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"the confrontation of aesthetics..."
writeThis.com
a pretendgenius.com production
vol. ii, issue v
Nov. 10, 2004
fall
writeThis
sept. 2003
the cabal
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several poems
sean kilpatrick
First Thoughts of a Dehydrated
Journalist Visiting the Jonestown Remains
the dead
on call waiting
carry their rashes
to Jonestown and bloat
under dick-sized shadows
of tree branch
their bodies are questions
i flip off
my shoes
to answer
toes patting them down
like a Naugahyde pulse
apple-core faces
i lick the plastic rot
lay the final hubby
on telephone wires
my little mannequins
glued together with spaghetti
poor boys
frosted cocks
toothpaste veins
my clit is a backwards cylinder
filled with pennies
stiff there
colorless
not a single live tongue
no eyes
cold for rape
hopeless want
or explanation
raising their hands
in empty classrooms
to ask a rooster
if it thinks about dessert
before pecking
yes the social corpses
are sadly few
the beauty of rape is seen
coming out of the room
with slabs
and realizing what a great
misfortune it is
to be able…
one face
before the bullet connects
explosion receding the cheeks
a leaf-shaped tear
from the center jaw
flaps up sprinkling
bits of sharp enamel
pale fractions of tongue
the head jumping back
then forward
a nod at 1000mph
gravity curls its finger
and the blood comes
he flattens the high-grass
shivering like a sack
of wet shit
or a happy meal waiting
in the drive-through window
like true happiness
like years from now
how my children may spit:
“it has all been said more wisely
and there is nothing to do
but continue acting”
my tears were microscopic thumbs
if she scraped herself
into a horde of buckets
the humble sacred trinity
adorned my letters
with tiny scarves
until they sang they sang
brought toilet paper
to the sleepy machines
small teeth small teeth
wiped my neighbor’s ass
with asbestos
still crying crying quietly
I would not take a bus south
I would careen
like a baptized mutt
strip naked the freshly bathed lawns
find worms and swim
swim with them
home to china
and love another
instead
even though her arms
were matchstick thin
she cradled my weaknesses
floated me into a bay
of kerosene
and went
and me too
Julie Sits Waiting in a Skirt Just to Her Round Knees,
Looking Deathly Serious and Beautiful
I have lost eons of complacency
waiting for your dime-store
mind to function independent
of gender or the way my legs cross
you are your own unwritten bible
kamikaze of self indulgencies
you exist for scientific purposes
that have long expired
and I will leave you sucking your thumb
for anyone serious who can remind me
I still have nerve endings
you will not be dumped
because some garbage floats
and I will yawn through
a decimation of your resplendent stuttering
through a universe of tears
through decadent arguments of boring selfishness
through a million bombs sliding down you belt
I will purr
split apart
go crazy
I will curve like a gymnast
choked happily by
the hands of real men
on any man’s bed
on a preacher’s bed
on a doctor’s bed
pressing my hot belly against a cop
on the mailman’s bed
but
never
yours
