i am a few things.
i publish poetry
but i am not
just a poetry press
as my name
would allude to
i do want to end you
but not in the way you think.
it will be an honor
killing your perceptions
of poetry, only to
reanimate them
passion murder the dulled out
leveled against the art machine
and fantasy fuck the pain
of your memories away
softly whispering in the ear
that it’s ok
to see that certain types of writing
are not as concrete or typical
as you might have
thought them before. this
applies to most things in life
and i
like things that seem dark
but only if they are naturally
written that way because
they have to be. because
they came dribbling out
of the ether that way
because that!
is where you are in life right now.

i’m not too interested in
fabricated tales of moral decay
or graphic violence
for the sake
of it
unless that!
is the world you happen to live in
and arbitrary renderings
of sick moments
is how you operate.

not so interested in
erotica jaunts
riding the emo fantasies of
standard rhyme unless that!
is where you dwell,
though, there is probably
another more fitting place for you.
i get queasy
over the most unusual things.
i publish
words that have sex in them
all the time
but it rarely has to do
with the age-old love poem
which is ok, there are plenty
of places for you to go
for that. the world is a nasty place
for double meaning and liquid realities.
some things are more illusionary than not.
i’m ok with that.
as long as you make me happy
with your sincerity and don’t
over try.

we have found
many that already exist in shiny ways
they are jewels just as much
as the empty and morally confused are.
the yin and yang
of words
need the mirror
or it’s
merely genre.

i don’t really believe
that one’s life is a climate.
i think it’s an amalgam of
temperatures that rule
our inner atmosphere.
the heat splash of happiness
spikes and drops and flash
floods us
with moments of bliss. the flurries
of tragedy and whiteout's
of numb, freeze others to the core
and sometimes it’s
it's the words
that burn through the empty
all the way out to the pulp. gushing
the droughts
of creativity, sudden water
with enriched passion
innate and real
with no motive only function
….this! all of it, we want.
the scribbling of those in heat.
inked vignettes slicing through
boredom, drenched and
inundated with our
collective consciousness drawn in. line-
break the pain away. play
in words. feel
up stanzas
in beautifully lewd ways.
cry alien junk
all over the paper. this savior
comes in lyricism.
in jarring phrases and
the innovative hum
of rhyme, inside
a vaulted vocabulary. the
of typing and poking
at a keyboard. long-hand jotting
the emotion of what you are
in new ways.

painting, doodling, sketching.
we aren’t
one type of art
because the world isn’t
one type of perception.
maybe we can all spit

into a hole long enough
to make a fountain
of youth to play in
for all of eternity
as it’s figured out
until then?
here we are
freak dancing
under the hot, hot lights.
pleasantly unraveling
the ratty carpet
ready to splash this canvas
with your colors
in synasthesiac bursts.

it’s what keeps me relevant,
Your journey.
the semantics of art
fade away and all i want
to do
is breathe in deep
the revealed recesses
of whatever you are.
or were
that sacred moment.
vomit out the sickness of beauty
. or shine of passion.
just do. the something, you
were meant to Do,
even if it
isn’t any of this.
but if it is
come play in our guts. and
excuse our mess. actually,
it’s the whole point.

killpoet is only here to nick
at the world's
long abandoned scab
of redundency and risk avoiding