THE BODY OF HATE
SURFACE OF LOVE

God Awful And Relentless To Boot.

Smoking Mirror

Work in Progress. Cal was inattentively searching for a bellibone midst palpable fusions of pre-ancient Greek. When a revelation struck a giddy chord, and lurched him into the wild, like saltatory spasms of something mystifying & beguiled. His favorite place to be.

Thick hues intruded the low-ceiling room, every flat surface a messy pile, his bosom tightening full of quiver of a brutal resplendence – beckoning almost, well godlike. Cal felt the shadow of death – gleefully cross his arm. Death, that is, the Inquisitor. 

Cal dug and dug as thru an impenetrable well, his mind cast with deciphering this poisonous thrall, swarmed with beauty of hell, gauntlet and scorn, absentia intransigence – battling with the forlorn. 

Ghosts arose and soured drenched unquenched by intoxicating smells of hells poison berry flowers. Like stealing bases, both blessed and cursed, and riding the enemy high and bly – he gut its bark and dutifully nursed it.

His heart toppling in, buckling with the insistence of misery – approaching the catalog perverse, crazy if not insane. “The only freedom you can ever truly know.” Speaks the voice inside a voice inside a voice…

Cal – aching for holy water, that holy fire imposes. And raging with scares, the ardent arts so ruefully exposes – Sun and moon fell back fell back with a gasp too weak to howl, through an oceanic loom, where beauty and evil dray.

His heart devoured, divined an alarmingly lethal map – where marauders of the soul kill to eat as much as pray. (“To get back at them, for going away.”) And every sacrifice burns furibundo with love and ruin, torn apart by gods of sun and flame –

And by this strangeness dangling with invidia over insanity’s most impractical game, a sword of love grew and grew uncontainable in his pants – yes, the dutiful host unzipped it, and with the onanist’s wretched claw, all things unjust could be made holy – hard he disabused as law.

A vision of horror would reel it in, a final reward? bestrewn with blood – Aztec slaves, slaughtered in the round then ferociously entered for the uncanny beauty that thrives beyond the grave – 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 blood, his heart, his dick soared with violence – a mirror in the unforgotten night, burning burning with symmetries plights – ballast, hard squeezed & holding tight. 

As beauty’s greatest toll unleashed it arts thru wars of sorrow – unwavering thresholds raided with billowing gusts of Tezcatlipocas undeniably stubborn tyrannicidal lust. And out it spilled liberated letting go –

A face streaked? with serums – blue and green, surprised with its remembering of a young ferocious Cal with painted cheeks – at the age 7, at full run – around around the summer cabin, a stick in hand that swears on the mark forever more to chuck up the lark.

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 – the 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 his stomach drooled blood from its mouth. Cal suddenly doubled over with a sudden crick. And then a loud dispart of angry wind. He had to get up, dizzy with disgust disgrace, holy hate. Only it dizzied him more. He had to lean against the doorframe, sweating with holy taint.

His meat the bate but he’d set the plate when damned with the righteousness of youth, his soul in violent play unlocked a haul waging sword for wound – whereat hung with wings that certain feast of beauty and the slain.  

Maimed (as feigned) Cal stood upright. Hand to crick, hand to wall, out he went down thru the hall, opened back door, marched out for air. Only to sit on steps and stare, at grass and chain linked fence, wondering about the ancient will to face the powers of heaven.

The spasm lifting with a wonderful breeze, being all that more wonderful because of its giganticidal relief. It smelled of flowers at the end of summer, petals dying but kind of bitter kind of sweet. And Cal laid back, his hands behind his head, his back flat against the back door landing, hitherto constructed with poured cement.

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.