I went buck with Sean Kilpatrick for his new book Gil the Nihilist: A Sitcom, now available from Lazy Fascist Press as a Secret Summer Release. I don’t know anyone who can splurge a word like Sean, and, as expected, things went batshit crazy. Gil is a mushroom cloud of splayed out wreckage, a garbled mess of Hummers and tacos and Kmarts and smegma. It’s as close to getting a surgeon general’s warning as a book can. This text is a health hazard. It’s a beautiful rind of pitch black beef.

Is there any word that shouldn’t be spoken? Burned if written?

Would to coin each sizzle. Enough may recycle us our garrote. I climb my garrote for the true laxative. Provide no bowel its motion without first being staked. Words peel iffy. Our mass shooters are wider read and vastly integral by their poems. I never writ a poem sans the gun most disco in my mouth. Fuck it. Everyone plugs their nose when they speak.

In what ways did you twist Gil differently than fuckscapes? How did you cope going from poetry to the screen?

fuckscapes condensed years of fast food. Vast nugget placement. Fussy shifts. Gil was influenced by lettuce wraps and online dating. A zigzagging series of palpitations to the fundament. I made pow noises while writing. The smells of gym. Would revise mid-speech as a version of um. I cleared my throat in the sound to correct, but wouldn’t go back. Refused fixing post-peddle. It monologues about a girl I love. What to revise about who you lost. Love never occurred before the natal stretch. No heart left in us to pinch the page? Good. Now we’re all babies of the ‘huh?!?!?!’

“You and me, we’re both beyond taste. And ultimate slaves to it.” Here, I see shredded, greasy bits of Seinfeld, Curb, and The Honeymooners. Did you study any particular shows with GTN in mind?

Nearly struck the word ‘both’ from that line. But these characters need to emphasize each other’s inclusion. And make ‘b’ sounds. Probably because I cry really keen pesos. Everything Vernon Chatman does. Tim and Eric and Eric Andre Show are my favorite and important and sublime. That they exist in our money-sphere allows that the sphere’s not always palaver. The best palaver ruins you different than what’s watched. Gil is as far from money as anyone living in America shouldn’t produce.

Are there any celebrities you would like to see play Gil, Starr, Aigner, Edmund?

Here’s some daydream: Eric Andre for Edmund, beautiful manic bust ups. Hannibal Buress for Gil, deadpan, occasional animated disgust. Aubrey Plaza for Starr. She’s dreamy. David Bennent for Aigner. I got some hipster blood in my kidney to this particular confusion. I am the ugliest hipster to ever bite a free-range rat.

What do you think of the ‘writerly vogue?’ How do you cope?

I’ve entered my last decade. Censorship is in its career. Very self-conscious, balanced. If Google hasn’t lost you a job, your pages are asleep. Censorship has marketed itself as the most profound likeability. Abundantly, I never cope.

What’s your mindset when approaching the page? More meditation or frenzy?

Direct frenzy 24/7. I wrote Gil so hard I still get trouble breathing. The hospital had no answers. Fuck the hospital. Ultrasound shoulda shown a quill. They grease your credit. Too many writers know their fucking credit score. Why’s everything with the officials such a shrill cornball jocularity? I was busy giving birth to the blowjob which might end my nervous system.

“I hate how you think talking works.” You own the moniker ‘word salader’ like a badge of pride. How do you fricassee detractors of this practice?

They will never fricassee. They’re the Teflon humanity still braving the word human. Responsibly tucked sure at vast homes, twirling a light bulb with their thighs, loitering in wines and Marx. Literature’s sociology now, right? I’m pretty sure I’m not a person. Just some fica sipping its pesticide. I intend everything I write and worse. These non-sequitur youths today and how Satan’s making a comeback both thrill me.

Would you ever translate your work into another language? Which, and if not you, who?

French a lot. I love Claro. I was put into Croatian by some Croat gangsters who I believe in. It’s legal to sip one’s hide with a submachine gun there. (Libra Libera!) I’m translating Rimbaud into fucktard. Someone kindly commented that this is called a mondegreen. I was told also this was called transliteration. It’s called Rimbaud’s crack-smoke, though.

Here, people become spaces and spaces become people. Zones are constantly shifting. Do you envision a future in which personhood becomes post-?

I doodle myself a veneer, hoard a pungent grappling under the tutu. I’ve never danced in my life. I’ve been known to ordinance a boogie hereafter. I’ve walked to and fro worse than some. I stone my corpse with body hair. If I feel a locale coming on I fucking straight up treat it. Never met a gender worth the pickaxe brought out of it. Goddamn, I keep going tee hee when my back is turned.

Sex drips from this – any response to the word ‘sadomasochist’?

Loving someone honestly and with great vulnerability is the best unintentional masochism. I used to booty call the difference I thought I made. Whosoever fancies a roomier cast deserves margarine in their fracture. There was never even an outside providing hermitage. My frolic won’t trend. I’m a tranny on empty, son.

Your sonic dissonance is a blown-out, creepy-crawly twitch. Any childhood memories you care to share that affected such a cadence?

Detroit ghettos grow you hating the whole rainbow. The buildings got a skunk rhyme to their droop. Though no pride should be had anywhere. Rocks fit my head. I turned less tall in the mask. Gangs said hi. I waddled, pants ankle-clad, sharing my chips. Later, I even went to college. To pull up my pants, it is implied, involves consequences.

Where are you in real life? Should we be concerned?

I just taste-tested an Austin ghetto, not a real ghetto for sure. Man, fuck Austin. Just. They got I <3 Video and the theaters which are amazing, otherwise fucking scores of vastly wedged lilters tapped at their own skinny dirge. Ding dong on that shit.

Your thoughts on “hipster twentysomethings?” “Tumblr teens?” “Soft grunge scene queens?”

I have the first serious writer’s conscientiousness in my stoma. It’s getting fancy to accuse a writer of his beard. We mind fashions now? Yes? Mostly upwardly mobile folk  whose smug doings bar their ability to fester in one – whether the choice is theirs or beyond the crib or wife which fucking minds them. Cheers to die alone. I troll myself at the wake up point. Run smoother than your hurt into the hands of more. A writer only tosses salad now for his two snide detractors and the mental vacation they verily assess. The internet’s been pinching in its tinkle for twenty years. Our generation came down with an adolescence domed for snuff. No one knows half of where went up our skirts. I’m not going to own silverware, promise. This book is by the trounced, for the trounced.

Do you write in silence?

I’ve been death rattling since I fell from the ejaculate that teethed me.

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Sean Kilpatrick is a wide spew. His works include fuckscapes (Blue Square Press) and Anatomy Courses (Lazy Fascist, with Blake Butler). He’s here and here at the same time. 

Barrett White is from Florida. His work has appeared in 3AM, dogzplot, Whole Beast Rag, LIES/ISLE, and elsewhere. Find him here (for now).