V 4 some paras beginning to come together still needs tons of work
Agatha walks into Lucy’s hide out like piped in music, and says “shut up.” Doubtless from Lucy watching too much television.
It’s too up-to-the-minute and desperately hurts. Wants him to collaborate. Cold Turkey.
No no no.
Somebody reverts to age 7, chest pounding through to vocal cords till they turn hoarse, anguish, denial.
Something about this is a tantrum defending its turf.
Suddenly Lucy can’t remember what that would mean? She loves him.
STOP STOP IT already. Agatha exhorts.
Evidently she has come to the rescue. And waits. No it isn’t. Yes it is.
Together they look.
Picture on wall of arthouse, the in laws are visiting.
Lucy stops before precious precocious mash fake 18 x 24 expensively printed.
Of Baudelaire and his mum, a background blurred vintage black and white, overtly wiped with translucent saturated bits of memorabilia of murder (and its detection), fussied up in a complaint of impossible flowers.
They she knew were well known for translating horror stories and murder fiction of pee pie Poe first French edition. When an outright act of devotion aligns with maternal ambition.
Baudelaire’s mum is dressed in black ruffles, toe to throat, a hooped full skirt. Sitting in quarter turned chair, over quarter turned table, with point against paper, she awaits.
Eyebrows of son, hunched over, in a thick of light, through ghostly yonder window breaks, collared Art Smock. Lucy loves it. Its $800.
Argument of sullen importance and deeply welled, in screams of tantrum and horror, just before surrenders to death.
Depth of a word before it falls apart, as in galleys of them, rowing, out to the rocks the rocks, for pulling skeet.
Wanderers watch, from down the beach, soon they are all in suitable frocks. Then sit then get drunk. Two bottles and a cot. Drunk.
Until enough, she can stand on corner preaching to passerines in Spring as scamper through woods secreting art store memorabilia.
But but but.
Trail is touchy. Hop along mournful walking over a holy cost of dead body, distant zombies listen, listening for train to whistle.
Cant stop the music, cant stop it, NOT stopping.
Targets below, glow with beauty and turmoil.
Lucy decides she is going to make abstract textiles out of outlandish dispossessing Picasso cartoons, and is harmless harmless harmless.
Sister Theo wants to be goo-ed.
Allures of King, lusting all, and a languid frantic fall. WTF.
Desperation is a kind of extortion. Gorging on pandemonium of bugs in bed, itching up leg, full stop crisis.
In secret violent as a desert mummy’s tomb.
Wizards opening doors in a blizzard that whip shut – before, just before – everything goes under,,,
You can kiss his middle spoon.
You want it darker?
Factory always implicates a blow job at joints and overspilling with resurrection of destiny, with flowers swung out of window, Lucy looks down at her coveralls, she has no vase.
It all comes out of the shadows. Eyes whirling.
Hopeless and thick with love adoration is a kind of license, made out to heaven with orders to love.
Always the Wrong Way
But something stomachy scraaping by day by day, rides out rallies in waves of terror, always ends up the wrong way.
Thoughts pillaging the sublime, she doesnt understand why cant stop the voices screaming as everything breaks apart, sighing, laughter stings and pulverizes, runs away, hopeless, hungry,, defiant. Unable to make it stop.
Lucy goes back to working down on the docks.
Horror aches its way down, everywhere in the mines, gloat and useless with pride. Sandwiched between deaths. Covered in lung.
To the Niches
Murder at Rue la Marigold, searching for an escape, against religious martyrs and Gaurdian plotters.
Bored fraught constrain constrain. Make work of drawing Constraints of White Coat.
So intimate in its nature, in its village assembly, can’t stop stealing angels from doorways, in nape of harm, emergency loud BOMBINATION buzz buzz buzz!
When a moment is arosen from breathlessness, mother of god.
On again off again!
Wait wait wait –
Racing blue overalls unheated garage standing at pitch of race patched all over in fuels and vehicle, in worried corner, how any moment a death may turn the whole game, decalled in flame, happy trails.
As much for exonerating as for the condemned. Every day over and over again, battled to a thirst.
Demons have long memories, forever laughing at collywobbles and agonies, stupid cupids wretched Furies.
Production Takes a Stand
Fuzzy scarf ribboned with pom pom, skates through, snapping fingers, singing out, like its too is programmed in. You can disdain. Or you can dance and laugh your way to infamy.
Huddling every night with screamers.
Keep with it girls keep with it. Music blaring.
Attention to detail, full of heart.
An arc du ciel painted at entry, but at point, where curves in, where recurvates, somehow devout kraut, winding the clock frantic everywhere, thats Mobius whip of the wisp dynamic.
Piratical and parrot friendly, making traces. Shuffles shuttering pantomime because present tense stopped at cannery
In a stil
Spirits, withal will.
Camara dances and snaps doing shots. He is everywhere. Lucy is nowhere.
Audibles mock it as a scam.
And becomes a dug out cratered to a candle and tomb like a bed of halos but zombie’d there masturbating.
And Great Expectations widow is in costume of cobwebs with bubble blower and bottle. And assortments lace fans. The tingling entangle in torture, francephone feast.
Running Out of Excuses
Lucy, wearing her bar face, but dwarfed by fright of vigils with Virgil, plastered, hanging on so tight to looseness of sublime present yet unpresent with liquid face of time, every moment around him a grace. You can call that fucked up. If you want.
Agatha and Chandler meet and greet. Detective man splains. Because there has to be a murder out there – waiting to be figured out, because it’s a reckoning with time and place.
And murders would necessarily have to mount up, or else there is no voyage to rapture via Armageddon, no sweet abyss?
No nutjob kablooey, no holy marginal entertainment.
Murdered or murderess?
WTF. Lucy’s hand swinging, small buttoned-on-cloth purse, in posh woolen trou, walking down a slope of green. Lost in categories that are vaguely dimensionless walking walking walking.
But then, it’s just another day, no way.
And all is unattended.
It’s 14 degrees out on snow in sneakers with a red striped scarf that is definitely not wool. Categorically possesses no wool at all, basically thick plastic doesn’t do a very good job at keeping her warm, even though looks like it should. Cheap fluffy mittens covered in frozen snot. A hungry broke teenager.
And the distinction reads: Anything anything anything is worth it, as neck rolls back a headful of mouth and cries out “really” more like a rolled pitched howl between clamped teeth to silent skies, before pushes chin back down into neck again, as low as can go, hands shaking to warm awake fingertips stinging violently from the cold.
Anything anything to blast ailing inadvertencies out from her choke heart on all sides of something, a vague lavish silent show in shimmering slivers of mobius Lethe, tantamount at times to a kettle screaming shut me off stupid.
Like flowers fused in verdigris many nudibranch colors, in sunken outgrowths, subdivisions of d –
For doom. Word appears out of a bedsit sink. Launching with a defiant emptiness but pig-knuckled and over bright at orifices.
Rhymes with Sloom
Lucy had an aspirational nose for fiendishly unsub contempt – like a frame off its hinge. Doomed to silent treatment.
Yet she’d always surrendered at precious half moments before thick oppression of dawn anyway, yes.
Yes yes! its worth it OK its STILL worth it, every belly up, spray of the day, anything to swage.
Massive drifts, looming up from ghost of Hell’s children, churly, morose, obstinate, fall away wash away fall away. . .
To slow action retrial obscurantist Belamour – with little death its purpose. Come kill beside me.
Arrivista at statute of the virgin Mary of St. Francis from hill to a slope, down from town, down from code: Academy, reaches backyard the nuns retreat.
Where they’d quadrangled stones bound in regimental pasture four corners in and about the blessed rotary and a few bare winter trees.
Lucy tipped up on curled cold feet, whirring through teeth a company of noise in a mad purr full of beat beat beat, as stepped stone to stone.
The footpath otherwise deserted. Circling like a bastard hug at chaste and nest with violent tool fraughts of gun culture immortal.
Silence posed in cold attenuation from every empty direction, Lucy haunching forward in a poly red plaid bomber with fur fuzz at waist also pink.
Skin smarting a blue raw red. And in the distance a mauve blue grey rolling arable sublime, roof stripe, silent, peaking in once through gauze, ranch pile made of local stone, with a sparse-sh very clean living room, and more code of silence.
Beauty gone blessed quiet, harsh quandaries shivers quivers livers speak not bleak.
A long last look, at pillar of veiled virgin, like a branding iron praying to sink into its frigerific and skin.
Cold old child. Hell is hot for plot and scurry and reason. And bells are murderous and silent. Maybe inside they had bells.
Notions & verities
Comes across seas, burns in from the outside and yet and yet hinged on the armature, coil and voltage, of astronomically teratoid subterranean feelers.
Notions and verities, not unattendant upon real. Happens every time Lucy arrives at another impasse.
Holy gobsmacked – by whatever, the rebirth or sudden death. Pulled in again again, alive alive to every tandem mutation!
What should not be obscured, is any Frankenstein couthy implication.
xxx this is old
Of innocence under attack again, as from inside out it’s a monstrous counterintuitable revelation. Its breach and decline, hysterically code of honor hard to confine.
Corks off incredulous, empty, staring out hotly in token broken despair.
Up throws a wonder wall of charred angry blankness whose holes will doubtless be rigorously pecked clean.
Stares with a quandary, at a great big random noise of shocking fettered nothingness, rampant, ferocious, unredeemable.
A Circus Merry-Go-Round functionary, with big green gloved hands and red ears, in bright plastic overalls, shows up suddenly and says “its back to the tubes for me.”
Revelry when turns tawdry, over bright and calliope, but for the privilege of being born, with a purple propensity for the humbling freak show.
Soup to throwing nuts.
Lucy is a romantic beast hounding edges of desire espoused to Jesus, and his romantic upheaval with loving an unmerciful god. Except in death.
Turns out it is not forgiveness Lucy is after.
But to loop through the Passion again. Absorbed by its lodestones and hitting “the reaches” and beckoning with forlorn finalities, eating itself from the inside out.
As a surreal place of depth.
Arising beneath the equators of the moon, a lark that is broadly cliche’d – and all the images pop up on parade. Like beetle juice but as lady-in-the-lake, underwater at the borderline where lurks that breaking freeness of insanity.
A pressure cooker pressing down on the grotesque insomnia of oblivion throwing up its frantic treasures, driving after a devious serenity that hawks at edge of madness.
Biggest thirst for Lucy of all of all of all are other people! And the same other people. But when it gets bad (its not always bad) it goes first family freudian, chained to mystery of birth, thats 1+1 = 0, both murderous and suicidal.
Dark days where dawn bears heavy marks of disdain, shame, tantrum, lust, stupidity, in trouble everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
Longing for any sin of skin to break her slavery from that miracle of its feuding empty pilgrimage.
Flesh stuffing fish into mouth. A cog driven to the dirt face first. Sublime picks its way through the cliche searching for time. It’s not diabolical. It’s reaching for the surface –