Sean Kilpatrick

Shucks About Everything

Your sex is adjustable according to level of terror.

To take the factory out of saying, to dismantle the mind by returning to people’s earliest output and to construct of that study root cognitions free of contemporary abstraction and clich√©, to relieve the constriction of condensed verbiage into less popular contents, breaking by syllable until the recomposed thought has reached mystical apertures between purpose and sound, the ideogram and glyph dumb on the page point without decision, simplistically, but felt.

If a poem could start breathing new paths with its own arrangement, grow eyes from multi-fractured narrators in the same take, a suction of stationary vowel made component within.

What semiotics lifts the creature angry from its bleating, changes our instincts?

The movement seeker protects consumption. Informed by loss consumers advertise. To blunt definition, omitting surface from emotion, to narrowly avoid Catholic techno, elaborating smog for America, equitably sappy, adolescent, progressively sweltered, a family gets particular about neighborhood. Teenagers invest satanic swagger, determine guilt by evolution, because months cost. “My dick finally became huge on my twentieth birthday.” Compared to taxes unsubstantiated, safety the upshot, a parent will kid their mugger. It could be a vast percentage of relatives who say private troughs spill glue.

Mandatory economics shovel the passage right to martyrdom. An unctuous putting of birth cords in the wicker. Students of hapless fact cantankerously unspecified by the hinder they suck. The faculty budget killed a door. What’s on the docket for disease? Usurp a type of equivocal hygiene. Bodily handbooks conduct scars to meaning, ultimatums of pubic liposuction. Superficiality for tit sex in classrooms while aging. Through some bubbles you see girls you loved with scripture in their names. Some you never touched without the police nearing all shrunk and esteemed.

Restricted voluminous to self-injury, big wounds as small media (imagined and physical, masturbation causes tinny choleric grip, quivering cancer glide, plague to the third degree, bionic gimp moves).

Accumulate by mistake, love too young, gloaty religious violence, an attempt to retract all the awkward coitus with each phrase and only creating more.

Squirt 100 percent confetti – the drip you drop, the slip you slop. Spatter during group. Mess improves stanzas. Dowse your iodine with place. Freeze a poem until it’s ready for submission. Some go in your ear. Cake the home, romance and powder, bathe in people’s kids.

Get a lid of sag round your play, a slurpy for quotes.

Wrangle filth a cleaner purpose, step loudly into ninja clothes.

Existing is a plenitude of health and hostility, of sickness and pleasantries.

Sticking your arm inside a radio to chew the skin harmonious, break into song at the sight of chemicals, walking glib between genre fondled kinds of plain for transvestite sayings, arrival toward meaning through fracture because meaning is such a limp chemical implied stochastically. People shit their own meaning in beautiful ways. Survival is the perpetual flaw of our vocation as animals. After all cadaverous humpings drolly laughed through. People could die with such spuriously delicious adjectives.

I am an arsonist when I smile. I think thinking is murder. History is a silly fetish sometimes. But I like history too, because I have some. All this god stuff crowds the orgasm. Baudelaire masturbates like someone with a broken mother. He finds a weapon to carve people out of their separate hibernations from god. Baudelaire is god.

A short history of drive-by shootings via the height of each assassin.

Nothing your labor produces has significance, how freeing, the smooch of torture, the necking dreads.

Sliced aphasic for meaning, words fail the brain - a grand disease disguised as itself - click into vacancies fondled and huffing tune, are punished further, grope the cleft adoringly reset by frictions circular and droned, rabid and nuanced.

Clapping your hands on other people’s hands until human similarities combust creams nannies pile in the closet.

The world outside your bed keeps growing. Beneath the covers your cuticles recede. Cold plumbing welters your infections.

Everything is a job without instructions. Everyone is a boss whose piss becomes your vision.

Nightmares linked endlessly preposition to preposition, the comma as perpetrator, the right ten seconds of trauma the same as ten million.

Risk your prose as purple or bleed so stupid everyone hides.

Pretension means you write.

To write like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1owrlQlLExY

This: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLOy4_tzXHY

The fragment is a halo for music only your skin can spoil.

Go past your bandages, regardless.

That there is edification in the art itself is a perverse lie. Gut the singer of this song.

Study process how a corpse smells.

The cluck dumb telling of your vice all willy nilly.

The costume that fears itself.

The king scalped by his crown.

Say fuck yes after every line or admit you are asleep.

Revision of revision, you edit when you blink.

Inkling for the Tarot as porn.

Cacophony bares little beyond cacophony: yikes and good.

The consonant as vehicle of hate to pace typing. Alliteration works during scenes of castration or disembowelment. All that is allowed is disembowelment.

Marginalize your tinker.

Don’t write to be digested.

Be alive worse than anything.

What you conjure while giddy places little connect.

The world ain't your business. Breathing ain't your business.

To search assward for yesterday’s supper using a blowtorch for light and to live in the resulting wet maze of tubes.

You didn’t have enough grins tied to your birth. You found a pencil and stuck it in your importance.

People study to be lawyers.

You are glitter succulent for page.

You’ve got microcosms in your stammer.

Blown eventually through a tube of hair.

Poets lick their gravestones, deserve less than gravestones. Poets for the order of their own mass grave.

I have a second prostate blanking soot behind my eyes.

Shucks about everything.

Sean Kilpatrick's first book, fuckscapes, packaged with an excerpt, Stab Pyramid, of a collaboration with Blake Butler, is forthcoming Dec. 2011, from Blue Square Press.

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