From the Archive: "Five Stories", by Sean Kilpatrick

Illustration by Luke Pickett.

 

Varicose Bye

I know my brother, quaint in a thousand rooms, accomplishing suicide, spread across his sheets like a venereal question, wounds aglitter. The note reads: ‘The grooves in my arm are a private bathroom for the girl who didn’t love me. A millisecond deepening time I haven’t slit adds cuticle degrees away from having touched her by fountains swelling up this artery like a house I can suddenly pay for where it’s just me and her licking the placebo out of our friendship in gravy solipsism until we have coins instead of hair shining with the infinite ventriloquism of a corpse in rigor mortis which is paused orgasm having needed that smell and carrying it with me now so envy the mess. I wish the things she liked to pet were a slide show of my life. I rented a storefront and called it I Miss Her and discussed her for a living with people unfortunate enough to walk in. All the failures in the world are being housed where fingers can’t reach, in the virgin space of galaxy, what what’s left of my forearm stretches toward. I feel better plains of static protect her from all the diseases we could have shared.’ Into the sink where his gears unwound, I wad fistfuls of pubic sad. We mimic varicose goodbyes cocked through stupid attitudes of displacement. I stuff our Red Flyer wagon with his bloat. We tugged it around years ago before our genitals developed and we had to stop looking each other in the eye. My clownish hourglass lush for the daily attack and so increasingly white clouds come following in tawdry impersonation of each movement. I’m modelling for genocide, step by step, leaning my double digit weight down the stairs, his corpse banging after, bed sheets following. I rub my wet on his body to make fun of how much progress he thinks he made. I am one muscle draped in tiny creams. My wrists are strong enough to break a house whenever I feel wronged. I ride him, sitting on his face, and blow a bubble. He’s turning back into the egg that laid him. I’d like to make the babies die right out of his scrotum with a firm tickle. I touch the collocating bruises. He needs to be placed on a trampoline. We bounce like rap stars. We have a diet of jumps and flips quite ballerina. There’s no stutter in my glide. There’s no um in his rupture. His rigor mortis looks beautiful on a trampoline. I yank open our mouths and pray for nothing less than a new version of rain. I shower gold effluent on his spun ill hop. I have a worn diaper for eyes. My brother, capable of being hugged, multiple viscosities of loss channel his going. I scream and someone in the next house over screams and someone in the next house.

 

Bung Pellet Boo

We suck coke from her nose. Jerk our mash on splayed lesser kills to partition the cumshot banging out louder minutes. Her slime dries, coated fish paste swab. Bucking landfill, her face a dungmask, her body lengthens, militias’ blacker sperm bubbly there, an antique dip, dick swirl the germ, stretch the costume looser each ride. Her joints blown, ass like a tadpole incisor stuck clutching, quaking dirt, such fetid gloss of air brought stable. What’s accumulated in the tissue? A whole electrostatic mill barfing hairy nuggets nationwide. We swear allegiances by rot this diesel. Paint loins white in cancer swoon. We’re getting dated in her bowels. A canopy coagulating turd milked gypsy, dome flavoured. We sip the flab, sword fighting, roosting cold in her tire rambunctious spaces falling ouch again. Let the owls poke in. Wire her thighs shut with trail slither from dreaming. Hula-hoop in the shack around our swelter like amassed britches, Holy Lord. Face turned skid mark, we break her dairy inside. Foot powered Sybian machine stirs her, pole-knocked, flopping fresh directions, teeth split base to skull. Just our pus, suspenders, infections, baseball up her throat, maestros of clack, pin war zones to her honey spun ceiling to eye sans pupil remodelling prayers her mouth barely can relinquish with helping hands. Another bothers her with origins we long forgot, stabbing portal across her ribs and wine delivers to chase communion. Another bicycles her chunk rising semblance of infant slaked. The skin a leather placement bitten extra wearily as shrunk days fight by. Her gash balloons accommodating mass till us-shaped bubbles stack the room. The fire her dog spasms. Our minds getting fatter the shorter she spends whole.

 

Wifey

I bring Jessie to my sister, who speaks enema, dark stuck on her like a giant flea. They clit bounce, three-way. Chant involving super market. ‘No more girls,’ she cries. ‘I’m a girl.’ I corner her toilet with a magnifying glass.

‘Let me in, little baby, your dirt is getting supple.’

‘I’ll buy your way out of dreaming. If you leave.’

I disembowel her mattress. She’s huffing spray, has turned two men black as the pillow she hides them under. I sob abdomen to abdomen. ‘Leave me damage.’ We tap our lily infections together. She’s toying. Slender alien feet kick. I tug the floor to excavate skin she might drop. I fit her throat by portioning. She rubs my come into her eyes on purpose. Perhaps to see a son we couldn’t make and burn him there within the seeing.

I push all night between her ribs. I feel cervix walls battering food. I’m thrusting out her age. Perky in staid seizure. Coming I grind my teeth so enamel bits salt her. ‘We’ll each peddle the other’s surgery.’ I turn her over, mash her hair with gum. Rip for keeps. We’re slowly starving ourselves of any human practice and getting right. I tease a gas pump between her tits. Spray us both gently as we fuck. She bites the windowsill. Bugs slide under her teeth to watch.

My boss examines a compound fracture, elongating space shaded below the exit. ‘I feel like a big socket sometimes,’ the woman moans. I’m ordered to crisscross my vertebrae with constipation. ‘Amen!’ we both erupt for no reason. ‘You have a smudgy way of burping sound.’ My boss mashes a receipt into her cleavage. ‘Damn that cunt got anfractuosities. Small skin loop labia look like some charcoal-grey seventy year saddle gall. Whoa better get a shotgun barrel in there. Recall the placenta as it follows behind?’ Laughing, ‘spun, posed and fucked maybe another sister?’ We high five until we’re almost bloody. ‘Please live with me. I haven’t stopped bleeding since I met you,’ she bleeds. We rape her against a door until the door is all she has. We scrub her children ready.

My sister plays Atari in the attic. With some parent dying behind. I buy her anything that shines. I fall into her, hugging, but she blocks. I lean to slap her Protestant. She snakes vomit down my collar. I chase, semi-hard, straddling her sweat against the ceiling, when she faints, slapping out a shit paste shaped oblong as her ass cheeks clench.

‘You’re getting secular beneath rape. You look too good to be someone else’s family. Our mother wasn’t shot enough. And I am the cunt your speech was built around. Your baby ditch weekend was never a clue. Is your skin graft still on? Are you a boy yet?’

Outside I hide from her, cut both wrists against the sidewalk, big cream tears. Everywhere people reading bibles, bumping into each other, exchanging bibles. I smear my tattoos different. Get cramps, skin a crayon-like diss. Tubby white boy deep-throats candy. Tadpole still warped in a drippy condom, butt folds like different crimes. He’s carried urinal ice cubes in his mouth since rejection. I do a series of cartwheels I’m not brave enough to end. I comb the gutter with dull noise. Skip a couple pregnancies on women almost sixty. Wrinkled wasp nest stomachs cutting blouses. The bar is empty. The bartender on the floor says: ‘Booty cut from time leaks aperture, friend. Booty mere tumult. Family stuck together cause they pelt.’ I feel perceived, tip accordingly. I walk back home to tame my fade. Faking myself a greater mammal, faking the human process daily.

There’s a kind of gnawing sky I squat to leave. I yank a clotted rat of my sister’s bangs from the bathtub, smiling where I taped my mirror to swallow. Through the window a militia I shat near carries her. Longer the more veins I notice missing. They step vertically unchallenged up vinyl. Whipped clear on her approaching light. Her body viced between guns. I stick a flashlight in till her babies die. The river now because I hold it. I narrow my arteries on the play her scalp gives. Love her countlessly worse.

 

Slow Porno

We chomp the shank like slow porno. Sticks that prop us always forward stand thirsty like chosen butter. Everything between her our throats palsy. We get down on all fours and become a dog chewing another dog. Veins clap and rupture, dismantled by gulping, adangle through breaded flame. The well-kissed, now unburied, rise, welcome tangy, porous in the chemistry between arteries, cuddling her shrunk graft, bone to miniature versions of her spilling. In the black square left after we fuck smoke. She wears the forest on her vomit like a stole. We burst her ulcer through our piss, form bellyshit idols, loving the smear below till graveyards stick out. The cardboard slot in back our heads continues being ground. We twist a maggot dance. Upright on the Sybian, bow wow torn and running wider like a furry mechanism. Rammed luscious with human sputter, grand walks design our wetted rug. The motor whirs louder the more weight impaled, like taxidermy dancing a revolt. Black cock head churns zeros under meat, skin tented ooh la la, innards a fast gravy flipping circles to tongue. We knife from split to smile. Another, on the ground, break dancing below the gush, pilfers the two-foot vulva. We sing an entry song going headfirst up the mask of it. Standing inside the partway wonder, we sing the reborn pussy muffle and punch our dogmother face. Of clit and cavities we sing, of barking mold, galloping blindly into trees, this natty hybrid. We cry god if god suits us.

 

Poon Grizzle

Here within the ending landscape a universe has shaved itself. The scrawl partook of trees only a distant voice left drying in tune. Grass hammered to pipes shuffling newborn suture of dirt and sky, knitted iridescence. We chant our crackhooey bent into each other like sister saints. A leg splits loose of its holster, arms pasta brown, lips ingurgitate. Red by shades we chalk her blood, tips familiar. Thrusting outward, we elevate her air below openings. The acid of her stomach bangs disappeared foil where once we required vision. Her dead neck going yes and yes. The come shudder of curtains slamming silences together. The wind moves sound inside her. The horizon at our eyelids squirming hints. Row of fractured ribs we play as forest. Vultures pecking her cunt to strings reversing nudged music ejaculate through the sheet. She pets herself bald. She pets herself alive with promises. In the untold space, askew of quiet, her dog’s suicide on steroids chimes beef, like us, we threw him in the puppet web and sister frothed by, crank-assed, charming as a band aid, a swallow glowing in our prey. We ride her present from the blind spot within what we, coupled, spongy, know.

 

Sean Kilpatrick, born 1983, Detroit, published in Evergreen Review, Columbia Poetry Review, Fence, LIT, No Colony, 30 under 30, Tarpaulin Sky, Libra/Libera, New York Tyrant, Caketrain, Jacket, attends EMU, facial hair enthusiast.

Luke Pickett was born in Melbourne. He attended RMIT’s visual art program to study painting and drawing which destroyed the romantic illusions of making fine art as a career, and led to an undying, everlasting love of comics. His first full-length comic was recently released by Milkshadow Books. He lives in Toronto.