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CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Three Poems
by Sean Kilpatrick


COMMUNITY HEART ATTACK

I love my heart attack.
Everybody loves my heart attack.

I am eighty-nine years old right now,
chasing girls with a straw.

I have fleas.
That's how I wake up.

The nurse who breaks my wheelchair
in a dream goes on to commit suicide.

Town Hall is filled with crotches
and the dogs are nowhere.

I give my placenta critical analysis.
A negative review, it tastes sour.

The podium is raped by men with Alzheimer’s.
That’s how a cubist goes to jail.

In jail, more heart attacks, waiting
to be held, will have us.

ALL MY GODS ARRANGED IN PAPIER-MACHE RHYTHM

and danced these lactose hours

into the church of

one-two-three

into rubber chicken girls

                                             spread by the pond like joseph
goebbels

(this pill forms a toy chest in your vomit
                                                                          this pill sighs a
raggedy ann doll canzonet)

hiding phone calls under laundry
555--i pour my wrist into
the receiver dots
                                     like a pro
                                                         gulp gulp
                                                         pish pash
                                                         yum yum
hello, i need yelps fit for a glass hand
or fuck colored eye shaped like
alzheimer's fetus smoking a pipe

                                                                humped cute
                                                                by girljuice
                                                                nylon handshakes

and killed all my worshipping hers
                   doll jaw said sunday he touched
                                                                       clocked a time card in
her
cunt

ironically
                   screwed into positions of irony

a suicide treat wallows nice in hands your mother made

from GANGRENE

1.

A pretzel on the side of the freeway,
or road kill, a dog hit by a car,
I thought it was my father for a minute.
The doctors came slowly out of their tents.
The passing cars almost touched their zippers.
One scratched and said, “we should operate.”
“Hmm,
we don’t want to say bladder infection just yet.”

5.

My rifle fired embalming fluid into the sky.
Mascara sunset rained a coffin smell.
I told the doctors about lipstick.
I said my father’s sad grins were populated
by formulas you could never memorize.
We decided to paint rouge on his coffin.

9.

Gary was sometimes my real name.
I found a mean stare in the garbage
and put it on for awhile.
I made a career out of following my kitchen with a noose.
Flowers made of smegma ruined my lawn.
Gary shook his head.
With 10,000 volts, he shook his head.

16.

I was a chore of gangrene headaches.
Several thousand maggots watched me
through a magnifying glass.
I faked being wet for their entertainment
because I was bored.
I was convicted of drawing my own chalk outline.
Convicted of stealing my own chalk outline from the Louvre.