Whiskey Boy Revival

A plea for acceleration
Headlong into sandbags, dry levies, iron grates
Animalism, tribalism, primalism
Hail Agraria, the shepherd, and the nomad
Sticks of cinnamon submerged in apple pie moonshine
Distilled from boiled crick water
I derive a minute of comfort
From the spirit’s warmth
At risk of discovery
I can only afford to light a smokeless fire
It is nighttime outside my Appalachian cave home
From Yellow Dog to Shagalee
There is a Whiskey Boy Revival
Fine lads headstrong in rebellion
Versed in code-switch
and led by Vishnu in his many armed form
Pay tribute to Armageddon’s shrine


Comfort is
the bane of
the bane of
the bane of

The Dead Egger

Boxed wine tears
and a barren womb
the dead egger
decrees her disdain
for all things lovely,
fertile, and full of life.

The Yaeger

Fuck the Fates
Harbingers of History
Horrible, heinous, hideous, hags
I will hang them by their own string
At a time
It’s rope day for destiny
and I am the Yaeger

Joyous in Stillness

Revel in your own absence
You are not the falling stars
You are where the stars fall
Be jovial, jubilant, joyous in stillness
Relax your borders
Force your damn equilibrium
The void only feels empty when you step outside of your contentment

A Humble Young Few

A humble young few
Who boast liberties truth
Still remember the prize which blood bought
This soil and clay
Where our ancestors lay
Once ours is now all but lost
The hell that we made
While we rejoice in our grave
Threatens to devour our claim
We take pride in our chains
As we curse our namesake
And feast on a crows meal of shame
A fool we’ve been made
At a game we abstained
Now shamed by yesteryear’s shade
The men of renown
No more are they found
All drowned by a subversive red rain
As wolves on black couches
With gold stars on their blouses
In lily-white houses
Eat cake while the people draw lots
On who gets to serve
And who gets to die
While the goslings eat the old ganders pie


I erected my capital city
with its spiraling marble tower
on the crest of your heart
the walls may fall
the streets may flood
but death comes before defeat


Pines! Pines! Pines!

Rolling hills along the Appalachian wilderness
fertile bosom
mountainous birthing hips

Frasier fur fields
trees jut out of the soil like Gaia’s teeth

Concolor citron
with orange zest and lemon hints
citrus smells with earthy tones
and the sweet cleanliness of pine

Beige blurred baby blue spruce
the needles glistening with snow
iridescent, wetness, shimmering, refracting, dancing in the sunlight

There are needles everywhere
poking me, prodding me
Sticking me with their finger tips
Sharp then, snap!
and the itch that follows
Needles everywhere
Needles are my hair
I hear needles
I am being fucked by needles
I fuck needles
I am walking on needles
Needles in my lungs
Needles on my tongue

Crisp, bitter, acidic
I taste Gaia
and can smell her ripe cunt

Pines! Pines! Pines!

Drip drop

Drip drop

These trees bring snow flurries,
rain drops, morning dew

My feet are prunes
I have lost my toes
and found peach pits
in their stead

Slosh, slosh, slosh

My socks have turned black, heavy, saturated
each step wrings them out like a cloth
three shades of brown speckle my jacket
a wet brown
a damp brown
a dry brown

The water has seeped through my gloves
pockets of pine needles float at my fingertips

I am knuckle deep in Gaia’s sex
she has soaked me to the bone
marked me as her own
with her crisp and pungent scent

Pines! Pines! Pines!


This is an excerpt from Patrick Kilgore’s new poetry chapbook, Spectres of Saturn. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.