horrorscope. for Haute le Couer. god awful.
a mining horror. the whole place, ditch down deep, topples in on her. like a warped call for justice that ends in unspeakable tragedy – and the only way out is through devious means!
hell bent sirens cracked this up. Haute is now calling it the Frankenstein years.
long playing industrial ragout skipping through magical tirades, skill less maneures of profound love
and a greatly unsaturated paste for sighing trying trading in postage stamps.
despised, she despised it, ceaseless ad campaigns.
churn churn churn themselves out, under siege, the restless rejects these scraps of her beauty as tarrifs of terror, and instead vindicates love in ripe slick morbid relief of morning glories oh pink red and black the horror story.
lunge into the tropics. waif. its gotta be a waif. whose fabulous bug nymphal fatalities of a glorious snapping fly swatting doom.
to the light. angles whisps spun through casks of delightful femme fatal tragedy of moon river diving after –
diving after diving after
sublime living in moments of death over and over again –
slurpy Haute looks around at cold spent room loots every inch of a drunk she is she can bet herself against, ravaging after moments in the treasure of time –
all the avalanches and recombinations of a bridge to the depository, Haute le Couer’s inanity breaking up in pieces of shame reversals gangland beauty as terrors risk to enter flame.
Haute calls it stealing barest necessities to just get through the Frankenstein wars
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