Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Hobart Reviews

Hobart (from Don't Weigh In)
Only God Forgives
The To-Do List
Pacific Rim
The Act of Killing
Don Jon
Lady Jane's
Escape from Tomorrow
Happy Birthday to Me
The Boys Next Door
Internal Affairs
The Lego Movie
The Grand Budapest Hotel
Nymph()maniac
Noah
Enemy
Under the Skin
Only Lovers Left Alive
Blue Ruin
Palo Alto
Interview
Other People
The Sacrament
50 Shades of Grey
Ron Allen's Entertainer Zero Machine at Hastings Street Ballroom 2004
Cold in July / The Rover

Fanzine
Elucidations

HTMLGIANT
Niceties

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Friday, August 9, 2013

GIL THE NIHILIST: A SITCOM

POETRY FOUNDATION REVIEW

PRAISE FOR GIL THE NIHILIST: A SITCOM

“Blurring the boundary between screenplay and poem, Gil The Nihilist one-ups Pound’s modernist dictum (“make it new”) by additionally making it “now.” Right now. Right this instant. More timely, relevant, and compelling than anything else on the market. In no uncertain terms, Kilpatrick has produced the first truly radiant nightmare of the 21st century. To put it in movie-speak, it’s Clark Coolidge meets Andrzej Zulawski meets Kathy Acker’s Blood and Guts in High School meets Richard Kern’s Fingered meets Death Grips meets John Waters. Moreover, this book pulses with the word porn of word stylists meshed with the intoxicating visuals of our everyday hyper-reality.” -Christopher Higgs, author of The Complete Works of Marvin K. Mooney

“Sean Kilpatrick, like some godlike producer, must’ve got Joyce, Sade, Jarry, and Trecartin together in a Star Waggon. This book’s a sick channel for all our channels, a gnarly and hilarious script of the human animal’s entertainment… Kilpatrick presents a new zone in American fiction. Who must I destroy to get this show made?” -Ken Baumann, author of Solip

“Sean Kilpatrick is a lunatic and an instigator. This book is a restraining order. Stray from summary. Please don’t have opinions. Try to enjoy it and see yourself trying to weigh in. Then, laugh at yourself for that. Then, give him a hug.” -Elizabeth Mikesch, author of Niceties


EPISODE 1 – CHEW THE SCALES OFF WHAT PASSED US

Gil tutors a child.

GIL

Whatever scourged us best be universe-length and terribly following through on its lingerie. Little Aigner, why are we so far less than our groceries? (Claps him against the wall) The twentieth century quit our wallowing in because. See the batch that sagged its bowel? Everyone’s ten ton sacrifice contributed the bidet. Bang, I was thronging the squad, scooting falderal, finicky up my clay. Ready a mass shooter. Our vicar draped in news. Got your cum-caught hosanna for munitions. (Whaps forehead) This is America. We’re especially asleep through our corpse. I pick my wet dreams over anybody’s peace. The squabble whupped by carts. Who will count their flab to know? The shush and clop. How coochies rile. Rile, coochies. We do the bank’s nostalgia. Procreate them stamps, bitch. Proud about the bible. Open just the same. Terminal chamber pots for laundry. Or working class chroma. Loutish wiggard diner fiendings. No handouts for anyone this disguised. Impute left or right prepuce? Goons in the coma of our daughter. No, rather, college-drill the stroller about proletariat whatnot. Marx-fetish, crawling the umpteenth sphincter for lawyerly academic boiler plate argument intellectual hunky-dory snark professorships. Ah, spiffy. Ah, shone best for last. Yuppie entitlement. Marathon winners. Clout of Whole Foods enema gassing uppity. You survived a million proms. So crowded with baby wipe compassion the piety there could outdo any blue ribbon sadist. I hate you all and am no more than you. Except my hate scores bottommost. Disgorge all faculties, sexy. Analysis is the shutout scratch we poll like a Möbius strip. Let’s keep getting pregnant, kid. Beg your clot replenished from every status, every swole roid hydroplaning its apparel. No fucking success starts by breathing.

Edmund enters, oil-slicked, holding a dipstick for trucks. Pries Gil off.

EDMUND 

Little Aigner cares little for your points about the stank outside. But looky hence. No nonsense separates oneself. True how breath stereotypes its user. Wrong from every angle: thus human, thus okay. Why not live as a cinder in it? From what height you’re not deeper in the assist: be evil, not deep. All actions reverb, petrified? Peer in my doomed shorts without theory. You lie down to protest planetary rotation. Most of what happens here gives motion a bad name? If people still prance, your hate’s paltry. Cheer up. I suggest pussy. So it can flee. Interpret for its needs, then flee. We’ll hump the best purpose without. I’ll help you sad the right way.

LITTLE AIGNER

Love the girl who leaves till you’re tinier than she, the scissors turning in her voice, depressed a lot. Maul yourself a god for petty others’ petty takings. You can’t even spit because this girl.

GIL

(Sweating) Edmund, check his fucking oil, please.

EXT. FIELD – NIGHT 

EDMUND

(Wiping blood off dipstick) The future might have less plaque on it. Pinkie swear.

http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9781621051046-0

Covers - Matthew Revert / Art - Sam Pink

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Thursday, October 18, 2012

Robert Kloss's The Alligators of Abraham

from Robert Kloss's The Alligators of Abraham

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Friday, June 29, 2012

Excerpts from Sam Pink's THE PEDOPHILE [AND HIS KINDNESS]


  • Sam Pink's The Self-Esteem Holocaust Comes Home
  • Lazy Fascist Press
  • Labels:

    Monday, January 30, 2012

    Books




  • BUY fuckscapes





  • BUY Anatomy Courses



  • BUY Anatomy Courses ON KINDLE
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    Monday, April 25, 2011

    Readers

    Perfect Readers Reading:

    Abe Smith

    Scott McClanahan

    Lindsay Hunter

    Blake Butler

    Amelia Gray

    Mike Young

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    Thursday, December 2, 2010

    Shucks About Everything

    Your sex is adjustable according to level of terror.

    Get a lid of sag round your play, a slurpy for quotes.

    Pretension means you write.

    To write like this, this.

    Be alive worse than anything.

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