Sean Kilpatrick's fuckscapes: a review

by on Apr.25, 2012

Godard's Weekend

[I tried to write a more straightforward review of Kilpatrick’s fuckscapes, but everything I wrote seemed like an act of containment. So instead I wrote this, a long line of associations, images, things that came to mind…I should also say that I mean ‘signifying nothing’ as a compliment…]

 with apologies to Godard, Abramović,  Lynch, Buñuel, Artaud, Yoko Ono, Pynchon, Flaubert, Guyotat, and Foucault

 bloody your hands on a cactus tree / wipe them on your dress / and send it to me

                                                            – The Pixies, Cactus

fuckscapes is a book adrift in the cosmos, found on a garbage heap, signifying nothing.

fuckscapes started as a red pulse in the center of a blue light, a light whose edges are perpetually bleeding.

fuskscapes begins with three centimeters of cheese turning blue, and then purple, in a refrigerator located in the exact center of a New Jersey garbage dump.

fuckscapes is the espresso spilling from the film producer’s lips and on to the table, and then on to the plush red carpet, and then through the various fibers of the carpet, and then through the floorboards, and then into a basement where a very short man in a Luciferian suit is masturbating while watching the opening scene of Begotten.

fuckscapes is a dog dance at the edge of the volcano, many of which carry rabies, and all of which harbor fleas.

fuckscapes is the fascist orgy taking place on the ship Anubis in which “two of the waiters kneel on deck lapping at the juicy genitals of a blonde in a wine velvet frock, who meantime is licking ardently the tall and shiny French heels of an elderly lady in lemon organza busy fastening felt-lined silver manacles to the wrists of her escort,” etc., and so on, for many, many lines.

fuckscapes is the flag of torn corduroy pants which blows from the pole outside the cave and launches out to the overly-still sea.

fuckscapes is a mystic who believes in nothing.

fuckscapes brings with its several types of noise, some of them with soft pink bellies, others with cracked marble skulls.

fuckscapes about which the 85 year old philosopher Michel Foucault writes while sitting on a beach in northern California: In it “relations between individuals and sexuality are openly and completely reversed, perhaps for the first time; they are no longer characters which are effaced for the benefit of elements, structures or personal pronouns; sexuality moves to the other side of the individual and ceases to be ‘subjectified’…the individual is no more than a pale form which arises for a moment from a great stock that is both stubborn and repetitive. Individuals — the pseudopodia of sexuality, quickly retracted.”

fuckscapes is the Depression-era musical version of Begotten which was only recently discovered in a Finnish mental institution, having for years been used to entertain inmates during quiet time.

fuckscapes is neither foreground nor background nor middle distance.

fuckscapes is the burnt-out ruins of the vantage point.

fuckscapes is The Passion of Marina Abramović as performed in Naples in the early 1970s by a choir of fire ants.

fuckscapes is a conspiracy theory against itself.

fuckscapes is both noun and verb of pig shit, a desert creating its own red light, a mirror exhausted with its own reflection.

fuckscapes is the hip that doesn’t move, covered with summer flies.

fuckscapes is the dinner we can never eat surrounded by the feast we can never leave, cold plates strewn with cold chicken parts, half-conscious gizzards, a lace glove with blood along its fingertips, a warm revolver under each chair.

fuckscapes is about two twins of unknown origin who remove their clothes and stand nude in the doorframe of a bomb shelter waiting for Robert McNamara to stroll by, though he never does.

fuckscapes is Darling Black Francis Candy sitting here on a cement floor, wishing he just had something you wore.

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