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?
Walking there
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.
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