God Awful And Relentless To Boot.

The D Word

Dead 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. 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.



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.

Smoking Mirror

Work in Progress. DESCRIPTION. This is not done. Its still god awful. Its about living as a flatfoot in hell, mired in drama and hunger, is forlorn dutiful tainted vain glorious and stubborn. Some of it works, but there are still paragraphs that are so going for it – that it comes off as well a crazy dwarf – will turn mainstream off like a faucet thats shot off its water line. Thankuforreading – Celine you remember Celine showed up (ok visions of the dead), twice now, sticks his cool cat head around corner by fridge in a checked black and white bow tie thats dangling like he just got off – from working it, thick black wavy hair, pug nose, big brown brogues lightly dusted, he is waving something at me – a bright green chartreuse shoelace – but has a hanky up to his nose like Satchmo (who bled at lip) and says – honey, dont worry be happy. Celine like Pound was jailed after ww2 for a year – as a collaborator. A high pitched voice (like market call from recording of girl selling cut rate resort vacation packages) giggles & confesses: I love collaborators.


CAL WAS searching for a bellibone midst palpable fusions of untrustworthy Greek. Pound’s translation of Sappho’s poem that got rejected as not in accordance with earlier standards issues fillers in. Pound’s blank but beautiful like Haiku Japanese. Language bandied with mock cackling suffusion. Cal thought: emptiness learning how to bleed.

His honorable, a cut-throat eidetic parvenu, Cal called Dumpy, eidelons arranged themselves into names of gunslingers, this one Dumpy had slid in again as between wall and wallpaper. Blood was a wooze that oozed at him as light through window breaks. Wretched wars between farters and snorers. When a revelation struck a giddy sting illegal its illegal and lurched him into ransom for the gods its illegal with saltatory spasm of something definitely greedy & no less mystifying.

A wankers favorite place to be.

Thick hues scurried. His house had low-ceilings it was a cottage with treated wood facade faded, some pieces at corners cracked off, wind fallen, blue green that he covered with tar and treated sandpaper and 2nd coat of tar and spray painted – till fix later. Three and 1/2 rooms whose shade ricocheted between dark and light. Every flat surface hostile hosting piles of mail and books and glasses, plates made it to sink, he soldiered thru the dirt. Bosom tightening a heart full of quiver of a brutal resplendence – beckoning almost, well godlike. Cal felt the shadow of death – forlorn and restless cross his arm nearly gave him a shiver.

Death, that is, the Inquisitor. (Bergman’s book on Images.)  Death procures cautiously? curiously. Lonely and haunting in corner (under Brown’s on material poets/scientists The Limits of Fabrication).

Cal dug & dug as thru a devious impenetrable well his mind rutt and cast with deciphering its potents skittish peppy pantomime dogged distant stinky replete grave and poisonous, enthrall – if not believed. Cal had many beefs that swarmed with beauty and reality of down trodding hell. Taunted by gauntlets begging randy scorn to storm bullyrag to acquire fuel and tarmac in sparkling absentia, zero makes it flat, in any direction –  

The lovely lord of maths skimming the Intransigence – battling with tempo. Raging, wired, testy, troubled, wry, distant, like a sanctuary of beauty and death, stark stung too many times not to know its situational, a dormants fuzzy lazy quaint squinting squalor, lights were off as long as he can to save dolares, this small house –

Front patches of lawn brown, he mowed maybe once a summer but weeded and seeded never, few be the furniture, sifty, dirty, impossible! fenced. Even the front yard. Fenced. Like a goatherder. Lovely wide ears big brackish nose. That could twitch. Praises to gods forlorn. 

Ghosts are ferocious. Gespenst. German spectres laughing at dawn. Arose and soured drenched unquenched by intoxicating smells of sweet slurring lurid defenses, a loud raven birding like hunger after its patch for poison berry flowers. Berries marked it. Flowers cut the poison. A saddle goes into battle blessed and cursed, riding an enemy whose blood sings high and bly – and guts his thirst.

Cal is unable to hold back, dutifully curses and nurses it – the pull is a swamp in late afternoon like buzzing insects singing for darkness. Heart sloughs like a rainbow toppling in after, buckling with the insistence of mystery and misery – enigmatic blusters could hold Cals attention for long lost hours. Approaching the catalog?! (what is this, jazz?) perverse and crazy or lazy if not insane or on edge of its false convictions – false means what, astonishment.

“Freedom” a bespeckled voice in a basement, a mutant lover of things that like death and love moved however dreary and cartoon cinema, voices staging jumps into battle for the ruins of time and all that horticultural squalorology sublime. Voice inside a voice inside the fist of you – descending…

Holy water. Cal aching partaking for holy water that lovely holy fire imposes. Raging with scares, ardent hopeless dust-collecting arts so ruefully exposes – This will willow ill fill nill spill skill still may never part. Its desires covet sun and moon fall back fall back aghast a-gasp obnubilious obmurmurings simmering low stillness threads a calling howl through ramp and oceanic loom, where beauty and evil scud and dray. For those who can not meet half way.

Heart devoured, loft like stench, moseys in after the divine posies restless concubines an alarmingly lethal sketchy map – where marauders of the soul kill to eat as much as pray. (“An autocrat tic tic-a tic train pulls up “to get back at them, for going away” and doesn’t shut up. Go back pulls him back — ) Sacrificial larva burning furibundo with triggers of bluster and cage and ruin, torn apart by gods of sun and flame – where slavery stuns. And theres no one to blame.

And by this strangeness dangling as by steed with toil and foil and noble invidia tacit turns wag-on-wall most impractical haremlick, sword by my love grew and grew uncontainable in pants – a gun is a drug is a beautiful bloomer dutiful host unzipped it, and with Onan’s wretched claw, all things unjust could be made holy – 

A vision of horror releases gates of madness from their furor – reaching after peak for a leak, the excess extemporaneous reels itself in by charging death a final reward stuffed with all mysteries of blood – slaves, its been recorded were by Aztecs slaughtered in the round their skin skinned & entered for uncanny beauty that thrives like gods hunger for duty, to your death, a beauty bursting out beyond tests, of time coconut and lime –

A gift to and from the gods, their coveted skin! exuviated, don the death, don the thing, ensorcelled in arms and legs of slaves dripping with majestic sacrificial blood of omen and death as a possession of god, his heart, his dick soared with violence – mirrored in the unforgotten lands boiling over in the sands its sweetness burning burning with symmetries lash and burn the sword hordes and rotting boards he covered over with coiled rugs, keep dry surfaces –

Vegetation burn to organic chemistry as fertilizer. Subsume the real. Ballast, hard squeezed  –

& forever unrevealed – 

As beauty’s greatest toll unleashed its arts thru wars of sorrow – unwavering thresholds raided with billowing gusts of Tezcatlipocas stubborn lust – to peaks of festering worm and spurn. As out it spilled liberated from coif to nil, the vengeance be letting go – A face comes up blank, huffing and puffing, then streaked with paint – blue and green – as silence rolls in like fog – 

Relief is always surprised by its remembering.

A young ferocious Cal with painted cheeks – at 7, at full run – round around the basement, a rod in hand that swears on mark forever more to chuck up the lark. Death his only partner – a grave but brutal friend. With naked eye a warrior defies in search of love and loss and lies bound to beauty and abyss – a fire worshipper, as he was when born again – lonely and shot-after, escaping in the mute basement like mold from half awaking sounds of headless deaths the serene metaphysical ignicolist.

A wave washed over of truant love, its ghost compliant as a bitch – plugged and strung out, deviant as if as if on stomach drooled its blood. Cal suddenly doubled over with a crick. He knew he knew he had pushed it. He leaned back cut up. Had to get up – Dizzy with disgust disgrace the mumbo jumbo of holy hate. Leaned weak against the doorframe sweating – send off – 

Meat the bate set the plate damned with brave gruesome righteousness of early youth – soul in violent play unlocks a haul of waging sword for squalor of wound – Hung with wings that certain feast of beauty and the slain. That rumbles across like music at a train –  

Mutilated Cal pushed onward. Hand to wall, out he went down thru the hall, opened back door. Only to sit on steps outside in back and stare at grass and chain linked fence there was nothing there but grass and trees and air some bushes summers eve heavy in the air he wondered blankly at invisible powers of believing quietly in heaven.

The spasm its beauty lifting suddenly a breeze, all that more wonderful because because of the wonderful things he does. Of its giganticidal relief. Cal laid back, hands behind head, back door steps made of concrete, knees came up as in a look out cubby, shoulders wedged between outside wall & railing.

On a night train to see Cal

Working draft

Haute le Couer thinking of Victor de Loveleye. On a night train to see Cal in Tennessee. Falls into beautiful treachery whose desires outrange the purposes of existence.

Dire flood of beauty and transgression like swallowing a heart & sword & lust of allah of jesus – angels are threats angel of Victor de Loveleye’s regrets makes relish for a sanctuary of bunny and blood. Victor wont be in Tennessee with Cal she thinks not she thinks.

Smelling fumes of his beauty is a fury with a feather in its lap. Swearing musty fears the great night oaths of secret hopes as against a baldric sewn with jewels of turquoise and bullets of gold like sky itself pitted on black.

A mad crashing lazy vision enchants before a fiery ring drones about moans about ancient torments of roses riddled taunt & sweep leaps in her heart baseless? and shrill for its torment has urgency – Hills dark hills outside flat hard and flat black, rolling rolling train defies road plague of hunger signs, restaurant signs for your dollars mined with the mechanics of money she hates money hates money hates it! burns! the tears of every angel that did not suffer did not heed.

Coyote in love will always fail. Get eaten by its own tail.

Love and money teeter toss it out at all costs, horror horror numinous brews flaming sacred luminous out in the loneliness of dreams where heavens silence screams and love fucks loss until its dead until its dead.

Victor de Loveleye is a parrot suddenly blue and purple red-necked and glorious green naked needless to say needless to say scorns her hunger a lovely day for a heart of brute and stolen menaces, why does it burn like a magic fuse so drizzle & hard up against Haute’s floating island floating tomb  –

A swollen pirate’s fight pack arm falls tattoo raven and haughty and cruel for a burning cheek to sweeten its demur, stolen lonely broken/unbroken broken/unbroken and driven to the wilderness – to do something awoken bold forlorn strident harrowing sullen fatal mischievous.