the writer implicated, a wrongness? Appearing to goddamn ever win? I hope the work never in any method wins. I am implicated negative in its composure. How is the poet’s well being possible once? Better bowing in the worst said, away from reason, stupid. There’s our collective suffered sex.
CPR: My prostate wows with yours in classrooms. You’re in the MA program at Eastern Michigan University where you also edit BathHouse Journal. What’s the scene, both in the classroom and at BathHouse? Have you found value in the program?
SK: College for poesy’s rarely worth debt. Eastern’s program, however, has an abnormal focus in the avant garde, probably my only academic chance, and Christine Hume is amazing. Elsewise, my stint at BathHouse Journal was compromised. Yet worth the handful of folks I was put in contact with and admire. I need a job. No hope.
CPR: Do you think the current literary scene is accepting of the avant garde? What journals/magazines rev your libido? Also, sentence: friend or foe? What sets of compromises did you face specifically at BathHouse Journal? I want as much dirt as you’re comfortable slinging.
SK: I have no bitch for magazines. So many fuck, avant garde or not. Look at that No Colony and that New York Tyrant and that Unsaid and that Fence and that Boston Review and that Annalemma, that Sleepingfish, that Everyday Genius, that Hobart, Juked, Spork, Tarpaulin Sky, Opium, Salt Hill. Look at that master Matt Bell doing that Collagist. That Mud Luscious. That Wave Books. Look at that Action Books as upon god. Even Poetry Magazine put out that brilliant Patricia Lockwood, which means they know. I gush for the sentence, but my prose is slow. No bad pee for BathHouse Journal now, just didn’t get all my pickies picked; enough good that it feels sexy, including yourself.
CPR: Awww, thanks man. Putting together a magazine with so many different and strong minded people challenges a slack jaw, yes it does. You grew up in and around Detroit. Has place played a role in your language/attitude/overall badassness?
SK: Grew up in a moderate Detroit ghetto by Seven Mile. I do scant direct autobiography. I hope to write an absurdist memoir, go after the old personal voice people fetishize. Plays an itsy roll in the language maybe. Can be fun to discuss, getting one’s ass in a continual rock-stoned and beat through babyhood. Helped humble and I recommend. I know people would benefit. A fun brag at the littlest. Maybe my blood-focus, misanthropy, and nihilism originate here. I am grateful. As a white person, I take without consequence. Luckily poetry has no consequence. It has a lot of white people trying to siphon who or who doesn’t have privilege and what that means and what what means. Who the fuck cares what any white person has to say about politics or class-systems or crossing the street? Who the fuck tittles their verse. Serious serious serious serious.
CPR: I grew up around the same area and even before the crash of ’08, it always felt like a dying thing, robust in its decay. But living in Chicago now, I find myself sticking up for the area when some yuppie fed with a golden spoon starts the dis. So for me, I feel some allegiance with the city in terms of its existence in a marginalized sense. Brunch isn’t as big there. So, besides the hopeful job getting after you graduate, any major plans?
SK: We’re in the decay club. Hard not to recognize yuppie-ness as the worst crime where we been, or anything anyone does who breathes. I hate stuff not previously exploded. Applying to community colleges now. Edited a devotional slash psychology manuscript. What do you plan after Columbia? Which future isn’t suicide? I’m writing a book with my boo Elizabeth Mikesch and another (very slowly, my fault) with Sam Pink, a poetry manuscript implicating my anus as its own race, maybe gender, and a short novel five years in.
CPR: After I finish up with Columbia teach I guess…community college instead. But I want to live in Alaska for a year, too, and get a backyard somewhere to bbq some meat and poems in this fashion and have people love me. I admire the risks you take in your writing. When you sit down to compose a piece, what is at stake?
SK: First I inflate my cushion. Pop the wine. Ponder some fashionable crit. Random book reviews loving yet stern. Insert monocle with KY. Crack each knuckle, a forty minute process. Then I endeavor to change the world by humming a thought loose. Yes, the world goes purr and I blink. Usually lost is a square centimeter of my prepuce. Really the starving find themselves full by the closer. My consecutive hugs assist. Ah, but my alphabet is the loss of everyone who’s touched me. So the groins.
CPR: Any good movies/tv/music/artists etc. that inspire you? Oooooo sorry for jumping around but I just remembered I wanted to ask you about Anatomy Courses, a collaboration with Blake Butler. How did this go down, i.e. who decided to initially start the project? What was the process?
SK: Movies get my butter. Here’s who’ve kept me alive: Gaspar Noé, Andrzej Żulawski, David Lynch, Seijun Suzuki, Luis Buñuel, the movie Little Murders. Blake Butler as well. We started talking when I submitted to Lamination Colony around 2007. He suggested we write and sent the first page. He writes fast and best. To keep pace, I bathed in meth. Lots of rewriting for the slightest approach of me to his genius. We found Satan. Cameron Pierce, Lazy Fascist Press, beautified it, amazing cover by Matthew Revert.
CPR: Yes, the cover is good to look at. Sean, I want to thank you for taking the time to answer my questions. I look forward to your future work. Any last thoughts? Thanks again, my penis thanks you as well for the excitement.
SK: Thank you, goodsir, really appreciate it. Wanted to thank James Greer and Chris Vola for their wonderful kind reviews of fuckscapes.
Posted on 24.04.2012

Post by cjacobs - blogs.colum.edu/


Sean Kilpatrick & Blake Butler, Anatomy Courses, Lazy Fascist Press, 2012.

Writing is built from words. It seems so obvious, but it’s not something we typically consider when reading. The words serve a utilitarian purpose designed to convey an intention separate from the words. We may consider words as a conduit between expression and understanding. We learn to absorb the written form in an incomplete way. Rather than focus on each syllable we recognise key patterns and fill in a lot of blanks. If we knew just how little we actually read, we’d likely be astounded. A key function of poetry is the destabilisation of the pattern. It is an acknowledgement of the inadequacy of the words when it comes to the conveyance of emotion. It deliberately slows us down, encouraging us to experience the word on a microscopic level. We are the walls we scream at.
The surgical-neat tucks of him slick with our lapping quivered out the undigested snacks he often hid from mother sometimes whole and we made bland faces picking jalapeño pepper from our teeth. The father’s diarrhea was our only travel.
I had reservations about writing a review of Anatomy Courses by Blake Butler and Sean Kilpatrick because I designed the jacket. I was concerned it may throw up a conflict of interest. While it’s true that I had nothing to do with this book existing, it is in my interest to have my design work in the hands of as many people as possible. I (clearly) decided to proceed for one simple reason – this is an important book. It represents bravery on behalf of the authors and (especially) the publisher, Lazy Fascist. It requires the reader to disregard the learned patterns mentioned above.
The sermon graft had been recoiled, my thorax funnelled into delusion locations, sold at fractions of their worth. The audience of dead sperm children crowded turkey too. Teeth white as corpse glue. We had forgot how to unwin.
Blake Butler and Sean Kilpatrick are young authors from America. Butler has garnered attention for uncompromising books such as Scorch Atlas and, more recently, Nothing: A Portrait of Insomnia. Kilpatrick is an author I am unfamiliar with beyond a story in Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens. While Butler’s past books may tend toward the difficult at times, Anatomy Courses raises the bar. We’re in a different world here. Subtitled ‘A Skin Dictionary’, Anatomy Courses is an electric shock through the body of written language.
The father chiseled my cock from the freezer, crooning: darn skin ain’t no shrine. The kitchen crusty weep. Pedro stuck a dildo in my heart. I sprang, fluting his. A hole chipped perfect blue from piss-colander. The motherjowls’ fluent eras. The father rattled my snow between his tooth, trying to drown. He did the saddest beatbox.
While Anatomy Courses may be a team effort, the results are singular, suggesting a symbiotic connection between Butler and Kilpatrick. One almost senses this piece started as a writing exercise and evolved into so much more. Discussing a narrative isn’t a sensible way to approach this book. There are re-occurring themes and motifs, but there is no standard reference point to guide the reader through the experience. There’s a pornographic attention to the body, both within and without, and many allusions to abuse. It’s as if Butler and Kilpatrick’s intention is to dismantle the body via a dismantling of language – a dismantling of reason.
When the noustache-broke-in-gravy came out reeking origin I longed for whatever wasn’t in the room with me on the rare occasions waking up became insulin. I poked the dreamy pimples clogging the father’s big vas.
And in subverting language to this extent, an interesting truth emerges. The chaos the thrives in the heart of us all is laid bare. We are meat and waste. We oscillate between instinct and civility. Anatomy Courses manifests reader discomfort not so much because of the fractured prose, but because of the selves we see within it. It’s not hard to envision ourselves crawling through the piss and the shit of the life we’d create were we not subject to learned reason. We see our basest selves. We become what we flush down the toilet – what we fear in the inscrutable darkness.
Sometimes I say cunt just to say cunt, the father shouted, stalling. His Duck Head shorts in semen tint. He’d wipe his ass on every wedding’s diamond. Today I can’t reach through the TV.
The book is divided into many short… I wouldn’t call them chapters… more recommended serving sizes. Each chapter is broken down into smaller, individual passages. Their juxtaposition embodies an instinctual narrative thrust. How Anatomy Courses is deciphered is up to the reader. Butler and Kilpatrick offer no suggestions - the writing is it what it is. The level of work required will likely put many people off. In dissecting and absorbing the prose, you can devote much time to the pure experience of word combinations and imagery. Your flow will be interrupted by the linguistic hurdles placed along the path.
The fathersoda fizzled sphincter in faltering designs, in increasingly poor imitation of the rings of his unique sphincter. Balling plastic piled trails we kept secret.
I highly recommend Anatomy Courses. It’s book at war with the foundation of which the written form is founded upon – language. In the midst of this war, language is forced to bend to what Butler and Kilpatrick require, while at the same time, Butler and Kilpatrick are bound to what the language requires. Screaming means more than any word.
Anatomy Courses by Blake Butler and Sean Kilpatrick is available now, from Lazy Fascist Press. Pick up a copy if you’re in the mood for a challenge. - Matthew Revert

Anatomy Courses, a combo effort by gifted young writers Blake Butler and Sean Kilpatrick, is unlike anything I’ve read. Published by one of the best publishing houses you’ve probably never heard of, Lazy Fascist Press, this small book is a one-stop destination for readers wondering where modern literature is and where it’s heading.
The cover design is gorgeous, conjuring up a sixties-style look. The vintage, well-worn trade paperback, almost textbook, look is a refreshing change to the current fad of either over-the-top imagery dominating the cover or mismatching texts strewn about haphazardly. It’s as subtly captivating as the text within, something that’s become synonymous with the press.
A disclaimer is in order: I’ve never read anything by Kilpatrick before, but I’m a huge fan of Butler, devouring each new work as soon as it’s released. My expectations were high going in, but the idea of co-authorship concerened me. The last, and really only, book I can remember enjoying that was written by two authors was And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks, the long-lost treasure pulled from the archives of William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac.
But I worry too much. This book f*cked me up. In a good, nervous, maybe-literature-isn’t-dead kind of way. I hit the book back. Gave it my best shot. I made copious notations on almost every page. The text required a rereading of lines, a dissection of sentences, and the emotions that bubbled up as a result of them. I read it in one sitting, put it down and went on with my life. But then, words, phrases started repeating themselves in my head. I came back to the book for a second time in as many days. That’s the strength of the writing:
The father spent the next decade stitched into the underbelly of all laughter, sucking the pulp out of a picture of the glitched child I’d most wanted in me always and could not phrase.”
The book never lets up, never relents. It didn’t allow me a chance to collect my thoughts, or theirs. The methodical madness that is these artfully constructed sentences left me in a hypnotic haze. It challenged me to reimagine what fiction could do, what it was capable of. This book will stay with me for awhile, haunting me, challenging me to find another of its equal. Chances are I won’t.
The mother slowdanced through the kitchen with my last precious end-the-baby hanger flexed to ribcage my winter coat —the coat I wore to prom the year the DJ licked the vinyl, then my hand, and lashed together we watched the men snort baby powder of the popped condoms of our songs. You could count the hard-ons with a mallet.
You don’t need a clever teaser or a well written plot synopsis for this book. You just need to read it. With this work, Butler has reaffirmed his status as one of the most talented writers in the game. It also gave me a surprising look into the mind of another burgeoning star in Sean Kilpatrick. I came into this book with one favorite writer, someone who I automatically bought their newest release. I left with two.—Patrick Trotti

Monkeybicycle: Anatomy Courses is listed on the front cover as “A Skin Dictionary.” What is a skin dictionary?
Blake Butler: I don’t know what it is, I have no idea, I can’t even begin to think of it, I don’t know and hope I never do, maybe I hope I do, I don’t know really, I think it’s something about vision and digestion, or about wolves wearing tiaras.
Sean Kilpatrick: Language as loss, thankful alienation, suicide alphabet, lover’s piss, limbic hex, nihilist pap smear, migraine telepathy, text against nature, hatred as principle consciousness, spasm over context.
Mb: On his blog, Blake announced the release of this title saying “Many thanks to Cameron Pierce for releasing this slim strange book I never thought would be released.” What did you question about the potential publication of Anatomy Courses?
BB: I just didn’t think anyone would ever want to do it, we live in America.
SK: The collective need to parse. People who scrub themselves with meaning. The delicately optimistic, the political, the canon, people who survive, parlay, dissect, go outside, have working colons, have anything but enemas for eyes, know what’s right, are above, the pious and sneering rest, brood hustlers.
Mb: You are listed as co-authors of Anatomy Courses, but there is no indication in the book of who wrote what, and the voices seem indistinguishable from one another. Can you talk to us about how this book was written, what the process was like?
BB: I pretended to be Sean and Sean pretended to be me and this was our method of cybersexing over an 11 month period because we could not actually fuck.
SK: We pulled a train. Our train abstracted vinegar with us.
Mb: Anatomy Courses has a vocabulary full of the scatological, the sexual, the medical, and other disease ridden bouts of linguistics, yet the language seems easy, flowing. How do you achieve this feat, writing both in this vernacular and also writing in one voice, using two writers?
BB: Neither of us is really a writer, more like two big holes with holes inside them, it was easy that way, it was like crying and spitting up into a bag and then carrying that bag around with you for the aforementioned 11 months and putting anything you didn’t want to put into it into it.
SK: I misrapped my cramps. It was time to time them. He influenced the salt of my discourse. He got a style that touch you where.
Mb: Anatomy Courses takes us alongside a father and a mother and a baby(ies), all of which are constant references or images in your writing. Why are these figures so important, and do you think they will always be so significant to your work?
BB: I’ve never thought about it and don’t plan to.
SK: I see maybe less the figure than the engine condensed. Trying to dodge through the sentence without shaking hands or that it happens alone. This phrase New Extremity is in my tickle. Trying to lose something here. As long as it’s not liked. Those who puppet their title.
Mb: You each have previous books, but we’d love to know what is next for each of you. Can you share with us what your individual writerly futures hold?
BB: Rub my face on a lot of different kinds of buffet glass, lie on some floors a lot, get several haircuts, grow more hair, touch machines.
SK: 3 more collaborations, 2 prose books, 2 poem books, then to chum eventual purchase with some lord.




SPURIOUS ONE-MAN LOBOTOMY WITH CLIPPED INQUISITION
by Sean Kilpatrick & Daniel St. George 2nd


ONE SASHAY IN JENNIFER


Jaded are my souvenirs, for they swell beyond the festivals where I tout them.
Um, soiled assassins are beautiful wearing the genocide they traveled to find me, but that’s love.
My arm is a contra for justice that injures the poor.
I mail sorcerers earfuls of misery, of hate—who value the confinement of my monocle!
You fashionable perverts fair well at the spirit crap because no wife is humane. I’ve dipped a stranger’s sores in my fat; they require brute force because I love them.
Not playing lacrosse indicates you must shine apples using Jesus or be forced to renounce the glorious suckle crime brings. Jesus sucked the crime from apples.
And the prime idiot resides on your tax form under sign here.
Or the deer will drive suave tractors and point and you will know their reach beyond any chef’s ability to fester your resplendent, pickled gums.
I am cleft of the charities that birthed me. Any whiff of rape inspires.
Your restored hyenas, etc…, they pivot like demons without ego, captain.
Ah! The trollop has a pencil. Conjure some attendance for my tiny itch, mister Satan, or I’ll quiz your beard. I am a civilian with paraplegic instructions yelling hard-ons back down, so sayeth this damn humble carny.

From “Transliterate mistranslations” of Arthur Rimbaud’s Une Saison En Enfer by Sean Kilpatrick


Selections from Sucker June 

Touching outside involves less god. The river where I drown for thirty miles every night, huddled zigzag between fists in an ugly tickle, crowds of men seen pummeling slant from the bank, where my sockets ruckus pure money with the ancestors of whatever sex destroys me, chewing sediment toward China, hunkering through methods that heighten the land, disappeared splash by splash, an epilepsy of hue so tight I skip myself sore around spunk buoyancies. My absenteeism is symptomatic of my being there. In the stasis my blood refrains; combing the skin above until fire. Every nanosecond fluctuates overlapping hatreds so immense—and then little glances happen and I want to get married, someone pets me and I reconsider procreation, someone stands up and I want to slit their ballsac, shivers when I brush their hair, I want to bunch off all their skin and roll around in it, gives me some laconic refusal and I want to prove the world is flat, but not really. I call my period back from limbo, back from starvation, whisper the egg out of hiding and it sits up purring without nuisance of gravity, thighs spider webbing, black months reverse. The gush heats my esophagus, revolving downward, traceable on the glow of my birth marks, stains that mean put me back in, my ribs box the revolving cramp and I flap my arms to help inch belly upside down, dilated red, lips parting reflexively, sprinkling a baby no one might be cruel enough to raise. Better in town square, or on the floors of schools disassembled by movement. I am a parasite and I miss my host. I miss not having been born yet. Their unzipped pants taste of gas. They roll me in the balled hide of a screaming animal. The drool I hover with reflects me. Horsefly stung cataracts slapped down, scooting terror, sees the grass mashed fuck to soup and me humping on it: ass and folds. Folds chasing folds shiver off, muscular system exposed, shiny fat, wrapped in our own flay and squirting dermis, whining louder with each mouthful, blood dizzy and wedged maggots feed each shivering hunk, rowed through the plaster with torn placement, our doggy blanket drying slowly. All tomorrow I sneeze Flintstones Vitamins wrapped in fur. My wrecked circulation, so many veins the light, now blue, chaws inside a mother sound fainting forward.

Baby Bitch
“Your baby bitch weakness is never as cute an unreasonable defense as you think, especially when you’re off speed. If your tricks rather called you ugly, instead of letting you, in false modesty, say it first, they would then adorn you beyond your tiny comprehension, and you’d have to fill your own cunt with substance.” He placed my wounds like a petty savior, closing one eye, staring down the still unfolding prim and slick haltered tucks of where I land. He’s sucked my clit in a thought bubble all day. Now sweat lamps our torsos, public slime, conducted chafing. He slaps an extension cord through my come. “At some point we’ll miss each other, lick the wall socket.” I leak ounces of water I’ve eaten for the last week. He stirs, punches his tongue up my ass, cooing me close to an almost throb, floating inside gooey suction, his fingers v-shaped, compressing my clit, stuck out, elastic. Wound around thick calibration, I contract and lock tight enough for him to slam pathways. Our hips ache rhythm, my legs thrown, an afterthought. We bake through so much friction the house leans. I plug my hand into my mouth and shrink, organs choking into a suffocated spasm around his cock. We let go, pulse, vision loss, screaming in our skins, his tip audibly whacking my cervix like a rewound car accident. Our hearts tamper fabulous congruities. Body language is the one form of communication I keep finding myself trapped in and liking, so saying hi is hard. I quietly become a man under the sheets. I slip into cumy boxers and do hot dog rotations, make the sheets rise like something’s there, extend my good confidence to the world, focus on the limitations of my length and how to hide. Because he stretches out my undersized panties, folded into them like an after sex magic show, I assume his genitalia, no longer accomplishing that grotesque male bounce and flap, are inch by inch retracting into egg sac. I’ll have his musk by the time he’s awake. He’ll cream himself flowery and miss my big holy penetration. My fucking him leaves an imprint, an echo of cock he reverberates in girly sing-song. He contains my puddle, flutters around, dripping me. The physical memory lasts longer than he cares to think. He is sore and angry for being sore and mocks my enormous protuberance under red sore sheets, pretending to be me before on to the next breeching, which occurs in possibly five minutes. I finish ogling transvestite me, with my Rocky Horror hands, though I disagree with leather, unless it is in my mouth. I show Canada my tits. I live in a Japanese closet. I sneeze Algerian sperm. I log online and talk about dead dogs. I make phone calls and text messages and type in the instant message hatebox. I tap a telegraph on the small of my back, spread my legs around a smoke signal, take cell phone pictures, send them to a girl who tongues my ass, a boy with gout, a child with clap, a transvestite who takes notes, people in Hong Kong circle jerking in the middle of a crowded street, posted on the blog with pubic hair font. A guy from Sacramento is crying on my voicemail. I film my feet for someone in Kansas, toes wrinkling hello. I attend a webcam orgy, choking myself with my bra. I laugh asking if father catches feast in my diaphragm. He died in childbirth. Literally, he’s negative seven years old. His prick looks like a coat hanger. Boything from Colorado wants to watch me piss on cam. Girlcreature from school asks what drugs her boyfriend stuffed me with. LSD suppositories and I got pyrotechnic groin trauma. So he shampooed your cunt for CNN? Acronyms are hot. I’ll punch your clit later. LOL. I type upside down in the hatebox, legs over the chair top like white feathers that hate themselves. I invented wingspan. I’m typing I fucked your mom over and over to my own screen name. I answer my cell and continue an online conversation mid-sentence. The television is loud enough to upset my stomach. I hold music to my ear and type with one finger and yell “What!” into the phone while performing on cam, taking another picture, switching the lights on and off with my toe.

Graveyard
I hump the graveyard so bodies fizz. Their stains grow inside me. Exhaling into the corpse dirt above each grave, a lick of something molded dry inside my thought. I kill the hot end of a cigarette on my nipple, leaving white scars dividing the pink like a second nipple failing to begin. In a minute the world can turn your crucifixion runny. My scraped tits bobbling clay, retarded putty sucked by all. I want to get my gang rape on. Fill up a small closet with my blood. Comb it out of me, enough to paint a house. I’m too far up my own rashes to hear. My genitalia need constant sensory information. It’s how I can tell where I’m going half the time. I miss the ex who smoked my vulva like a bong. He spent a lot of time down there with a flashlight, being religious. That kind of spatial misconception is common amongst the devoted. For instance, when I’m five years old, I fall down trying to grab the moon. I want to use it to shave my legs. I miss a version of the future invented for my sorry inclusion. The particular slapped-tall ostrich pounce these fuckers ritualize. I am too far splayed again by hands.


HONEY NOISE & CRACKHEAD MANIFESTO By Sean Kilpatrick

dot gray

The mechanization of noise, industrial revolution to tiny computers clucking handheld racket, acts as full aggressor for the conglobation of art now. Speed and factory progress what’s modern: the fragment, being caught off guard. Russolo classifying screeches, Ball inventing speed metal, Duchamp violating the staircase’s history with skins, Marinetti’s guillotine autos stomaching his will, cars a holocaust of beeps, World War I erupted symptomatically of the industrial bangs navigating uncharted trauma along landscapes, in heads. Destruction as advancement: “The closest experience to trench warfare before winter 1914 in civilian society was to be found in the wreckage of a railway accident” (Leese 15). “Engineer’s malady,” product of screeching mortars or random bombs from the air, the repeat-firing weapon, shell-shock initiated a society rushing clumsily ahead. The old concept of valiant warfare tested on ears forced deaf, chemically influenced bodies, bullets in clouds instead of aimed. People dismantled by their making. People as leftovers knew less about meaning. “These symptoms constitute an idiom of suffering and sickness: a physical style for expressing inner pain, which was bound in time and culture” (Leese 2). Schopenhauer – barely withstanding clopping carriages and whip cracks, arguing at his kindest for the dignity of suicide, noise a fury poisoned outward from cultures forming, reasons to be places, soldiers of getting it done, what’s worth being around after every hollow purpose – might explode in the metal tundra, hear motors bubbling and fall down. The brain allows fresh failures. Electrodes pitter patter constantly below the screech, a tease inside cramped spaces where silences threaten people to mock talk more, the tweet, the caller in your pocket, soothing buzz overlaying cacophonies outside, fun. The hunger of everything metal – metal feels like something that can only be shined with blood. God was a chime kicked by poets and the mystery shrank with Darwin. Churches offered a falser hush to buck loutish and daily terror, were again proven uselessly fancy with the coming of the atom. The atomic bomb shrank the world to the size of art. People built themselves a hole with pride, became so obsessed with newfound meaninglessness the overpopulation of their own birth dissimilated, abstracted into irony: nothing to do, knowing life as a mere button press, but giggle at accomplishment. Faith a process of learning not to know, stupid existences transcend. Feed yourself to noise, be carried somewhere ugly. The internet makes knowledge here and as pointless as breathing. Stein’s loop tangles backward, seething below her language, stepping away to let noise reflect. Not a societal challenge, but silence cut and spangled. Tzara pulls words out of hat and names the modern technique of editing. Joyce bends that process to something hoity, radio phrases from the big museum in his brain. Psychology shocks art by purporting how brains exist. That dreams can be unpacked. The non sequitur instills art, collage and automatic writing, whatever happens, pen to page, let Freud sort it. Neurasthenia is a pathological disease affecting the mind and the central nervous system. The social stigma of shell shock turned poets dicey. Who with any sensitivity alive could not feel the affect great or small without need of seeing war. Artists still wear the armband of mass disgust in all societies: “blue armband…which inescapably describes who he is (an inmate)…and drew the attention of the local community” (Leese 117). The only way toward peace from mass culture and noise forms as a revolt of its characteristics. Due rights of disgust with any system rude enough to have artists who won’t be put to death, are forced to wander neglected, shouting hellos when silence is scary. Djuna Barnes says: “To think is to be sick.” Thought already divides as tumor and process, static and edit, the shindig of apocalypse in our ears. Barnes knew how to make her lovers bark, some pleasantries do shout. At worst, the spectacle of our collapse will tickle, at best the earth just quits. Has society concocted any taboos not endured by journalists and voting? To record the scream of a century burning itself out. “And neurosis mirrored a society dominated by discipline and hierarchy and social taboos and that it was a pathological expression of a sense of guilt” (Ouředník 65). The ability to sit still has become a type of gold. To project without listening as the relaxation of lesser morals in society, the sudden clipping off of internal blather without consequence, silence amalgamates the wise from all ambition. “If the microphone is only used to make oneself heard, then one has mistaken the microphone for a mallet,” (UltraRed 2). In the anarchic assemblage of varied song, sound as mosaic descriptor reinvents autobiography. Primitivist meshing unfolds inside. The barest inkling of structure turns felt. The trundling outerwear a unique blare of patterns accorded to rhythm. Speech is history turned jagged, slow to evolve beat by beat. Rousseau was whiter than his agency of guesswork concerning “savages”, etc, wore a bowtie to discuss arts he could not reach, wrote himself outdated. The drumbeat of war was a prophecy for driving to buy groceries. New noise exists away from human boundaries. The mix tape carnival, grotesque catalogue of twirl and joke, manufactured growls sweating darkly, with papier-mâché abandon in the dream speak we falter, children since explanations fail, love a mere billboard of groins. The listener knows subjugation. Reality and all weak innovations toward verisimilitude subvert the unknown. The commonality of limited composure embodies walking. Wretched as the cityscape angularly taut around us, moved like someone broken into unwilled postures. Spidery lengths cantankerously knife property recognized. Only through static can we reattach our sockets and maintain. Pulp the stolen aesthetics scrutinized by control, nightmare prayers. Mike Patton played the new bible with his throat. The viral video shaded whimsical for a contagious relic, found as a psychic time bomb brought here from some alien ecosystem. Inherent with the fast slaughter needed. A fantasia of ear aches settles the sidewalk. We suffer a gigantic diet of traffic, turned cubist in our sin. Temperature can be dogma if we stay superior and dizzy. Something grouped within communication will keep us angry. Pauses hint between undulations. Gears freeze mid-stroke and consider their turning. The only music left, the sound of being kicked.

Marinetti and the Cowardice of Living

Marinetti ate his food cold and reinvented dumb explosions in his head. He wanted to survive as a poet and this made him disgusting. He wrote a play with robots before the term robot was invented. His robots hurt each other having sex. He was in a car accident from which he emerged better. He lowered art to punch and speed, claimed war as hygiene, ironically wanted to survive this way supported by fascists. It did not work, but his ideas survive like thought bubbles over an urn.

Marinetti invited hecklers. He wanted to read his proclamations against antiquity to crowds that hurt him. In this way, along with Jarry, he was the first contemporary poet. By aligning himself with war, hatred, rampant squelch, his work embodied the twentieth century. The lute song being stomped. Italy felt like a mausoleum of pride, gushing ears full of hair. It became necessary to burn art that wasn’t change, reflected by the din of cars, slapped from mechanized hullabaloo. Marinetti needed to hurt the page, wanted young poets to be so angry they would scalp him as he aged. Marinetti worshipped the suicide bullet mid path. He grinned for the great mass of humanity to go yapping down sharp tunnels. Art is the break away from wisdom, the anti-sitting. Had Marinetti surpassed his politics he would have been the greatest artist alive. Had he died sooner, his work would have been a vision of the coming grind and earned the full realization of its shape, like Mayakovsky.

Mayakovsky went into a corner and ate bullets, fed through his chest a few times. He played roulette with his balls. Proper futurists shoot their body; leave the head to spin aftermaths. Mayakovsky wrote anthems culled from a nature he never lived. Marinetti was jealous of Mayakovsky’s banishment. He went after Mayakovsky’s tombstone with a hammer, lived a pious fifteen more years, joining the army as an old man, charging senile toward some enemy. Only a heart attack could stop him.

Mayakovsky became the bullhorn of his death, propaganda player. Marinetti cried that no one killed him. The task of doing it himself felt like a task and too right. He felt neglected by the growing quiet, the lack of violence in his life. He craved ruckus, the awkward insights once you’ve lost. Marinetti was the underdog of his own creed. He dueled intending to lose and always won. He chased dogs for the purpose of getting caught. He felt like a coward for being unfortunately alive. No one remembers Marinetti beyond his statements. He is frowning in a very silent hell. We feel guilty and pelt his grave with sonic harm. We smash the dirt where he’s buried, not enough. Marinetti eventually pandered to Jesus and got married. We burn his works for that, not because he wants us to.

Russolo conducted gradations of pitch to wake ambulatory harmonies breathing inside adrenaline, straddling gibberish, to dominate nature. Marinetti wrote Russolo love letters about shell shock, thought himself free of its effects with an insane ideal, spelled out explosions. The first artistic reaction of the twentieth century was to place one's smile against a bullet, to get stupid in your own heat. To shingle our idiocy by the light of what kills us, to eradicate self in the name of creation. Culture adjusted by noises fed big, a stoma through art. We, hostages of clang, speak the language of rampage. A revolt detached from irony leaves us silly without guns, well-dressed and bleaker still, ransomed by media, cut and swallowed cell phone to shallow reasons behind crime, excuse for baser needs to hurt. We were making noise since sex began; a less intimidating grime and shuck, whimper disguised as procreation. To stopper that modern urge leans toward grandiose wrongs. The spreading of our kind is a potential not even our kind abides any longer and never did without knowing. We scowl loudly into our nylon bibs, facing gizmo speed. Edification demands grunts cast in the surplus light of our comas; no message equals no cumshot, no catharsis in the shuddering plurality of now, instead all is banging known at once, million-fold gusher. Good art pulls every muscle. Wrangled kaleidoscopic from origins of prance to mate, pocketed noise begs for an artwork loud behind hearing. The mobile crisis, the panicked canvas, a song of fingernails, fire as a toy, no economies, no hope please, tourists with mange, words as strangulation. The silence stated between echoes of edits is all we have.

Crackhead Manifesto

Read Xeroxed behind meaning, willed away and present, full of calamity and not, crumpled by process, construed from fear of death, shot here slant of evolutions the brain shat. Issue writing from bangs of seizure, free of measure, holy beyond ritual, goofy sciences happening, constricted cell to vessel to amnesia and returning by fire with nothing wanted. Memories, circular and wrong, repeat small impacts, poof and wretch. Adoration of our waste refilling. We talk our nursing homes away, everything a weak stall to the nursing home. A veil of blood memorizes sight. Crack sees no division within noise. Whatever stabs through best: a chance to die sooner is to write. Attach nothing to being alive, addict of sounds we can’t stop making. We write with our fists. Giddy linguistic pap smears wrack free. We resent our births. We remove our lives with such sad ferocity that art becomes our lives. The enemy is sober and informative. Doom is in our hair.

We shuck our bodies to falter verse. No ideas line to line. Only moments falling thereupon, only backstroke and knives, we are the crack huff religion. All skin blocks our blood from the air.

Those considered attractive cling fastest to identity. Stop everything groomed. No petting of opinions because mirrors exist.

The invention of crack cocaine asks for new writers. We find toilet paper in the richest homes on the owners’ tongues. Murder must be primary to going outside. Writers struggle to go outside.

Crack is headfirst American, louder, fatter, grotesque, a bubble from the ass of culture, a screeching heart attack buoyantly awesome, a needle lost in the urethra of progress, not a quiet poem.

We dance without dancing. We salute the stupidity of what sizzles. We jam ourselves into society’s fissure and giggle about socks.

No one contributes to, saves for, participates in, any society at large beyond their own selfish will to survive, beyond their own laughable ambitions to proliferate.

A lower atheism tears god mechanized. Nothing there to deny. Apolitical is too political.

Not near enough suicides clog the street in place of traffic. All paltry substances fund pigs by law. We snort the paint of our gibber. We mean the crack is in our saying. We mean maturity stoppers urge. We are addicted to the scat of our hands.

The idea, joint along with hope, that any poem must achieve maturity, is a yes to morality and common sense, a yay for life, a gaudy approval for the status quo, a “good job” to how things are, so yawn-worthy that the only response is to go far past the conservative cliché this opinion details and get downright silly in the paced slaughter of the sooth-sayer of old and well-meant white boy piss – slit the bowtie first.

So many pissy snouts in money. So little bullets all the same. Fuck veracity. The only genre is infection.

We mistake our tinnitus for the page. We hollow out our grime to submit.

People use the threat of cowardice to enforce a greater cowardice.

We learn our ABCs by sucking the chalk board.

Reagan invented crack deep within his racist bowels, pummeling his vagina with a log, shellacking his penis with Russia, his bullet wounds sporting wigs of diamond. He lives the century backward from all saying, is all about turning the skyline his. The cult of Reagan explodes litter from every hole, super-sized and baying the dust of queens, a doo-wop monarchy ripe with frowns, a dollhouse built of cocaine. Our desks are full of the blisters our halos said. Reagan carried out abortions with his stride, updated the bible with quarantines about himself. Reagan fucked his jewelry and had it killed. Reagan is behind the chatty nature of every drug. The yeast beneath his wrinkles is the twenty-first century’s calendar.

We are the speech of sutures. We have missiles in our hug.

Our flag is made of scars. We worship our own corpses instead of singing songs.
Our poems are lice in the eyes of prosperity and culture.

Our poems won’t survive: the rat trap stuck on a wet jacket of skin. Trailed through the kitchen, in a V of blood, the rat twitching, muscular system exposed, three feet away, dead but free, pointless effort, but amazing, a genius magic trick we bow to, the artist on the tile.

We coddle our waste by ranking it. There is no hierarchy in a coffin.

Pussyfooters of snark, academic wine aficionados tied callow by their stringy balls, the Reich of snoozy nitpicks, to the pissy art of edifice, ideals baked gimpy by courts, courts and their parasitic pews, the pious and ordained, to the clock for being slow – may you all be granted lives long beyond living.

Save for the flail and its evening, our shedding gasoline in expensive rooms, the vulnerable and their beautiful hate, the hate that grins, for the bullet and its path, for Columbine and Christmas, for crack and all its fucked helicopters that let one see, for the rat glowing outside its skin, the lush bounce our heads piffle, for the audience of cuticles, we grow vast inside our blood.

Now the graft whittles loose by the noise of its being snorted, borrows everything we love and performs arson in the gradation of its own jury’s severed wet.

The smoke rising from us is our property.



COMMUNITY HEART ATTACK

I love my heart attack.
Everybody loves my heart attack.

I am eighty-nine years old right now,
chasing girls with a straw.

I have fleas.
That's how I wake up.

The nurse who breaks my wheelchair
in a dream goes on to commit suicide.

Town Hall is filled with crotches
and the dogs are nowhere.

I give my placenta critical analysis.
A negative review, it tastes sour.

The podium is raped by men with Alzheimer’s.
That’s how a cubist goes to jail.

In jail, more heart attacks, waiting
to be held, will have us.

ALL MY GODS ARRANGED IN PAPIER-MACHE RHYTHM

and danced these lactose hours

into the church of

one-two-three

into rubber chicken girls

                                             spread by the pond like joseph
goebbels

(this pill forms a toy chest in your vomit
                                                                          this pill sighs a
raggedy ann doll canzonet)

hiding phone calls under laundry
555--i pour my wrist into
the receiver dots
                                     like a pro
                                                         gulp gulp
                                                         pish pash
                                                         yum yum
hello, i need yelps fit for a glass hand
or fuck colored eye shaped like
alzheimer's fetus smoking a pipe

                                                                humped cute
                                                                by girljuice
                                                                nylon handshakes

and killed all my worshipping hers
                   doll jaw said sunday he touched
                                                                       clocked a time card in
her
cunt

ironically
                   screwed into positions of irony

a suicide treat wallows nice in hands your mother made


from GANGRENE

1.

A pretzel on the side of the freeway,
or road kill, a dog hit by a car,
I thought it was my father for a minute.
The doctors came slowly out of their tents.
The passing cars almost touched their zippers.
One scratched and said, “we should operate.”
“Hmm,
we don’t want to say bladder infection just yet.”

5.

My rifle fired embalming fluid into the sky.
Mascara sunset rained a coffin smell.
I told the doctors about lipstick.
I said my father’s sad grins were populated
by formulas you could never memorize.
We decided to paint rouge on his coffin.

9.

Gary was sometimes my real name.
I found a mean stare in the garbage
and put it on for awhile.
I made a career out of following my kitchen with a noose.
Flowers made of smegma ruined my lawn.
Gary shook his head.
With 10,000 volts, he shook his head.

16.

I was a chore of gangrene headaches.
Several thousand maggots watched me
through a magnifying glass.
I faked being wet for their entertainment
because I was bored.
I was convicted of drawing my own chalk outline.
Convicted of stealing my own chalk outline from the Louvre.


Alice
Alice

Flowers dreamed to lick your shadow's sweat.
Whose ceiling did we worship?
That giant fingernail loved us.

You were older. Tucked me in.
Combed me down with spit.
Made my hands a steeple.

Kissed me like I was someone's lawn.
I only loved you once.
(singing) And here are the people:

Popped by crab-gears of heat.
Flirting with mushroom clouds.
Ignored by god's alarm clock.

Boiled in dandelion vats.
Your baby. Yours.
(singing) And her head popped off.

We suffered a thousand pink lives.
From 1983 to 1983 again.
Before the stomach introduced us.

Let me pet the stove. (It's my dog.)
We used to live there. For fifteen minutes.
I only loved you once.


Progress: A Play in _ Acts
Sean Kilpatrick



Two people in a canoe clack the stage with oars.

CHARACTER A: No progress, thank God.

CHARACTER B: Keep rowing till the molestation wears off.

CHARACTER A: Why all these diapers passing in the creek like a poorly mothered day.

CHARACTER B: Should I behold?

CHARACTER A: Yes in this light.

CHARACTER B (worships): I don't mind, hence I don't accomplish.

CHARACTER A: Speaking of worship, I heard you piss like a third degree.

CHARACTER B: I don't feel unzipped enough.

CHARACTER A: Then I'll whisper.

CHARACTER B: You'll cry.

CHARACTER A: I'll baby you. My mouth is open.

CHARACTER A: Twenty-five percent.

They rise and face the canoe another way. Continue.

CHARACTER A: Bitch!

CHARACTER B: All dry downstairs.

CHARACTER A: We took turns.

CHARACTER B: No day was capped in wrinkles long enough.

CHARACTER A: Thrust or arm, we found no stop within.

CHARACTER B: Now the Sistine Chapel peels when I walk.

CHARACTER A: My mouth is bleeding other mouths.

CHARACTER B: They fall turnstile into that famous lap.

CHARACTER A: Ah, put your freckles back on.

CHARACTER B: I'd rather fuck you across this body of idiots.

CHARACTER A: Shh, you're my little kangaroo.

CHARACTER B: I'm your little blood pressure.

CHARACTER A: You're my little tie off. Go home.

They lie down and disappear in the canoe.

CHARACTER A: Suck harder!

CHARACTER B: There's nothing left!

CHARACTER A: Imagine a work in progress.

CHARACTER B: All I see — wait, you're shedding.

CHARACTER A: Yes! I malt.

CHARACTER B: Shocking how you sound clothed.

CHARACTER A: When the coarse beginnings of how they leave remain…

CHARACTER B: …roll your gumption on a dirty cloud.

CHARACTER A: You know, I hear your interiors rumbling, and in doing so, allow them to continue.

CHARACTER B: I'm tired of being in love.

An arm sticks out, aiming a pistol straight up.

CHARACTER A: I'm pregnant.

CHARACTER B: Congratulations. Who's the father?

CHARACTER A: I'll never tell.

CHARACTER B: When you straddle a cannon the whole ghetto perks up.

The gun recedes. Several shots sound.

CHARACTER A: We're sinking.

CHARACTER B: We're learning.

They stand and face each other, clapping harder and harder.

CHARACTER A: Good!

CHARACTER B: Good!

CHARACTER A: These nuts!

CHARACTER B: This planet!

CHARACTER A: That girl!

CHARACTER B: Her tit's out!

CHARACTER A: Run!

CHARACTER B: How else shall we acquire medicine?

CHARACTER A: Pardon, I left all my holes in your holes. Can I get them back?

CHARACTER B: We were shot?

CHARACTER A: We were assembled that way.

They cough and throw bullets and metal on the stage.

CHARACTER B: Come shit a honeycomb miracle.

CHARACTER A: Now that we finally know each other, we can leave each other alone.

CHARACTER A: Thank you.

CHARACTER B: And thank you, sir.

CHARACTER A: Sir!

The play seems to finish and the actors bow awkwardly and take seats facing the audience for a question and answer session. Whoever is called upon, whatever is asked, or if no one raises their hand, the following dialogue remains relatively unchanged.

CHARACTER A (to audience): Thank you. The Q and A session has begun. I know you're all anxious and reasonably well dressed. I know you came here today on purpose. In answer to your question, no. In answer to your question, what you call a refund isn't why I'm here. In answer to your question, this play was written because we love audiences. Our love is almost Swedish. We heard you the whole time. Next. This play took many generations of actors to perform. The writer masturbated for research. I wrote this play once. The avant garde is a candle of ruin. I am occasionally fascist. I go to school against my better judgment. And yours. I live at home. Or not at all. Also, masturbate. To a picture of this audience. Boo a little bit or I'll know you want me. Now stop. I'm also, I assume, out of baby wipes. Any more questions? Okay, too many questions. While this play makes light of incidents such as Columbine which hadn't occurred at the time of its writing, the play is guilty of shock value because it betters the world by explaining the world to you because you need that kind of explanation to continue being part of the world. Goodnight.

CHARACTER B: I am also in this play! I am also in this play! I am also in this play! I am also in this play! I am also in this play! I am also in this play! I am also in this play! (They fight, are dragged off.)

 
Thank You, Steel China: My Panic Is Your Panic Tooin: Juked

Agent Sex

Sean Kilpatrick, On Reading


"I bring reading nothing and just let. To my disadvantage and need. If I’m still thinking, sentences don’t crackle. What’s between sentences? Blackout the language. Plot and heart and character rounding, risk and personal straight-forward real, the truth, style doesn’t matter, what over how, an audience, okay, traditional friendly artifice techniques surely, yes, get earned, practiced right, by people not me. But morality and art live no same life. There’s no right way ever. Risk and pulse only line all advancements for no advance called lit. If it gowns with excretion, if no certain chastisement of insanity smells, thank you. I need no meant benefit to a page." 

MercMouth
A heavy metal that doses vapor, is inorganic, is salt. Symptoms exhibited depend upon the
duration of stripes on a person’s pants. Common peripheral neuropathy resembles itching. Skin
discoloration (KKK fingertips, tremulous skin shed) thought to inactivate due to the body’s
inability to degrade. It should degrade upon hello. Affected children should read. Loss of teeth,
hair, and nails, transient rashes, wear a family down for good. Other symptoms may include
labial insomnia. The disease may spread to your motorcycle. Exposure involves mercury
contaminated air, fish, livestock, backyards, grade schools, residues during processing, exposure
to vapor in amalgam dental restorations and from most lamps. Consumption of whale and
dolphin meat, pig fetus and placenta, any healthy standards, also encourage sly mercury dosages,
as is the custom of Japan. Coal plants emit half the atmosphere. Volcanoes the rest. Two-thirds
of human generated crude survives as mercury through music videos.
I ride my cremation across vowels. Especially the butter mechanism. Countries file past. My
kidneys are in slow explode since birth. I gnaw the heads off my sperm. My tracts burnt down.
Gastrointestinal absorption would not. Some mercury vapor is absorbed dermally. Uptake by this
route until 1% of the body is left. Chronic inhalation always causes tremors (paresthesia,
stocking-glove sensory loss, hyperactive tendon reflexes, slowed sensory and motor nerve
conduction velocities). Television exists as one cure. Mercury occurs easily and is the only thing.
Eons of saliva bring us together. I love my wife in doses one can’t time by appetite. The food
chain cracks towards us. Long bioaccumulation periods break down by comas. Please hold me
until our comas touch. To cross the blood-brain barrier via transporter, to install the blood
rapidly, to extend metabolized topical antiseptic extensively as blood. Unviable vaccines rule the
air.
Acrodynia decreased syphilis at the source of human contact after calomel was excluded from
most teething powders in 1954. We’re having blue mass in a recognized poison. Where are my
parishioners, subtle or generic? In medicines declined because of frothing compound. I remain
bitter about the disappearance of such tastes.

Porno

I must have blacked out on the treadmill again. I've been breast-feeding too much. I need to savor this material. I move the carriage from machine to machine, stumbling with my red scratched face, my son within his bundle gurgling the milk he pilfers like his father pilfers in the little hole I've wrapped them both up in. Akimbo on the elliptical, you pump enough and god squeaks through, I hammer my legs, the baby held firm, not sliding from my lap, whence he came and whence my clutch returns him, I laugh, shining into the foodless day. He bobs, undulates, writhing, sticker swollen, bustling zipped between my spandex louder than the people talking next to us, his mouth chunking out the wadded paper scent of whatever's left stewing in my body. I need a little Christmas feeling ever since I escaped Hiroshima with his father's relatives and their callous skin and ideals about money. I need shoes that don't hate me. I need to shed what's left of this body. My ribs aren't properly existing. I dote under the arm machine, my son's head fastened between my knees so no one steals him. I often feel he's chased by a world composed of mere porno.

These Boys


These boys were rubber-smooth and white. The flowers in their hands gleamed like boiling teeth. They handled our drugs and our daughters too. These boys were polite and well-armed. We could have used their smiles to put the cat to sleep. When they filled our daughters, no pillows were cried into, and they beamed from matrimonial scripts, became so hot we had to walk them through the Sunday Car Wash. We had to load the truck with guns and call our brothers. All this felt incestuous, but so did waking up.
I broke my daughter’s teeth out of her skull with pistol fire because the strands one boy hid inside her clasped around her voice. The boy stood on my lawn for a week, wearing headphones and appearing vulgar without expression. He was sinking into himself, skeletal, swimming in the paste his body gave. He laid the foam sprockets of his music on my lawn, an anthem making the bugs work harder. Not to assist, in any way, the health or well-being of my property. Garbage workers carried that boy to heaven. A forever’s worth of flies had beaten him there. Boys are always mass produced in cities, as we say, clutching after the silver boom known as Between My Legs.
We formed a line around the nursery with free guns. We shipped baskets of what’s-left-of-her labeled Our Daughters. These boys weren’t old enough to polish what we sent them.


She Carried the Lake

A girl carried the lake with her eyes. We went to tell her our secrets. My uncle said it was better than sex. We had been playing doctor. He would never grab my crotch unless I did all my chores.

My uncle placed his stethoscope against the water. Down below cupped blue palms of the current waving, her pupils dilated towards what little sun could reach them. It was reflecting off the metal of my uncle's stethoscope.
.
No girl had eyes like hers, uninterrupted by skin, drunk with the weight of fearless tuna and men in rowboats casting lines to catch only her. Debutantes grew lithe with envy, swimming to stab them out, but always drowned. More lonely men, working their pockets on the beach, were soothed temporarily when the debutantes washed ashore:  white gifts from the eyes. Necrophiliacs circled the lake.
A troop of debutantes with dumbbells in their shorts jogged past. They said garbled hellos through the knives between their teeth. "I hate those sluts and they will never touch you…" my uncle told the waves.
My uncle followed me home and put his stethoscope on everything. He went up the driveway with it. He listened to my mailbox. He put it against the door and knocked, hurting himself. I opened the screen and he sunk into me with cold metal. My heart tried to force its way out through the crotch of my jeans. I laughed flirtatiously. The dog ran and hid on the roof of the garage. My cat squeezed its backend into a light socket. The neighbors were jealous and undeserving. The police woke a judge, but were granted no search warrant. They waved, tears in their eyes, spread eagle on the lawn. We did not pity them, besides; we were too far away to hear their hearts beating.
Stores closed when they saw us coming. I did not understand. We were ominous fifteen percent of the time. Otherwise, we were sleeping in clothes way too tight to strip off. If anyone wanted to know our secrets, all they had to do was go stick their head in the lake.
"I can hear you thinking your thoughts," my uncle said, "and stop negatively summarizing the townspeople. Their ignorance is a sexual precaution." He removed his stethoscope from my forehead and drove. "I know a place…"
In Slinky's Petunia Glasshouse, Slinky offered us a child that was on fire. "None today," said my uncle. "But this was Nathan," replied Slinky, "now his stench is tolerable." "We want ping-pong balls. Her eyes are lonely, floating in sand twenty-four seven. Also, this is not a trick." Slinky put his flamethrower down and charged us twenty dollars a ball. The sign did say his balls were special.
Drawing pupils on the balls and dropping them in the lake, we discussed Slinky's unibrow. "How bushy and hideous, how Russian-looking, his eyebrow, my God, more atrocious than drawing on ping-pongs or falling in love!"
"Well, this town is full of perverts," I said, pointing first at our reflections in the water.



young woman's complaint to her intemperate roommates

which one of you gave my sister tennis elbow
and nailed the blinds shut
closed the refrigerator door on Pooky's tail
put dishes under car tires for a block
all our neighbors are pigs
written in lipstick
mine
across Mrs. Bottleby's greenhouse
and cigarette butts stuck to the ceiling
gramma's lazy boy
mutilated by patches of still-hot jism
everything's tinted yellow

i'm just sick of
dog-kennel toilets imprisoned on the front lawn
the dried-grey mush of communist manifestos
splattered over the kitchen cabinets
wads of lice-infested pubic hair
leaping from every corner
severed genital warts on the dining room table
a sheet of raw flakes
breakfast for a starving disease
why don't you all move out or
i'll go away

there'll be no more human yelps
knocking the dust up
no more shining underwear
or elephant gun farts with giggling
i'll find love or something serious and
no more waves of cat piss
surfing up my nose forever
no more sheet metal snoring
no more drunks when i'm
naked by the couch
beer on my canvas
no more people


fistfucking rules

every rogue bowel moves daddy’s cabana

for the comb through bib tied high and dangling you

time for sanitarium gods to moisturize the day

time for darkling sputum jew to enter my scat

felch the gay chore water home for different sirs latex

the only thanks time to call the alphabet of dropping son and congeal

wandering epitomes tell babygirl to suck her own swastika tattoos

or I’ll memorize her period like a bible passage recite the blood

in a sideways baptism take a manly squat with undertones of

puberty yes atrophy milk she airs out her titties in the septic tank

uses a refrigerator to masturbate sucks the college out of walls

she is on a lobotomy picnic the public scoops her glint

sings gangbang lullaby knock the freckles off that dream

she remembers cum by phone menstruates her initials

shaved beef like small god arithmetic an extenuating trimester

she commits burlesque diarrheas under the guise of pregnancy

ms. america with aids stoned up her own yeast

eyelids by gonorrhea extravagant hysterectomies

a species ignored pagan odorless for rainbow

or breed fiasco like how an iron cross looks neat


Get Cozy and Die
.. .
Leukemia is my party hat.
Flowers gay for dog piss.
Ribbit licks your jaw.
All floors are an ethnic fart.
Rubber band cuticles work better.

You, prancing into rooms
stuffed with Kleenex,
pools of looking back
sinew my conscience.

All my goose-steps are pink and lonely.
Ghetto your eyes into a soup of bedrooms.

Oh, look, my painting spat on Gandhi.
Oh, look at the city purring sex crimes.

Get cozy and die.


Followed
...
When I cut you
a sunset, keep your
wardrobe closed.

Keep my conspiracy
of lightbulbs
behind you.

Or no, wait, no, wait,
disobey, hun,
I’ll make fantastic
squirms.

Is that dis-
interested enough
to make you
happy?

Nuh-uh.

Am I free
to go, I ask
myself.

Not yet.

Your lungs
moved into
a new house
of laughter
and I've come
to fuck it down.


MOCKERY
you mud our culture with tears
my grin like an alphabet of cancer
my belly button
a gouged shadow of mtv
my hands need to be filled
with more than other hands

you tip the stern with hips
make noises like a cut-out muscle
twitching in the bathtub
your roots are nowhere friendly
you drag one sticky leg
down the plaster
instead of going to mapquest

you cross the petal spine
i lay pollen in
your tummy holds
my tongue as a
falling brick whispers
love it bleaches
your pretty head

















False Salute To The Dead

The toilet will hold you
tighter than any wife.
So X-out your eyes
with drink." Her words swam though the smoke.

I took seven gulps,
laid my knuckles
on the bar and pointing
at my closed fist, replied, calmly,
"Crawl between them, or I sever your chin."

She got stuck halfway around
my pointer and ring knuckles
and lodged her molars
into my cartilage.

I demanded of the barkeep
some safe passage.
He was all frowns
for my disposition.

Then, out walked the cook,
a giant metro sexual.
He crowbarred her
off my hand with a spatula.

On the debris strewn floor
of the dusty roadhouse,
she made small guffaws
that forced everyone's
drinks back up.

After a good stomping,
she grew into the woodwork.
We left her there.

Years later, the paranormals
can be found sitting
in large groups, Indian style,
recorders and cameras sticking up
in false salute to the dead.


The Lovers’ Trough


I lose the room in another pocket.
She is coddled by scoundrels in tandem.
I twist the stilts into an open belly. My own.
It’s Friday afternoon. The patrons clap.
I applaud to keep them happy, but puke wood.
This causes me to fall over. I step
out of my mouth with flowers.
She exposes her breasts. My job here
is done.


A LOVE WITHOUT LIES


Leigha called the police one drunken night and they came and took Mark. I loved Mark, so I decided to drop Leigha's baby from a freeway overpass for good measure.
All these old men kept offering me and the baby rides. I stood there waiting for a rush of cars to flatten the screaming brat and make sure. This cunt was leaning into the bundle and pawing the thing's cheeks with two fingers. I threw it off suddenly with one movement and she stared at me and screamed. She hunched down and held herself and just kept screaming. The cars didn't stop and it bounced, flying between them, skidding blood all over the road -- so much blood in that small body when the skin strips down. It was almost like I dropped a huge balloon filled with red paint. I told the woman she was next and kicked her and she shit. I could smell.
When Leigha got home from work she went to her room, looked around, then stuck her fat face through the crack of my halfway open door. I slammed it on her neck, trapping just her head inside my room.
"Listen." I tightened her space. "Don't talk. I killed your fucking baby because of what you did to Mark, you dumb bitch, and you deserved it. I threw your baby into rush hour traffic. It died screaming under a car tire."
Her face turned purple and she slid violently up and then down, trying to get to me. We both pushed so hard that splinters cracked off the wood and stuck into her neck and cheeks. Small rainbows of blood sprinkled onto my shoes. Leigha's head went all the way down to the floor. She could lean on all her weight that way, but I was supporting myself against the dresser. She made a loud rattling jerky exhale and her tongue stuck out extremely far. I walked over her, went to her room and wrote Mark a letter telling him everything I did and that I loved him and would be seeing him soon.


The Man Who Followed Me Home from Work

hit me so hard I could smell my brain.
My wife began to love him.
He rejected her because her back was pale.
I gave him every sleeve in my dresser.
He let us apply salve. We didn't deserve salve.
We cried for him in a lapse of nights I don't remember
because he wasn't there to beat me.
I missed the man who followed me home from work
so loudly that when I sobbed the city dove up
around my waist like a skirt and begged for kisses.
Everybody begs I said. Everybody is discount.
The man who followed me home from work
sang me racial slurs until my heart got swollen.
I pawed storefronts and was arrested.
He finally held me like I needed to be held.
In handcuffs.

My Address is that Flower

I molested your birth certificate.
I drove a unicycle into your mother.
I tripped you with my foreskin.
I got naked and chased your pet with a guitar.
I smeared diarrhea on your clothesline.
I threatened your bad skin with a calculator.
I brushed the sleeve of my sweater on your cornea.
I stuttered your gramma's maiden name during intercourse.
My address is that flower.
I don't know how to play guitar or have intercourse.
I don't know how to bark at something until it dies.
I don't know why you whipped another boy with your spine.
I don't know how to kill you long enough to say thanks.
I don't know why I sell myself in this package.
I don't know short boys being coughed on.
I don't know why my favorite cliche is wiping other people's sperm off your lips.
I don't know how to convince my bed it is not a child.
My address is that flower.


Kill an Inch

I hollowed out my eyes for this trophy,
champion of getting sucked years.
I would clothespin a tombstone if they let me.
I would sell the mother right off my back
if they hadn’t already hanged me for it.
I was raised on hamburgers
like you or anyone below a sky.
My mega disaster blood pumping
diatribe, wardens, squalor of merchant,
prancing voyeuristic whodunits.
Their mere victory of names blushed live.
I killed an inch off your hemming
to doubly ensure everyone’s good
forehead. Walked the mob in a tired
circle of sniffed ass. Onward through
horizons formed by the unidentified
bombs of whoever I said we’re chasing.
I insinuated pressures relinquished
or calculated foreign spray. Surely
another jaw had been there.
But whose eyebrows tied up
on the runway getting gross with miles
boarded the first daughter?

Porcelain House

I found you in the porcelain house
pulling a condom over the window.

You only talked genocide.
I faked hearing loss.

I rode in on a kite shaped
like you picking flowers.

You built a harmonium just to spite me.
I primed my diaper for take off.

You folded my stomach into origami.
I chased you with my freckles.

You were ugly like a calculator.
You chased me with your kilt.

I was ugly like a fish make-out party.
Do things for me.

Hug my blanket until your veins are trapped inside.
Slurp away my big static eBay hands.

When you kiss me you leave tiny
question marks of spit on my face.

I'm going to leave an army
of cakes on your grave.
  

The Idea of France

I call 911 and tell them I have a headache.
My foot itches. My show isn't on.
I threw my wig in the chandelier
and need the fire department to retrieve it.
The operator sounds young and is offended
when I tell her that I am sexually aroused,
but she doesn't hang up. I continue:

I wish we were in a rowboat
and your calves overlapped my calves
and you were paddling and lecturing
me about the mechanics of a panzer tank.
You'd say: It was originally a bicycle
that became very angry at people's legs.
Then I would throw your umbrella in the water.
You would make a fist and hit me with plankton.

The idea of France calms us down.
You sing like a truckload of bellybuttons
parked behind a television set.
Pull them out and kiss each one
while I exercise for you
or I will groom you to death.


several poems at writeThis

The All Encompassed Drowned
Her bible-long fuck rolled on pelts unmade, skin of an Uzi, sockets like a queen,  smell underground of men balled in fertilizer, husband to the till, snow bit land curling. She got fragged in her garbage. A bowtie slit so askance as to backward ambulate time through calendars once new. Combed into her own puddle,
stomped to blood, heaped in our eyes like a sequin prayer. We put our arms up her like a carpet of scream tread stinky we walk, a little witness chewing mud below the dress hugged somewhat born. What hammy doings. We sit on her stomach until feathers cough. Craters of son dangle forth, the bark-textured mound passing wind, salad in the kweef. Another spools her clam with fiddle string. We flute the gun, slapping river next to us jealous with flow. We slit her body to tell time, squat and gulp, her tumbling bald by the fistful. Body trafficked soft, she is nearly loved, nearly welcomed alive. Her gullet cartilage cracks words, beaming symbol for squirrels, the rape sample good, thinking as we come, mother of chickens purr,
growing fungal in the smell, fish with the carcass, day’s done, making of her a poor imitation of the lesser statements our parents said. Computed bowels thrust home, I machine gun holes already there, popped fat and changing posture, the leak fucked sunset high. The meat is getting into a rare compost of god. Later the

face as it burns squeals from beneath a liquid so sharp to the tongue a filter on how we see becomes

{LMC}: An Illustration of one line from Sean Kilpatrick’s “The All Encompassed Drowned”

Ed: You can read a PDF of this story, here, so you can better participate. Buy NY Tyrant. If you would like to have the full PDF of NY Tyrant 8 so you can participate in this month’s LMC discussions, get in touch with me. But still, when you buy a literary magazine, an angel gets its wings.




Authors on Artists: Sean Kilpatrick on ZOCK & The Vienna Actionists 


ToBS R1: work at Best Buy vs. undergrad Lit 101 adjunct


[Matchup #6 in Tournament of Bookshit]
BECAUSE OF DIRECT HORROR: THESE THOUGHTS CRIPPLE A FLAG AT THE SIGHT OF MONEY, THE WILL TO EXPLAIN, TO FLAP A SALE – I MEAN NIHILISM STANDS ABOVE THE FEELING ATHEISM TOO CLOSE TO ANY BELIEF I MEAN ALL GROUPS DON’T EXIST OUTSIDE THEIR DOOKIE NOTHING IS WORTH BUILDING A COMMUNITY ABOUT BECAUSE WE CAN’T STOP BEING PEOPLE SOME DISEASES ROCK YOU TOW THE LINE SKIPPING POPES DO THEIR FLEAS I AM SO FAR BELOW I AM THE SCALE CHAFED BY ASKING GREAT WRITERS I WILL FURTHER YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH MURDER HOLOCAUST WHATEVER SAYS ‘I AM’ SMOTHER YOUR SPERM BEFORE THEY EXIT SWIPE THE SLIT REAL WAG CONDUCT THE BABIES FROM YOUR ANUS DIP THEIR MUSIC PLEASE HUGS I ONLY WORSHIP ACCIDENTS AND CRACKROCK ANY ADULT WANTS TO CONVINCE YOUR MONIES HIS LACK OF DANCE MEANS WINNING ALL PHILOSOPHY IS CASTRATION ANYONE BORN IS A POSSIBLE RHETORICIAN AND MUST THEREFORE BE SHRED INSIDE THEIR CRIB PLEASE EMAIL ME (TANGOROBOT@GMAIL.COM) A LOCATION TO MEET THERE AND DISCUSS I AM WEAK AND ALWAYS ARMED MOTHERFUCK HOW CAN I HELP YOU TODAY?
- Sean Kilpatrick
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WINNER: BEST BUY

50 Shades of Sean Kilpatrick:








HONEY NOISE & CRACKHEAD MANIFESTO
By Sean Kilpatrick
dot gray
The mechanization of noise, industrial revolution to tiny computers clucking handheld racket, acts as full aggressor for the conglobation of art now. Speed and factory progress what’s modern: the fragment, being caught off guard. Russolo classifying screeches, Ball inventing speed metal, Duchamp violating the staircase’s history with skins, Marinetti’s guillotine autos stomaching his will, cars a holocaust of beeps, World War I erupted symptomatically of the industrial bangs navigating uncharted trauma along landscapes, in heads. Destruction as advancement: “The closest experience to trench warfare before winter 1914 in civilian society was to be found in the wreckage of a railway accident” (Leese 15). “Engineer’s malady,” product of screeching mortars or random bombs from the air, the repeat-firing weapon, shell-shock initiated a society rushing clumsily ahead. The old concept of valiant warfare tested on ears forced deaf, chemically influenced bodies, bullets in clouds instead of aimed. People dismantled by their making. People as leftovers knew less about meaning. “These symptoms constitute an idiom of suffering and sickness: a physical style for expressing inner pain, which was bound in time and culture” (Leese 2). Schopenhauer – barely withstanding clopping carriages and whip cracks, arguing at his kindest for the dignity of suicide, noise a fury poisoned outward from cultures forming, reasons to be places, soldiers of getting it done, what’s worth being around after every hollow purpose – might explode in the metal tundra, hear motors bubbling and fall down. The brain allows fresh failures. Electrodes pitter patter constantly below the screech, a tease inside cramped spaces where silences threaten people to mock talk more, the tweet, the caller in your pocket, soothing buzz overlaying cacophonies outside, fun. The hunger of everything metal – metal feels like something that can only be shined with blood. God was a chime kicked by poets and the mystery shrank with Darwin. Churches offered a falser hush to buck loutish and daily terror, were again proven uselessly fancy with the coming of the atom. The atomic bomb shrank the world to the size of art. People built themselves a hole with pride, became so obsessed with newfound meaninglessness the overpopulation of their own birth dissimilated, abstracted into irony: nothing to do, knowing life as a mere button press, but giggle at accomplishment. Faith a process of learning not to know, stupid existences transcend. Feed yourself to noise, be carried somewhere ugly. The internet makes knowledge here and as pointless as breathing. Stein’s loop tangles backward, seething below her language, stepping away to let noise reflect. Not a societal challenge, but silence cut and spangled. Tzara pulls words out of hat and names the modern technique of editing. Joyce bends that process to something hoity, radio phrases from the big museum in his brain. Psychology shocks art by purporting how brains exist. That dreams can be unpacked. The non sequitur instills art, collage and automatic writing, whatever happens, pen to page, let Freud sort it. Neurasthenia is a pathological disease affecting the mind and the central nervous system. The social stigma of shell shock turned poets dicey. Who with any sensitivity alive could not feel the affect great or small without need of seeing war. Artists still wear the armband of mass disgust in all societies: “blue armband…which inescapably describes who he is (an inmate)…and drew the attention of the local community” (Leese 117). The only way toward peace from mass culture and noise forms as a revolt of its characteristics. Due rights of disgust with any system rude enough to have artists who won’t be put to death, are forced to wander neglected, shouting hellos when silence is scary. Djuna Barnes says: “To think is to be sick.” Thought already divides as tumor and process, static and edit, the shindig of apocalypse in our ears. Barnes knew how to make her lovers bark, some pleasantries do shout. At worst, the spectacle of our collapse will tickle, at best the earth just quits. Has society concocted any taboos not endured by journalists and voting? To record the scream of a century burning itself out. “And neurosis mirrored a society dominated by discipline and hierarchy and social taboos and that it was a pathological expression of a sense of guilt” (Ouředník 65). The ability to sit still has become a type of gold. To project without listening as the relaxation of lesser morals in society, the sudden clipping off of internal blather without consequence, silence amalgamates the wise from all ambition. “If the microphone is only used to make oneself heard, then one has mistaken the microphone for a mallet,” (UltraRed 2). In the anarchic assemblage of varied song, sound as mosaic descriptor reinvents autobiography. Primitivist meshing unfolds inside. The barest inkling of structure turns felt. The trundling outerwear a unique blare of patterns accorded to rhythm. Speech is history turned jagged, slow to evolve beat by beat. Rousseau was whiter than his agency of guesswork concerning “savages”, etc, wore a bowtie to discuss arts he could not reach, wrote himself outdated. The drumbeat of war was a prophecy for driving to buy groceries. New noise exists away from human boundaries. The mix tape carnival, grotesque catalogue of twirl and joke, manufactured growls sweating darkly, with papier-mâché abandon in the dream speak we falter, children since explanations fail, love a mere billboard of groins. The listener knows subjugation. Reality and all weak innovations toward verisimilitude subvert the unknown. The commonality of limited composure embodies walking. Wretched as the cityscape angularly taut around us, moved like someone broken into unwilled postures. Spidery lengths cantankerously knife property recognized. Only through static can we reattach our sockets and maintain. Pulp the stolen aesthetics scrutinized by control, nightmare prayers. Mike Patton played the new bible with his throat. The viral video shaded whimsical for a contagious relic, found as a psychic time bomb brought here from some alien ecosystem. Inherent with the fast slaughter needed. A fantasia of ear aches settles the sidewalk. We suffer a gigantic diet of traffic, turned cubist in our sin. Temperature can be dogma if we stay superior and dizzy. Something grouped within communication will keep us angry. Pauses hint between undulations. Gears freeze mid-stroke and consider their turning. The only music left, the sound of being kicked.
Marinetti and the Cowardice of Living
Marinetti ate his food cold and reinvented dumb explosions in his head. He wanted to survive as a poet and this made him disgusting. He wrote a play with robots before the term robot was invented. His robots hurt each other having sex. He was in a car accident from which he emerged better. He lowered art to punch and speed, claimed war as hygiene, ironically wanted to survive this way supported by fascists. It did not work, but his ideas survive like thought bubbles over an urn.
Marinetti invited hecklers. He wanted to read his proclamations against antiquity to crowds that hurt him. In this way, along with Jarry, he was the first contemporary poet. By aligning himself with war, hatred, rampant squelch, his work embodied the twentieth century. The lute song being stomped. Italy felt like a mausoleum of pride, gushing ears full of hair. It became necessary to burn art that wasn’t change, reflected by the din of cars, slapped from mechanized hullabaloo. Marinetti needed to hurt the page, wanted young poets to be so angry they would scalp him as he aged. Marinetti worshipped the suicide bullet mid path. He grinned for the great mass of humanity to go yapping down sharp tunnels. Art is the break away from wisdom, the anti-sitting. Had Marinetti surpassed his politics he would have been the greatest artist alive. Had he died sooner, his work would have been a vision of the coming grind and earned the full realization of its shape, like Mayakovsky.
Mayakovsky went into a corner and ate bullets, fed through his chest a few times. He played roulette with his balls. Proper futurists shoot their body; leave the head to spin aftermaths. Mayakovsky wrote anthems culled from a nature he never lived. Marinetti was jealous of Mayakovsky’s banishment. He went after Mayakovsky’s tombstone with a hammer, lived a pious fifteen more years, joining the army as an old man, charging senile toward some enemy. Only a heart attack could stop him.
Mayakovsky became the bullhorn of his death, propaganda player. Marinetti cried that no one killed him. The task of doing it himself felt like a task and too right. He felt neglected by the growing quiet, the lack of violence in his life. He craved ruckus, the awkward insights once you’ve lost. Marinetti was the underdog of his own creed. He dueled intending to lose and always won. He chased dogs for the purpose of getting caught. He felt like a coward for being unfortunately alive. No one remembers Marinetti beyond his statements. He is frowning in a very silent hell. We feel guilty and pelt his grave with sonic harm. We smash the dirt where he’s buried, not enough. Marinetti eventually pandered to Jesus and got married. We burn his works for that, not because he wants us to.
Russolo conducted gradations of pitch to wake ambulatory harmonies breathing inside adrenaline, straddling gibberish, to dominate nature. Marinetti wrote Russolo love letters about shell shock, thought himself free of its effects with an insane ideal, spelled out explosions. The first artistic reaction of the twentieth century was to place one's smile against a bullet, to get stupid in your own heat. To shingle our idiocy by the light of what kills us, to eradicate self in the name of creation. Culture adjusted by noises fed big, a stoma through art. We, hostages of clang, speak the language of rampage. A revolt detached from irony leaves us silly without guns, well-dressed and bleaker still, ransomed by media, cut and swallowed cell phone to shallow reasons behind crime, excuse for baser needs to hurt. We were making noise since sex began; a less intimidating grime and shuck, whimper disguised as procreation. To stopper that modern urge leans toward grandiose wrongs. The spreading of our kind is a potential not even our kind abides any longer and never did without knowing. We scowl loudly into our nylon bibs, facing gizmo speed. Edification demands grunts cast in the surplus light of our comas; no message equals no cumshot, no catharsis in the shuddering plurality of now, instead all is banging known at once, million-fold gusher. Good art pulls every muscle. Wrangled kaleidoscopic from origins of prance to mate, pocketed noise begs for an artwork loud behind hearing. The mobile crisis, the panicked canvas, a song of fingernails, fire as a toy, no economies, no hope please, tourists with mange, words as strangulation. The silence stated between echoes of edits is all we have.
Crackhead Manifesto
Read Xeroxed behind meaning, willed away and present, full of calamity and not, crumpled by process, construed from fear of death, shot here slant of evolutions the brain shat. Issue writing from bangs of seizure, free of measure, holy beyond ritual, goofy sciences happening, constricted cell to vessel to amnesia and returning by fire with nothing wanted. Memories, circular and wrong, repeat small impacts, poof and wretch. Adoration of our waste refilling. We talk our nursing homes away, everything a weak stall to the nursing home. A veil of blood memorizes sight. Crack sees no division within noise. Whatever stabs through best: a chance to die sooner is to write. Attach nothing to being alive, addict of sounds we can’t stop making. We write with our fists. Giddy linguistic pap smears wrack free. We resent our births. We remove our lives with such sad ferocity that art becomes our lives. The enemy is sober and informative. Doom is in our hair.
We shuck our bodies to falter verse. No ideas line to line. Only moments falling thereupon, only backstroke and knives, we are the crack huff religion. All skin blocks our blood from the air.
Those considered attractive cling fastest to identity. Stop everything groomed. No petting of opinions because mirrors exist.
The invention of crack cocaine asks for new writers. We find toilet paper in the richest homes on the owners’ tongues. Murder must be primary to going outside. Writers struggle to go outside.
Crack is headfirst American, louder, fatter, grotesque, a bubble from the ass of culture, a screeching heart attack buoyantly awesome, a needle lost in the urethra of progress, not a quiet poem.
We dance without dancing. We salute the stupidity of what sizzles. We jam ourselves into society’s fissure and giggle about socks.
No one contributes to, saves for, participates in, any society at large beyond their own selfish will to survive, beyond their own laughable ambitions to proliferate.
A lower atheism tears god mechanized. Nothing there to deny. Apolitical is too political.
Not near enough suicides clog the street in place of traffic. All paltry substances fund pigs by law. We snort the paint of our gibber. We mean the crack is in our saying. We mean maturity stoppers urge. We are addicted to the scat of our hands.
The idea, joint along with hope, that any poem must achieve maturity, is a yes to morality and common sense, a yay for life, a gaudy approval for the status quo, a “good job” to how things are, so yawn-worthy that the only response is to go far past the conservative cliché this opinion details and get downright silly in the paced slaughter of the sooth-sayer of old and well-meant white boy piss – slit the bowtie first.
So many pissy snouts in money. So little bullets all the same. Fuck veracity. The only genre is infection.
We mistake our tinnitus for the page. We hollow out our grime to submit.
People use the threat of cowardice to enforce a greater cowardice.
We learn our ABCs by sucking the chalk board.
Reagan invented crack deep within his racist bowels, pummeling his vagina with a log, shellacking his penis with Russia, his bullet wounds sporting wigs of diamond. He lives the century backward from all saying, is all about turning the skyline his. The cult of Reagan explodes litter from every hole, super-sized and baying the dust of queens, a doo-wop monarchy ripe with frowns, a dollhouse built of cocaine. Our desks are full of the blisters our halos said. Reagan carried out abortions with his stride, updated the bible with quarantines about himself. Reagan fucked his jewelry and had it killed. Reagan is behind the chatty nature of every drug. The yeast beneath his wrinkles is the twenty-first century’s calendar.
We are the speech of sutures. We have missiles in our hug.
Our flag is made of scars. We worship our own corpses instead of singing songs.
Our poems are lice in the eyes of prosperity and culture.
Our poems won’t survive: the rat trap stuck on a wet jacket of skin. Trailed through the kitchen, in a V of blood, the rat twitching, muscular system exposed, three feet away, dead but free, pointless effort, but amazing, a genius magic trick we bow to, the artist on the tile.
We coddle our waste by ranking it. There is no hierarchy in a coffin.
Pussyfooters of snark, academic wine aficionados tied callow by their stringy balls, the Reich of snoozy nitpicks, to the pissy art of edifice, ideals baked gimpy by courts, courts and their parasitic pews, the pious and ordained, to the clock for being slow – may you all be granted lives long beyond living.
Save for the flail and its evening, our shedding gasoline in expensive rooms, the vulnerable and their beautiful hate, the hate that grins, for the bullet and its path, for Columbine and Christmas, for crack and all its fucked helicopters that let one see, for the rat glowing outside its skin, the lush bounce our heads piffle, for the audience of cuticles, we grow vast inside our blood.
Now the graft whittles loose by the noise of its being snorted, borrows everything we love and performs arson in the gradation of its own jury’s severed wet.
The smoke rising from us is our property.
- See more at: http://www.evergreenreview.com/127/nonfic_honey_noise.shtml#sthash.yi6JF86T.dpuf

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