The Body of Hate
Surface of Love
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.
It’s too up-to-the-minute and desperately hurts. Wants him to collaborate. That’s a new one?
Be undead. Cold Turkey.
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.
Lucy is wilderness tease?
On a tear, bleeding pain in the ass, terror –
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?
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.
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.
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 –
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.
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.
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, 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.
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.
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.
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 –