The Body of Hate
Surface of Love

Weave it be

Ricochets with pastiche, a wasteland clean up, the urgency, bordering on subvicious a plait of silly methods, to stay the hive –

Sub meaning under the waves, searching for thunder and fathoms in beauty, until something breaks.

Breaks, what could break?

Monkeys come in first.

Then beauty reckons with me you shit, says gentle Clairette.

Dont let monkeys go – Packy screams.

Dont let monkeys go, thats todays thing.

No Cleo says, who is a dirty bench for a white cat periodically – I let the monkeys drain out of it. Again.

Cleo has slats. Gathers the anointed. Be brave.

Clairette says, just dont act diseased.

Packy disagrees. Says its crash test plumb bunny when you let disease invade logic.

There are many ways to strip each other to a sexual slave encounter, that is misery, and flay the other, says Underground Man – with loves want of forsaken tenderness.

Lights are blinking. Horn bellows. Dredges up from night river. A modern pleasure craft, dumping its waterlit composte.

Nothing here, says captain.

Who else knows about this?

Conspiracies sift through, preternaturally.

Door and Thor

Cleo is sheltered in dungeon as poisoner of prisoner: its written into beach towel with blood. From before she was born.

Born a gnome dwarf. Given to and lived life as a gnome dwarf, but believes all destitution survives in god, its hands covered in blood, so everything is costly dense hoodwinked impenetrable.

The hammer. Pounding.

Wake me up door.

Door for a thor, link walls up, as squander and impossible nature of cost, that grumbles towards itchy grave – grumbling shock a doodle death visions, dwarfing with terror of time as a nature of mime.

What the hell is that? Breathe this one out.


Breeds barrel of monkeys whose phoenixes gasp back to life as spider and lobster – again and again. Savant antagonist heros assuming shapes of theopathic ubiquitarians. Properties of love. You understand.

Cleo says thats right – Packy got a gun and it fired back. And killed her, or in any case she died, or in any case was under spell what the hell.

Or in any case.

Shock of the litter.

And still neon horror whips around core stunned and clanging pots and begging off to sleep.

Clairette confides we are a clam, shackled mysteriously to your moon.

Bits and chunks, devilish gruesome, get away, spark and fold, melt bottom out like a fire tossed-on blanket, why thumb sucking terror of love, its milk sputtering evil, confiscated as reason?

If only had a different plot. What does it want.

Usual shoved in face with pillow.

Off End of story

Charter boat crashes into symptoms with allures. Comes a cough, leaky is seeking piqued perfusion of lovers knee, bent to a sudden break down.

Spider turns into a wired plug thats curled up in darkness pulled out.

Death with a blanket. Thinks doesn’t think. Thinks doesn’t think. 

Abject death as transformed into a splendor by lucid loops of dip shit.

Packy is a sunflower farm farmgirl. Farm is out of town – way.

Made especially for hierophants haunted by a mystery of screamers. A-woo for angel blood.

Every fall to the level of scream – becomes tied like a 1000 to death, wandering climacterically for fizzies, the murderous are probability restlessness.

Manrope, makes waves split into a trough, sheds monster seeds into gender specific waifs. Sea saw sea saw. Mobilizing ground buckles with rigid absence of fate –

Sighing, mope miracle freakonomics, stages battles with inquiring density – mope is tossed to a spiring mean value density of figurative distance and buggy allures, wild miraculous sentiment.

Miracle schemes prolong prolong the big dig.

In reflective-show yellow vest. Charged with standing blue flag. Waveons traffic, snakes go along, wind through misty mountain like cordeling, chopboat, snatch to block, spackling for holy water. With green apple jelly. A letter painters tube –

Evil prisoners contour-squeezed into false positives. Doubles as darkroom.

Mope as Genre

Stole the mope as a genre fiction? Thats fifteen now fifteen monkeys. Hello, gave density to Mope.

Hail the new place setting.

Clairette says – hurts because you let it –

Midnight sighting says Buddha at fuel pump, squirts from poison with a flower, lands in car of a stolen getaway get away.

Clairette says she will always miss Dags gang on sweets, but not the sudden purgative, crimson sage mixed with angelfire.

Packy says, yes will will. Clairette says no you wont.

There is no defeat. As an old defeat.

Food fight.

Two by two

Let Packy and Clairette go at it over top — crash versus lush – argy bargy up dialogue – running after Camus for waves of beautiful absurd built on top of Lacans diagrams and Zizek grounding forces.

You dont do dialogue in academic.

Wrong. You do. In a way. Says Wallace for a headband.

Print out

Let it fall into Poetry Spaces. Print out and blue pencil.

Sincere but also room for the remorseless. 

Peaches is looking up as if in a pending gesture. For a weekend of reading. Cant stop now. 

Stole Peaches too. Monkey see monkey do.

Abject splendor for the poxed. Hows that for a title. Drawing of some body naked, sexy freak alluring distortion, that is tethered to head of Frank.

Franks head is made of sand in a sandbox.

Monkeys invade but their unadaptable through the circuits so it is what it is. Hit incantatory peaks and fall apart. Thats the lietmotif. Lethal gene. Parallelable drive at.

Gurgle burgle freak, muffle whine cry out.

Lobster Landing

Feels like just made it out of the dryer, again. All banged up and impending with little horror show that doubles as symptom and gesture. 

Rock on head shaped like a bird as Brig who wears helmet.

Wires little dead end plays – wandering weanlings who physically choke on bounce backs. Let me out take me in.

Beauty wanders in half afoul. Know, say it gently. Breathless shows rows goes all doe-y in mini dress with face sticker stars, girls in curls.

Lost in the swirls figurative levels of odyssey but slave is heartened. Shoved in a corner left to die. Awakens to thirst after a trilogy. Hand in fire.

Packy is glowering.

That is beauty’s pelf Clairette defends. Not your bullshit what-not putt-putt to oblivion.

Coastal ships ghost by as stillness rises, beautifies, sighs.

Beauty hears measures repetitious pleasures saying, god in thunder, wind machine on, what stands between is –

Dolly Do Little (or Nothing)

Cleo interrupts: patting wall of sand one hand after another etc.

Bunnies, floor to curtain alert with nose, that surge with twitches, silliness itches.

Like a mortal wound.

& ease meant

THIS IS FICTION has potential, lead in needs to be tightened up, best para is somewhere around the end.

Gonna call her Mel. And its about Mephisto vs. Existential lobotomies. Not lobotomies – be conscious, this is serious stuff.

I have clowns and bears. that overtake me. hmm. Clowns insert jest that is oppo – camus does that but as a french delicacy. Bears on the other hand, growl. Who else growls, does bukowski growl, a lot of rockers growl, I have growlers. For sure. Gets repetitive, growls, works repetitively, Dickens was a big elaborator of repetitions, as if readers might be sleeping and he chose to awake them slowly by firing repetitions at them, digging in after associations he could string through his repetitions was a kind of fender splendor? for him. Fender meaning bumper cars. I like playing bumper cars to get through my growlers. Their hungry always searching for food to the bottom of the barrel.

I often think of metaphor, meme, cliche and repetitions as bumper cars, also arrows to forehead bearing rubber suction tips. Thwat.

Next draft?

Very First Draft

Dare in air will heighten suspense, walking there, gather its weather off the monkey climbing high and nigh – tree to treeing, as a fitter, form worker, pyrotechnician. The salute to beauty and truth. Chasing fate. As twar a Neut.

Not as tangle in web of light twisting. Not a rock at anything, no need to throw, no need to have a traveler in tow, no need to barter anything.

Simple not mephisto. Nothing bartered, nothing robbed by devils advocacy, nothing precocious nor feint.

Truth as something just there nothing more, nothing standing in between like sylph and bait. Not sublime ties. Not potion and bated.

Oh the wicker and the taint.

Heart will stop and catch a breather from horrors storming all righteous and hard time, bootlicking, phantom, defiant, gullible.

Still running from lightening strikes of truths wretched absolutes, violent rushes, that freshen madness, that shock and quake, that sphincter, duel and violate.

Scowlers & scamps, running up ramps, wagering life and death, across a knotty beam a roving sliver of ruth. To non convex of hard stage wood.

Smell the Shakes like its a lake, but stone cold sober. Like a dead horses legs in air, scrupulously stuffed. With a smile like a crow, angled and mackled with sudden flexibility, from the strangulation, a rarify of crumble down curses. Birds that pick at twigs and weave where branches knot.

And – without any hostility over the tarmac, share a feline, bee line, grateful, untesty “look.” Over the consumption – of raging trials of a wild excess of foist and carnage, thats always seem to bury my dead, bone and beauty.

Some ancient thirst, a battling methodology of strange ancient friction, where love buries its treasures. Hobbled and sly, burnt red at the wild erotogenics, bashful frayed, wilder still with misery.

Its always personal – when born into thralldom, religious prostitution, thoughts of gods darkly angled with righteous tyranny and sacrifice to myopic thrusts of omnipotence as a veil of tortuous duty, vanity, heartbreak –

A bird of folly, porn torn by a strange tainted harborage of beauty in the garbage, cant seem ever to get beyond a fear of gods dangling with beauty as proof of mystery and the thwart scourge where ugliness sings its mighty dirges. And visibility collapses into wan dutiful terms where yon raise their tridents eat as they please.

But life is life and that is history. Hail scale swing the pail, and welcome the breeze fastening to my shirt like starch and syrup and blood and Burroughs’ wire gambling up against the calling forth of fate, he calls the disease.

Lucy, prayers to imps who handle protocol, eyes to heaven they are worse than devilish, they are virtuous with a violence (to her prayer beads), stares out starkly at sidewalk and its early. and empty.

Lucy calls that a defiant need, that buoyant insatiable greed, a clingy dress more dark than purple, a desire – to be regular.

A raise of arms – what swells in net of a wankers pot, spooning tasting as we go, thats my evil.

And all burns hot and quiet.

Pro Noun Shifters

V 5 Fleshing out details. Just beginning to.


Its always good to start, with somebody elses slice and dice.

Agatha walks into Lucy’s hide out like piped in music. Says “shut up.” Lucy watches television to bore tremors asleep, barely watching anything but the same thing over and over because its not watching its falling into sleep and thoughts in and out of drifts searching for semiology, maybe splinter would publish me, ha haha.

Fort Knots

It’s too up-to-the-minute and desperately hurts. Wants him to collaborate. That’s a new one?

Be undead. Cold Turkey.

Questionable tactic!

Somebody in fiction where disaster burns into a grace of anger and death, at age 7, had fallen again into a battle rage, anguish, denial, Pessoa buttons dangling with anguish popped up for a ripping lolly.

Another angel vacuuming: something about this is just a tantrum defending its turf?

Suddenly Lucy can’t remember what that would mean? She loves him for helping, for lightening strike, if nothing else, it never pardons. Its poison its freedom –

Love can be a beautiful brutal lying thief.

Transcends time, place, logic, deeds, distance, crime, heresy, tergiversation, penance, principle, murder, witchcraft, phenomenology, tears dot dot dot death?

To die in arms of elevated suspense.

Get lost, as if – from brutal drudge of day, she had to get away, an aching tidal wave of beauty and lust searching for its own dimension took her away, its turbulence blew into inanity – as opened doors peaking at hilltops, Dante’s fucking hilltops, at visionary points of oblivion, and Keplers charts, where at peaks of its infernal drama, love fuses with light.

Just starting this influence of Erasums stuff.

Lunches with Dante elicits: Erasmus and Folly. Angels havoc has a shocking ruthlessness like a meteor falling hopelessly into a zoo if chew cow and death. The screams are beautiful and blood curdling.

Wildly affectionate.

Lucy is wilderness tease?

On a tear, bleeding pain in the ass, terror –

Stop Stop

STOP IT already. Agatha exhorts. And waits. Till the line breaks up, against a wall in China. Emptiness as somebody resembling the, Buddha looks down in its pot to piss in and shivers violently. at edges of meaning.

Sits down, sucks (thumbs). No it isn’t. Yes it is.

Lucy and Agatha look at each other, each with a surprised expression, shocked by what the other one did (and didnt do).

Neither knows the other knows, or what the other knows. And that makes it thick with emptiness that is full of heart, awaiting awaiting, combustible, riveting, deadly, desirable.

Behind the miracle of their existence, horror screaming through on film. Clowns from Beckett’s orchestra (dressed in brown always brown), caught in an expression of crying yet dancing as the fire had consumed them.

And all screeches to a stop! Dead again, already?

Paris Beans

Picture on wall of arthouse. Lucy walking thru Art Store Galleria. Dressed in a black and white photo filtered camouflage track pant and black ribbed top. Expressively thick sneakers.

Inside, Lucy stops on a dime, before precious precocious mash fake, 18 x 24 expensively printed, glass inset.

Of Baudelaire and his mum, a background blurred vintage black and white, overtly wiped with translucent saturated bits of memorabilia of murder (and its detection), fussied up in a rhapsodic complaint of impossible flowers.

They she knew were well known for having translated Poe, (horror stories poetry murder fiction) potable Poe first French edition.

Baudelaire’s mum is dressed in dark ruffles, toe to throat, a hooped full skirt. Sitting in quarter turned chair over quarter turned table, with point against paper, she awaits.

Eyebrows of son, hunched over in a thick of light, through ghostly yonder window breaks, collared Art Smock. Lucy loves it. It’s 800 Euros.

Grandma arguing

Argument of brandishing sullen importance, deeply welled in screams of tantrum and horror, just before surrenders to death.

Depth of a word before it falls apart, as in galleys of them, rowing, out to the rocks the rocks, for pulling skeet.

Wanderers watch, from down the beach, soon they are all in suitable frocks. Then sit then get drunk. Two bottles and a cot. Drunk.

Until enough, she can stand on corner preaching to passerines in Spring.

Or secreting jumble of fab blended overlays bound for a store, with inedible fiction.

Like a cat loves – crawling into boxes.

T is for touchy.

Hop-along, cowboy kid, is a mournful, walking over a holy cost of dead bodies killed in Civil War, even so distant zombies bouncing around in his heart listening listening for train whistle to blow.

Can’t stop music driving his body, can’t stop it, NOT stopping.

Targets glow below scarred but hungry, beauty and turmoil.

Hop-along decides will shove it all.

Be a weatherman, or go into architectural products, abstract toiley tiles, manufactured off of outlandishly dispossessed Picasso-esque cartoons. Blue and white period.

Harmless harmless harmless. Hail harmless.

Bad clown

Sister Theo wants to be goo-ed.

Allures of King, lusting all, and a languid frantic fall.

Desperation is a kind of extortion. Gorging on pandemonium of bugs in bed, itching up leg, full stop crisis.

In secret, violently raveling into a desert storm, itself flowing thru with pain, that is exquisite and mortified, inch by inch step by step, turning mummified, can’t stop the rain in Spain.

Wizards opening doors in a blizzard that whip shut – before, just before – everything goes under,,,

Can kiss my middle spoon –

And everything turns back to black, violent gusts of torment, windthrows of fire, gloom, ardor.

Infinite deaths in a nutshell. Caged and blooming with backslash doom.


Cal shows up finding it hard to breath. As everything for him too turns aglow under pressure of mute suspense of distance and retention.

Glow shows up a lot with him.

First comes Glow then come the explosions, a vast tyrant weariness, walls closing up all around. Slowly snap by crushing snap, unwraps itself up as a sunken treasure map –

Of course he is deferential to letting go letting go, any time every time cracks up and falls into a holy infernal abyss, along borderline between is and isn’t, wild with contempt, screaming blasphemies, for those listening beyond the disquiet.

You want it darker?

Factory always implicates a blow job at joints and overspilling with resurrection of destiny, with flowers swung out of window, Lucy looks down at her coveralls, she has no vase.

It all comes out of the shadows. Eyes whirling.

Hopeless and thick with love – adoration is a different kind of license, made out to heaven, with orders to love.

Always the Wrong Way

But something stomachy scraping by day by day, rides out rallies in waves of terror, always ends up the wrong way.

Thoughts pillaging the sublime, she doesnt understand why cant stop the voices screaming as everything breaks apart in depth signs, and laughter stings and pulverizes, everyone runs away, hopeless, hungry,, defiant.

Unable to make it stop. Lucy goes back to working down on the docks.

Horror aches its way down, everywhere in the mines, gloat and useless with pride. Sandwiched between deaths. Covered in lung.

To the Niches

Murder at Rue la Marigold, searching for an escape, against religious martyrs and Gaurdian plotters.

Bored fraught constrain constrain. Make work of drawing Constraints of White Coat.

So intimate in its nature, in its village assembly, can’t stop stealing angels from doorways, in nape of harm, emergency loud BOMBINATION buzz buzz buzz!

When a moment is arosen from breathlessness, mother of god.

On again off again!

Wait wait wait –

Blue Livid

Racing blue overalls unheated garage standing at pitch of race patched all over in fuels and vehicle, in worried corner, how any moment a death may turn the whole game, decalled in flame, happy trails.

As much for exonerating as for the condemned. Every day over and over again, battled to a thirst.

Demons have long memories, forever laughing at collywobbles and agonies, stupid cupids wretched Furies.

Production Takes a Stand

Fuzzy scarf ribboned with pom pom, skates through, snapping fingers, singing out, like its too is programmed in. You can disdain. Or you can dance and laugh your way to infamy.

Huddling every night with screamers.

Keep with it girls keep with it. Music blaring.

Attention to detail, full of heart.

An arc du ciel painted at entry, but at point, where curves in, where recurvates, somehow devout kraut, winding the clock frantic everywhere, thats Mobius whip of the wisp dynamic.

Piratical and parrot friendly, making traces. Shuffles shuttering pantomime because present tense stopped at cannery

In a stil

Spirits, withal will.

Camara dances and snaps doing shots. He is everywhere. Lucy is nowhere.

Audibles mock it as a scam.

And becomes a dug out cratered to a candle and tomb like a bed of halos but zombie’d there masturbating.

And Great Expectations widow is in costume of cobwebs with bubble blower and bottle. And assortments lace fans. The tingling entangle in torture, francephone feast.

Holy belaboured.

Running Out of Excuses

Lucy, wearing her bar face, but dwarfed by fright of vigils with Virgil, plastered, hanging on so tight to looseness of sublime present yet unpresent with liquid face of time, every moment around him a grace. You can call that fucked up. If you want.

How Many

Agatha and Chandler meet and greet. Detective man splains. Because there has to be a murder out there – waiting to be figured out, because it’s a reckoning with time and place.

And murders would necessarily have to mount up, or else there is no voyage to rapture via Armageddon, no sweet abyss?

No nutjob kablooey, no holy marginal entertainment.

Murdered or murderess?

WTF. Lucy’s hand swinging, small buttoned-on-cloth purse, in posh woolen trou, walking down a slope of green. Lost in categories that are vaguely dimensionless walking walking walking.

But Then

But then, it’s just another day, no way.

And all is unattended.

It’s 14 degrees out on snow in sneakers with a red striped scarf that is definitely not wool. Categorically possesses no wool at all, basically thick plastic doesn’t do a very good job at keeping her warm, even though looks like it should. Cheap fluffy mittens covered in frozen snot. A hungry broke teenager.

And the distinction reads: Anything anything anything is worth it, as neck rolls back a headful of mouth and cries out “really” more like a rolled pitched howl between clamped teeth to silent skies, before pushes chin back down into neck again, as low as can go, hands shaking to warm awake fingertips stinging violently from the cold.


Anything anything to blast ailing inadvertencies out from her choke heart on all sides of something, a vague lavish silent show in shimmering slivers of mobius Lethe, tantamount at times to a kettle screaming shut me off stupid.

Like flowers fused in verdigris many nudibranch colors, in sunken outgrowths, subdivisions of d –

For doom. Word appears out of a bedsit sink. Launching with a defiant emptiness but pig-knuckled and over bright at orifices.

Rhymes with Sloom

Lucy had an aspirational nose for fiendishly unsub contempt – like a frame off its hinge. Doomed to silent treatment.

Yet she’d always surrendered at precious half moments before thick oppression of dawn anyway, yes.

Yes yes! its worth it OK its STILL worth it, every belly up, spray of the day, anything to swage.

Massive drifts, looming up from ghost of Hell’s children, churly, morose, obstinate, fall away wash away fall away. . .

To slow action retrial obscurantist Belamour – with little death its purpose. Come kill beside me.

Snitzen Gruben

Arrivista at statute of the virgin Mary of St. Francis from hill to a slope, down from town, down from code: Academy, reaches backyard the nuns retreat.

Where they’d quadrangled stones bound in regimental pasture four corners in and about the blessed rotary and a few bare winter trees.

Lucy tipped up on curled cold feet, whirring through teeth a company of noise in a mad purr full of beat beat beat, as stepped stone to stone.

The footpath otherwise deserted. Circling like a bastard hug at chaste and nest with violent tool fraughts of gun culture immortal.

Silence posed in cold attenuation from every empty direction, Lucy haunching forward in a poly red plaid bomber with fur fuzz at waist also pink.

Skin smarting a blue raw red. And in the distance a mauve blue grey rolling arable sublime, roof stripe, silent, peaking in once through gauze, ranch pile made of local stone, with a sparse-sh very clean living room, and more code of silence.

Beauty gone blessed quiet, harsh quandaries shivers quivers livers speak not bleak.

A long last look, at pillar of veiled virgin, like a branding iron praying to sink into its frigerific and skin.

Cold old child. Hell is hot for plot and scurry and reason. And bells are murderous and silent. Maybe inside they had bells.

Notions & verities

Comes across seas, burns in from the outside and yet and yet hinged on the armature, coil and voltage, of astronomically teratoid subterranean feelers.

Notions and verities, not unattendant upon real. Happens every time Lucy arrives at another impasse.

Holy gobsmacked – by whatever, the rebirth or sudden death. Pulled in again again, alive alive to every tandem mutation!

What should not be obscured, is any Frankenstein couthy implication.

xxx this is old

Of innocence under attack again, as from inside out it’s a monstrous counterintuitable revelation. Its breach and decline, hysterically code of honor hard to confine.

Corks off incredulous, empty, staring out hotly in token broken despair.

Up throws a wonder wall of charred angry blankness whose holes will doubtless be rigorously pecked clean.

Stares with a quandary, at a great big random noise of shocking fettered nothingness, rampant, ferocious, unredeemable.

A Circus Merry-Go-Round functionary, with big green gloved hands and red ears, in bright plastic overalls, shows up suddenly and says “its back to the tubes for me.”

Revelry when turns tawdry, over bright and calliope, but for the privilege of being born, with a purple propensity for the humbling freak show.

Silent Movie

Soup to throwing nuts.

Lucy is a romantic beast hounding edges of desire espoused to Jesus, and his romantic upheaval with loving an unmerciful god. Except in death.

Turns out it is not forgiveness Lucy is after.

But to loop through the Passion again. Absorbed by its lodestones and hitting “the reaches” and beckoning with forlorn finalities, eating itself from the inside out.

As a surreal place of depth.

Arising beneath the equators of the moon, a lark that is broadly cliche’d – and all the images pop up on parade. Like beetle juice but as lady-in-the-lake, underwater at the borderline where lurks that breaking freeness of insanity.


A pressure cooker pressing down on the grotesque insomnia of oblivion throwing up its frantic treasures, driving after a devious serenity that hawks at edge of madness.

Biggest thirst for Lucy of all of all of all are other people! And the same other people. But when it gets bad (its not always bad) it goes first family freudian, chained to mystery of birth, thats 1+1 = 0, both murderous and suicidal.

Dark days where dawn bears heavy marks of disdain, shame, tantrum, lust, stupidity, in trouble everywhere and nowhere at the same time. 

Longing for any sin of skin to break her slavery from that miracle of its feuding empty pilgrimage.

Dead fish

Flesh stuffing fish into mouth. A cog driven to the dirt face first. Sublime picks its way through the cliche searching for time. It’s not diabolical. It’s reaching for the surface –