Fuck Philly Roth

You can’t scrub the itinerary off a pilgrim. By no margin is a lap better sucked. Our righteously examined universe has been bleached with tiny egos. So much neurotic journeying I have to confess my excrement palpable enough to find purchase. Does the journalistically plainspoken canon reach deep enough true to form a semblance of our stuffing? Who cares, I’m too busy malting in my applause that any memory might sustain me. That’s why I try to strut inside a syllable. Because fuck what’s okayed. Frolicking in the mouth gives the writer back to death and anonymity. We need to start issuing observations colon first. A supercilious French-headed lingual reef may exist as either an ingrained exception or to excuse academia. Neither ghetto supersedes the proudly dumb, manifest destiny rewarded nowadays. The post-silly avant lingual is niched inside a niche, doing the splits mid-blender, never any volume. Hard to skim somebody’s blockaded sub-basement psyche attacking cyclically. I seem to understand literary outgrowth as a plucking loose of one’s eyes without the benefit of catharsis, without the albino benefit of the inwardly redeemed, no benefit, please. I think we borrowed our disgust for art from sitcoms. The snooty academe more pipe than heart is out there and only you and Steven Spielberg got the underdog soul to show the populace how things really are, but your university denizen is more and more just a career yuppie with zero passion for the creativity they dread by lack of talent. They belong to the tribe of the dollar and may be excluded from the zipper down. Intelligence, I promise, is not a factor on the page unless you’re another one of these half-ass English student lawyer-marms of either or neither sex. These types coined this frat dada penny of an idea. People who think in safely political terminologies see the world under the condition of whichever college supports them. A person in a frat is, like the careerist, safe as a cop. First off, that’s no one who writes. He is hiding in a clump of his like fellows and any naked introduction of danger without backup will freeze him to his shorts. He wants to live scarier than most. You are born of a wide and free roaming biological disorder that scoffs at art and danger, two words that mean the same fucking thing, or used to, my little puritans of the thinking cap, and, unfortunately, you deserve and are deeply alike the frat you think you’ve handled by being so cynically political with your well-applauded and talentless life. When shall we possess the DNA to be less unintentionally killable? The male needs a story, to write a simple way, to make structure. He’s confirming that he’s male, hence his war against lack of meaning, hence his fear of pretense, hence naming his enemy “experimental” (never recognizing story as another pretentious method). Anything iffy shards his length. Yes, experimental writers must be in search of some fucking scientific outcome, otherwise it’s gibberish, invalidated by something, some parent the teller wishes they were, some god, some suckass way. Anything lyrical or confused, any hybridity or lack of the homespun puritanical, threatens his delicate sense of identity, reminds him he alone is the real and only cunt since mammals started. He’s just a thinker behind his pretense of getting shit done. Oh no, his instinctual power struggle is demeaned by his art. He’s crying for a fight to prove otherwise—and conspires to punk out the unassuming art freak. Who else extols their method as this far correct, in such an assumed gentry: men or anyone impersonating this fucking affectation. There is not enough cock left to share. It’s an inch-big story being told by the paltry wise and the on-the-page strong. By literate fucking cops. Only killing your neighbor wills you that right. Otherwise, experience these nuts, tell the tale, experiment on my crabs, count the structure with your taint, build your career into existence, because it’s cancer and it’s you. There is nothing less cute than a man trying to tell a story. He’s clung to his heart in the worst deco. If I am outside of a hole in the ground, it is against my will. If I’m colliding up my ass, let the blowback escort you. I don’t come away from writing feeling better or looking good. Chiming in can’t have style. It’s the whore kind of thanks and you’re ten if you think you’re scot free. If we’re published, we’re wrong to the world. All camps lose. Get your fucking hands dirty on the page or toss the quill and work a goddamn homeless shelter. Piety is the thong around our vision that neuters art.

Sean Kilpatrick (1983), raised in Detroit, published in Boston Review, BOMBNew York TyrantFenceColumbia Poetry Review, did the books fuckscapesAnatomy Courses (with Blake Butler) and Gil the Nihilist. His first novella Sucker June, is forthcoming from Lazy Fascist in 2015. More: sean-kilpatrick.tumblr.com.

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