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

More

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

unrubbering   outward

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?

Three-Mile Boy

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?).