Loose meats!

This is Stab Pyramid's postal brethren

Upon opening the package that contained my copy of Sean Kilpatrick’s fuckscapes (Blue Square Press, 2011), I discovered a much smaller nugget of unbridled poetical prose in a handbound black Moleskine-like cover, numbered _ of 42. Stab Pyramid by Sean Kilpatrick & Blake Butler is a treat, if you like treats that taste like “chocolate swastika-kissed anvils, seats grafted fat with toddler head all pushed from me” or “the paling below raked clit.” Grizzled domesticity championed by a father figure who delights in goring baby-skin and “sucking the pulp out of a picture of the glitched.” The mother only implores us to “stop acting like my pussy is an ambulance for the world.” And, yeah. This little fleshy gulp of sin and topical-brilliance-in-Tourettic-OCD-language-expulsions-slash-murders makes for an excellent prelude and tremor-smeared companion to the similarly themed fuckspaces, perhaps one of the fuckiest. As disjointed as they are freaky, these impure exaggerations ream me the burnt cornea treatment I’ll be unable to shake, even if I wanted to: “I slept in a newspaper wide enough to crown my wave and considered a microphone shitting sons from the knotted tunnel of a senator’s hysterectomy.” Thanks fellas.