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SEAN KILPATRICK |
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
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