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) and a silence of being and worry about family ties.

But at its lip meanwhile urges a slippery rebellion, from the hip, becomes breathless and dreamy and breezy and fundamentally climbing. There are no edges, the edges slip into performance, and everything is graded against madness and death. Worries that triggers will fill the space with madness’ tyrannies and hand-sitting becomes gravely evident.

Everything stops.

And wonders. And prays. Not to milk tragedy? for thunder and drink, the beauty of noise. For whom the bell tolls. And contempt bristles like mother of love, hungry for eyebrows. At bottom of every grift is a daft wild thrift and a hungry distance that turns liability into a fist.

Crafty, meticulous, and defiant. Oh meticulous, that stolen blue river of theatre, break the glass! Fumes a-lumen. Danger? Old naughty frays. Destiny is haughty, belligerent, sweet, estranged & serving up to please – as if for my da, whose outreach was awkward, repulsed as horror is desire, and its tension a mockery of the flesh, and all there is that can be – becomes packed into a box of death, that is shy & daughterly.

At end of day – greatest friends are only those who let themselves love. Regardless odd and stuffed. As a migrating bird accost with hopeless reflection whose blunders never cease being what induced Joyce, a wild jealousy-gravid hotbed fangled with everything fucking literary under the sun.

Scarlet febricity. Dove in dismay. Nervous as a Ninny horse. Flimsy as film with everything magic and tragic, watching happy ending XMAS movies, and scuffling with the concrete, a booby trap of inner-tube & rapids manic and fidgety, suddenly tossed into violent lovely mutiny – allay allay? the whispering fray.

All & nothing.

But a sod tree of life, swarming with fetid vapors, holy with death, sublime for lofty diligence, a lamplighter’s prism of twilight, duty, beauty, contempt.

Dreams’ dramas team with brutal want & savior, reap and buoyant with  deep-laid conjunctions – what is life beyond life, cuts like a religious knife, the wily sog of song and suggestion, Sorrows’ body of hate, Sweetie’s surface of love, battling to the bone.

Sweetness screams for supremacy. Everybody else just groans – 

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