Char, sets

Red Hand Letters

Thinking of writing piece that is based on this. From Nick Caves Red Hand Letters.

Getting Patty Smiths new book next week at event in brooklyn. Will be first book of hers I read.

Piece would likely venture over to aesthetics and associables wrt images, and topics in philosophy, in that area, on which feed need read. Admittedly, greed.

Am working on another piece about as well which has gotten some visits. Had a good start to it, but then had to do more reading, dig further further further.

Which have since done considerable part of. Studying works of others is a perp — it perpetrates — is an ever-never ending thing — probably because get considerable joy from it.

Fiction also reading Virginia Wolfe, Gombrowicz, a little Murakami.

Lulu in Hollywood

I really liked Lulu In Hollywood by Louise Brooks. Working in Hollywood, and on Dancing Stages, travelled with Ziegfeld. Its an honest book. Bitter – no, its another western song out of Kansas and Missouri, there is suicide of her best friend and emotional black mail and working in theatre and her running to and from NY and Calif and Germany – she did some German films, and hating it loving it, refusing at first to do talkies, all this adventurous stubborn stuff. She loved to read. Was more into books than movies. But her book is also full of pain.

forever redoing site in my head

Site is for writing. Nobody reads here its a nightmare. Its not actually set up for reading.

Though every piece here in progress congeals — at times, admittedly language gets sticky, mortars up against academic, rows through where ever there is thickness – there again, I admit it.

But it also poetically suffuses through word-ers – follows Joyce to Beckett back into Rhetoric, never lets go of syllables. Veers over toward Camus and Zizek in philosophy and art.

Both of whom are brilliant and thick (as thieves, thats a joke), and I continue avidly to “study.”


Also always end up back around to music for raw freedom of its poetry, intensity, dynamism, influence, and how copes with creativity and edginess.

A struggle, reifies resistance –

Mann and Pynchon

Mann, Pynchon add something here its hard to put finger on. Mann’s sense of dogged bullheaded hopelessness? and Pynch’s sluice way into the filmic where theatre is testicles as much as anything else everything has a “life of its own” including alligators in sewer where char sets slog thru in a hunt, tons of characterizations who are haunted by it.

Everything and nothing

Third Draft. Lots here. Needs more work. Still high on the hog, racing and unapologetic. Some sections need cutting, some need breathing space. Some language needs to be worked through. And other spots still feels like dancing on Tip of Iceburg. As usual talks about how and where things from other authors show up as characters to inform it.

Everything and nothing. Those two words merging together in a way where become same thing. In a luster tracking after peaks where balance is maintainable.

I dont know why I think of it as stolen. None of it none of it mine. its the resistance of the resistance. Dr. No from movies goes on endlessly tuning. phosphorous was discovered condensing urine to a paste searching for gold. Worth it yes. both the tuning and the condensing. thats the killer part.

walking dead

Precious evil, meaning clandestine matriculation of epiphanies searching for consensus.

Its patterns veered out from hell of innocence as lies, chalking out what evil must veil. wild expulsions from time whispering about the divine.

Raptures sacred solemn devout edge of death, where – fondled, mysterious torrents of death, engulfed in waves of desire, whose shocking cyclic resilience still resounds – burns through this.

in “reality” a choke martyrdom cookbook for panic to delusory play dead, a vast runaway prison section — of loves allures, from when the mystic ran rampant.

Character Sets

Char Sets rising, their flames blew the whole thing apart, whose roots were lost in space hopping on one foot hoping for a grace, but imploded with tragic sorrow, a delirious sorrow, a death march whose violence filled folds with rioting shivers of the hysterically absurd — And those familiar with it.

Slithering anxious hopeless silt, runny bunny drummy loony spoony and moon to try and get to it – ?! Intricate atrocious wild mordant extents. Thick as peas.

My woopy Char Sets.

Absurd sylphic diffusion of hopelessness livid launched galloping galore. Pick up sticks. Media oozing syrup of rocket jaw, plush sexy fucking perennials, rushing over desires open wounds.

Sorrow becoming its own benighted killer flattened by loose ends, string theory – filed and sandwiched between houses of horror,

But still exhibiting usual characteristics for finding Joy!


Odds, the odds. Attacks are at odds, magnified to a stunning rave consciousness.

Based on mountain ranges, hard wilderness, majestic forlorn peaks, absurdly enamored with restlessness of it, with its desire, showing up under conditions of questioning assaults by all good victims of Blooms holy Shakespeare, the two Walts plussed out on books of dead, and pails and pails of ravaging the dredge.

In pants of it. Finding through desire liquid molten that squirms into sky and raids the absolutes – pelts it really with beautician cycles. Paws pick with Heloise at cloisterly mud muttering after precious pen.

Rhymes being graven mortuary raven things that attack at odds — translated? bodies of dead that change into birds under attack.

magnified always into an escape barely there in a vanishing space,

wildly locked in.

Cant get in cant get out. in and out and in and out and in and out. Train robbery –

Genet shows up. Talking in whispers. Everything and nothing. And thumps on head. But rest assured a buddy? Buddy systems.

Dead pie. Turns into Ed ped pie. Zizek has paragraphs on it.

Game boy term, I love by thousands, where once unfiltered searching for something hungry in tombs dusty old sweet volumes –

what does plague hungry mean, sacrificial trauma drama whose running from life is running from death, Groundhogs breaks failed over and over and over.

Scared sacred godspeed rushing onward. Language like a church on fire – slit into envelopes. Then the discussion turns to surface. And eventually degrees of freedom.

Everything and nothing.

And step by step, take it step by step, thinking of as occurring, one-on-one correspondence. Matchy matchy.

Fingers infinite with forgotten soda fountain faiths called garden of sweets. Much better transposed now – than lost in gamble to exploding torrents piling up from attacks of thunder, the deadly.

Consequence as everything and nothing – becoming same thing. Relieves burden of transference forever pending. Merely its own blessed crushing indecency. Running with fire engines.

Screamers demand gesture to be shared with Wilde’s Ernest – Clarice talks about that, so it undoes the resistance and gets call to work.

Tricked out evil sister, that poor drenched thing.

let her in.

cant it becomes a cant. chant cant circling ferocious rules – along a woodsy pathway with Nash –

its here we both bow, its here somewhere.

grizzle is bear

char playing sets turning up grizzle, is not pure vengeance. its muddy and trippy. just something fall into. and then unaware doing anything wrong because its the condition of the curse, explodes in beautiful char sets .

And let it fall out because – it is not is. Pal Jo/e/y.

Is not is – is a char set. Which then when it gets down to something dirty the maid shows up with dustpan at fire escape, alook Milly, heres a bleeder, more bleeder than leader

there is something that is so disavowed to its own existence falls into cracks of despair and yearns through it via la saut, leaps at everything and nothing.

in char playing sets that overrun bases. but its also flirtatious enchanted drunk and beholden.

Right great expectations mom shows up in my head – stern as forecast hard work is heavy labor.

Pip would rather be held by it in truancy – not so overly endowed by threats of disbelief, waves of inimical terror whose speechlessness is wild and free falling.

its shimmer and gloat, Thomas Mann adds. Yes and murdering canvas with Beckett. Which means nothing. There’s a stranger-ness in Beckett “up top” I find emptying. Has a Nirvana quality to him. What?

Fascinations bloomed piratical, that gets taken away in chains to hell. And when gets there, its empty.

chunks of sanity once seen floating off — sea fishing in alaska. Virginia talks about doing scales. She is under the table. Burroughs repeats — you have reached sea fishing in alaska.

bad girls giggle in corner looking at your face

veils is a v word, veils arrived so early. veils are about speaking the unspeakable. and what that did.

dispersed. people would immediately disperse.

thats when the char set I refer to as Nash, first showed up. with Doug.

reckonings slithering mockery and defeatism? no that wasnt it at all.

no, absurdities strange clutch at truth beyond niceties or the grotesque. there is no disqualification for it — admonishes marcel. cannons surround me pointy and blast like Genet’s penal code.

exchanging rove glances with woke feeds my elephant who always follows back.

better to have that bit that bit of it that is real. and acknowledge V is who she is for you. and I am something else. again and again and again.

could never be trusted, about who was going to show up. kicked in my head, and out came disarranging disobliging char sets. and would fall through their failing integrity as crumble bunny of all aspects. running around plugging holes.

but love the banter. and have learned that the banter helps with diffusing religions sacred clown/crown elements

mythic auto memories that marcel is talked about. those elements are brutal.

and where severity and cleanliness meet in a brutal system of hostage, Faulkner shows up from beyond the outhouse.

teams are playing volleyball on the beach.

looks out at grace of sea.

precious evils dig in after slivers Virginia says its in the wine and thats not a beautiful crime.

but holy suicide is.


that one somehow leads to other.

its this dream that never comes true where one lets the breathless out to breathe, in a way that is intimate and kind.

with no fear of density – which is skittish, frightened, all turns after the clairvoyant, lurching for absolutes bounding at sky – can overtake every mechanism.

Jane is also a sleeping sickness.

shine is meant to be unpent and get spent, its shared goods its voracious plenitude. and of course has a spot of frankenstein in it sleep walking into murderous sounds.

lunch, lunch. do lunch.

With J. Is a flee for it pea.

both other and not un genuine. its that middle vague spot between is and not is. middle thirds middle thirds. go there, leave here – on my own. go there. every clam is a daddy.

caught as a clam is being constantly assailed by want of nonresistance, dalliance free to loam, its some kind of leap element –

but also – make action, as a distraction, another charge through the arches with Teddy, an archers manipulation for virtues living off that wavering desire.

life of its own

Pessoa is showing up as well, in allowances section. elusive trickles, combustions, bottles that seize after the small. loves after skin and spine but gets mixed up by the sorcery. and disintegrates into angels.

admit relativity sometimes drowned in veils of religious screams, whose mufflers shiver at night. and in some languid persistent way lay there half enchanted by half way home from hell.

because thats what school was but wasnt. hated swimming lessons. gave me nothing but life. and I disowned it. my own life somehow got disowned from me.

where nothing as a land of urgent disbelief would live itself.

then see something in somebody else that changes everything and nothing again.

all that was known about visionary splendors stuck in vivd death cycles since small, very small.

yet another estranged mournful osmosis, began to play itself out into a comedy of errors –

most shocking of all its continuing grace, its diligence, fate as a dance with what life could be and also never would be –

but Hobbit is a hollow, and Hollows are also a puritan gone mad. barnacle babes in full flight gear. Filled with itemizations, of the obscene.

from there to everywhere. absurdity became so tyrannically weighed down by fiendish resistance

worrying itself into knots in trees. scaling trunks for moments brutal imminences that shadowed skeletons dancing divine, day of dead celebratory muscle.

its not a crown its a jewel thief. is jew relief. and everything falls into universal grievances. What does that mean.

that heart disappeared into a life of flames, and wurthered through – in rancid lovely isolation that couldnt understand the evil which subsumed it, as mephitic grace –

Emily mixing potents to fend it off, the horror that occurs somewhere simultaneously every moment whose evil is telling. Because it never stopped. And because it never stopped, led to too many places.

It had to be made serious. Had to be exported, into something that was serious about itself, that understood the impact –

This is Lulu serious enough about work to search for support for what it is, as is.

Genet whispers – what it was as is, Joy on killer sprees —

Bataille shows up at edge where Burroughs too makes the wretched thing beautiful.

And the rug flies off from there.

lit bit of a scream

Working on hard pencil edit. Getting there. Bit on the tight side — right now.

Dunning condum nation

Sometimes, turn it on here – just to capture its horror on me, its rebellion, expository cry in expunge of darkness.

Sometimes shrills up the hill – caroms and catches a cross current of feeding grounds, running around with a stick and other waves of shambling dynamite, freeing a sordid frenzy.

Swans scream suddenly burning up — on silence. Turns into a smoke signal, then laughter passing — with another scream — goodbye goodbye.

Living on Image

Frozen is a distension of hope. Never free from clucking after image as a pirate or pocket gopher does holy treasure.

Implicitness as markers in voodoo with void, both horror and beautiful almost every symptom a map of the world.

An awakening, hard spasmed wild contraries wrestling with rose entwined in bone, well known tattoo tragic god —

Talk suddenly turns solemn

Living on images. That thru a monstrous build up burn, reflect both passion and its obscenity, always rearranging agist, wag and flog, bright lethal odyssey.

Awakening fall into a dizzying chronic filmic, Pynch pops up poetically trained — by my flesh lost up in a lethal mesh, some of it haughty, some screeching hawkish needy, loved in ways unanswerable, shaken out of silence –

Or shocked into a silence that is remote — remote with what was once called music of spheres, or spheres of epiphany.

Eels or peels, always one sword that kneels, deep cut, one into another, next as if implicit with its fugitives from banality and eery rapport with what survives otherwise —

When its bottomless or tea totals – the wretched droughts.

Sci fi dread

When sits shivering, fondling morphisms in bred rave ludicrous desires, potents pulling at threads, full of rebellions defectors, seaweed and undertow, minefield of pleasures, wasteland too. Garbage swallowing alive its victims of beauty,

Call that function: ominous sci fi dread. Out of respect for siphoning off from the cyphers.

Born – not out of love? the weakness for it I mean – or is it or is it or is it. Love as a god can take over everything.

Hi Hower that Bleaks

Long so long – that slow virulent burn – taking a knife to all of it, swallowed alive by the feasting on it, how strangely destroyed ad visibility present tense —

Tossed, lost to its cut up, a nameless hell, where nothing can save it from itself — for itself —

Except a leap for faith enough to embrace what relishes while disappears – again.

Waves of images, still do too, burn to the touch, running benighted and frightened with a chisel into vigilant numina, nothing and everything all at once.

Searches cavort for wind creatures – lovely gruesome sweet dour vigilantes torn unborn scorned for their scars — that mettle into porn.

Flower and impetus, slave to pleasure their skin.

Young girls young boys battered scattered out on loan, bitters stick to it like hate to the bone and holding it in sits crouching rubbing against an evil all too sincere.

On Lamb

Everything or nothing? How copiously fetish is devilish with stunning love. And wild in its faith.

Redemptives old unwilling desert fears return, with sacred trembles.

And yet, at limits of existence turn into lust. Searching squandering even – for impossible hope.

Where at thresholds of wonder and hunger something of it breaks and swings wide open —

Peaked or forlorn, Joy sullen and cherished skulks after beauty both irreverent and climactic.

Yet nearer feels to truth — the more seized with panic and pain of desire, flat against the window. Both wild and quiet. Stomach falling in on itself, suddenly bagged by a mysterious panic of death.

Hard Pax

Fall into the music. Let it refill every pang urgent reflow of surface with love of moment.

Alligators lie low, are lurkers, blend in, hide out. Drink in mist at surface where runnels after stirring moon. Holy Corn Goddess Diana gets large.

Image of alligator climbing over a fence.

Then once there, once over — becomes another thirst where its a willing curse, of itself, for itself. Constructing holes in wetlands, in water and mud.

Once they come up — every creature tells own tale of terror and horror. Beauty and love, as splendor confides above it — somehow in every way useful. Beautiful and replete.

Nastiness that growls too.

Good to think of some image things, as eye (playing in dirt) for (another) eye that is sweet yet also unafraid to fathom where wretched.

Nothing cynical in saying that.

New directions

What is an Act? les émouvants – Can’t avoid it for reach, wonders like a war of tugs.

Shakes (with spears) shows up as Prince Valiant for allowance! for transhistorical thee.

Archway through to itchy heads scratching wtfuck and then it not letting go the gobs of haunting curiosity because despite everything there is a rig — of friendship about the gas line, discussing play of putty, and dealing in heart of hearts with all the nutties and other such melodic/melancholic excrementals.

Southern for swamp potato with a gun. Whose instincts are dire woke filler.

Or bait hovens patriarchal scum, bitters bold and shy, fervors foreign existences, fur that gets up in folds bearing yet whats ever unborn —

Hoven – dialectal past participle of heave.

I have to pull over heated in a rush. Like its raining and quick quick — take the laundry in.

Virgils virgins along the spice routes where thunder and innocence still burn and yearn the sublime to its limits.

Misprision, stick in hand to let out ghosts whenever wacked like a guardrail meanwhile waving to sky. Why does it make you so mad? Never was just a fad.

“…bound by some force that was part literary, part masochistic and all sad.”


Markers and the void. Once the burn goes in — never blows out, candles in wind. Hot cold august night.

Furies snatch in teeth — where sits at mouth of Joy! and darts plods thru — how migrations are a force where death itself swills into compounds, of money power and survival, unleashes a purity of evil —

Gods that carry me away into globular constellations of flood, time as fluid for sky — where peripherals jest and beholden. Where peradventures comb out comb out riddles of evil and love lures after sentiments of paradise.

Don’t always fight it, that certain kind of helpless mercilessness — as it arises — suddenly feels inevitable —

Fire of hope rushes down my throat like a raven for a cross. Imbued in sheath with fundamentally sincere nymph logic?

Woe Betty. What.

Willy Shakes adopts a Nymph to answer for the unanswerable?

Nymphs, Colette chortles, are jealous of the freedom of mermaids.

Precious Metals

IM gave me “monkeys.” A barrel of them.

Monkeys gambol even out of doors with dire hopes and then hallucinates numbers or patterns out on every form from dust to dust. And in it mingles as a fire of fate and faith.

Thats a Monkey.

But Monkeys too fall into Movies where horror finds laughter.

And kleptos are born hiding, a creepy wild baked consonance, a ghastly love that storms up and gush —

Angels that pull me from its wrath — for periods of time — angels is a sneak in byword for blatant gratitude over bounty in them there hills where bounding in looking for Friendship Circles , and yet the Symbol for it is a swan.

Swans have long necks.

For when hatred suddenly starts to incinerate, stomp on shells, crash against fields of locust

Only to mysteriously float up, float up underside a waters edge, in oversaturated colors of sun — and Joy finds it — beating down on face of day, bled out against its impossible horizons.

Large Magellanic Cloud

Underneath there is always a handsome beast.

What does that mean? Judy Judy Judy. Reared on hokey hollywood love stories Judy says no I wont stop fighting for it. Fighting is insidious as mirth, what ever greases your pan. Thats a caution to you. It will never be dead. Ever. Forget about it. Its influence too jealously guarded.

Without its Large Magellanic Cloud where burst, there is no laughter.

I do not know why.

Mythic swell is like a musical accompaniment – much like words have event structure built right in.

Monkeys fall collapse into numbers and letters around heater in toilet where she is climbing out window to escape.

But it breaks too. Breaks at the sound of the clock. Thats from Poe. Blooms where learned how to find image, hears its flight plight of passage and magic. Her moin knees hourglass –

Last Remove

Battles with holy sweet cruces can subvert thoughts into so many directions — whole life in a way bot eaten up by what serves as splendor? where vert-i-go subverts to.

Criss crossing regalia with absurd. Portuguese French Chicken. Yellow to my toes as much as love kindles it for bodes with fear of death so defiant it buries me.

In a constant wave of impossible endings that sudden switch leaves me ludicrous — a clown from temptation as swells to a a new burst and laughter blurts.

Theatre understands she reads: those who dream –

Images stripped striped strapped stirring, searching thru char sets, like stucko grooms with Great Expectations, lace in web of teeth and Ophelia in her petals with Emile — for its en acting grace, impotent necessity.

Words rounding mountains, let loose, rolled out like shocked joyous dribbles from a bleeding font –

Clutching rope to rope — as Sweeney is to treetops.

Tandem as arms of Tarzan, misprisions sweet bloom in wan of sky.

Nymphos snatched by the god thing — are always turned into something else! Mortal but caught in pose of death by desire —

Something I call Shine — leaves the planet behind, “holy versions” circle faster and faster round rims where cats paw — and screamers mock incertitude with both horror and delight.

Shell of Ootype

Yet another Work in Progress.

V2.75 working on 2nd rinse

For a rhyme. Fire and water. Flame the floodgates. Lurk in doors. Running to and from with thermal acutes, astutes, resolutes, envoys unleashing pleasure, letting joy in for waves who batter both sweet and destitute, tenuous yearning implosions, running striking after something implicit, like tedium restless, riotous even, for momentum.

But, then when crack devours – it shakes up everything.

And every crack tenders at least one wave of death. When examining back of mind somewhere several ankles deep there always runs into with curious alarm the minatory and the teetering, the sensuous and the bleeding, the ravaged and the jealous and the rapture and the meek.

Can never dis-account rapture says Frank its revelry where some die by stake.

Mer maid

Where worries worthless turns of the worm – a mermaid dies every time, like feet caught in a net, where cant get free.

Mermaids clam down hard with meaning of what it means to be dedicated. To live in both worlds.

Clinging to a wing and a fall a comical thing growing out of watershed suddenly of ideas, the stimulus that turns impossible sometimes feels like its strung out of wary beautiful potions –

Elementals in logic help seduce introduce a way back into rubbing traces my forlorn ecstasy with its endless happiness searching

even down where trucks for tracks for metaphysical clarity get so suction cupped up, for fathomings

makes me laugh with simmering mortal haven for a tool.

numbers fill variance with charge, change, height, relief.

real and not

Attends towards real, though not there, here not there, not actually. Yes, sometimes there is no actually.

Boater and floaters arise from urgencys mysterious desires and strange rings of horror melting into densities and depths. Density has to do with thickness, and depth has to do with layers, so there’s that.

It breeds a glorious exchange a deck a dance, that surmise of real – that can and cant be ever answered, its a hole where mortal need is bent for divine reveal and transports, catastrophe and its appendages heart and hunger and defeat.

and yet it comes and comes again and again, I wait from all the fallen voices worse as ever hyperthreading seeds being strung, to let to ring in corn – tentative signs and rinses for territorial properties ocean like proverbs

suddenly bolting

for laughter and ecstasy, that invariably includes sides of death.

Far Flung

Byron’s Harolde the Childe’s burning drums.

Loved to tender and to add mitts. Closer closer get hard harder it gets. Until the burning fires burst and freeze in tremors of suicidal death.

A sudden rain of marbles, artistic and clot, come gushing down down down – sis sys sis – all upon suddenly like a whiplash even holy vengeance. Does me invariably in.

Leaving behind a strange and frightful emptiness in a fight with stridency and dull wounds that throb through ocean of color and casualty to fill the vacuum? moving looming slow down to a knod and smile present tense.

Stay still stay still.

Feet will wander into any nook or bucket for a fold, at door of plenty, ruffles rising underneath.

Find backdoors. Let the immediacy get clobbered there as hasten to work.

here as hasten to work.

grab-it rabbit be your own business

More more more coming into view, Lulu’s app ID idea, via turning on spigot, at instagram, slew that reveals sarcastic blast.

his freak funny wanker humor. yet far away so far away even next to me, frank showed up in my locker at attention or something waiting or something as oddly owned by the blowing casualty

incendiary archers hunt, paddock, and torch burning seas – never same without that. like scratching itch on lonely monsters horns.

archers sweep at my gates

but hard taks ocean seas sustain on maggots on Navy brigs when not trailing targets to awake the dead, the sinuous unfathomable beauty

and its thrall and liquid and billeting filling larks to void and marks to brave all resistance which are hung in riddles of the heart. that nothing can save from it.


When catch another dismal gong, tip top tip top tipping off a flooding horizon. warm and cold water and blood

a mountain stolen from sisyphus – stealing sisyphus, sys for system, s’ys for sisyphus and sis for sister while away hidden

in its frightful wakes languid drunk puking mourning brutal seductions the wondrous bag of climb every mountain for love

with espionage that breeds in walls likea fungus and loving its cold fluid emptiness druid and alive

raising the bar

meaning all three gestures muddling puddling for reason and rhyme, in some far out gestures, stop killing each other? its not just us its all of us, triggers and lust. gestures are mud quacking stuff-it for a sprig of voodoo lime

a sudden willow warp speed throws me from you

its the most reckless shocking thing

the snapper of thread is one of the Greek fates.

made with red around lonely barking stuffit – when something seems to be at reach then,

comes a crises, all goes off, as a bird screeches out ancient with death:


Hung out again let it x plus plod til plodes, fall all the way all the way down, down down. Nothing.

Hung out, turned over – let the breathless breathe

bathe in Clarice and Camus staring down my throat slippery sleeping in, to hang at shoulders by discovery place circling outfits in washed out blue.

which will if I could


pointer for tangents always at night every night as if joining its stubborness of.

Peaches fingers mwa mwa mwa a kiss at loops where never stop beggars from food.

Lulu and Millet have to do a 12 pager ID for Cannes spending days burning through getty plus and arranging them and mashing into colors a fit sense beauty shipped to France. As sustainable can apply to existing materials. Works best with.

Pocketing a Grift

blowing dust that can bold fold sharp and flat, leaps searching for hoops –

reciting simple basic vocabulary in french dont know what else to do. I want to go to Paris for a semester. make me go.

usual methods. greek.

Pull R out NOW its waiting, now –

Am carefully working up to it.

I really think I am working up to it. Almost identifying principles here first? Does that make sense.

Bit from three stooges says: Certainly. certainly

Grifts bring on shine that is glum and unsparing, growing catch a cold Mimi into impossible fur

toppling into all that again and again it will take me couple weeks for sure, lingering on

what you know that I really dont

its the filter itself falling — that got out the knife and slit my throat.

Everything swells before an emptiness suddenly screaming through village

with scarecrows that are all damned one way or another on and on and on

filled head with gruesome sarcasm. frightens me. What will let loose.

Emily circles – but you are wrong.

Emily circles. What is wrong. Where is are you wrong. Get out of town. There is nothing. Nobody, its just

us. Only oracle where lush and foul tethers bumped off

rule the world. Milk the poor for every penny they got, drink soda.

incendiary mute

On farm and fallaway fallaway, to break open more gently emptiness underneath like doors to the green room, into testimonial plunkcur –

if only I better understood that all at all other side too

pounding by waves merciless rattle

for hell

when it fell again

the hammer and the relish till I puked. exposing strings of horrors gamete flames of broken revelry.

tried failed tried failed failed again. wondering

why is this doing this to me who is this who is this why is this happening

Words? all disappear into abruption start will start swallowing yearn untoward knowledge of fist.

its famished for help cant do anything to stop it.



uncle – tat too. rhyme – comes back again.

shake off wiry colt, very naughty taughty by the masters – then groped – as if its all could do slipping through – a sleight of cyanide trapping delights put out by animal killers that catches everything around it fuck those bastards

then swill then finally grabbed edge of lake breathless thinking wow –


charms away.

burrows and burrows in bleeding ever after. forever stuck in its bird lime, stickness

that following dust swirls of sky

grope like a user philosophical ways right at opening divine

stays of explaining what feels like depths

where foot tangled in web of violet velvet red and aeries dark cold tree dripping with green, screeching with fledgling hunger and chirp and sharpen beak, with incantations of vulture of birds

harping from trees harping harping the forever endless screams in dreams forever compiling of dead at brinks of piles

and piles of laid out in grass southern dead curled up where fled, stubborn screaming ears

like guns in bed


shook off birds. or the south, or got out of lake. or stopped piling up with rubble and tears feverish jolt of wicked thirst

thats under a spell of meticulous pottery and sacred flows of evil that are nothing but pure and fabric as beats with sun

for finding thresholds blunt struck down in a wilt and menacing.

Birds grabbed by my country irish ears, there I went want h’efter it.

dancing up against tomorrows skittish wild and remote, stuck on a wheel of death, threats both beauty and glum feathering ancient cunt wanting wanton hunt

rebel june bug praying for a night, eyes behind the dancing huts

laughing on fire laughter ripped and plumbed for blood of intensity

in love with dredgers sometimes scathe as dragon murderous and wild.

Beauty and testy swarms of sarcasm beaten into fruit with gen A. as my throat turned into a monster that finally ate me.


trick turning with tragedy, breathless and scattered, an emptiness underneath opened up with what – like K’s daddy?

Its bottom crushing with violence penetrating at seams to abduction horror humorous and vague when sweet but business like a criminal wanting sex.

Bad very baddy.

laps and bones

piles of dead mumbling hysterically

let me down let me down.

where ? not pending start cart

where you blew me apart

by the neck like a weapon of something so far outside my virgin crock

a venom atrocious and undeniable skimming with ecstatic insurrections fighting mists of darkness for tenderness.

finally pops a fist and –

doom returns to court me.

whistles through fingertips

at spot on spit. and doom returns to court me.

and we laughed. and we laughed – found where essence captures at thresholds with rigging for joy, and fell in after it.

And still joking about it, laughing even when shine hits the absolute, and goes all baggy and panting with wanting waiting watching pooling up over metaphysical meanings hazy crazy

and violently sleuth

chopping at tree tops

with K.

when shine peels over with fabulous laughter

first order hysterical. frees every nail from its hold on the real except at hamlets gate – where puts up signs, a maze blundering murderous sweet dancing crime

in vampire closets with agatha’s sweets! Poe himself knitting for there is nothing better and worse then hunting evil under oceans of sun.

Where blood echoes the ocean like annuals forever in motion, flowers scattering seeds, for a catch of light and bone, with wildly loving joy.

eccentricities where bottomland is rich

and mud reigns in fetch for seed.