Andrew Ketcham
The way his name suggests a wound. Ritualistic self mutilation. St. Sebastian. Penetration. Induced vomiting and martyrdom. Dentistry. Bleeding your mouth like nuclear pennies. How you roll it around. Sieve it between your teeth. Suck from it all tannins and meaning. Pierces your tendency to touch things you ought not. Fire cracker. Black snake. Broken mirror. Long baths in a needle filled river. Snapping lip rings off the mouths of anorexic oysters. This nail gun of love punching a smooth circle through your thinnest parts. No exit wounds without promise of re-entry.
Andrew Ketcham is a paranoid set of eyebrows in Chicago. His work has appeared in The New Orleans Review, Hobart Pulp, Rejection Letters and HAD. He is a relentless faggot.
