A Pupa Wraps its Mitten of Fur Around the Word — New Poems by Kiik A.K

A Pupa Wraps its Mitten of Fur Around the Word — New Poems by Kiik A.K

POETRY: Three by Kiik A.K.

about the author

Kiik A.K. does not perform often. But when he does it is an awful performance. We would like him to get out more or even leave his bedroom. But his bedroom is where pornography is. Especially a naked cowboy riding a green tractor. Pricing is customized to your needs. Under normal circumstances something happens that obligates him to give your money back. Contact Kiik for weddings, baptisms, funerals, circumcisions. But please never in that order. His limits may surprise you. As you watch a man die his foreskin turns to rust. The dust convulsing off a moth’s bulb paints the spirit in a thin gold film.

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about the author

Kiik A.K.’s first book of poems made no impact whatsoever. The critics were not pleased by it saying we have no knowledge or record of her whatsoever. Kiik usually is a man. Unless no record of him exists in which case he is a woman. She was winner of The Youth Haemophiliacs Hospital Raffle. Kiik lives here lives in this room. When you run out the lights he comes in through the window and eats out of the garbage. Since he’s eaten garbage mostly for seven years it is quite accurate if you say Kiik is mostly garbage. When the lights come on Kiik gets himself real small and crawls inside this tiny box. A pupa wraps its mitten of fur around the word. The mouth of flour rubs its ghost over the flute. The angel of steam raises its palm flush to the barrel.

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about the author

Kiik A.K. was born in a carwash atop a little wad of foam. For thirty-five years he was a curtain and a mitten. A robotic arm bullwhipped him while he rubbed his naked body into the spittle and jetsam of filthy mechanical wagons. He made millions. Later Kiik was promoted to bullwhip. He worked as a wrist loop, a thong, a fall and a cracker. He made millions. In his sixties, he retired from being a cracker and stayed at home to raise a family. He sealed up his family in his basement. When he was not busy being a family man, he paid for someone with massive arms to visit his home and choke him until he fell unconscious. He made millions. He died at the age of eighty-three having never attempted a single poem. His genitals were a mollusk plucked and dissolved like a little star of borax in the black seltzer of heaven.

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These pieces are dedicated to the writer and humorist Jon P. Hoffer.