Five Poems by Kamden Hilliard
Why I Hate Sarah McLaughlin
lets see some abused animals again
really see em get all throat lump
fuck the ASPCA[SSHOLES] i dont want
anything to be saved let the world be terroristed
so theres something to sift: shiv of light
and terror which terror? if nothing explodes everything is exploited
but the thing with bonerubble: burnt blonde and shatter and leftover
there is always something dying among the dead
there is something to save there are more words to need
so how about some rib breathing cats and dogs fought
what about malnutrition and mutilation?
what im trying to say: what hope is there for salvation
if we are built to make it?
and does anyone want it? think of the bored firemen
longing for a cat splayed through a tree
consider the dog catcher forty old englishes into
a useless friday morning swinging an empty
net at the setting moon
take a hand handful of salt or drink an ocean
of boys or swallow another boy
the throat the tunnel the throat the tunnel the throat the tunnel
the tunnel throating and versa viced everything even dinosaurs
ends in light but why end when there’s always more?
think:eventuallyin the event of emergencyRSVP promptly
and break the glass but avoid the flutes/highballs
dont you see? the point is the point and pointing
even salt can heal the boys heeling and drunk down me
rattling among my pipes for some pipe and even that word
some how is it done? it doesnt sound enough like mine
to seem doable or did all i know of stasis
is what i know of need what my brain knows of theory
in which rape could be worse
[inside of me he is a balloon
and all i can think is god
thank yes even under him and unwilled
there wont be a left over small mistake
parasiting my body that id have to name
and auction to a willing white couple
or even worse:] mr.speaker the school
has some concerns about little
léäñd£®’s imagination what do you mean
exactly? well his assertion about
the aliens in his “brainhole”
may make him popular on the playground
but ah i see do you really? really?
We stumbletouch in the dark, or rather, the getting-dark, the way
I already know how we, will end. Headlights brush our blunt bodies.
The yard: bruised bottles of vodka strangle bluebells, two pairs of shoes,
one punching bag. After a montage of latex and rhythmic flailing
a lock clicks, brakes squeak—we come up for air:
oh fuck he says i think my dad is home
put your shirt on grab your shoes and shit just sit
sit over there and shut up and help me fuck just stay
stay here here.
He is panicked: manic and melting. The father speckles our universe
abusive, we are his medium: expectant fallout. We wait
five minutes, twenty, forty minutes. It’s okay, ya know. No sound. I take
his waist and he crumbles. Like a nesting doll, I pull him open and he
disappears under all that sweater. Those skim milk shoulders
glow with welts. I am late, or rather, too late, the way radiation is a quiet
massacre—hollow dawn on empty country, trees dusted from their bark.
variation for body
tomb of corners; what is never perfect; prefect of the slitherers and skies– the prayers and their destination; aerobic paws; torso &wiring; what is broke; what is fixed; blooded scarecrow; crowl of assorted nations; organic struct-ure quelling the swole fracture;reducing/reductive/reactiv; agent of the abbreviated world; ese meat; water and stuff; stuffed with shadows and bile; light; trunk&rings ringing; atoms; adam’s an ahole; yonic universe; a varicose opening; narcissistic parasite; cited source; blighted torque; tl;dr: grapes squished under scarred foot and joy–all that is yes is known.
Bio: Kamden Hilliard studies writing and social theory in New York. He does alright. A poor sleeper, Kamden is also the recipient of fellowships from Callaloo and The Davidson Institute, a contributor for Elite Daily and an avid hiker. Kamden just finished his first chapbook “Distress Tolerance” and is looking to publish it in the near future. His writing has appeared (or will appear) in Requited Journal, *82 Review, Bodega, Blue Lyra Review and other journals. If Kamden wasn’t writing, he’d be very sad—or a scientist. Catch him on twitter (thisduderitehere?).