Being broke was a kind of suspension, a privileged disease. Its needs so intransigent, brutal, endless. Its hunger a rage of demands that provoked a wild restless vanity that sparked against all manner of reason, like a demon bearing in its wake a license to battle to bleed, a treachery against the interminable.

Waves lurked with sublime negation right below a painable surface. As with it had accrued a rattling numinous puzzle intrigantly crouched in an unbearable awareness.

How defiance ascends — so devious and pure of heart like chasing a fuse around every bend — And the host gone off to blow up a mountain?

Host

Let free the celebrant, the host — so full of chummy yummy mutants, bold lovely molten — And all of it coiled, in a way, in sacred virgin blood — to sleep like an angel was anything but, was verger, to whirl up against the convulsive — the holy dark. And let it fall. To fall — was to reveal its host? and all its remnants and dormants, shrill restless torments — aching galling to be relinquished, banished reprieved vanished hauled, carom carom fly and die. Mixing living with dead in way that was sleepy slope and slam. Hybrid, rabiteye.

Boots

Violet loved boots — owned ten, nay twenty pair.

Presenting a heave now sprawled out across the closet floor, as she went searching. The blue green door slightly off its hinge, that closed never.

Something angry and roiled — loved in a fickle way how the floor in her closet forever failed to remain kept. As a sin against nature. All in a herd of wild hopes and misgivings alert — to animal dangers.

Voilet pulled one of a favorite pair of colored-in pseudo cowboy boots out of the tumble, rubber bottomed and rose embellished. She couldnt find the other she couldnt find the other —

A transfiguration occurred, suddenly vexed with the sorrow of vengeance, so fucking tedious — inevitably each pair must bear a cusp of despair of stubborn disrepair — Violet found that comforting.

Held fast hell for leather — For every born-a-slave after the grievous odious dollar — she’d bought them anyway. Itself, a sign of belief in tomorrow –carried her home like a vanishing point versute with a world of contingency.

Whydah Birds

The songsbirds known as Viduidae.

Billy Bob’s second category of promiscuity.

Viduity — is to love the dead? to love beyond limits of life, to abandon the edgy tumultuous thing called love — to its toxic tosh to its unbreathable fire.

Why was staring into a violent climactic expository of woeful gob (like sparring gods) so delicate, savory, blossom full of revolving evolving personation —

A stirring lovely agape thing — a kind of subvert insurgent straw worm economy.

Or like the song of an Indigobird, but that whispers screaming — hungry crazed enchanted flighty passerine, Exclamatory Paradise Whydah. 

Proverbial to interjecta intempestive of a childs merciless why why why why why why me – loop sacred cunabula for making sense of blinding injury.

As meanwhile, sleeps with its moons, like a sounding balloon —

Yes?

Voluptuous phantom employments, what became stealth “acquisitions.”

To secede into “the depths,” lovingly magnified, a recipe of devout resistance.

What rallies — where approbate. And once alert doesn’t ever relinquish.

Such “madness” could be seen as accumulative to breaking into the sublime —

With nail, for hammer.