Draft 1.3 Pretty Raw

Peaches is up and running, engaged in it in a way that accepts its theatricality and in-dealing or something — 

As access and bounty and wind, wind through the curtains.

ASIDE: A BattleHard Burrow’s cozy curtained, bit stinky, cat crawling, window-covered bunker, how he mysteriously locks and loads – where dreams fundament emerges – with beauty’s gruesome, out of violent storm. 

Peaches is approaching, in titillation of fine hairs, stage exit culture as a celebrant, of its possibilities –

Not as Haute, not PURELY as a tragic figure of beauty whose monstrous emanations staged its own death again and again – however much LuLu le Sueur begged, pleaded, demanded, or managed at least in scope – to escape from Haute hell in any way possible – even if it never worked, even if ultimately made it provocatively worse.

Angels are membraneous – part old tree spirit throwing apples – whose ricochet rises up in pure dispute, where shakes the barley, with beauty and death as its ultimate doozies.

And when perennially everyday they wake as The Dead, they arise as MUSTH, as deeply convicted avengers of the rose –

The miracle being – though dead they arise to battle and defend – again and again!

It works variously. Was variously true for wonder woodsman, Victor de Loveleye.

Perhaps ever more so – his dirty angel Haute le Couer, who got lost out in graft of Sweeney’s trees, with Sweeney’s scolds! spinning through meaning, a marked avenger for sure, markings are those dictates highly infected by trauma.

Something broke. Something gave way – that then descended into patterns uncompromising, of mischief, miracle, disbelief, highly debilitative –

Hidden coinage, where waves carry and beat against the shipwrecked, and its treasure, floating up to horde and slay as between devouring angels of a sumptuary dismay – 

In beat of a tyrant sun, full of killer thirst – no bliss out of damnation or beauty was off the board!

Its trajectory a treachery – wavy, morbid, angelic, cynical, wildly addicting – and yet profoundly contortionist, and bright – especially when shimmering with something otherwise than death – bright and contrite.

And judgmental and tribal, with its real stuff, with its truest possessions.

Far as I have gotten —

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