Three Poems
by Sean Kilpatrick
That’s Why Tongues Need a Roadmap to Find Me
Her fingers in tiny saddles of lace
are long, as her breathing is,
to go pallid in my brain.
I hate watching her body
work.
The stupid repetition
of her lungs
destroys me.
The architecture of her glances
saying die.
Now
I have sold her stool
to keep us warm.
Small Crush
This bitch folds things cock-eyed
and leaks Saturday,
pierces her thighs with Goya,
telephones the lottery
to brag about her boyfriend’s size,
cleans the toilet
with duct tape and voodoo dolls.
This bitch drowns the block in hairless awe.
All caviar to bless my sheets,
worms dictate her love letter,
if you’re going to be morbid
do it in half-assed shudders,
she says.
The puppets copulate in terror,
bleach of names come spilling cryptic,
I said that, I said that,
gossip politely about the holocaust
running down my lips at 4 AM.
tutelage
the operator was regretful
tag, you’re it
cooing penguin urethra(s)
bladder-tickling lectures in the face
far as my bowels are concerned
on every channel
hymens tango
nickels down her dress
I pay in clown noses
honk away those tears
bulbous pantaloon haircuts
traced by Caucasian nipples
tutelage means nothing to me
arf! arf! arf!