Half a Trad, A Literary Nag: Another Dunk Queen Bigger than Her Pic Wifes-Up the Agencies – Sean Kilpatrick

We once went to bed with our instincts intact. Now David Riesman’s other-directed go-getters are on the job reprimanding inward-directed submissives in the name of expressive specificity (“lucidly indifferent” boarding schoolers desire morally chic stakes, à la quality TV). Lewis Yablonsky’s image-driven robopath super-conformists (X – “regimented platitudes on a meaningless dead stage”) of the megamachine have zapped the sprezzatura from verse libre, lasered the latest prose of fustian meringue, coy heterodox longings on pause (William Logan’s amiss recap re James Tate, for instance, a review whose excerpts outperform its arrogant ribbing). Sure, no one’s as capable as their manifesto anymore. The anxiety of influence, the forced ignorance behind supposed originality (Cocteau’s plants discuss horticulture daily), should help us flush our heads the rest of the way empty, chart a few schemes in the toilet’s bathymetry. Certainly many ladies of the arts aren’t too longhaired (or cute) to avoid democratization from that line of bullying, especially for the purse dog traditionalism their fleeting, besweatered beaus allow online. In the wake of the woke (passé to say), a lot of boss stenographers took command of their womb a dude amount. Apologies no men in literature arrived to do it for them, but who could configure a gym routine severe enough to heft such a density, to coat so grand an organ, one envenomed by its every donation, all while the other riled end is hectoring you with the most overabundant confidence a browbeaten generation of millennial eunuchs might weep about (currently!). OkCupid (the MLA dating app) Profile Compositionists have bayed themselves a scene, group chat by subtweet. (After having it explained to me by a patient homosexual, I believe subtweeting involves premediated plausible deniability vomited across everyone’s consciousness online for Judge Judy applause.) As the death of sex becomes the death of art (vice versa?), as snakelike behavior crosses a rather passive aggressive spectrum into estrogenic socialite chess and veiled humiliation, as culture disappears with the ink on its diploma, dry scramble grease fire verse by scene-adjacent abstractionists (you think I’m indecipherable, try the victims of Ludwig Wittgenstein – a book of literal scribbles just came out – calling my shit obtuse is proof we’re at Atticism unbound, Garner’s prescriptivists purchased the whole golf course, Strunk and White’s mediocrities have abandoned their columns!) must dogmatize alongside calorie free polling result prose (and other murky capitulators). Postmodern activist antifa snitches posting George Floyd genuflection (posing as a victim is no longer in fashion, phew) may as well play tailor to an Ivy League inseam, the etiquette against experiment, a tidied Skull and Bones – agendas ahoy (diary versus theory, genre vs workshop, formalism vs ‘romanticism and onward was a mistake,’ legalese vs me in prison). 

Listen, the new gynocratic nipple posters who run le humanities won’t be so openly leftist. Same feigned allegations, different management. Some even shit themselves the content of a kid and argue for synergy like dominatrices scared their clientele might renege. Gotta add a few plates to the pump, my main matriarch (your baby is just advanced Kegels and you value love to the extent that it serves you), to seek glory in hell. Hell involves outrage tweets laid on an assembly line by another scold who thinks she’s scary (hilarious content, quippy Broder bro – ole Vanessa Place stabbed her enemies with more conviction (still wobblingly) in a wrestling promo). Your tiaras were too readily sat on, the muse is mom and “mom is not your maid” (every big five novel is about their edgy placenta, body horror made lame, genre spayed). No collective slap would sting enough to solve this girlboss conundrum. Address one of them, you address the apiary, no dick coalition assist, a gate-kept refutation, legs ajar (rage has been stripped from male characteristics)! Some even flat-out no longer pretend to be cops and lawyers. They went ahead and obtained the necessary documentation and excess training (wasting it on lit, skimming one art history book de style). Their yard signs sink with doctrine (tat them stretchmarks up, armpit scissor tits), princesses circling the thirty-something drain. When will a simile double as a death sentence? A snappy bitch, so described, within reason, used to be my type, admittedly, if she could ever bring herself to shut up, or to torque an ounce of life into either row of Slavic ommatidia. It’s a simple, praised, and risk-free line of sight, however. Writing is the biohazard of its own trade (Human Resources). Preppy shoppers refuse to complicate a hot take (art for art’s take). Let Red Scare guide thee (who would diss Houellebecq’s lethargic syntax without acknowledging that he’s ten percent subversive?). I’m too busy ‘gooning’ (fucking idiot phraseology) to those dingbats’ ASMR, never a page of my gross own. Ever notice It-Bitches are often considerably gumpier, taller, and wider in real life than their angled e-girlery suggests? Doesn’t bother me, I’d likewise pull out, yet in these people’s field of moneyed dimes, where being a six can drive one mental (fix my math with a manosphere tutorial), revenge is obtained by producing very orderly prose. Combat the numb brutality of dad elsewhere (on an unequipped husband, “fear eat soul up”). Who are these fucking dads that filled my field so incompetently? Autism doesn’t suit the fairer sex. Indifference is a man’s sole asset here (shit-test failed), but I care about writing, religiously, retardedly, beyond sales, hence no sales, nor peace, or piece. I’m thanking God, trad as the timeline allows.

Perhaps to counter the accusation racket known as social media, the fem con became plural, dirt-bagging right to left again, fomenting the topic into obscurity, moral outrage pretension branching off, devolving back to high school taste-making, Hilfiger knockoff politics, a little Joan Rivers cart scooted over to stand above the smarmy, clichéd roast, sophisticated clickbait (like cringe), catwalk PsyOps, ratioed dunkings of the moment, the well-off scoffer’s forced scorn, strained LOL, how to turn a profit on a safe, baked-in enemy, this sort of context-eliminating sophistry all gish-galloped about, declaring “word salad” in spite of fashion’s own schizoid nature (replaced every season) – no wonder they hate any sentence without clarity. I’d need instructions too! I just wouldn’t issue them at everyone with such a vile lack of gambol, with such hysterical, self-pleased flair (fucked wrong and can’t mash her syllables together). Clarity for clarity’s sake, the alt lit drone (“raped” free to autofiction (alt lit men became concern troll nutritionists / alt lit women are either trying to get you arrested or wanna talk you into self-immolation…classic American girlfriend on either end)) with supplementary journalist propaganda, Clancy Martin’s Bad Sex for a shitty template, fuck scenes outlawed, so gauche, random administrative sadism, faux-ecumenical virtue divided by dynasty, grocery lists of dope – today’s real art. Ancient criticisms of indulgence, quite the nostalgic dismissal stratagem, have been haplessly resurrected (everything bad is a “pose” again, 2004’s back!). That’s okay with me. Are we done with the woke stuff? Course not (every denomination of lady endorses state supervision), but I’ll sacrifice my entire tangle of dense and stumbling line work, if so. Dammit, the pertinent femoid names escape (they sound like garden hose birth control monikers, these Mishimoms generically lambasting dudes for dudes’ sake, my favorite fine dining goblin meets a come-hither aardvark Ralph Bakshi cartoon renouncing its fetish apparel, looking like a permanent furry costume malfunction, bizarro Aryan trailer skank skinjob reject adulted from talent, assisted by Armando Iannucci’s wine mad ex, delighting in whoever they upset (or arouse, currently), talking head hucksters, attack of the chatters, public thought-bait (thrown back assmaddened – their lisping terms again “pfft,” “butthurt,” “tee hee, I made you mad!” (heck of a confessional sauna), a range of aspirational stuff!). DM for further info. (Don’t ever DM me.) 

Amorality is a prostitute’s excuse. Immorality used to be the literary meme, back when men weren’t anemic venalities, if memes are the method of comprehension. I was raised to get eaten by what I love just the same. This is a marriage proposal we can both wipe with. The marms have gored me again. The grammas grow wise upon their rocking chairs. Life and literature are only about avoiding the Jerry McGuire / Ally McBeal L on forehead moment, and there I have abundantly defalcated. May such illness befall the “twisted world” of every “supreme gentleman” (the true canon). Trust me, the exact sleepy number of plain narrations suck, same as anything else the present erased (you’re an academic reddit science commie if your lines don’t go to declarative church, corniness can’t move in two directions?). There are much more beautiful, long dead options. These contemporary beasts used to be an oddity, the excitement of hearing intimate details re Miss Mary Karr’s trip to the company urinal. Has Sylvia Plath (they hate her) returned to stuff us all in the oven? She grew up on gas, doesn’t use bad words anymore, enforces tons of order on the void, headaches of formulae. James Dickey called it and we are paying for a party of his we entirely missed. The internet exposed the female orgasm as an orchestrated pedagogy. That’s right, guys, my dudes, fix your MRA boo boos, fellow crotch identitarians, because yonder femjac fountain was so much squid ink on a subpoena! We got sold the stance we simp for, simps in agreement with their infiltration, and the degree of accuracy deployed against it matters little. May a patronizing debutante red pen me. (TinaRina spits on your substack; her saliva was pricier). A century of no-no’s: the poem went first person with slight abstraction, overly lyrical romanticist inwardness (cringe autists sperging out to carriages roaring by), symbols squashed into music, industrial revolution mechanics intruded, the physical realm turned deep image sublime, absinthe fugues of decadence fingering the veil (lately hatcheted by WCTU 2.0), generations of me me me, shell shock modernism post noise theory fractured after the second big war, ending everyone’s unethical fun, naturalism deferred – different takes to be argued and played (every movement is a veneer, and venereal, #metoo the horse and buggy: their most millennial talents for fiction remain limited to a botched affidavit) – led by the paw right back to God. Thank you! A decade of false reporting by the bra has prepared us for a return to polymath sophisticate nobility on twitter! Nah, only “party to an action” memos remain. (Clanging language reminds the plain head of their dickless, kitty lit addiction to unwell, assaultive uncles, Oxford comma squat (too roomy for Tampax)). Premature ejaculation may not require the Friars Club, especially if I’m already hard again, but don’t trigger the wrong bot automaton algorithm while dashing subs off without scrolling down (I will scroll down forever – cooler lace curtain ambushes have panned forth: a pre-obese Lena Dunham in 2005 – a preteen Steve Roggenbuck bouncily saying hi in 2007, executed by an escort for interoffice politics, good God (please resurrect Roggy with Vyvanse suppositories). Never scalp yourself any clausal flippancy or those aroused by clout will do a New York snicker, echoing in French across Caveh Zahedi’s Viagra subscription (this neurotic, septuagenarian gloryhole participant who manufactures ersatz meta confrontation for aloof, chicken shit moral-fagging (belly lint exploiters harassed by their groupies? If I humped in a crypt, direct ethics would appeal more)). I want the writing of now! Misread Bernhard sounding like a child hit with a brick, blogging that conversely mocks and lectures me about my passing interests, a cosmopolitan almanac at best, a loftier organization holding bunny ears above my pee pee, maids for the state gone “mask off.”

Keep pretending the most solipsistic pursuits can be solved with baked goods. Matronly indentation cooked so commonplace the world sold its windowsill (too much hair in that pie, wench). Michael Hofmann’s anti-Martin Amis puddle with just enough splash to drown your ass (shock value and line work are a child jumping in a puddle, depleting the reader’s sustenance, get it? Hope no one read this far!), eighth grade ethics lessons notwithstanding, Joyce Carol Oates pre-tweet owning Bob Dylan notwithstanding. Where the fuck you going and why so dour a  strumpet, my little vapist? If the Wolf of Wall Street used your head for a cum jar till it turned circular as an HPV ouroboros and left you a wannabe throat cancer giver of the arts, if the longhouse shuttered behind them panties overlapped its flaps and grew askew about the band (sounding like an uptight type of gaped freestyle, picky correctors piping up in an apple core bullhorn), if every action must die at the convention, attuning your fickle disinterest, including pregnancy as a supposed controversy, sterling, unintentional anti-natalist activists, worse than I could ever sob about in an unread, wacky, apolitical pessimist rant (these are your leaders out of the nihilism pit!? MOVE IN WITH ME PRONTO) – Geeze, I only mean to say enough policies have been set. I revile the aesthetically remote. Send porkier ad hominem hype! I don’t care how you live. I won’t demean technical prowess meant to disguise skill, nor sloppy rawness imposed over formalities. Any mix can work, whether you’re fresh outta Goth conversation therapy or you’re Epstein’s least occupied dumpling escaping to Yale (try mewing, or extra fellatio, or less, no swole butch dykeness). I’d check those books out. I’d reject those submissions in private, sans advocacy. We gotta out-joke the roasties of literature, though, for dropping a dime on the final piety. This is beyond Tom Wolfe’s vatic vs civic stooge accusers, free verse not-knowing bliss vs stiff iambic modulation. Who’s more lost in the LARP? Here’s a confirmed standpoint for a line of Funko Pops (Ms .45) every male assuredly owns: the world’s followed the last of your orders (no worries, it’ll continue following them, the wrong franchise won, this grisly array of Disney stepsisters, publicist spunk streams fulla gay takes)! These thots gave Whiplash a pedicure when he wasn’t looking!

I like an epistolic deep dive. I like every style, but fumble with an unfortunate preference. Mostly, I aspire to be the caliber of criminal I’ve been treated as since birth (lethal freedom, not to brag). True talent for cruelty eludes me (should I try cocaine, tweet the result 40 times a night?). I require motivation outside a crowd. (Guard lowered for writers, and punished for it.) I’m twenty years in the literary outhouse (better view) and all the big winners got to sting me with is: “um, like, if life feels like hell maybe it’s more about youuuu (7,000 likes)” and, “the recent stylistic past is a lame, amoral milksopism (4,000 likes)!” I’d rather learn a trade and wire your houses together wrong (avant garde service mast). Let’s shoot for elegance and come away with the plague. At least each page ain’t smeared with arid theory, Renata Adler nested and invested, Susan Sontagian baklavas plied with horseshit purpose, talkist Calvin Atwood’s Red Pony homo-prose fainting for a party favor, Whit Stillman without the wit, girl Frownland, spewed platitudes (if only half their ear bacteria bio warfare was expended off orthodox platforms under the guise of discourse and used to save a page), controlled opposition nudes, rushed pulp hack-work, close reading erections, automated scratch, Jurassic Bukowski mongoloids, dime square thong splitters, spurned spinsters avenging a solid deep-dicking, genuine deep autofuction, alt lit update journal entry chat, or a batch beyond my own pants. Quite the stringent gland, taxed and improperly formatted. Why proofread scripture for your syndicate and call it art, honor roll goody two-shoes (show feet, rat anatomy), strict miscarrier? The lot of you would make excellent secretaries instead. Goal-oriented save the world mission feminism, and their white knights, pro and con, lost me my sharpest girl Friday! Every teaching opportunity, all dignity, any relationship – for the loss of these I give genuine thanks and stay grateful that the thesaurus ain’t been sang too barbarously.