Similarly Rented Womb Stank
Touching outside involves less god. The river where I drown for thirty miles every night, huddled zigzag between fists in an ugly tickle, crowds of men seen pummeling slant from the bank, where my sockets ruckus pure money with the ancestors of whatever sex destroys me, chewing sediment toward China, hunkering through methods that heighten the land, disappeared splash by splash, an epilepsy of hue so tight I skip myself sore around spunk buoyancies. My absenteeism is symptomatic of my being there. In the stasis my blood refrains; combing the skin above until fire. Every nanosecond fluctuates overlapping hatreds so immense—and then little glances happen and I want to get married, someone pets me and I reconsider procreation, someone stands up and I want to slit their ballsac, shivers when I brush their hair, I want to bunch off all their skin and roll around in it, gives me some laconic refusal and I want to prove the world is flat, but not really. I call my period back from limbo, back from starvation, whisper the egg out of hiding and it sits up purring without nuisance of gravity, thighs spider webbing, black months reverse. The gush heats my esophagus, revolving downward, traceable on the glow of my birth marks, stains that mean put me back in, my ribs box the revolving cramp and I flap my arms to help inch belly upside down, dilated red, lips parting reflexively, sprinkling a baby no one might be cruel enough to raise. Better in town square, or on the floors of schools disassembled by movement. I am a parasite and I miss my host. I miss not having been born yet. Their unzipped pants taste of gas. They roll me in the balled hide of a screaming animal. The drool I hover with reflects me. Horsefly stung cataracts slapped down, scooting terror, sees the grass mashed fuck to soup and me humping on it: ass and folds. Folds chasing folds shiver off, muscular system exposed, shiny fat, wrapped in our own flay and squirting dermis, whining louder with each mouthful, blood dizzy and wedged maggots feed each shivering hunk, rowed through the plaster with torn placement, our doggy blanket drying slowly. All tomorrow I sneeze Flintstones Vitamins wrapped in fur. My wrecked circulation, so many veins the light, now blue, chaws inside a mother sound fainting forward.
“Your baby bitch weakness is never as cute an unreasonable defense as you think, especially when you’re off speed. If your tricks rather called you ugly, instead of letting you, in false modesty, say it first, they would then adorn you beyond your tiny comprehension, and you’d have to fill your own cunt with substance.” He placed my wounds like a petty savior, closing one eye, staring down the still unfolding prim and slick haltered tucks of where I land. He’s sucked my clit in a thought bubble all day. Now sweat lamps our torsos, public slime, conducted chafing. He slaps an extension cord through my come. “At some point we’ll miss each other, lick the wall socket.” I leak ounces of water I’ve eaten for the last week. He stirs, punches his tongue up my ass, cooing me close to an almost throb, floating inside gooey suction, his fingers v-shaped, compressing my clit, stuck out, elastic. Wound around thick calibration, I contract and lock tight enough for him to slam pathways. Our hips ache rhythm, my legs thrown, an afterthought. We bake through so much friction the house leans. I plug my hand into my mouth and shrink, organs choking into a suffocated spasm around his cock. We let go, pulse, vision loss, screaming in our skins, his tip audibly whacking my cervix like a rewound car accident. Our hearts tamper fabulous congruities. Body language is the one form of communication I keep finding myself trapped in and liking, so saying hi is hard. I quietly become a man under the sheets. I slip into cumy boxers and do hot dog rotations, make the sheets rise like something’s there, extend my good confidence to the world, focus on the limitations of my length and how to hide. Because he stretches out my undersized panties, folded into them like an after sex magic show, I assume his genitalia, no longer accomplishing that grotesque male bounce and flap, are inch by inch retracting into egg sac. I’ll have his musk by the time he’s awake. He’ll cream himself flowery and miss my big holy penetration. My fucking him leaves an imprint, an echo of cock he reverberates in girly sing-song. He contains my puddle, flutters around, dripping me. The physical memory lasts longer than he cares to think. He is sore and angry for being sore and mocks my enormous protuberance under red sore sheets, pretending to be me before on to the next breeching, which occurs in possibly five minutes. I finish ogling transvestite me, with my Rocky Horror hands, though I disagree with leather, unless it is in my mouth. I show Canada my tits. I live in a Japanese closet. I sneeze Algerian sperm. I log online and talk about dead dogs. I make phone calls and text messages and type in the instant message hatebox. I tap a telegraph on the small of my back, spread my legs around a smoke signal, take cell phone pictures, send them to a girl who tongues my ass, a boy with gout, a child with clap, a transvestite who takes notes, people in Hong Kong circle jerking in the middle of a crowded street, posted on the blog with pubic hair font. A guy from Sacramento is crying on my voicemail. I film my feet for someone in Kansas, toes wrinkling hello. I attend a webcam orgy, choking myself with my bra. I laugh asking if father catches feast in my diaphragm. He died in childbirth. Literally, he’s negative seven years old. His prick looks like a coat hanger. Boything from Colorado wants to watch me piss on cam. Girlcreature from school asks what drugs her boyfriend stuffed me with. LSD suppositories and I got pyrotechnic groin trauma. So he shampooed your cunt for CNN? Acronyms are hot. I’ll punch your clit later. LOL. I type upside down in the hatebox, legs over the chair top like white feathers that hate themselves. I invented wingspan. I’m typing I fucked your mom over and over to my own screen name. I answer my cell and continue an online conversation mid-sentence. The television is loud enough to upset my stomach. I hold music to my ear and type with one finger and yell “What!” into the phone while performing on cam, taking another picture, switching the lights on and off with my toe.
I hump the graveyard so bodies fizz. Their stains grow inside me. Exhaling into the corpse dirt above each grave, a lick of something molded dry inside my thought. I kill the hot end of a cigarette on my nipple, leaving white scars dividing the pink like a second nipple failing to begin. In a minute the world can turn your crucifixion runny. My scraped tits bobbling clay, retarded putty sucked by all. I want to get my gang rape on. Fill up a small closet with my blood. Comb it out of me, enough to paint a house. I’m too far up my own rashes to hear. My genitalia need constant sensory information. It’s how I can tell where I’m going half the time. I miss the ex who smoked my vulva like a bong. He spent a lot of time down there with a flashlight, being religious. That kind of spatial misconception is common amongst the devoted. For instance, when I’m five years old, I fall down trying to grab the moon. I want to use it to shave my legs. I miss a version of the future invented for my sorry inclusion. The particular slapped-tall ostrich pounce these fuckers ritualize. I am too far splayed again by hands.
These are selections from Sean Kilpatrick's forthcoming novel Sucker June. He is published in No Colony, Action Yes, Fence, LIT, Forklift Ohio, La Petite Zine, and an e-book at Magic Helicopter Press.