from The Goliards

by Sean Kilpatrick

LONGCHAMPS: Always to the deafest ear the poet clears his throat. Forever beheaded just to gloat, always to his own fear, peering back inside said throat, spent in exploit of the alchemy love provoked, then that head, the period unbled, the behavior furthest favored, through a vacuum hobbled between extremes, lets sayings flee to the grand profession: pissing up a rope. It is questioned what condition Christ’s flesh assumed as one before the soul incarnate shunned substance divided of divinity if the trinity could inflate behind Mary’s passing, a fin above her asshole where their triangle slid flexing. Galaxies having vent where sperm dents the ether from a bottle sprent into mother time, so she laps lye to replay the memory. Sooty feathers worn, a talisman, volute of Pan’s urethra, barking gored plethora, fucked beyond lore. All gods come as one disease in a body soon deceased, chattering geese beneath clouds’ flown fleece. From the sucking wound of Christ, from His wafer’s tainted feast, glowing in the gloom, cattle calling moon, starving all through mass, stand till you can’t last, kneel in your meal, His arteries revealed, the blood behind no heart, we tore His ribs apart to vomit till we cluck, and peck the world undone, by heaven’s cunt enticed, on laymen’s lips sacrificed – the elements, scrutiny of a thing priced, backsides roll like dice, smacks of vice, pouring sugar on one’s lice. My beard is full of friends. They speak to me through both ends and I hear their smudge, not one clot begrudged. The father bakes himself into a cake. The sun cooks us, for its own sake, as an afterthought. On and on we’re bought, to no redemption brought. I’ll wipe the wings of hell clean until the spiders sell my face upon their hatch, the likeness of every clutch born between my sheets, sullied in defeat, and leave me at the market, stained as a baby cockroach dangled by poisonous reveries of exchange. Can’t drill past the husk. The years you lost come hauntingly present. A costly barter. Nothing left to till. Your web is full when most I miss you. Sin roped heaven off, the way our leaders caulk their robust follies flaunted thus. We cannot screech a replication raw enough! Wipe our ardor on your shoe. We’ll say anything so you think we’re through. May God’s mercy never find you. By fraud may you be chewed. Forever choked and choking…where smoke is taught. Where thought owes smoke a lot. Where logic lies lopped off. Where brightness sheds it skin. Where the son has crawled back in! Eve and Eve creating man out of a snake test their depths with each other’s fingers to guess how hung he’ll be, but miscalculating the elasticity of a cervix curled close by knuckle’s quiver, the resulting ram that plants them parted draws blood on accident and is sent to spend his seed alone, and dies of priapism. Overcorrecting caution sets the next man nigh an inch with which to stir her right to sleep. He hangs himself with a rat tail, offended at the reach. The final cock stops just short of breaching, tightest greasy greeting, and fucks both till their backsides fill in, and builds his government therein, acting out of fear instead of love, same difference! More Christ’s blood for the peasantry’s hub, drudge up the fucker’s leeches and wring them out, make His worms cough, hurling lofty brew. He fell where foul trawlers roll their boluses, making fecal angels on the hill.


Parishioners woot and clap, interrupting, taking over, complete chaos, spilling their drinks, someone slogging down the pissed-in Eucharist, fights erupting willy-nilly, dirt-strewn women spitting in men’s faces dragged to the floor and violated. Longchamps gestures at the crowd like he’s hearing beautiful music. Blois ushers Capellanus and young parishioners, also drunk, away from the melee with an expression of dubious benevolence. The door bursts open and a naked adolescent girl riding a donkey is carried to the center. Everyone bows, but two fat men force the donkey to genuflect. The girl giggles with the struggle. The possibility of her hymen’s existence is suddenly heckled – if she’s a virgin ripe enough for ceremony – inciting more riot and orgy. The girl, unseated from the donkey, laughs and cries insanely, split between the men. Another takes up with the donkey, who bucks and is promptly shanked in the nozzle, its corpse fallen upon. Longchamps steps over, patting the bestiality on the doubled back. They drape the corpse in women’s clothing. A giant man grabs Longchamps’s, warbling his jaw in one hand, trying to make words come out. Longchamps signs the cross over him, in ironic displeasure, and is released. People are being beaten while unconscious, slammed into stone walls, dug deeper into dirt by their own scrambling, kicking clouds up like charging bulls. Rolling through puke-mud in ecstasy, a strewn parishioner scream-laughs into blackout.

Sean Kilpatrick, published in two hundred literary magazines (incl. Boston Review, Fence, New York Tyrant, tragickal, Vol.1 Brooklyn, Evergreen Review, Diagram, LIT, Hobart, Bomb, Vice, Columbia Poetry Review, Sleepingfish, La Petite Zine, Exquisite Corpse, Caketrain, Tarpaulin Sky, The Collagist, elimae, Juked, Obsidian, electric cereal, Forklift Ohio, The Lifted Brow, horse less press, Melancholia’s Tremulous Dreadlocks, fluland, Terror House, NOÖ Journal, Magic Helicopter Press, The Dream People, Cthulhu Sex, Pindeldyboz, 5_Trope, Everyday Genius, Jacket2, Stirring, Gobbet, Action Yes, No Colony, Word Riot), edits prose and teaches composition.

Artwork: "The Goliards" by Sean Kilpatrick