Bats Fly Pigs Dig/Novella

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 searched for it. As if something holy in it violently mattered? Reek with beauty and faux contagions of a holy death.

A kind of quarry, forever waiting out of bounds, predatory purgatory dilatory —

Desire always hiding in the wire, temptation salvation station of the criss cross exploding with irresistable emptiness?

Lulu believed in the holy absurd as a sacred contortion between love fate vulnerability odyssey tragedy fine fettle of fatality, ya know? that mystical mileu.

Visions that hint toward vagaries luau, lop sided cursed, lit like a fuse —


Indian magic the god of bod hanging from night prisms purple with flash.

Drowing in music. Drowning in whale fail tail rail nail — buggy ruggy all add in — mining mythos to maids of oblivion.

Words fall in to di vision. Spells smells of it.

Curious froyd alchemy locked in spells and matricidal knells the captivity and the monster. Earliest slave drawings in body of red.

Fuck this hell?

Staged a substitution. As a license to smell deeper and deeper off the deep end. Unity anywhere edges hedges and ledges.

Always love ledges. Meet me on the roof. Do it be a goof.

Proved ass in nine tails yet hall ways interesting.

Kill Will

Let the Killer be done. Kill the will to smell the fill.

Busk gentler sweet tragedy of time, wild swings of anger and lame pain and multiplication tables of horror and shame, all the pour of horror on misty masks of belly vision, a walk in wander woods a mountain with old sugar ruins, and finally it rains —

Loopholes are made of tin.

Loop consists of loop and a hole.

Ex posing vivid pangs of infinitizing finitude like its a rabbit bird bat word lurid surge of hijacking, love lurid and acrimony is riveting and the misery of its mystery rancid paved like under a pulley by the hair worms and apples all consuming, and that sudden feeling of god —

As an angel of beauty and death in constant suspension. With a rod.

Bent for Rent

Lulu in love.

Really in love. Love like death of everything that came before. That sort of ranger stranger danger in the manger.

Stolen from warm bed. Hook line and sneaker.

A love relished to point of walking terror.

Yet sees the seas as what seeing seas. Presence and sense devoured by the liquor license to let love in — and the permutations and the forbidden sorcery, anvil evil oval. The lot.

Causing volcano thunder waterfall — peak and leak and flake and rake. Leafs of suspicious rapacious delicious fish guts flying at flame outs? Wild wondrous tethers.

Reason tempered for short periods of time revealed the back nine.

But rosie and posie and lucy and goose would indispose and the scientists tore into duck soup with sin and pin and testing alternate pleasure and poisons and yet all of it, an errant famish the amish for license to bleed into the ruins searching for fish eggs, full of heart. A bathe like blood in the sink.

Fish Eggs

Leaving every branch of hanging by the egg an independent urge to take over?

Single shingles all of them bleeding hopelessly with love.

Fracking to curl around swan, rub the dove beyond foothills of Verona. Became a flag and flounder floppy the poppy flagellation. Hard to decipher from mythic mortuaries of merry the madness.

Oh Greek.

Riled, shocked, forlorn — at swarms of incredulous intention that would do and risk anything to get beyond the horn a freak uh.

Risk turned into a a kind of stalwart bleeding chasm of speechless funereal ecstasy. Became very hard to “put the animal down.”

Fall is All and Squall and Rail and Fail and Nail and other Tossers Trills

Big word. Full of tumbling closely-held torrents, that pulling an excalibur out from its moorings, seemingly freed eternity from repentance, where virtue was both apostolic and abyssal.

Having a vividly disturbing religious bent, that restlessly ascended lemmas of love in quest of truth, meaning, virtue, extent, almost like a vandalism of beyond time to a quench of now, can blow the top off – in any direction.

Victor de Loveleye Royal Car Cuss

His name was Victor de Loveleye.

And to LuLu Victor broke in. Beyond the filling station.

Wrong from the beginning Lulu had 100 maps already.

Something about him. Writhe angry hopeful loopy rude funny angry menacing kind of a bum, blithe with curiosity and contrary and cunning.

Who channeled everything – night love horror and delight with profound ease and affection.

Lulu always had head of nap of map searching pins for Pynch Lynchs bomber. However with a grain of absolutes driven into “infinities” where no end is always.

Tremors as spontaneous bursts smiling (yes yes whatever you want Ill do because you pay me to) for thirst to strike up a destiny for escape. Boredom or burdened with not being allowed, that from drudgery and boredom itself had grown so severe, it relished deferentially this conquest of his nature of her own nature, beyond herself.

Living what seemed in submissive vacuum of constant daily dread, a profusion of subtext rewound in her heart incessantly. Like an angel pouring out for life beyond her ken.

Insurgent and Jilt to the Sculpens

Fascination with its tantrums grew passionate ardorous insurgent. Its jilt for life, day after day after day, composing a wild leap of faith, a willing treachery for escape, however might risk everything, right up to the depths of madness.

To risk its plight, be borne away borne away.

Fall Goes Heavy Shawl Squawl

Fall, the fall, her fall, into the depths of love. Fall, a holy wild card word! A sanctimony – both guardian and slayer, peremptory, critical.

Jael would find herself running fingers through its care bears hairs justifying it as a feral believing palmer of sorts. As a pilgrimizer, one whose life was about adding mission who must by rights explore the true meaning of love, love being pledged deep in her bones as a grace equivalent to holy quest.

Endless present tense suddenly like bomb blowing up in her head, gave no no relief from boredom or anger or sorrow, no realization its going forth but dealing in time with time itself and it was upstanding but oppressive, there was no play of light.

Hover over the End Almost When

The warrant to go to get – and be willing. Willing. Willing willing before you know it is a play on words and the cacophony of history risking all notions of holy category and death, for life, for what appeared before her as a horizon sublime with all things unbeknown.

A lure whose intensity was intriguing, instigative, marked by sudden taboo insight. Transports that would eventually plunge her into a darkness of a kind, both earthshaking and heartbreaking.

And unseal her tomb as if under a medieval star and death combined with something sublime was a nightmare of dizzying limbo and quandary, whose appreciation for context was not unconnected to artwork of a veiled face sarcophagus laying where dead where Beauty itself through fits and horror and love, tumults and pathos, brimfuls crawling through marked by wildly gesticulating alter laden symptomatic language and pictures of heaven and hell.

A darkness of a kind, both earthshaking and heartbreaking. An unsealing unspokeness its secret nightmare dizzying limbo and quandary, tumults and pathos, brimfuls crawling with species of heaven and hell.

Collusion Fascination Balm

Piracy is a matter of collusion and fascination. Thats where its truth really resides.

Regals the sweeper, a bottom sweeper, taboo. Searise wise, rogue belly oceanic floor mining sucker crazy out for blood –

But love as blood, blood means native. To be blood is to be connected.

Shared blood as integrating life force is bloody ancient.

Yet, as contemporary, a hidden wagering travesty, lost to its wild shoals and beautitude of souls, nostirils pinched and listening through the pinholes to bottom of history, where royal tyrants slept in sacrificial balm and pilgrimage raced against the wilderness haunted with ancient horrors, a strange and twinging vent of chaos.

Love at that crossroads thundering native with desire.

Passions are in many ways excess negative self possessions that cannot absolve themselves of their necessity for running to and from the flat out truth.

Thomas hated it too, loved and hated it, couldnt get out. Of its need to itemize. The meek shall seek.

Feel my feather

And yet could see its Beauty too as relish for the image, everywhere things grazed against it. And floated up to a high wire of a vivid urgency for life. It was all tied up in mystery of time, squeezing out every last drop – before a bolt would jolt her, seemingly dead again. Seemingly lost to the tide.

Got to point she had no other history any more. It’d wiped out everything.

Guest of Eden

Got so bad, ripped my filter, filter snapped, and let whiff raging phantom core suddenly shocked into silence, nobody at home, nobody left, shocked into servant to appearances only as a way even to hang on, and other than that – a nonbeing, to thinnk of it in nothingness was to be released from time.

New phrase keeps coming up. A treason to believe!

Excitement as bizarre and drowning was a galluping madness whose freak disappearances I couldnt stop from happening. It was like liiving in a room fulll of rising bodies from the sea of little shocks of horrors I had fallen into, onto my sword, but looking back I see it as props. Because theatre beckons its dimensions with lyrical necessity.

The symptoms of a soul, taken over by what Philosophy calls The Others, whose existential quests lay between wilderness of dreams and fascination with spirit and death, with oblivion and collaboration.

Exchange of “the goods” had me by the tongue and navel, there was no turning back – as if potents of good and evil in league with Beauty’s many sided nature had come to fetch me home.

Had no language for it that wasn’t connected back to the Divine.

As if another part of me – always there but hiding behind the Wonder Wall, that wall where innocence escapes to, between hardness of fate and loves mutant forest nature, as if that part of me, labeled as taboo, neighboring on indecent, had wildly broken off – and said: damn it all, we are going that way.

But no matter how hard I tried, couldn’t get out from under sizzling fables of hell, that grew up inside of it, a verge of madness preternaturally posing my heart up against its own impotent throb, aching with its own death, in a fatal fall that was spooky and forlorn, in a way better than death

Death became this wild obscurant breach with the present tense of living. Found myself forever begging for help to get around it, at times even to this very day –

But time as a colossal of the infinite, had overwhelmed and deserted me, both. Left me in a lucid dreaming state, fully aware but unable to respond, knocked out from present, left out of basic making sense, of connecting dots. My heart had been absconded, left struggling with a void whose exorcisms were beauty and wonder on the lamb. Could see but not connect, in presence of any desire, that was unknown – until hours later.

Screams in my heart, at recognitions afterward, made madness worse, even more driven to a host of feeble wild extenuations.

Meanwhile, below the surface, lines and diagrams and finitudes of sorrow and wonder whirled in a conflict between what could see and see through to (over time), and what could not do, which was anything unknown but ached after, desired.

Everybody else has their own monsters and sorrows to contend with too, Preacher says. No use blaming any one else for a fall into the limits and negations of Purgatory.


And so — they stand, surd and cured, two favorite lures, together on rock above bright misty waterfall, talking about flying through trees, and being seduced super sonically by a pelicaniform host of ironic temptations —

Or huffing off growling, addle worn, and very late.

For show at The Icicle: Birds on a Bicycle.

Stomach contents. Table on a Lake.

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2 responses to “Bats Fly Pigs Dig/Novella”

  1. I liked this

  2. Muchas gracias. ?Como puedo iniciar sesion?

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