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’s table. Who any day at a drug store dreamt she could learn how to clean more, had on her dining table a vast Plague of cleaner Spray.
Intention filled Crazy Mary’s state of grace with emergency, through the wind of a mystery it blew – till subscribed a stagecoach – your kidding a stagecoach – has to be a stagecoach – round the bend beyond Stumpville, she sat with laced gloved hand –
Signing was all she knew.
Victor de Loveleye
Victor de Loveleye, Glows friend, out at deep and crippling recesses of all the pretty torments, too lived in hourglass hell, grumbling with sacred terminology, precious sensitivity to flashes of image – love, beauty, tragedy.
Glow Weeny ventures to guess that hers too is a heart irredeemable.
This she says after getting in bed with Yeux-de-Chauve-Souris.
Glow loves to sleep next to Yeux-de-Chauve-Souris burrowing as a belt hole.
Saying moon, grievous ancient indicator.
The listing of its shadows and treachery, as transit monstrous, quizzically numbing, a profounder gentler robbery.
Carefully Glow must always proceed, on any question of faith, as die hards are locked inside Virgils gruesome bloviator like Procrustes Bed –
With pillows all gone to seed.
Now Glow declares for umpteenth, its an epitome – up from the bellows, a hollowing out of darkness. A hollowing out of the moon. Because of its revolution. A spanish Magicada, a screaming metamorphose, slinky and grumbling – born out of darkness.
Alone and forlorn, wagering death. Suddenly there is nothing nothing but a man. Going up a hill, pushing a mower.
His is an eternity expelling with ordeal, interlocken with passage and greed, impossible and stoic with violence, radiant and awkward as a bucket of chucked peas, yawning against waves lyrical brave insoluto, involute –
Horror has a power of grace. Horror dumps on everyone, miraculously unleashed from a forever undying oceanic creed, one of shadow and sex and strict methods where murder impedes –
Every girl knows this. That she is drenched in blood of altar, seismic, roaring holy slumber. It burns thru genes as flickering lattice – Cold is its ruthless benchmarks. Like a battle zone, frieze.
Yeux: How thuh moon more than thuh stars grows urgent to relieve itself (he wags his stick) of glorious insufferable ardors –
Glow mummblesmmmI dont know, I dont know, sips it clean at his finger tips.
Ba ba ba ba.
Later she whispers to the migrant moon after Yeux falls asleep, her knees turned in, his back at her, a toe into crotch between back legs, her chin to hand to sill, the bed was shoved up right next to an old chain-pull window.
Madness, a dream all culprit, vantaged to a profoundly unslakable thirst that like the moon is coveted in shimmering dead silk.