12.3

Go Willingly

Head feels slightly elephantitis. That big fat empty. This always happens when sit on edge of something that then isnt a dream anymore but a doing thing. The wayside pulls up, as mechanic was tinkering, and empties of my precious evil art upon the gnolls, where thirsty flows a sudden rinse again through the V for Vanishing.

But no. But no —

How freedoms here always seems to require that chancy bit of absence and transgression of it, the hungry, the loophole, wondrous morbillous backsliding — again for surface, where loves both indomitable and the rogue.

And yet —

Authority

Site is about promoting tongue where poetic forges up against the narrative and purges/splurges (of this happy dung) and yet buries cats paws in Authorities resurrection.

What Shakespeare refers to as being the constant putterer. How “small  have continual plodders ever won save base authority from other’s books.”

And I think oh but how Beckett loved the small, “to move in an endlessly small space.” Like something found in pail that tattles after eating foot and tail. That concedes the misery right at its beauty — where thresholds search the delirium — for what rings round the leaky peaky bleaky continuum.

And yet —

Honey

As a belvedere too (from Italian for “fair view”) — how takes to restless swords for their happy spark. As am presently reading Shakespeares lexicon. And holy moly it is HONEY.

To base on authorities when poetry hooks. Phrase Hunting —

And study like a yardbirds circling rut the evolution of anglish, be flush with recrement, oh lusty marl.

With chains to oblivion

Still, and all, feel nothing that is wildly off —

Nothing raging hard against reality (except the anti trump), no anger here, no suspicions, every fettish seems earned longed into its own existence.

Not wonder cups where angry proxy gropes as unfurls species of premonition in a tunnel of love that grew up in basement where sweepings wild with hope, immured on disdain, wept along great gorges of sorrows heady and pensive, always plodding for meat of cruces.

There is

There is liking it and doing it.

Seeming never without some bountiful falling thru the floor — to thresholds stroking yon mane hairs in hell. Hell rings the register. Is plumb, from where Dante comes from.

Where once every flame was toast.

Snow King

How bizarre to think of this as home. Allowing you into my home — To blather and beat against your proud rotting eggs.

There is a whole academic world out there now find from academic site that hounds me mailbox to pay in, join them. There is considerable writing about Bataille and Colette, and all that jazz.

All I would have to do is => follow their question-ables?

Chow into that humpty and go dumpty with questions of altitude and mechanics, that gropes against the rutty plow, both hopeful and sectioned.

Be free enuff to acquaint with what in fact carries you to them again and again — through these contrarian times, be as with Shakespeare, to potter totter dodder plodder in the transite and duckwork, with slabbing and mold.

Thinking

Thinking will start up a Shakespeare page of notes — His lotions pote with gusts his moving around the clauses pauses.

By end of this week. As have fiinished letter A in lexicon. Now start work on notes, letter by letter. Hm. A is big letter compared to rest. He even lists all small — even the ands. Its heavenly.

Index

Gonna pull up index too and breathe in funnels of snuggle with Snaggle and Way-way by end of week. As thy say. Let love blow in where flew.

Saw Island of Dogs over weekend from Wes Anderson. Fucking adorable.

Chains of burst thirsts, with idle scorns the curse, and oyez oyez goes along here like dog with leg up to bush as puppy love rounds the plate to come home? Till there was you, quite willingly. I go on.

11.26

Newly cleaned up revised site is dedicated to taking allowances with language — explores poetry that borders closely with narrative.

Where pretense is alert to its fiction.

And valuables are like drying meat for a cave man every bite alive with hunger distance fear anger beauty conservation and death. 

Both loom and wondrous where verges with perversity — as a natural inclination/incendiarism — that visits, lurching toward the holy poly, the wildly figurative as blossoms with beauty and nutty rutty (say it: slutikins) sentiment, thinking about Shakespeare even and murderous contempt of kings and other such crazy things…

11.22

Vortex shedding — system of rhyme subliming to catch a mesh, calling vortex shedding. Where gun stunners — like playing with decimals.

Myself I dont play chess — board games confuse me I hated having to win. (Thats perforce a Proustian memory… )

What liked about it most, was — blowing up game board — as dirty manics would pitch it — like Camus suddenly flash knitting. A fatal blessing of the innocent — where the best thing about dominos was knocking it down, was crashing the columns —

That rebel justice juice my southern branch falls for every time, as evil melts with hungry moon.

But Not Now. No More. How do you solve a problem like Maria? Maria embroider your collar with light blue, keep those stitches aligned with fruit of loom.

Finding ways to push thru the Vanishing has been exceedingly enlightening, especially on writing and pages designing. Theme almost ready. That was a lot of work.

Miss the fab a lot lab — am supposedly sitting down today and tomorrow to mark code up — Found a Masonry I really like and got it to work once already.

Breaking Bad

3 more weeks of school then Teacher is off for a month. Next semester half number of classes.

Felt this morning like my head was going to explode in full reckoning with misery’s tooth and realignment with collapsable body — at edge of it all, insides freaking out, what Becks calls that “dirty pack of fake manics.”

Not faking it fish fry. Comes yell back.

Then — ameliorates out of Nowhere Man supporting gland — image of Warhol’s turtle-on-a-rock floating by unperturbed.

Sunny like death march of glowing food. Wildness underneath, a growing association of effort with kindred nudibranch to underwater assemble with it. As hear the chars laughing in accordance with raid of / raid on — embrace and conjoin — catch-can fishing rod.

Go along with it. Dont kill yourself off ducky. Matters only that I am sitting here writing. If stay here and write long enough then I can muck a way through.

The question also lies between — a) pacing where fiddle with it freely and b) writing where must push off from somewhere —

Slosh Economics

Bee sting and angelmuck, denkin and sprechen, thinking and speeching, feelies “all a board” searching for dreck bist zu (mud thou art) — and not having to maul for it! on any one bod, sod, rod, god —

Opt to raise it loose it find it again, awash with guzzle and slosh, with a cross section of vibrant sentimental ruthless harbor for the quest so it can jest.

That hunger is widening — but through their aperture. 

Thats what I like about it. The pressing familiarity becomes inviting to my brain and I copter on that what makes it dance with fire and rain. Along with — hanging on for all its worth — tremulous and forthright, shy with terror.

The terror mystifies me — as birds where feeding know its a cross between something that lingers with dread at cross roads with time and yet sacred (as a relic), palmy and dense.

“My stupid obsession with depths” Becks calls it, whilst “happy day” circling in on the magic mud, mine crawled with buggy depths. There is a playfulness to His — finds mine, makes it froth and loam, with ready spume, to dryad off of, latchkey, tanker, bilge room and broom, vampire casket for shine a lot the rave watering fusby sloom. 

I love being inspired by others doings — it makes me frisky, want whisky. Moon and loon and swoon and the fucking glass slipper — as through swill of skin metaphor essences into words that betray fidelity its own color drenching fungus. Nudipleura.

11.17

Wow.

Now what? Says Phelomena pulling chord out as plays as lays as stays visible. Astonished sad? miss the dash dash dash — Protecting us from ourselves. But diff than Ziz —

Over by J there is some serious Bad Girl freedom going on. Letter to J. Everyday think about. Freedom there. Wows me. What that might turn up if ventured. I wonder what she thinks.

Get back to writing. The design on “red hand in head” now online is good enough appears everyones ok with it. Fuck yeah its important to me.

All I have to do to write is write. Its that place Ziz opened for me — presently call the Retainer for braces. Adorno and Beckett were friends! exchanged books and letters.

Yesterday fine tuned internal clicks throughout, including RHFF. Further addressed set up for pages — using archives. But not turned any of that on yet.

Lil, dash dash

Hungry Molly. Sweet and grave and fertile and brave, for even a crust must – trust.

Dross cross loss.

Billy bob says I am just excising the waves.

Writing is closer now to having a board to write on, and being a board and understanding its all a board. Not tortured over lil and dash — no flash no crash subsidence can be beautiful.

There is all this beauty and joy talk going on. As am devouring language. On the q t.

Disquiet knows its tenebrous and saturnine, respects that its outside the main stream.

Yet has allowance to rummage here — wide open, brightly listening for it as a the body goes under — searching through the fear for license and turning gears for what perceives as disquiets knowledge —

And finding beauty as well where dissolves where ugliness out flows.

Dinner Plate for Louver and Hoover

Always restless, dinner pending, thats a joke?! Bet, what bet?! Also a joke.Warms my fiddle.

Am trying to adjust to something that is good rather than evil the weave-l where fire in my crock cracks — and out pops a gopher, a polyp, a skunk — the golden mole.

Join. Its a diff thing seeing what is happening around me without losing my chops. Hm wheat does that mean? Sowing hay. Fabrique. Along with Throgs Neck distance real and carp.

JJ and the flying fish scales.  Becketts Art of Mismaking — Bee Util Full. Loving that b-b-book. Miss putting things up on Fab, A Lot.

Heaven bracing for journey is just another day on the can — listening for thick bricks while picking up sticks and lovely shells where sky is beach and everywhere a fire.

Anthropology dictionary on way. Words as fountainhead — draws itself in — to its own wavy maniacal gassy tonic — sometimes feels like tracing la langue (means both language and tongue) unwinds marplots vital with vending and architecture.

I actually like to trace pictures. I mean draw on top of them. Find it loosens up my mind. Slips off into writing.

Started drawing scratchy bodies again yesterday — drawing from picture — not tracing. Wanna let bodies run with ink — scratch out mass in bone and muscles, bleed some color in, a cyclic devotion.

Mosh Is Floss

Mosh pictures using in headers here — are more community driven, like fashion and trend — where the intendee/attendee floats around, capturing distance — picks picks everywhere shared feeds the whelm, I grap and let the burden rise — where whistlers stammer simmer soap up the rope fly down with hope and drip drip dropbox till — suddenly turns into something shine and changeling — where art is ceremonial.

The language circling climbs into it, woke a ware wonder bear.

What used to upset Beckett — that it always happened. What la langue does if you fully embed yourself in it — really sink down in, always takes on shapes of images, symbols and scenery that as a whole — is inescapable.

That pissed him off royally. He shed vortex and that was all. Mud being a main character.

Teddy plus Mud

Walking around with teddy grandma gave me when born when really really small.

Though not fiendish not reckless.

Evil much later later alligator scraping against my childhood horror — when dreams fell they bored to the core trembling with miss making.

An angry offing boredom that submerged into blindly running finales — the descent into recklessness sky rocketing, reveals grin of a death mask laughing but appalled — very old, not without glee the frisky whisky joker — propped up on a sacred coil.

Light and life. Freely — turns into blends — a kind of sweet tooth for Beckett’s moody mud. Get out the stick and walk.

With JJs circling hawks, looking for mercy finding emptiness? where bugs in jar burn for light. Joy Jars and jealousy and chummies and weavers and wavers and beavers and cleavers and spoon.

Bohemian thirsts — amazed astonished at wily-ness that coyote masonic rabbit foot, fell from high to where everythings dangerous to body — released a clutch, of bog and fog —

Unruly immanents, symbolic roses and poses, headshots of hell.

Thick Bloody Nails

Not thin, thick as all the bloody nails between us boiled to a breach, oh beauty’s dead pie stories, pounding gravel, decriminalize detectivize — wear mountain chaps that Roy the orb, mur, dur, for glow, Bourroughs routines.

I love auditors. Use where peruse, obs and sols admit it.Yes. Thankfully. Praise Gawd. Like body stockings where winter grips the mighty fog and shudders like a cog.

And blood knows how the crow flows, shill my fill the blessed swill, stowage feels a way feels a way up to it — something that makes sense somehow, letters are my dept —

All those strange wonderful awful moments when my Violets explode with letter. And Sandy the Suckhole immediately then gets — frightened god awful — not good not good enuff — and pulls everything back. NO!

Lures of Frozen Bones

Up and clicking along the beach with ice prods for frozen boreholes, bones frozen right at the sweet spot as swooped for a scoop of prize blood.

On the quiet at prow now feeling wind on foreign faces.

Damnation is lethargy, resistance to it.

Oh scapular oh scorn.

There are many phrases that incorporate nebular a word that occurs quite frequently in midcentury science books about the sky.

Oh dictionaries, read like watching tv, philosophy of science moving in behind — scientists naming procedures, playing fetch catch make a mesh, words as the theory is forming.

Radiation left fibrosis that fuck. Saved my life for this.