Kevin Killian

Kevin Killian


As ABBA reminds me forever and ever, you needn’t have English to be absent.

I’ve known AWOL Canadians, Kurds, Norsemen, Iraqis—

almost a cabal of the indifferent,

sharing identical speck of mutant, rancid DNA, sir.

On a date, his ETA is, oops, sorry dude, I lost track of the time—

And at home, he’s got the emotional range of HAL (from 2001).

My advice, put him in your jeep, put the fucking top down,

target the accelerator with your long-distance laser wand,

then barrel his ass into the bonfire of the Legos.

With his tiresome obsession with the Milf,

you better deposit him, though not in my backyard.

You will find life more posh without his nasty little kink:

and no warrants outstanding under your radar.

Must I remind you of Roy G. Biv,

his scuba tank of painted insouciance,

who colored the rainbow with his heels of shazam,

one snafu after another on the road to Apollo?

Again, Bjorn and Benny had me sending up great clouds of SOS,

til I managed to shoot the fool down via swat team—

and the truth is, I should have handed him a tip,

a zip and a tip, dear, a tip and a zip.

return to SHAMPOO 35