Adam and Eve in Hell | by Sean Kilpatrick

I skip rocks off my embalming fluid to tell time.
Executive tourniquet of dawn borne forth.
I train my shadow to follow the fires of hell.
Lay an egg, toss it a scarf.

Man and woman: these notions didn’t fare well.
They wanted too many albums named after them.
Our heads are flak beneath one prayer.
Lice on unicycles pinch us from their hat.

I am paparazzi on the toenail of Eve. Bastard seed
jeered from heaven, braying ‘deep fry me’.
Bouncing a beehive outhouse to eulogy.
God is drowning in the acne on my ceiling.

The roving moniker scratched on wombs,
I pawn my mate in her soggy felt, withering bulbously.
Human heart cremated intact,
I scoop rubble mattresses, thermometer in a tomb.

The sun immolates itself to inspire bigger Vietnams.
Slit throat gesture’s the one salute.
Whoever’s rubbed raw, you’re my body too.
Run the hose on that wattle or give us pets.

Couple tank bodies copulated the first living room
into a crater below every orgasm.
Prophylactic reservoirs bursting through retreat.
Remember being a husk full of my apneal slang?

Stick a clothespin on my grave. Put the wound on billboards.
Draw a border around your foibles with the world and prolapsed history.
Thrombotic weathers muss the vision prevented by my width.
Jousting in utero, I took my druthers in the wailing butthole of a snake.

Who masturbated me alive sans mate, dousing the whole placental swing set?
I have been brainwashed in so many different directions blinking too hard gets my laundry done.
I flesh out everything at the end of my telescope and come coated in the silly authority of a cut.
Be the daydream lightening wears.

When I lived, there was no abstract, no act, no potential.
Neglect is a rite of passage between parent and offspring.
Being born, lame suggestion. I started in my hand.
They gave me a badge with a flea on it. Takes an Oberth maneuver to shake em.

I love you, despite sanitation. Recycled meat, our pet name for sex.
A napkin of genes peeled apart like children between us.
I am the platter beyond math where your parents share a head.
Take dictation. I mean diagnose me. Roll call my pulse. Measure the stigmata in your hoagie.

I will strand you with a diploma, quaking at parades.
So much mess space begins again. French kiss exhaust in primate hells.
I am the great none of the above. I reject the planets over my crib.
They cradle teardrop-shaped anemones.

Father picked the spiders off my quilt and read me their fur.
He strangled us into a brownbag orgasm with a surplus umbilical cord.
I was his carnivore in the powerlines, bonding to rust.
Our series of glass casket moms took the toxicology report for scripture.

Lipstick inside the maker, choked on a goodnight kiss.
There is only music once the herd can’t breathe.
No sentence ever survived the trip from page to mouth.
Then I had dry skin in Valhalla. Every jade egg hid in the crust of static.

Met a scattered dad, part salad, part fluid in a balloon.
I suicided my purr, invidiously stacked beneath piled leaves.
Ever get halitosis vertigo breastfeeding a block of C4?
Skim me the back-ass of my own forehead before it’s crossed the room.



Sean is published in Boston Review, Nerve, Vice, Bomb, New York Tyrant.

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