Body of Hate Surface of Love — fifth draft

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There is no me

There is no me…. ?

LuLu says this a lot, to the weather, to the wind. To the disappearance of time.

Nothing nothing nothing.

Roving where distance embodies the mysterious, angels bite the body like holy nerves, like a wolf always hungry, an ardor for snail darter, protomartyr, wig pig feed.

Invasionary flying colors. Enchantment is an invasion, spirits fly because they have nowhere else to go but arrive. A stunning ferocious sense of empressement that intercedes, sweeps LuLu up in its beauty and restlessness. Best worst cursed of too many thirsts.

Nothing remains unchanged by it.

Vertiginous and revelatory. Torments cross like souls for a socket, tunnels of love being dynamited, rifts and drags of the precociously undead alighting LuLu’s contingency, presence and distance, luminism and transits in logic.

Give into it? Give into it!

Rifts and Drags

Falling. Riven, tampering with the taboo.

As engulfs the horizon with lavish agonies, destiny’s ravished child, running beautiful and wild.

Her thoughts obscene errant soldierly breathless – bucking and buckling under to fealties.

Of insolence, contestations between phantom flows, moodscape and mutants setting fires under her door.

Setting LuLu aflame with beautiful corruption, sticky tokens of a tender madness. Shameful, antipodal, semidivine.

Holy Water

Say it to the weather, say it to windows, say it to the hanging statue. A fifteen foot painted Jesus, nailed to a cross, hung by chains from chancel to nave.

Martyrific effigy, submitting to splendor of its transformation from mortal to divine in a sweep of moribund ecstasy, submitting to its sacrifice, its holy criminality, its sacredness and sensuality, divine overflowingness, mortal expulsion. Giving in to god…

Head back mouth screwed upward in sacrificial appeal, as if drinking appeaseless drips of waffle and blood, the sacred seemliness of an angel’s share.

And never and forever, the bleeding remembrance of a past perfection, one of heavens risen first blood, let to flow.

Crown of corny thorny religious porn spasms, LuLu’s luscious foils raving with outsized abandonment, a mercy to rape nape gape….

Where the tetchy ticklish absurd in heaven fully embraces a rhapsodic hunger for life –

A pathway to tenderness, and its vulnerability to death.

Surge to a Purge

Child of dawn.

Potents pilfering, racing and falling, run away moments brooding gleaning, reap with implacable surges.

To a purge, she goes along, runs for it, rattling against an apocalyptic sense of of zealotry, imputation of things most demeaning.

Runagate paroxysms reeking and leaking, into fearful raves of dementia, tipping into exceeding bouts of vision and tenderness.

Say it to mailboxes, loopy sidelong and fly, say it to a gun, say it to a homeless deeply dirt-encrusted paragon who gives out complements easy as pie.

LuLu says nothing smiles back. Hungry for both. His salvation and its need. Dispossessions and appetites.

Portents Trodding

Portents strike. She gives in. And sets off, to go to him. An overstow of nightmare premonitions rub up against her sanity, at every attention.

Every claim or blame a vertex and auspex of mountaintop and blessed virgin lady bountiful.

A need to defy its beliefless gravity? Try and deny. The madness raging inside is both kept and unkept. Unravels with trodding lament.

Hector as scalp hunter aids the maids, to purify the glut and the gutted.

When daylight brandishes everything as absurd.

Sacral Leaps

LuLu visiting monuments. Walking silent through softly lit catacombs. Everyone in whispers.

Every bone stacked in an impressive heap, impresses a sacral leap, into its risk and obedience, to the death. Heaving with heavens breadth.

Sweet morbid grace, what passes over, with mortality, shell shocked encumbrance of sweet mischievous love.

Awash for her in cockloft of its own undoing. Wallows that beckon with turgid obscenity, insane turnabouts running circle for a lab rat, fruit of poisonous tree –

Screes, veering off into its tracery. Wails hails what ails, what deteriorates into a passion –

A crime of passion, thwart with torturous cruelty.

Red Fire and Black Flies

Prettify the whale for art thou.

Defiant and chewy hue-y and blue-y, dodging in and out of the storms as they are consumed, torments slipping over thresholds into stupidstitious blasphemy.

World of mind as floating custodian, god of the rod bods, goading like a cripple creek crypt embedded in the eternal now – bathing in its flyoffs to map traps of blight and mercy, plans bifolding intoxicating into anarchy.

I am void and devoid.

Hears it pulling her away, run away run away.

The vulnerable and the unvanquishable rising from lust in dust of its solemn anarchy. A tart imperial sickness flashing into throws of the dubious and sublime. Wayward strewn schisms, welshing into tearaways. Heights of spite. Lowly and withering, semi-tortured, maliciously vexed.

Its larceny suffocating lamb and thief.

Radicalizes and aluminates like a power vacuum at end of a muzzle –

Its puzzle, a mystery dystopia myopia, LuLu baffling waffling, caught in rug tug lug, barrel and plug, throwing herself over cloud falls, the bin sin fin of white out and black out, perverse range of sacred soulical pathematic cruces.

Flog the Air

The fierce and fatal arises as epiphany of capture and the hunt. Harbors a resistance to acquisition by the sun. Sun means money. Money as an obligation against every horror of poverty, weighs like a threat of death. Hunt hunt…

Every fleshy quintessential dollar, to steal like a flower picked, absorbed, and crushed, made into dye. Its beauty seized, sorted, courted, disenchanted and the local meat martyred.

Sold positively for cash? Comforts… and color. Beauty and wealth.

Ponder wander.

Drink smuggles her out of the desert of fray fancy chancy and the penuriousness – just getting by. Collecting a stash, charging the rest and flying off again, flog the air, beat the drum.

Borders with real that battle and erupt, erupt and corrupt? Precious and defiant, not welcoming to what life is ? Coinmaking overtaking, let the drudgery calm the belt and collar.

Its right there, do it do what, screams of darkness. Fuck them. be feasible be feasible…

Mine with care, dollars for donuts.

Its constraints light a flame in the darkness, startled and ignited, angry and acute.

Flood in the Negs. No…Yes. Find a line and be attached to it, build through being there, in res pursuant.

Affairs that stray from light 5th draft

Lust cakes up, unsobering a shocking sorcery. Pistons somehow dangled off Victor de Loveleye’s breadth with visions of movability.

LuLu is clam basted locketed out in dunes of a magic tragic plunder where life pulls her in and floods asunder, something mad as sad as bad…

Blinded by charms of defiance. Every rebirth a thousand more fly, die, and fly again.

I am just the meat they live off of.

Fingers hands cunt flew for safety, flew to stay alive ! flew to make him pay ? Allay allay, the demons are their stray… Roundelay, roundelay.

Runs to him, in scrapes and clutches for reason, where deadens flattens dissolves into desire, voluminous and strangling, stirs to a glow, devours the emptiness, buffers its exorbitance in gloom.

The uncanny invading with prescience of sky-fall, goes sinewy and gorge. Glowing independent of consciousness ?

License, follows it out. Until, until it topples and ruptures into something monstrous. Its beauty glowing with mishap towing her along, freakishly abject, one of its many disguises.

Gruesome, angelic, a burden, tests reason to its core, the mana from sacrificial trauma becoming over time irremovable, old as the first sacred crow sacred wound, holy poly abject flume – larking parking, insidious bountiful corruptions.

Ease unease to please the rupture into rapture from lark and mark insects biting the darkness, coded in wax, ear to his sheer… anytime near. Lunge sponge. Dunning and running and sunning

Wax tacks knacks hacks runs back.

Focus pocus locust

Every rift contravenes – aches between presence and sorrow, lavishes her flabbergastation with contrary interludes lost in concetti, increasingly imbecilic to whats sitting right there in the present.

Focus pocus locust.

Destiny’s barking awakens the forsaken child, running beautiful, touched by light, damaged and wild. Thoughts obscene errant breathless.

Nothing to do, nothing can do, to stop it.

Can’t seem to come down from its abominable heights. The adornment spikes with astonishing eruption, an oceanic storm of mourning, raving and incorruptible ?

The flowers swell, suffocate, colors flame like tokens of madness.

Density traces over it, heart and soul infalling infalling perpendicular with its hail, stones and death, a numinousness of deafening chrysalism whose indulgence and torments beckon her beckon her back.

Shows up again. In the parkness of darkness where shared heads in ear to floor, collapse into another dribble and top off, aghast and beloved and throbbing, soften soften the cries.

Howls prowls scowls of adamancy and righteous flabbergastation..

She cries out for more time and tide. Again.

Beginning or End of Something

Tongues her. Dizzying, like a smelt of grace. His fingers drag across her skin, her skin a raft of shirk-y murky lurking sin.

Angels make waves.

The unseen and the unnamable, drifting off into beauty and violence and the absurd avowals of majesty sufferance and contempt countercasting up her cunt.

Astonished her, endlessly. How a drain of ocean filled her mind and was always in transit, its breathlessness borne mourned hexed vexed purged and remounted.

Hole and corners sifting up, the vile vial, its neck on fire in darkness, insane for rain.

Sense was and is not – sensibility. Logic a canny toolsy inbred contortion extortion, a prehensory scar and hard on for twilight measurements, logic magic spin the numbers, rogue and flight.

Abstract linguisticky polyfold dissective… Darkness unfolding mechanistic but hound and crown from fairy flying borders mystic entanglements – scarecrow town, the marrow arrows, sorrow and weariness, scathing attacks sound, challenges the ax.

First Sign of Life — redo first para

Orgasm as first sign of life in the awakening of making, a magic tragic miracle driven through the rub a dub dubbed, crib rib, rover over, midst tantamounts collapsing into dreams of lyrical love empircal love. Pie rise robot dies. Has to think.

Searching for reasons to stay the fuck alive. Find one find one. The one the one the one.

To sink down into the ocean and sift up from its bottom, crushed by its tensions, engulfing her in the perpetual moat gloat pout out of a rushing abyss, sirens singing like a violent tyrant rushing with attentisme.

Love in limbo sends her flying, dangling on precipice that jiggies like a high wire, tightrope of hope, time fracturing into a contagion of borderland contentions, all mixed up with ache in mortal coil of its stunning robbery.

Taunts merciless. A desultory melancholy, a raging tedium and indifference to time, landslides of fervors, merciless messy testy vulnerable —

Verging on the immaculate ? On the immaculate is what terror and visions of mercy –

Stalwart expurgations of time, shining, cursing thirsting for blood of stone, for the immaculate. Bone ?

Santa Muerte

Tart and bluff with fiction and flood. Zigging through the zag. Drink in hand.

Something about something lisping through void of emptiness into night and the merry mystical, like an incision in the middle of time, leaking out, with a shine of being free from days disappearance into binder clips.

Its mystery relieved of pretending to belong anywhere else, floating up like a influx of outflux of wind liquid tall.

Floor came alive. LuLu tripped, slipping past sober, little light wave of a vertigo, she grabbed an arm, sympathies with the devil, sorry sorry sorry. Looks up. OK I put my drink down here for a minute.

Does anyway, leans over bar both elbows, makes it her space.

Fact: Almost fell. To do: Get some water. She raises her finger and keeps it raise, leans over more and waits. Lip syncs water – gets a nod. Waits more. Water comes. She drinks it as a horse to water. With enthusiasm. She turns around and leans back against bar.

Want to see something he says. She saw him do it before. Intensions when contacted seem to hatch. As they fall. She wanted to see it.

And pulls up his shirt. A skeleton tatoo winged jesus with a sugar skull is what it looks like.

Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte, he says.

Our Lady of the Dead. Speaking in a whisper of sacred pretension.

Eyes circled lined flowers shadows of red..

His skin is middle tan, rich and fluid. Not too old not too young. Not too anything. Full of time standing there.

In drinks obliges a lovely oblivion.

Santa Muerte is showing all her teeth, LuLu looks up at rapt in its discovery, smiles. Moments in drunken splendor are freed from past future and allowed to swim into the meadow taboo merciless forgetfulness full of yawning and dire motifs, walking back under the sun.

Bends forward, by the neck, LuLu takes a finger as if to outline it – Crosses a line, maybe cant get back, maybe doesnt want to get back.

She points. and he lifts up shirt little higher one side so she can see exotic bird perched on shoulder as pirate in paradise. Beautiful.

Finished last week, he says.

A fin under her skin prowls up her skirt. Booms against his warm sensitive brutality. Brutal and sensitive the masculine realm. She starts laughing.

You think its funny.

She shakes her head. Yes. Laughing at death, morbid strains like mouse ears leans closer everyday day of dead she whispers, as if its a greed that will employ her if speaks it too loud.

Mexican. Yes he says bit of Aztek and chicano too but also Santa Muerte.

Discussion on tatoo. She starts smiling again and laughing when ever can find one.

Slippery words, fanned by liquor, of trying to find one another way home home way through beautiful torments of liquor. Beats against the sheet of time.

Cuts across her virtue vanishing like a lions heart preying for rain, its menace crouched in uncertainty and outcome –

As if to bring her down to its picturesque level, where figures burning through morning and fly and float and dread and molt around the maiden mirrors fungus fun gusts that join life to death.

Vauntmure

He takes her home. She goes into the bathroom. Her head is beginning to race after and condemn, starts in with the swims, she sinks down, the tile is cold, the monoliths angry.

He sees her there, wets her brow. A vagrant mana coos up in her throat and barfs on his fingers. He washes her off. He pulls her to bed. Holds her, tongues her, fucks her, as she lay there, raw. A vauntmure on top of her going after itself inside her. She wants him to take it.

She is there she is not there, a shroud ascends, all archangel and shadows like an overpass of hanging jesus cradles curdling molten with its sad taunting thickness sickness prancing angry above her —

And then sputters through a vast tumult, into a lurking pocket of emptiness. He comes.

Her murky stomach voided of its thirst. Her heart a weary wall of fire. Its oblivion caught and ransomed to the night.

Eyes mixed

Eyes mixed in a solution of staring boldly coldly at black rubber mat that covered the floor.

What now frown cow —

Immerse immerse in a perversion excursion —

Multiplies across, an attack (or lack) of bewildering constants, that do not stand still. No, a compound proportion equation, without length — or was it end ?  

The math in her mouth made suds into mud wanting measurement for unanswerable equivocations, as to why did she keep on going back again.

Unable to stop herself.

Its insolence was frightening. Hidden in dark corners of contempt, glued to its question of ill pill in the mill and hopeless constraints in the paints, strange transformation stations, turning back and forth into an abominable beauty, intensities empty and erupt.

Shock of finding herself standing there once again lost in a sheer grace of its forbidden continuity, limitlessness of its recidivation blossoming out – Like hordes inescapably mazy.

I am the abstract of mayhem I am a genetive no.

The answer is no. No no. Not now.

Uncross arms. Feel. Condole. Blatant with sympathy and compassion for the out “right” objective.

She didn’t wear a working face. She just showed up at the bar, thats all. On time or else. 

Turn Over Till

She walks in, Casey turns over till, Casey leaves. And LuLu takes over behind the bar. 

Two were sitting at the bar when she came in. Names. Names. Didn’t really know their names.

They were afternoon regulars.

LuLu is night.

Names sank against darkness of time, without necessarily any attachment to where in the nameless they arrived, unless connected to her by needs or desires ? No even then…

The void rides out to its fixtures, subsumes into mystery of roaving samelessness nameless names terrified her… Out at lot where beauty devours.

She didnt have to worry about their names. They often knew hers. Stay attentive. Especially during the night. Head above crowd. Fights can break out.

They were hers, she owned the responsibility of night time bartender, mama bear on righteous assignment.

But its slow and its early, reminding herself —

Be present, be present in the present tense. Victor, she whispers without moving her lips. A bear hiding under her paw crawls out of a faraway armpit and screams a violence of silence so loud it reaches vagrantly into the distance. 

This makes LuLu blow out air. Lean back. And decide. To wipe down the bar, and pat-a-physical manner around the two still sitting there. 

Beauty and Flight Blight – move later.

On the train. Going home from temporary office commitment, out for money money.

Boy next to her watching his phone, it is a close up of Asian porn held fast in his fingers. He is young, his skin milky bright and tawny, he has strong bony fingers, he is a mixture of heavens races. Everything about him seems to tug and twitch with antipathy.

She breathes it in like melancholy mist of watching him watching it, with defiant incredulity, as a endless rope hope and elope for spurts of orgasm hidden in the hills of just sitting next to it.

Like at the Library, at a table. Under a wall of books. A young homeless royal, shiny and buff, 17 maybe 18 sitting beside her, jerking off in the library. Joker young and out hawking, with nothing else to do, in truth and false of his dereliction for freedom.

Caused much a tado. After he escaped down the stairs. Boy across tables comforting her at the glorious shame. Phone number to check she was ok. Righteous clamor.

To scorn and to mourn – at same time – is that a razors edge to the vastitude of porn. Another blessed empty hand held, seeker of wad, stealing itself into heavens graces, a spillover of pure thirst – into the darkness into the endlessness of its sacred blood curse.

Reason Seeming

A heart ravaged by compulsions of beauty that aims and shames enflames to defy, the mummy boundness of death in throws of existence. Craws that crawled out of her cunt like a knife at night with everything to lose.

Bounding away, emergent and its detergents, like a ghost arising from gravid lavished graves of its machinery of love in all its unreasonable art of form.

But nothing of the uncanny. Uncanny and absurd somehow different…

iness exerted room for thought against its flatness, until like an arrow suddenly thrown into it. Balanced over the fall line, Victor…

Revealed unfoldings to her into the present, that defied the flatness of reasonability —

Occurring, suspiciously — invades as sinew, with sudden prescience, and skyfall. Everything is set up against it, so it glows, independent of consciousness.

As beauty itself testing reason to its core. Toppling it —

And eventually, turning monstrous — into a seduction of resurrecting sacrificial trauma. A sacred wound, gushing with abject martyrdom.

Beauty can be abject ! Truth can be empty or overfull ! Reason too can suffer from the pull of the fallen in all its heartbreaking disguises.

Mystery or Misery – bring in mystery side

Customer through the side door. He’s an early night guy.  Tall with his neck slightly politely hanging over. In baggy work pants, winter sweater, and a woolen hat. All blue and green. Round toed boots. 

Blasé. Is she. Wordless with mystery or misery, take your pick.

Mystery or misery…  That’s the sequencing everywhere media scavenges the lust and creates secondary pits to fall into with a gust. Jerk and perk, fall into the darkness let it work. 

Acknowledges customer by lifting mouth and eyelids. Protection,  LuLu owns space behind bar.

Mystery or misery, the fatal fem sot bot beauty and all that lot, St Mary of the misery exists as a tricky sacrificial tremor in LuLu’s life that is held close, as beneath its fissures emanates a wild sacred jest, that inhabits love as a shock of duration and sorrow as a whale, with a blow hole that scales, and wails, sorrow, in throws of desire, teetering into contempt. Skinny of sin in its din. Dun and pun and sun spun.  Put it to use. Put it to use. 

The usage doctrine. Flowers for a sail. 

Gleamed, guiled and galled, by medieval pains in sacrificial eye. A burning bar of radicalism desperate with gloom whose freedom to bloom overtakes sense, blurs into rushes of a latent blasting synflorescence, clustered notions motions potions of time as an infinity that ports with epiphanies, glory without ground. 

Somehow founs under Victors rally and rake a way in and out of it. The impossible between them fawning with wicked dread mountain high distentions commingled with ornery fetters and flicks of brutal dust. That challenged LuLu to brinks of torment and assignation. Falling into parts of a wildness rancid, stubborn and forlorn.

Hair of Roots

LuLu again and again running off to find Victor, at wagers of her ragers, strange ominous sorrows and terror at loss of him, whenever away from London, back in the states. Desire to free the beasts that came burbling up around him, burbling up from belly of beast in her heart — 

That steals for what it feels and defeats itself in wickedness of her shame,

Shame that haven of hells ditch loaded down by dynamite,  the in-terror-gators, as a sacrificial night bite and mystery’s flight. Duty to parking with ear to rape of the mutes. Stop. NO.

How did her heart become so oddly, brutally stuffed with it. 

Hopeless and the hapless. Anger erupts at being born. Started out that way…

Early night guy — always first went to the bathroom in back. Then he comes round to bar on the other side as is his way. 

He is relatively new to the bar. Newer than her being new. Is now forward at the bar, on his elbow, finger up. 

She nods head, lifts herself away from the bar behind her, wipes hands, half smiles, says “hey,” gets him a drink. He pays for it.  Leaves fifty cents. She’ll take fifty cents. Wipes down the bar again. 

Early night guy likes to sit at table by window that overlooks outside stairs. As he can see across to the mountains from there,  countenance a glance at big sky as sun goes down behind the mountains.

Also.

From there, can see anyone else coming up the stairs. He was early night guy. Didnt see him after it got crowded. As it did principally every night. Between 10 and 1. 

Men made life come to life, and gave her the principality of hell. No no no. That takes blame on childhood as layers collide with fears, awkward and slippery mindful of mystic warriors and usual condemnation. Mind a litter of nay-sayer layers. 

LuLu never revisited garbage art, that life was a big old barge of garbage art. 

One night in Paris. Stuck on artist’s house boat, after metro shut down. All the furniture made of cement, woke up with a longhaired French man sleeping on her arm.

LuLu got up, immediately he went thump, and she gave him a freaked out questionable look, and still dizzy with wine, left… 

Money

Money. Food car fuel, protect credit. Credit gave room to move around with money and without more credit the better. Better to hold onto your cash — and go into debt.  

LuLu still believes in the usefulness of wanting to be a bum, the not care just be there mode? Escape from poverty of the demeaning. Except for luggage, as leaves hole in the hunted without protection for safe keeping, especially while passed out, this she knew. Geographically speaking. Always listen and know the cunt is a hunt for the grunt… It’s insect madness. 

Some risk death for it.

Fast Freddy did what he did to that poor drunk soul he found, head against a tree, passed out in the park, four in the morning. Fast Freddy sees it as a free one. Rat that is for a rule. 

Rules rules — of the hen tend to your bird pen, passed down through miracles of better you better you bet : The Moms’ of are-go-naughts. Money money for getting down mountain and back up again, lovely get is hot running water, hot showers were one of LuLu’s: favorite things, sleepy was a rag, sleepy was a nag blistering with vehemence, hate city and sympathetic voodoo, hate city was a puzzle — in LuLu’s brain, lame stain crane what a pain.

Money made her want to die, some days: but for the price over her head… 

BRING section in from Fourth Version

Palm Bomb Wan

Heart Soul Legs. To wrap around you and all your brazen funks. But there is murder that illuminates the sublime A vaguery, of whizzing abhorrents — racing against time? < Its ricochet, a self embedding trick. A vain beautiful tourniquet. That marks — an obscene height and forces a cliff and jumps off where absolutes meet the absurd at flesh is word — over hill and hell.

>Screaming finish it, finish it.

Its relish crushes up against my stolen eye. The thousand hearts of beach-la-mar.

At hungry thresholds, animism farmably alerts.

Like wetlands : deep but suddenly shallow. Opposites cataract. Cheap but generous, revelatory but cursed. Torments cross the soul as visiting logic. All incantations prove quasicrystal, vastly overarching. Give into it? Give into it!

Be its ticking bomb. Wrap my heart around its trunk.

Whispering embers: be the murder of it?

How the wicked illuminates the sublime. Abhorrents whiz by in a race against time —

Turns into a vain beautiful tourniquet. That marks an obscene height and forces a cliff and jumps off where absolutes meet the absurd at flesh is word — Screaming finish it, finish it.

By the dozens

Its crushes up against my stolen eye. The thousand hearts of beach-la-mar.

Yet like a drunk dancing in a cemetery. As if all death every one, belongs to me, my blood and skin, a principality of darkness hovering over my living jinns, their body we share, every disease of the heart, every mortal portal every merciless miracle of abruption.

Jackets on the street, jack off in the park.

I stare at their dismembering like a royal counterpart, collecting darts. And defy, am the pie in their eye? errant glint of abduction.

Scheme teams with glimmers of suicide, a hundredfold of negation and gender — Sun raying realms of lucullan purgatory —

Love getting lost — Love being hell.

Love never ending.

Swept away, swept on oblivions coattails —

Rhapsodies transcendental incantaions dancing naked in chaos and void, undressing the fines and scarecrow of sacred horror, a madness living for growls of desire, emptying itself of every credible witness, again and again —

Where waited an idolatry of death.

Blood spattering from the innocent. Start of time for money.

Happiness is not my job, he said.

I dont care. I really dont. She wanted to say but didnt. Working for the man.

Heart vagrant for for the excesses of champions.

At every brink there is always the chance her courage might sink.

Installed a squall at solitudes of time in corners being busy with business typing and copying hand outs and checks getting signed.

Pay attention.

Why the heart falls in falls in, the crazy con sous mate, misery and madness, sweet fry pie, ferrying madness bellies up from the concave, so abruptly pyth ob and cess where madness leaps with pie like a disturbed nest, like raging black flies.

Nakedly lust wilderness in the bush, slam glam thank you come alive come alive.

Runs away again.

Goes for you the vousvoyer, the journey for true, that falls into love that falls into havoc over every saw gut and mumble falls into death as arms akin, the skin of nail, the cross of rail, the burning bush.

The bush. For a tailspin.

Rock paper spin. Pail mail air — sac and sail. Out for hunger, hell is a decimation, layers of lorn mourn porn, digging through the sky piles of buildings made out of hungry piles of off limits garbage, buggers in her heart starving all around sponging off of elle wood.

Players of horror smacking the eye, the religious excuses for dead pie — sly.

Be her frantic.

Cloak and dagger, pie spy try. Naked gunning cunning eye, from head to dick, from hard to loose, flying up against the onerous grievous mundane ambits of time. Something terrifying and beautiful always collapses in on itself, weighted down by the hideousness and pomposity of truth.

Desire churns the naked staff like a cake half baked, forever carry over cooking — its culinary monstrous and beautiful, a fork at every crossroads, an uprising at every rattle of my brain to throw against the fury that slapped against her eye.

Beauty’s floating pocket battleship —

I am the mystery and a marplot. I am every sin —

Corn goddess half life in hell.

And back rushes in with impenetrable kinship — intimacy, estrangement, hungry and wild.

Drop in on me — cut in half. Bring in surface.

A life scraping against electrified wire. Liberty or death.

Desire and the manufacture of prosperity and contempt. Count me in out other, bereft.

Misrule courses through the sin in her skin. Merry misrules of haughty and nonsense, rove crave hover, above mechanicals like a ruler.

Ruler religions hide the girls. Everywhere spins everything on body of beauty on your beauty dropping through the kismet like ancient fire alarm. With nowhere to go.

Hair full of swimming rage and angst and desire, conformity cutting like a razor blade against the meek in my skin, treacherously intensifying.

Coward and the call. Head weighted down. Channeling leafs in gutter for a fall, harrowed by the narrows. Eyes spooling round and round, like a clown staring into the transient shivering.

Descends every tomb of poe tater.

But its a crater, a moon crater, where beckons the waiter —

Dreams are a resilient category. That permeate logic? Tragic or nostalgic. Sills or ills mix with nil as tiller of forms. And so I was born.

With poles to fill in holes. And other throbbing members, like the hidden value of landmines.

Or startling winged sight parachute arms and silver underbelly of a common roof rat oh suddenly flying.

War of Noses

Penelope is drunk looks out window is always watchful.

Feels shell shock. Like cabbage, mute.

Life had shrunk to a warped and holy disquiet.

Fin of sins ailing against friction of air, what to call it? the weatherman.

Sparkle in his skin his mind raids tin.

Penelope loves sleepers and creepers, loves being teased with feelies and weepers, because they know how to disparple.

Urge to merge and purge says victim of vermouth, sidelined angry and yet soaked through, with daring brutal license.

Of the angling and the holy. Reek with tenderness.

And an astonishing raise the limits, of frisky risky terrifying creatures — freakily unfolding.

Something monstrous imploding.

An exploding heart that loves and bereaves every stolen minute in it.

The pure and the vanishing

Dormants crawl all over the sword of mercy.

Like gods bonking under my skin, they dream under my skin, I am the thwart that visits their tomb.

Death is a living god.

Every day play dray mutiny against the term, oil alive in me, that crossed with stringency of cart and wrath.

Find it everywhere — under fingernails, digging into my throat.

Weatherman, slithers down my back.

Jenny Little

When weather is bad. Not just bad. Very bad.

I run to you no matter how many times you kicked me out. Of your head.

You are a sorrow. Go be dead.

When the roof explodes on me, and unmercial day is all composed of work for the tyrants

bears liquidate into paws

start running across my be

vain and merciless.

Your eyes make it fire. As proof at all that I continue to exist .

The unnameable buried inside the boot — and under my tongue.

As a honing device.

Every gesture becomes a treason from the known, an opening orienting with vestiges of augury.

Your love turns me into a floatation device,

caught in the turbid and falling falling into the holy.

Infinity minus 1

Tailwind, nexus, node. Gang up like a forbidden city.

Every genitive, indicating possession or close association aesthetes its pyrography up my vacuum cunt.

Every edge deliciously contaminated with baptismal font, sacrificial fire melting into ecstasy, imperviable, willful —

Risen in its bed, bleeding with the sorrow, the hungry, the dead.

And stolen, all stolen somehow. From an interminable source.

Like angels dug up by the burden of gods and monsters, my vestal slaves aberrantly absorb them.

I am their lost and found — I am their ever becoming. All things wretched, beautiful, equivocal, mystifying, intransigent — ever aegir to collide with indeterminacy.

Dangling with odyssey.

T.S. and Less

This wasteland — bears burden of feast and famine.

Any slightest blow and the floor falls thru, unveils a desolate uneasiness, unnamable panic.

A wilderness of desire, shifting, tantamount.

Inflammations burgeon the heart —

Fires are humbling. Hell tumbles into a frenzy with shocking defiance, a sabotage of lethal intensity.

Every moment losing control.

To risk everything. To save yourself. Swim up a waterfall. Dive across the racing water — for you, for some abominable rescue — from its endlessness, its wooziness —

Cold, hot, warm.

Twistical, devious, innocence once touted as glorious. Swoons at the wretched, swoons at the beautiful. Fulgid and riveting with life and death.

Negative policing

Where dead doesnt mean dead?

But raging erupt disturbances in Baltic eye — of wretched lovely loopy pie. Love as it dies recedes into screeds. Everything defiant relegated to tinctures of royal blasphemy.

Strange potion disputing permission my sex. To be is not to be. To fly is nigh. Like water under a flood bridge.

Sweet lugubrious exuberant loophole. The achey brakey void. The taste of its floating waste. Bright and shocking. Like smoking crack, same basic non solution.

Crack resolves nothing tastes oily for hours and hours and rolling over the nothing with drain of empty sounds from my motor un running on empty.

The greed of beauty and death

Ghastly true. The poetry ghastly.

But its blades are beautiful, the of crime my motionless slime, off to Baltimore.

Heady freaky mean when want to be gentle.

Fathers and nurses, purses, thirst, oblivion and heaven, rocks and climbing, gems and portage with indian blanket oblivion mining.

Religion arun with a court packing gun. I am its flyer. I am its dead sunny end.

At limits the rivets, swoon at tunnels of raging emptiness, wild woozy hole into bunny got trapped, with cunt in sunning for golden showers angel hair, I am not spared.

Weary monsters plague in my heart where hopeless lays slain potty rotty snotty and furtive, waves of voices up from the sublime, balk of love, who knew the grail was for swelling tail at a far low tide, alone on beach with its sand and pail turning on toes like dead ballerinas dancing.

Beaches fosters adopted my irish maggots on the mind, partners in crime, wriggle as we eat.

Spills out golden showers, graces that mortal emptiness, splendors my pie call: sides of death.

You are a plate of flying peas. I catch with my breadth. Make love with the breeze.

The Robe

The Math Robe.

Is a quainted with tremors. Shows up counting missile toe, versus party tenses. With intruders, mine feel like mopey moped freaks, conquered by holy spies. Who reak havoc and die. Shakespears untamables, the unnamables.

Quiet and perched in nameless numbers listening to barking like a hog for pig log, the mutiny of masturbation, a steal off their paws, into corners with guffawed with pineal eye.

Discussing uncertain separations —

Had to be dealt with

Pie seeks, pie hides. Crosses river — glorious whirls of contraband and the purging altar. Every Vampire knows rocks off. It being endless endless endless. Love as a stick of dynamite. Consecration of essential tremors.

I am a perennial monkey orchid. I laugh when I should cry. Reason degenerates into a beloved treason. Fountains of red. Oceans of black. Unspeakable and sacred. A haven for gods living in abeyance. I am their vapor, their thralldom, their voluptuous marigold, softly —

The black market. Is not about US and slavery. Slavery here slowly powerfully unraveling. Its bo he me anne freedom.

Rash Mash Remember the Lash Crash

A longing to disappear. Down corridors.

Around the gate house keenest. Across the golf course. Empty full failing.

The purity of a relationship with arriving at the door of death. And hidden inside it caves and tombs of bones and worms and racing through the corridors like lunes, screaming help me help me, falling laughing, disappear where.

Tomahawk and mercilessness. Singing while scalping.

Longings stretching fiendishly up the treacherous leg, estranged by its lovely madness, a reprehensible escape from terror and the contrite. Absurd relishes, lovely, indignant and bruising with wild fears clutching heartbreak, tomb of the roses, as if heartbreak and the absurd are turnovers on a skillet of genius and death — where love, superfuses?

My soaring cunt, wretched sacred vessel — Echoing with monstrous desire, every beautiful atrocity becomes a waste case in my dreams, a culprit, a deceit, its forlorn horror chopped up and chewed into linguistic magic pie — Frontlessly hunting for the unaccountable. Any idea why?

Weasel

And by its hostages, I am condemned?

As a seemliness bordering on disease.

How hear angels giggling — at the edification of evil.

As if

Achilles tender foot — caught in a bold delirious ransom, affixed, captive. Irrepressible.

As if something Greek had finally given way, given in to losing its boundaries.

Greeks thought the limitless — had lost its integrity to the real.

But the real had become transduced by a carrier wave. Set off by something impulsive beautiful reckless whimsical, a violence burning through its exigency, hopeless I was to defend against it.

Once inflamed graces circle and circle —

Like an erupt inexorable portrait of sweeping beauty — a tantalizing bravery.

And yet in it, would burn and sting a cynics defiance too, vigilantly connected to the absurdity of a love forever falling falling falling —

A pietism of boundless immanence glowing beneath its stalwart.

Embezzlement relishing an unspeakable freedom, to explore beauty as sacred and unholy, as obscene, diligent, ludicrous —

Gods arise to smell the beauty that limits are a misery to contain —

Immeasurability

Who plays in its nets. As an emptiness that vets. The real from its provocative allure.

Not my fault you are beautiful, beyond your cups. And that I was born with multiple drawers. A shop for stuffed animals. Seven, counted them.

Justice or injustice — tease and appease, try reason with my bedwork of monsters, all of them gods rimmed in beauty and jacked. The jackets. That strange immortal thing that makes my life impossible. Improbable. Hopeless and immune!

Stand back, watch in vain, as my heart explodes at your withdrawal —

Infected, sordid, ransacked, naked. Yet how I fight back to remain.

How I still I believe in its holy departure.

The grace that folded into it — created room — to exist as something else.

working thru still

Believe in it, like a clue from out of the blue sent to where elephants once went to die?

To grab at life, to tear at core. Defiant over the meaning of death. Against life.

More and more minute variations.

The glorious spoons out of control?

The tyrant sexual nature of gruesome burgeoning flowerettes taking over?

And what becomes of a notion to fly.

Denials made unnecessary

The inevitable returns unawakened, something of its ignobility, its corruption — sound asleep, cold and harmless —

A lazy mazy yearning like a can of disappearing film. Its mischievous amorous emptiness compels me.

Love’s slippery bottom, a heretic dancing with menaces.

Churns thru persona.

Inescapable desire bleeding out their innocence, as the most precious of all the damned. A grace to sin as proof of living.

The unknown — boredoms tyrant throne. The bodiless flying, uncontainable, inside Pandora’s box — The carelessness of innocence?

Is my love careless? Yes. A tyrant taboo. Yes. Forever seeking mediators from the aquatics of sin and the treasury of its hopeless becoming. Yes.

Preposterous — is a vulture of scorn, the visionary lies in it bleeding merciless sorrows.

But its all been borrowed grievously, recklessly from the pornography of horticulture, as a body of the plant. And sways when touched. And revels in thoughts beyond the bellwethers of sanity.

Not Above Hoarding

Every day tip a glass to its continuity.

And to its feather and to its lamp. And, ineffable you.

As a treasure of map, of my exceeding the emptiness with a belief in the living.

Like clouds across a continuous front. Thoughts about you turn imbecilic and glorious.

Girls Breeding Club

Riot descends into quiet. A pillage of reruns and crossroads, the tea kettle of eternity, an endlessness as its own sanctuary.

With no need to die? Only to leaven again and again — the flight of resurrection —

And another torrid rebirth?

Saws keep time. Holy invaders, splurging on hooks. Space is preternaturally open to it.

And salubrity. Rhyme contravenes to test it. Tests soundlessness and the reverb. Sinkers add in negatives — as absolutes create infinity without value. Without mutual destruction?

Love lingers over the health of our fugitives. Disinclined to nihilism —

Last resorts gives way, gives way to process, appurtenance, confessionals, persuasion.

Club News

So I joined a girls breeding club. As a matter of cause and effect.

Agatha, Colette, Clarice, Joanie, Virginia, Syvie, share from here to there, a weepy wandering eye, as gloriole and nation of grief.

The pensive one reads math.

For the endless turn up of new category!

Its a hopeless resistance to existence. Searching for ways to detail — vibrations from circle of the impending unending, as hope and loss sear against upraising skin — like air conspiring to become breadth.

My heart floats across to meet it. Can’t stop its vengeance.

But the vengaence is beautiful. It turns outside back in and inside starts out, a raw balance of pedigree and shame. I circle their hunger, desire for wire.

Grapples ripples purges merges. Into the heart of a gem that has fallen from the sky.

Twixt for Twain

Unzips his pants and says, ten little indians.

Immediately, infinity doubles out into tens.

Gimme a bare wet four for your tender hundred.

You can pay me you can pay me.

For a dance.

Eyes all sweet and laughs askance.

Arrow Wood

Arrows come from the heart deep within, skim off leather — the discovery of oblivions, royal sin.

A bluff of shimmering white ubiquitous basalt —

In a geological series of rhythmites.

Ringold formations from age of floods.

Ripeness, near river, still pours out to shores.

Nothingness is time, and time an insatiable presence? Figments and pigments of theories for the unavoidable.

And for the advent.

Wrapped in a golden tan of blatantly irreconcilable clues.

What’s in a gypsy’s audacity of tin. Escapes to embrace my darling gruesome.

Danger Dogs

Pie is Huge. Pie is zoom. A multi plummeting magnifier. Hunting beach for dead pie, sweet ghastly invasions every moment intensify.

Danger dogs — a gothic sickness? Bandied, vagueried, crushed. Doesnt mean dead? Raging erupt disturbances in Baltic eye — of wretched lovely loopy pie. Hopeless and cunt tankerous, beauties that kill kill will will.

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