Nakon što smo u Libri Liberi objavili svjetsku ekskluzivu, Sucker June Seana Kilpatricka (novog Lautreamonta, po mome mišljenju), Sean počinje objavljivati knjige i u svojoj domaji.
Fuckscapes
Sean čita Sucker June
Fuckscape, ulomak:
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.
"We Jerk Inside One Grave": An Interview-in-Excerpts With Sean Kilpatrick
Sean Kilpatrick, finishing an MA at Eastern Michigan University, is published inFence, Columbia Poetry Review, No Colony, Action Yes, New York Tyrant, LIT, The Lifted Brow, Caketrain, Tarpaulin Sky, Libra/Libera, Evergreen Review, La Petite Zine, Spork, Forklift Ohio, Everyday Genius, Wigleaf, and 30 Under 30: an anthology of innovative fiction. His first book, fuckscapes, is forthcoming Dec. 2011 (Blue Square Press). Anatomy Courses (Lazy Fascist Press), a collaborative novel written with Blake Butler, is due Valentine’s Day 2012.
The following interview was conducted "in the form of excerpts"--Kilpatrick kindly selected other excerpts from fuckscapes to answer the questions.
“Suicide is the only option. Whether you commit it or not.”
2. What isn’t writing like?
“Hey gang, we’re a cross-generational multi-sex Frisbee.”
3. When you do it, why?
“I decided aging is a kind of adornment we retreat from slower and slower until every wretched result seems momentarily okay. Moments never mattered – a fashion you couldn’t wear. I love my lover’s worst: disillusionment can last. The only kind noise is gibberish. We jerk inside one grave.”
4. When you don’t, why?
“I hated being unarmed and withstood.”
Nema komentara:
Objavi komentar