The Deranged Artist: Géza Csáth

Géza Csáth was a Hungarian writer, playwright, musician, music critic, psychiatrist and physician.


Csáth paused the stars, retreating through entropy itself toward an aggregate needlepoint, and shot that feeling up his arm. Meals were in traffic inside him, peristaltic rotisseries hardening until he could shift their lump sum across his abdomen. Making better sport of many another’s interior, he preferred a mate to climax mid-suspension from the window of a boxcar. The star of his ward frigged herself across his every nod. Once, during rounds, he had to utilize a pointer to disperse the hang down chipping stiffly between her legs and she loved him for it. They discussed each other’s subtle leakages, their mingled flaking, endless guppy tails beneath his lab coat and her straightjacket. They were recasting the bible with more unique swordplay. Kicking less and less, he screwed her image into half the populace, one of whom took ill enough to become his wife. He overdosed next to a world war. Bomb blasts disrupted his aim, brought the veins much distention. He could fit anything up them by now. He shot the overpriced stuffing of a couch for fun. Like puppets with gout bloating through their strings, he saw his practice folding, his dismissals mount, his wife weighing in again, horribly, and used his service revolver to plug her through the nipple so she could subcutaneously identify with him. He stuck a black puddle into his neck and cut both wrists with amateur gusto, checking his wife’s corpse to see if her backside had discharge. It did not, which surprised him, then, yes, some coalescence, but only because he, in his wooziness, was resting a knee upon her midriff, causing the precipitous effect. That’s when a constable brained him. He awoke in the empty sickbay of an asylum and took the window to freedom, the loving needle still on his person, not without egregious negligence from his captors, he concluded, and was formerly of such good standing as to contemplate writing their superiors about the oversight. Finding himself cornered after a pleasant day sightseeing, he presented the mucilaginous sediment to his jugular, melding gusts of air, and it took four officers to harness the maculae bursting forth from his sockets.

Edward Sellon, Ophiolatrist

Better to annul such pretenses through discretion, Edward Sellon was game for every ripe lass seeking tenure throughout his cadetship. He could fashion himself the spittoon of such wanton lizard interests from a passing teen that his sacrum often produced an audible crinkle to indicate another frenulum soiling in rapport as a girl’s clandestinely disarrayed gravity got seconded during the upheaval. Deprived of those halcyon days enlightened by his whorecraft, a wife forged the family dowry, leaving him to chew on just her name and awful presence. He lit out across the empire to swallow skidmarks off assorted knickers, pilfering crannies willy-nilly, sought heaping squid grips for a transcript of whose pewter Christ might bow to now, the serpent holding his robes aloft, true chamber pot addict of a heaved religion ballooning inside itself intermittently. He could spew by the dozen, under any circumstance, and after foiling himself into a found tot, none were quick to stand up or rebuke him, cervical breadth still brimming. He always snickered at his piss. Fixated on illustrating tangled bottoms, fishnet helix completing an ouroboros of discharge: the only symbol worthy of genuflection, something ate through its composition by the genital with no remorse, Sellon, having threatened to charge assward into his lieutenant while brandishing a pistol, was reduced to driving a carriage, spending himself in rebellion against the flank of a statuesque horse. Stranded on his hemorrhoid box, customers prudishly chittering within, he began moaning against the parapeted hull to encourage some fluids besides his own as an improvement over the décor. After numerous botched attempts by relatives to restore the sanctity of marriage between Sellon and his liar, the missus interrupted a game of hide and seek between her husband and several virgins in the wooded area behind a school. At the office of his patron, smut salesmen, local pimp, and armed businessman, Duggem, as in ‘dug em up’, he recounted this tale through a series of mute gestures, both men propositioning their handshake for a hilarious span of time, adding to the rib, whereupon Sellon retired to the cheap motel allowing him to defer bills and swallowed a bullet so that his grin might continue. A maid was tasked with chasing away the ectoplasmic uterine squall above his enkindled scalp.

Vachel Lindsay

Saddled by a humanism only rich doctor’s sons who grew up in one of the houses where Saint Lincoln of the presidential leg-humpers fan club used to clomp about, Lindsay subjected the neighborhood to his concern for his neighbor. He followed epileptic instructions into a suicide wager against art, walking the backroads of America, offering poetry for meals. After many a starvation induced by reliance upon the goodwill of the much fetishized hoi polloi, he donned some well-intentioned blackface and tried to unite everyone from a greater distance, with publications. The madly executed lore of his tunes carried a cognition barren beyond proselytized intent. He concocted mythologies from his death spire on the roads that came to him via an insane whisper, ousted by schizophrenic thrum-throated chanting, using ethereal dogmas warped through the mania of his talent. He wrote the first book of film criticism, maintaining, correctly, in 1915, that plot and dialogue will hinder cinematic potential. Worse than the universal and abstracted love his visions tormented him to never fulfill, he fell head over heels for a brilliant and sickly poet, Sara Teasdale, worshipping each droplet of her milk-fine presence, her impossible wit, such alien beauty, a voice conjoined by peregrine luminosities, like his, this pagan expectorant compressed trachea to trachea by what they could not name within each other. She left him for a shoe baron and wrote a poem about how anomalies such as herself are not to be possessed. His pockets were turned out, Chaplinesque, he agreed, and people had stopped coming to his shows. He found a wife that might have resembled his infirmed and beloved elf-doll darling before electricity was common in the household and drank a bottle of disinfectant meant for women to douche with, heart stripping down to a thrombosis in Sara’s penmanship. Teasdale, far from the indifferent and inattentive frivolities of the typical spurn-casting flake, noted this intensely, and joined him not long after in a self-imposed, yet sweet and dainty slumber upon her many exorbitant pillows.   


Read more from The Deranged Artist series by Sean Kilpatrick


Sean Kilpatrick, raised in Detroit, does monthly movie reviews for Hobart, and is published or forthcoming at Boston ReviewNERVE, New York Tyrant, BOMB, Fence, Columbia Poetry Review, evergreen review, Sleepingfish, VICE, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, The Casper Review, Black Sun Lit, Spork, The Quietus, Whiskey Island, The Malahat Review, LIT. He wrote Anatomy Courses (with Blake Butler, Lazy Fascist Press), Thank You, Steel China (Schism[2]) and Sir William Forsythe's Freebase Nuptials (Sagging Meniscus Press, Fall 2017).