Archives: Body of H8

Discovering Transitives discussion, Linked here. Not getting any Too busy woozy frizzy. Thinking about it. Thinking about it. Thoughts about death intrude. Thoughts about death always intrude. Baby punky funky, is sicky picky poor thing. You poor thing. Eyes make faces. Worry then blurry. To avail of the stickiness all aghast as a sickyness, as…

Angelic quandaries unsettle frenetic cloning for the moon in symptoms of doom. Make me into a bristling broom. I can’t stop doing it. Cant stop sweeping for nuggets. Death releases the temptations from their horror. Score transit against tip of sky. Its hard its hard its hard not to deify. Suddenly get wildly confused so…

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…

Stomach Contents Boom boom boom. Push through push through. Pain beckoned in flames. Waft divisions of LuLu’s heart. To make them shut up. Boom boom boom. Sublime — finds neg peg, nail for pail, catch for blood drip drip drip — that sacrificial emptiness flashing through. Like firecrackers. Boom boom boom. Something in the sand…

Abstract: When stuck with Judgement Day voices in a Murderous Wave of Casual Contempt. Once sideshow knife throwers circus-cloaked naif, strapped (willfully) to cartwheel target, found murdered with three knives in her neck, and gurgling through blood in teeth: “martyrdom is mostly about loss.” Topics for Detective Hunker Down when he can get to it:…

Version 1.7 Come out from behind and tremble like a gun. The more thunk about, more pastiched said dementia overdetermined. Never say never. Living the dream. Getting disgusted with themselves? Hard to tell, when happy as Larry shell bathing in The Royal Hot Springs. Why I love taking mud baths with Dr. Who? Hopeless off license, treachery…

Draft 1.3 Pretty Raw Peaches is up and running, engaged in it in a way that accepts its theatricality and in-dealing or something —  As access and bounty and wind, wind through the curtains. ASIDE: A BattleHard Burrow’s cozy curtained, bit stinky, cat crawling, window-covered bunker, how he mysteriously locks and loads – where dreams…

Draft 3.7  In the works N’deen Tarwater did not want to quibble with intrigues, seemingly again struck at a revolving glass threshold, that sealed the in from the out. An ever rotating bridge of sighs that sprang before her, a revolving door both effuse and capricious, a door that sang with death, with confiscation and…

Very early sketch Whenever dream turns into possibility of going from fuzz to fabric, like a Charles Dickens dreaming in collar and muff, its fabrication halos over death the great McStuffin as running out of dust, into life, swallowing the banality of suggestion whose wonders thrill and heave – its miracle stunned with crazy content(ment)…

Draft 5.1. Shopping for Premise Too far – gone baby gone? hoarding scars of lament affection which holy serve the perv and ride the curve as miracle gutter for passions’ best loved wrongs, songs, righteous ding dongs – devour the worm? Fight for the germ. Gone baby gone. To approach willful excalibur taboo, sly and…

CHARS are sitting here right underneath go in search for them, cut out the latin grammar, see if can translate into present tense, go in on char. Being broke was a kind of suspension, a privileged disease. Its needs so intransigent, brutal, endless. Its hunger a rage of demands that provoked a wild restless vanity…

Get up pull up, the pointing chin. At Ziv’s stone skipping horizons, as tremors pop pop and glide through his prisms of shimmering obscurity, every debilitating obscurity known to man! Ziv cuts a staggering neurogenic figure, whose tasks blaze candor –  And sniffing, Yeux-de-Chauve-Souris’ deceptively simple stylishesness? But then, but then there reaches straight across the bountiful…

Suffocation Glow Weeny is high dungeon. Demons giggle with lush red posies of a magnified slow death. Pictures of girls – across walls of spacious gallery, huge dead-posed to a mystery, as tragic and murder on a sea of velvet. As sorrow and overkill. Gorgeous as hell. Crazy Mary Crazy Mary’s table. Who any day…

Bridge of Signs Because to try and do so makes Pinky crazy. Even just to think about it. And she can’t control what that does, to herself or other people. Stinky is a death star. And the hatred that erupts from Pinky’s not being able to overcome its hold over her – its glorious ring…

Making in roads On the phone can to can. Love the strings. Plays it again, no sooner as begins, becomes infected with beauty and reckoning. Mists of plunder wonders savage playful bold and sorry gusting plussage, sorrow & dole. Lust and bust. Victim and scold. Wonder & scorn, laces. At bottom of glowing disdain is…

Whippoorwills Two words: slavery and freedom. Spark like a train whistle blowing high and stark, in dank dark treasury of Pinky’s bosom impossible with love and merit like a train beating back the wind, by powers and sorrow of love. As whistles howl long and low along the byways with brute material ecstasy at all…

first draft Shake it off, beauty is schism. There is anger and horror in her heart like flint and stones. Stop the rhythm. Yells silently, her head up, a deep breadth plodding, supposed to be cold outside, tapping scuff of boots against wall against desk, the moon is wretched, she stalks at the machine –…

Language bandied with mock cackling suffusion. Cal thought: emptiness learning how to bleed.

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…

An endless visionary parade of splendorizing romantic thresholds, of a pressing relentless susceptivity. Everything that sank in, seemingly sank first through a latent overmuchness of desire – spectacularly agape for uplifts of sorrow. This divine crime, this lucious murderer of time, stuck fast to speechless depths. Cloying, burning, turning forever in on itself. Her sex…

✅ Wistful plightings of sorrow, ruin, slaughter, despair, violation, surrender, sacrifice. Glimmered for LuLu LeSuere with the weight of magical charms. Easily seduced by sadness and desires that stretched to the sky, beyond beautify. With a travesty’s penchant for abomination, a wall of devout ferver drowning in tales of power and horror, hopes diffused to…

It blew and blew and blew. Something pinned her up against a sacred wall, begging for it and running away, begging for it and running away – wild as hell. Haute-le-Couer couldnt understand why it was so crazy. Living on and off a beggar’s cross, of what – sacrificed tomorrows, how beauty can mischief, estrange,…

✅ Lugubrious & tilt-illating Living death or broke? Awash in hatred, its miracle mire – religious, bloody, sexual. Strangely empowering and devouring. Boredom rang of hopelessness, a living death. And this job, as it turned out, was drudgery. Presently, hidden away. Inside a well of seats inside a Mall. An alcove surrounded by big potted…

lovely morbid anti hero istically affected by forlorn porn, otherwise known as depression – ha ha. horny sordid convulsing frays – fractus, frangere, ions of my reversal pining down the ricochet like its a slow motion bell letting off steam from the rail roads of love screaming, at loss and a-toss with love, horror and…

melodramas from the girlie reviews and strip joints and war time brothels and junk halls mystified the sun, with dense squalor, raging rapturous with desire and the tirless wheel of mooning for richies adoration glories crash and flirt flirt and crash temptations toss to unharsh the sun tunneling druid with scalding hatred. oh dont say…

horrorscope. for Haute le Couer. god awful. a mining horror. the whole place, ditch down deep, topples in on her. like a warped call for justice that ends in unspeakable tragedy – and the only way out is through devious means! hell bent sirens cracked this up. Haute is now calling it the Frankenstein years.…

CREEPY. Life inside LuLu’s magical soul of terror. The theatrics of horror, she calls it. The whole thing glows in the dark. Its a glowing encumbrance. A rag-tag mystery coiled against quasi religious wars, a perversion of slave-trading for love and sex, forged in magic. Its unspeakable stuff, these “sacred books.” Searching as LuLu does relentlessly…

“I stole the jar.” And it almost destroyed her. Left to scarecrow in the madness. An influence so life changing – it has to be viewed as holy destructive. Pure of heart, broken by life, floating down the river of love, with flowers of madness pasted sentimentally to her chest. Dying intimately again and again…

CRAZY old rumor – in olden days people wore hats, they all wore hats –  to church. To protect heads from angels – who tinkle – ?! Priorities being with great and respectful care w.r.t jingle-jangle, of per fuming angels scares, lairs, dares, stares (i.e. with localizing excretion). For Haute le Couer – a hat…