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July 1, 2014 | Nonfiction

Other People Podcast

Sean Kilpatrick

Other People Podcast photo

I need a honky-voiced piñata because envy rears me. Be a creamy noodle that owns land, begetting tonality like safe expresso, some college-friendly banter near many geniuses by contrast, a dad who could bench you with his hair. Make it sound well-therapied, lucre in the windpipe, a little tease for time-outs. Remind me I’m dismissed before I shoot my dick in the kids. Have I heckled myself obscure yet or has writing poems not about fucking life brought that, please? Where is my miracle according to facebook? What can I sell, if that’s okay? Holy cow, I’m going to rape you in the tan. It’ll be friendly and last. We’re gonna wrestle, baby. For real. Apocalypse parley is hence. We’ll share a manger. That’s young slang. While we’re here with Will Ferrell, in my sonnet’s mommy basement, black beret for flair: ensure every sentence said won’t last in prison. I seek a petting when understood. Is it popular now to be miffed about cracker flesh? I don’t self-reflect in chart form. White on white crime forever. The canon shirks us plain. I’m very tired by my hate. I think I’d rather masturbate. Where’s my prized nap atop the crowd? This is too random for an albino. Or the rest. I’ve hurt enough people. Give me a fucking house. I’m ready to do the studying necessary to wash Listi’s car. I have sent my grinning resume. I promise to wax without prejudice. I was out of line. You’re my sir. I care to be the icing on our family. You’re my best shot at McDonald’s. Will you send them a recommendation letter? I have a master’s in exactly sugar. I’m lying on the tracks for you. I’m relying on my tracks for you. I can be cute. I’m a teddy on parole. Size up my haunch. I won’t disrupt your lawn unless I’m cutting it. I’ll even avoid elapsing your house’s windows. Just stay the distance of the hose. I know you wear shorts. If you provide, I will unzip them, take you gingerly into my scorned palate, and nod until you can picture someone else. I will collect excess slobber in my palm so as not to disturb your perfectly manicured front. I am the swallowing lint you came inside by accident, vomiting your cum into a hat, worn like a jester with stink lines. This is how a poet refines his dress. Insult interview. Anytime. I got nothing to be famous for. I’m full of ammunition your novel never knew. That’s how well we’d get along. Have I rimmed myself blacklisted from tennis? Isn’t my credit score just an autograph of the man smiling? If one person can take from this that it is not about privilege, it is not fiction versus poet, it is none of the internet fashions of complaint and it is not anonymous (even though I am any-goddamn-pleasing-way anonymous with or without my fucking name) and I'll never to weigh in publically on a fellow scribe (oooo) again, but this scrambled eggs of a well-intentioned, expertly social, quality podcaster (so far okay, I’m sure it’s hard to be successful at talking, and that is his only art. It takes skill to be listenable, and I’d fuck him. I was coasting friendly until his congratulations of himself began to mount by the fearful week. Do we have a hero on our hands after a hiking misadventure? Helping ladies one rock and book of theirs at a condescending time? We have been alerted to the gender his intentions won’t undo, a such kind gesture, unless otherwise informed. I’m like: “SO BIG!”) gets near subjects I ogle. Gets near them, flat from the risk of this unenviable and hugely difficult task, unpunished for his contradictory and artless essence never once being prostrated with the embarrassment of someone in fucking love. Do you understand me? I am fucking psychotic and apparently unhirable, but I can worship where it is required. I show reverence before my betters. I do not elevate myself with vain chatter about my progress in any proximity to an unknown source of the fucking sublime. I don’t disagree with Listi, I just wanna roll around in him and woof. Which colony must I clock myself preferring read in the name of who wrote what, in place of loving anything except the way I am perceived loving it? How many fucking handshakes before I’m okay with god? What are we doing off our knees in the name of people? Allot me the penalty, folks. I will show him about basements. I will troll the list from him. The hate here’s a bouquet I send because that’s polite. Condolences.

 

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