Polaroids in a Crisper: Empress of Chlorine swiping her Mascara like a Credit Card despite the Lack of Tears and Shiny as Some Budding, Lavender Dick-Vein Razed via Electrolysis

by Sean Kilpatrick

The nineties shut down around its edematose end-region as music became one shared atrophy. Mark Romanek, master of veneer, music video purveyor referencing Herzog through Jodorowsky, sprinkling on Edward Gorey, is hired to capture Fiona Apple, sultry urchin, slinky waif, hypnotizing Dickensian bag-eyed goddess, the sexually reliant street orphan youngblooded everywhere from Tim Burton dream girl meets Madonna burning her leg hair meets kitty-eared adolescent step-daughter meets beyond heroin-chic supermodel with a knife collection, bellowing cutely with her much talented (when attractive celebrities were ninety-five percent marketing, rather than the current one-hundred percent, and had to retain some skill on top of looking perfect (plus Apple was financially aligned with Morissette’s indignant bad girl tune)), deep come-groan. Locked in an echo of her violation, another systematized nude too anxiety-ridden, genuinely artistic and vulnerably angry (perhaps the prodigious PR led me to believe this façade while thinking of her protectively through the molesting lens of my communal, purchasable obsession) to lash out anywhere but drunk onstage into the hollow circumference of her popcorn award, Apple wept to hear Garofalo mock her.

Garofalo was above the mania of her own zeitgeist fucklust darling allure because she had the nerve to back that up and instead set a sardonic female template into motion that rocketed her demeanor loin to loin, recruiting an already flimsy generation of men to desire more than just a visual (though her body was perfect also): we wanted to lick her boots (slurp Hindu death deity kneesock, a flea on Cleopatra, John the Baptist’s head riding the pupal succubus, pioneered by Keats and Matthew Gregory Lewis, perfected by Poe, splayed by Klimt and Schiele, refined by Arthur Machen and Hanns Heinz Ewers (his amazing “The Spider”), Zuleika Dobson, Theda Bara’s silent vamp, femme fatales, Tabea Blumenschein (who (no small feat / with small feet) got under Patricia Highsmith’s violently thick (and nice in tandem) skin), scratchy punkette Lydia Lunch, Winona Ryder, Sara Gilbert, Fairuza Balk, Daria, Marla Singer, now Aubrey Plaza (April and the Father John Misty video in particular), over-pierced goth sirens, droll bitch dominatrix with a ciggy in her intentions, the lackadaisical bipolar princess dildoed intermittently on the witch wand spikes of her crown, part fairy, part gypsy, coy and sportfucked in one fell swoop etc., etc.) well through the afterlife. She made girlhood cool, not cute (which got a lot of admiring dudes (who shredded their infinitesimal chances at respect begging whichever victim happened to entice them into a stunted marriage) acting fem by accident, heh, not me, like, for sure) and her reward was petty worship, which might be what turned her into some kind of Maron’d-out, middle-aged, political alarmist hack, okay, though she’s still talented at that shit (my love disease remains, Janeane! – five stars to the phone sex scene in that insipid romantic comedy you did, you cool, elfin, smart, beautiful, snarked-out ninny).

Garofalo’s little shirt pinned back, starred-out nipples, fertility tummy cult scribble helipad for cum to mock “cosmic” reception of your child, who will never grow up on her sparkling milk – Marla Singer, in effect, wants to have your abortion. Salute the sky from a toilet for me.

Anyway, hip-sighted Romanek gets Apple tugging at her panties (will she wring them down my throat?) in an age where dial up makes porn a little too slow and the video cycles randomly once or twice a night, narcotizing me and everyone my age to ready ourselves to spend in unison like precum Pavlovs on the spot the second she curls her delightfully malnourished frame along squeaking, sweating car seat leather, eyes trained up in sublime and horrified rapture (Martyrs) at the factory lights further dwarfing her lost self like The Passion of Joan of Arc meets Emo Facials Vol.3. Criminal indeed. An adoptive kid sister (Royal Tenenbaums, or Les Enfant Terribles) you must not touch (you’ll be damned if anybody else does), but she gets scared late at night and, oh no, has snuck betwixt your quavering sheets. Her drugs ran out, her cool friends abandoned her, and the chastisement should be fierce, she insists. The saucer-eyed, pokey-ribbed, dainty Poe ghost of a naughty partier obtained her lush fixings a full brochure with seminal cinematographic gloss you will kill yourself to keep runny. Damaged goods you can rent and expand sans consequence, my fellow consumer. The customer is always a library of their own fluids, sipping free piss like champagne. We gotta chase each other’s ambulance or foreplay won’t work? Pardon me for being brainwashed to eat your toenail polish, but it was filmed so lusciously all our pacifiers grew wings. Not to imply any coffin could fit its creep inside such an urge or that the wake will provoke adequate aftershocks.


Sean Kilpatrick, raised in Detroit, published or forthcoming at Boston Review, NERVE, New York Tyrant, BOMB, Fence, Columbia Poetry Review, evergreen review, Hobart, Sleepingfish, VICE, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, Black Sun Lit, Spork, The Quietus, Whiskey Island, Talking Book, Fanzine, The Malahat Review, LIT, wrote Anatomy Courses (with Blake Butler, Lazy Fascist Press) and Sir William Forsyth’s Freebase Nuptials (Sagging Meniscus Press). http://sean-kilpatrick.tumblr.com

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