The Deranged Artist: Egon Schiele

Welcome to part one in Sean Kilpatrick’s ongoing series where the incomparable author offers us the ‘skinny’ one of many bat-shit crazy (and beloved) artists. Enjoy!

Egon predicted the internet by fucking every teen in his village. He warped them into veiny portrayals of his long-torsoed kid sister, populating his canvases with their incest. She had subjected him to a series of underdressed cartwheels. A slipper flew off of her bare foot, midair. The gowns slunk over her were an effluvium her body snaked inside. There was an angular and perky defiance about her posture and she backed it up by looking at him like she knew. She often got her suggested fertility right in his face, craned in a suppling bounce, pooching her goose-pimpled tummy to dot the question mark of her spine. The bags under her eyes let him feel like they were orphans together. She came off sensually malnourished. Even her skeleton had curves. Ribs prominent and arrowing, she leapt on people to jab hello. The satin quality of her heat ensued and they would have to embarrassingly place her elsewhere. She backed daylight down with her paleness. She could lift her leg and cause sunsets. When she scampered outdoors, it galvanized a universal misconduct from male passersby. Porches she passed became swiftly occupied with men who had been on the verge of giving up below the waistline. She was a mobile billboard of the feminine figure before it was bred beyond locale, before the airborne prurience to exploit her sardined itself over freeways, before the muse was circulated against her will to stay posed for a surplus population. These sprites of the lawn everyone struggled to keep under them, the locker room nudge of household status to bestow brood after brood of these prancing kittens so the species could rouse itself fat by contrast, Egon showered in their dissection until the implied prosperity of being born was another fragment slivered to his purpose, enigmatically betrayed for his closeted lust. Towns were spraining their genitals to become cities. But the community could wait in line behind him. Even his cum looked deformed. Especially when his sister was at the end of it. He fractured her name across each palsied thought. Color was just a variant of the light she tried on. Her response to his nonstop peeping was to encourage being seen with a sense of subconscious performativity and potential guilt. She stuck to whispers around him, something below vocab. Her lips were set in motion by his presence. Their country looked like a flat park leveled off by rivers and he had to endure her always wanting to swim. A neighbor friend babysat them and carried his sister often, without understanding their shared need to be so tactile while playing. She resembled an older version of his sister and he beheld their frolicking as criminal in his intent as puberty could chase a human being. His sister once woke in the neighbor’s arms, yawning into a lean against gravity, their torsos almost perpendicular, gathering and knotting her soaked hair, spatting their exposed midriffs, smearing them in river. A tiny pool formed abdomen to abdomen, punctuated by their salt. They were on top of each other a disturbing amount, because it pecked away at his restraint. They took turns ruffling his amazing hairdo. The joke at his expense was taking shape as a sex crime before he had the chance to consider piety. He eased her into his yearnings by inventing games in an excuse to pose her around his room. She volunteered her most subversive arrangements. Directives to challenge him into bottomless liberties came to her from a dormant part of her brain many would never meet and were not capable of appreciating. He appreciated everything about her, every inch of her degeneracy stacked against the reflection of his own. She was more from his rib than the propaganda implied. He wanted to tip the dominoes of their genetic estate. Their father, dying of syphilis, saw in his son’s eyes the perversion for his sister that he, himself, in his fading vision, could not uphold with a more severe molestation. His jealousy exacted itself on the boy’s drawings. Getting to see the trains he guarded was worth the turmoil of his reign. Egon sketched industrial musculatures, the fuck chug pounding of stately exhausts, a monster that could spray without consequence. When her periods enhanced her and he snapped, he took his sister to the machine, first thing, and they rode it straight to a hotel. He put her on his lap. She was too grown to seem planted there innocently. The tracks conked under them. He inflicted an elaborate story on the clerk that the clerk would have been indifferent about, either way. She was consistently speckled and adorned with flowers. The land was haunted by a fertility not just hers. He grabbed her by the scalp and tightened his fist until the petals smudged into a juice. She undid her bun, fastening her mane to her sticky face so she could hide from what was coming. He painted the wet across her lips with his middle finger. They ate her hair all afternoon. He tucked her gown up just above her thighs and screwed an eraser across their incandescence. Grooved by flecks of soy gum, she giggled, tumbling back with him into a mutual expungement of who they used to be together. He drank an assaultive amount of her hymen. When she came it was as if the groan were caught in her throat and she had to let it go to underline the exasperation of what he had just done to her body. The next morning, he had to carry her out of the room. The following chastisements kept them afraid of approaching one other for the rest of their lives. Egon made a name for himself, staking her image across the revenge of his being known. He inhabited a vulnerable town, having learned from Klimt how to pit the nudes against each other. How to take control of his urge to have the muses compete for it. Anyone with a teen daughter watched her begin to fail at bible school. He wrung them through his brush. Vivacious critters, summersaulting at his say into an acrobatic tremor, his studio was their real religion, Church of Gerti, the silly names he issued to bend them into her. His pathology coincided with their liberation. He illustrated their beauty, ratcheting it into an unattainable sibling that hovered over him. He put them on the rack for not being her. He quit sleeping the night after the hotel. Not even his dreams would give her back to him. He took up limping for no reason. Distended into an abrasion over his compulsive work ethic, he ineradicably sustained the fetish with a World War distracting him from behind, He had the nerve to marry one or two of her replicas, but impregnating a specter was too taxing. When wife two fashionably contracted Spanish influenza, he was in a hurry to make out. The state dumped his corpse onto a playground, where children urinated over his smile for eternity. His cock was brined to preserve the assorted contiguous stenches. It is rumored that Rasputin’s unkillable and elephantine member cracked its glass as a salute in memoriam.


Sean Kilpatrick’s new book THANK YOU, STEEL CHINA will be out from Schism Prεss[2] soon…

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Sean Kilpatrick, raised in Detroit, does monthly movie reviews for Hobart Literary Journal.Other writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Nerve, New York Tyrant, Boston Review, Fence, Sleepingfish, Fanzine, Vice, evergreen review, Whiskey Island, and Bomb. His novella Sucker June, was released by Lazy Fascist Press. Check out his tumblr.