Jillian Krupp


Sterile fountains,
drain easily from faucets to suburban mouths.
The judgments we raise,
with Advil and fish food to grow over pains.
I write an empty check, fill in my mother's premature death,
all just to speak with you.
I cannot write words to cover my open wounds.
An asshole rips,
my vaginal walls gaping.
All these little things,
we participate in.
Wipe from front to back,
stare at my shit.
Some man stops to inform me he served his time in the navy,
that his wife still smells good to him after all these years.
I fall in love with my city again,
and will want to blow it up by next week.
I smoke my 10 cigarettes at night
and think how I'll be dead by 30 if I'm lucky.
Maybe reverse my age, shave my head,
and watch the security guard flirt with her perimeter.




A woman's hips in the end of day
When the sun peaks tip over stretches of Egyptian construction.

Man creates the body, or would you say it’s God?

Man creates the destruido, a people of humble breath.
This time of day, seeing
Clothe and dirt,
Energy in its first infection.

Grasping the space in between,
Infectious laugh,
(no wait, I’ve said that)
Pouches of cancer sift in pink tissue
But a man seems clean.

Dangerously animalistic,
It causes no stir in the sterility of an innocent.

Fat sits around pockets of pre-birth,
Preparing for the opening.
Is it true touch breeds obsession?
Held at the waist,
It’s a powerful grip on ownership or claims.

Tall with thickness, of the hair on arms or
Minds don’t have to think alike to set records
With limbs
False contact.


All poems written by Jillian Krupp