SEAN KILPATRICK

TEN PERCENT

I can drown for thirty miles. My absenteeism is symptomatic of my being there. I spread marble ideas turning to be issued. Gush knots in the straddle, watery penis versus the architecture of those standing over. Akimbo, congregating personas wreck my volume. The bridge, babies tickle themselves. My bladder leaks in slow unison like how strewn the river is converted into fuck. Bow and split accordingly.

 

Naked, I always foam. I seizure into rapid inches. I aim my cunt toward zigzag crowds and pummel the water till boy leavings and fish like trained suppositories spill against the banks on either side, where I let my eyes roam, congeal, fixate. Applause spatters cream highlights of afternoon, a little close up for every son. I do free strange honey circles all through the landing.

 

Trees panic, buzz humming pre-fires torn into positions boring as any sex. Trees are the ancestors of fire. Trees are related to whatever destroys them. Everything I look at is pre-developed fire, a stillborn chemical begging to dance. I import no cum when fire happens, but from river exhibitions I receive and issue bacteria, calculated and old, arbitrary and delicious: a birth occurring as the mistake that replaces combustion. I want to go home and do laundry.

 

Going outside involves touching less than ten percent of god.

 

What an epileptic day of confusing color. There are hues so tight you understand the mistake of taking oneself seriously. I find a human to cuddle. She is so full of ears for me, slow for me, preciously dumb. She nods and nods while I tongue her wax. One of us must cry soon, for the good of mankind. I am whispering about things I love, about Toxic Shock Syndrome.

 

SHIT

I don't look good when I shit. I turn the color of my shit. Keep the shit inside. It's valuable. It's funny when people like you. Shit is more valuable than how people like you. Most people shit by making their point clear.

 

Cut my tits off. I can't move. They're in the way. Shut up. I bounce too much doing exercises I never heard of. My body self-cannibalizes. A malignant gear whispers my skeleton closer to the surface. My skin glows with immaculate dread. All the perspective lines that compose my vision float downward, into me, back out, recycled. I kweef global warming effluviums with a sad face. I only smooth my curves against furniture I've pissed on. I punch my torso to continue living. The bakery in my hips is like unfrosted comet jizz sprinkling the first evolution across a volcano. My cervix winks tiny eons, spayed calendars.

 

I kiss a brick wall like I'm having my tubes tied.

 

I want to dye my hair: white, bald, coffin, government building, Carl Weathers. I feel okay. Emptied names fill my strut. I'm the Frank Sinatra of public blow jobs. I feel the milk sunrise diarrhea from my head the color of stigmatized palms and reeking talcum powder. I puke on a nativity scene. I swamp the stable with impressions of clit until the rectangle suddenly cries good sin. This splinter is Jesus in my pants. I bounce into the nurses' station, show them my distended slit, leave, stick my head back in: There aren't enough pimples around my labia, may I borrow some? They enjoy me, say cheers. Who was that? Cheers, phone the police. I'm tired of people who don't beat me.