✅ Ringer

LuLu is laying on a narrow bed in an apartment in Detroit. Its a room she is subletting. nothing there is much hers. her hair is a blend of streaks of orange and yellow. the tatoo on the back of her neck is an eyeball with wings. she has no f&cking money except $18.27. but tomorrow an interview tomorrow an interview with Little Caesars for phone and computer ticket sales. $15 an hour. another f&cking blip. 

the world, meanwhile continues. continues to crash in her heart through thresholds somehow of ancient mysterious espionage, the world has gone wild inside her soul. like a fireball crashing again and again against a Door, that sits atop a poured concrete tomb. LuLu can’t figure out whether its hate or love. they’d mysteriously forged into a terror that recurrently showers the skies with an impossible beauty that quakes with gloom. 

everything has become impossible to accept and money especially is the harbinger of death.  

rage falling to the bottom, to the bottom like a car thats been rammed and sunk, over an unlikely edge. LuLu hears, like bubbles cursing, voices every day in some way mumbling and arguing about the legitimacy of god.

and every other sentence ends in Death, Death – a stinging breathless love potion, her heart impossible with a treasury of Death –

epiphanies storm across the Denuded Desert of her benighted misery graced in the absurd nobility of Death, it makes her feel more alive! than anything else – ever ever ever has.

like being at war, like walking down a Dusty war-ravaged village road as Detail in a foreign impossible war and every moment is immersed, heightened with the presumption of Death –

except that its madness, that her trauma is nothingness, that its just another empty afternoon, hungry and gloomy, unable to go out just yet –

she had to get money, oh to Disappear that night into an horizon of Drinking, if only she could, it had been days since a Drink. if she could get someone to pay for it just until next week –

that moment that one moment when the liquor sinks – and she is alive again, swimming above ground, and there’s possibility – for rescue? 

Without Quantity

Don’t think about victor!

his name echoes up ferociously from her stomach with a growl and Down thru her cunt like the mouth of a volcano and back up to her head with a moan. a moan that is punched into the pillow of love. he is the enemy.

love like an alien invasion. think about something else! god god god help me, suddenly she is under the skin of jesus.

jesus is love and jesus Died Died Died high up on a cross of the purest most beautiful treachery, treachery that exists in your own heart, pain that is love beyond life, a murder, a shame, a truth that is unquantifiable.

his chin his hair his feet his Dick hanging Down forever in a crush of sunlight. so sweetly Defiant up against the horror and mystery of Love.

to Die in arms of Death cursing god! blessed with the pure abandon of sacrificial orgasm, jealously in cahoots with jesus, in glorious mutual sacrifice, in league with his baling wailing bountiful Death.

a love that is Death. that was the side of jesus LuLu found the best.

None

none none. when asked she said NONE!

something about religion! infectiously pretentiously like a whore for truth & meaning absolutely Destroyed her. she was part palestinian supposedly part jewish too. or so she was told. she had the MOST difficult eyebrows. and was raised christian, sort of maybe sort of.

any old church with a 12 ft crucifix hanging off the ceiling was sweet as silence is death for her, and she’d breath under its impossible cost with her head up and her mouth secretly open, waiting for his blood to morsel its way in as sweeping destruction. 

whomsoever the Dead were – no mercy! palestinian shot in moral defiance! she was one of them. meanwhile Death in a Dugout. WW2 piles and piles of them – her heart her vengeance her penance – all of it! to be consumed, consumed! by cinema again and again, hovering emaciated bodies rotted out – the original Drooling zombies in black stripe, skin blight grey, darkened crumbling fingernails & grey crusted bleeding gums, sorrow! stripes! eternal righteousness! 

Olé olé olé.

the terrible truth. about religion and or nationalism. f&ck you. Death belongs to everybody! the ultimate Destiny of the Terrible Truth.

victor!

Confess

Death sang from a stage of Dancing red white and blue balloons. everyone in the audience screaming, screaming politically for her Death – for her Death!

a lid, a tyrant’s lid, slamming down, jail, a black box of torture – confess confess – make her confess!

she says to her militant tormentor (who suddenly is The Man she hasnt met yet, he who runs the whole operation at Caesers, his hair in a Mafia pony tail, a black neckerchief like a militant boyscout tie with heavily bejeweled slide) – she is guilty of every crime ever dreamt, she admits to it, 100% – thoughts are deadly, thoughts are beautiful invasive aggregate insatiable micro organisms. 

sleeping beauty is a creature of escape sleeping beauty is a creature of hate.

and Death that line that beautiful line over which grace magically tragically exhumes, galore-iously strung between hopelessness and Desire. 

taboo taboo – the love that Dare not speak its name.

her tormentor crawls in beside her heart, pretending he was victor. together they would glory thru, resistance resistance, w.t.f. all horror and persistence.

no no no, LuLu sat up, spinning with hunger. got to get that job tomorrow. need food need food.

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