Not getting any
Too busy woozy frizzy. Thinking about it. Thinking about it.
Thoughts about death intrude. Thoughts about death always intrude.
Baby punky funky, is sicky picky poor thing. You poor thing. Eyes make faces. Worry then blurry. To avail of the stickiness all aghast as a sickyness, as a freedom to rail, fuck that fuck that fuck that and the abysms that schism, horror frantic boredom.
The ugly tug-ly plugs a hole, in monster of no avail, for a plunder and a tail.
Fuck the fail, the quail. Assail…
Not going to make it. Into what. Make into what?
Its a bird its a dog a hog a log. Superman trails…
Its a pill a sill a fill a mill a hill, and its grim — a grim transitive bimb, simper and whim. For a missing limb.
Terror is a floating island. Smashing into your face. And not being able to breathe. And begging for reprieve.
Red Mold
Slim rim runny gunny spin spin spin — pull the nail out of the sacrificial hymn, gahead jump jump —
See the bunny, even while fucking or fucking up, how bunny changes modes, loads and forebodes, rolls down the hill and folds! attaches to a rock, turns into fuzz grows into colors of red mold, signals danger, green-black mold – a toxic color combination of.
No use leaving now. No use leaving out. Everything begins where it sinks drinks blanks out, fevers skid wildly into symmetries and epiphanies pop pop pop, then exponential differential explodes into a party that knows horror as thing waiting to happen, champagnes burlesque the beautiful gamble for power for more, out of hand its always slippery drippy, magic dances with the tragic. Death fondling stealthily with the absurd. Where once the wicked accrued to it.
Tragedy in thirds in fourths in fifths… Stretching out the beat, finds the repeat.
What is it what is it? Horror parades across the food dial making god smile…
The Is in Not
The what is and not, from spoon to rot. Pole and hole. Top and toll.
Sifting through.
Call it a can. Eating peas out of a can.
Love as an ear to a glass, listening through the walls. Listening to the coils unfold with prickly heat.
Seminal asserts. Flirt with it, trickster closes eyes and subverts it. Look will yam tell. Whims of death bunny co-generators. Tripping crippling tripling, sanity goes hairy. Madness offers itself up as a tiger tail, to shimmer and fish with, calls to you.
Countersigns curdling into a thickness on the sickness, vertical drop hysterical hippity hop response to fun to sea, cop a plea.
Whims, roaring like a hair-i-can cross-fire. Mingles with wranglers, bulges and anglers, thats the best way out of it.
Out of it. Out of what is and what is not.
Pour, core, ring a bell, and soar between whats boring, whats brutal, whats flight, angling angling — out of the night. How madness eats her pie?
“Lost all fondness to reason then?”
“Didn’t say that. Did not say that.”
Ends with grace. Pride of place.
And everything in between?
A sinister plot — t’woo for freedom.
From Death to Madness
Fucking sucking bucking mucking ruc fuck tuck luck buck stuck.
Is the religious, elevated to survival. And wandering through desert, seeking the righteous. Religion blows so hot and deadly.
The world is blowing up? There is always something blowing up. Future is dark and grumbling with mounds of dead puppies, rotting for our land, for our people. No sharing.
Flight night and plight, for treasure pleasure and ? liquid measure.
Words written in clouds hustle for dust “when pall is said and pun.”
“When will that be?”
When the dying stop screaming.
Screams brandishing conditions of desperation as a matter of eradication — hanging bodies, wind, why the noose is set loose. Why I hear it in the wind spin skin.
Why clobber the robber, why love the dispatch. Why shoot the scarecrow.
As if there it is. When will that be?
For once and for all.
Fuck the bartender. Puke in the bathroom. Walk home singing.
MuMMy BunnY
Riding riding, in a car with a Mummy is not the same as flake and bake? Yes no always. Mummy walking, wrapped up in leaky tape, from the movies arms out Mrs. Shelley monster mumbling desperation eyes aflame. Walk like an Egyptian.
Scrabble for love, spells that are a troubled heartsick restlessness plus one, love that exists for something else, for its labour, or chase for a grace, or vampires a-bloom with wispy wretched tenderness never going never coming always too late or too soon. Or just for it to stay alive and be acquainted with what sails through: beauty terror wonder stealth…
There’s got to be a difference?
Every turn a new about face.
She (who must be conveyed swayed –) gets lost in its flower, lost in the electron shower, a flying cup, lost when you say, “aw hell, shut up.”
Lost is another word for no.
No no no. Screaming at me no.
Stranger in the manger or violet in the bush. Penelope pit stop rolls down down the mountain shaking with terror hoping for respite from its oracles of midnight. For the real to reveal. And not again, not again, turn into a sin spin of coyote ugly.
Pick A Number
Take a bath in math. Pick a number. Any number.
Sets are regions. Minds are legion.
How you can fall through an infinite number of empty sets before you hit a get.
Hose flows after a-rose, trapped in a patch of absurdist fickleness wickedness alternately described as — porn with a horn baste in forlorn, or tutless the gutless misery. Delusions of worry drives the divine erratic-a birdland v he call, through my dash and then stays hanging by, with a broken wing. Sounds of disconsent flashing funny bunny money —
Meanwhile. Back on ranchero, letting go all adherence to time and language too as fastened to a starker reality, flying into the face for love or for duty.
Strategies turn tricks on me prostituting dementia is blinding to close to sun bright but its gruesome faculty of time warps through religion and reason turning round my cunt as stunt and bunt and hunt…?
Pilfering undresses the cold in silence? steal spiel…. a sudden wave of contristate —
Every little death, sick and span. Inducing its fizz Liz — in thru out to — every beauty imaginable.
Scars Go Far
Assumes conditions.
Sabotage spells, getting overtaken again and again by a hungry madness for popping off, goes the wicked weasel. Is atrocious and catastrophe.
Madness submitting me to it, rising rising, off the charts. Whats it submitting to. Forces of meaning blinding and blocky, impulses occurring with excruciating beauty and terror, knocks me right off the mark.
Circling negatives —
The in-betweens are a live gimme five in negative space. In sin of pin you guys win, set up and dont let up, my lies tries and flies engage as eyes, sending wendy — ghosts grew up around the prod did gee, joining the fleets.
I felt bad about that, fell through hole of rancid fun, absurd and the gun, empty sets and variables.
Can you run them in reverse? Please…
Leaves a Hole in The Sky
The holes in St. Mary, come in through the heart, up against the soul and grows shockingly thin for skin, and starts counting down, cards upside down, the magic invades, symmetries crave, propagating the folding over going backwards through the mythic, relentless flashes come flying through — as time comes to a stand still.
Do you remember the first time that time came to a stand still. The grief so sudden and complete it opens pie to sky turns into its eye, and then a sudden separation, can hear the breathless prowling, and the sky fills everywhere, and the day is flat and strapped starkly against a separation between eternity, eternal now, and being on the go, caught up in the quick of it —
The eternal in your shoe slips out to let you through —
Grace exists in it, which is its sandwich. Squeezes the lime.
Never happened
Pulleys pulled at me from everywhere, like a pacing cage of peeing in the corner madness…
What smells like hell? a bridge to the sublime.
Too many voices not to be voiceless ?
Fill and kill, clean up the spill. And a snake swimming down my spine.
Something alive in a Resistance. Carnivorus Eruptus. Singularity muckenfucku ness.
Goose egg fortress —
Precious arose let it cunt template, drool into the stew. I love you for showing up whatever it is.
Here there and nowhere.
A lie that sheds the truth.
A clue a clue —
Das ding ding? DAS DING DING. What is that…
Exsuction
Dis dat ding, I walk around shocked much more than I have ever shocked anybody.
Surprise surprise. Exsuction, rather should sound like air sucking through a hose.
Balance look at that balance —- over the edge of plentitude.
Symmetries in the valley, lit her in the alley.
Train of thought, poor Titan forget me nought bought or what nought vomitus up from comical — to the routine, rabid pavid luctual and wellaway balene.
Bib lick all.
Let it come in, let it float across your flowerbed as a red cross aide. Come wearing a banner. Sue frou get.
Druid fluid golly Molly and a wall full of squirrel.
Every time the graces touched the madness became rapt.
Rapture is a dangerous lift drift graft my grift Thelonious Are Buckle.
The gift (and grift) of meadow and branch, of crew hill teas and avalanche.
Restlessly time for a crime to rob a rhyme. Tiger tiger. Blake lets love in.
Anyway.
List traits. Aches and takes. Medusa’s raft who the fuck else, spins array.
Woe the down low dark and hand me some, sundial bunny and bone, titillating after delicacies in the absurd became an inescapable pattern.
Of missed steps? of melt downs? or woe be gones, or going beyonds…
Under the waterfall — and around the bends. It all depends.
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