Frank in a Stein & Whip Poor Wills/Body H8


Two words: slavery and freedom. Spark like a train whistle blowing high and stark, in dank dark treasury of Pinky’s bosom impossible with love and merit like a train beating back the wind, by powers and sorrow of love. As whistles howl long and low along the byways with brute material ecstasy at all who Pinky’s dracula loves. Frankenstein and music. Like a chart on wall of bombs dropping. Music explodes with candor and lust and misery and mystery. I hate you. I love you. I need you. I fall. Ride the mercy seat.

Reach! Slippery fascinations, dirt pouring as a liquid like nectar of sparkle and bleach out of Pinky’s startled mephitic fowl (as in bird) beak, a rude heave of wonder drowns as a bunny volcano – a swampland arcadia, a terrible sound, like theatre tuning strings.

On some measure ecstasy tinged by horror is always a thing devout. A face agape with race against death, at worlds of Stinky’s feet – thick with the souls of angels being thrown right and left hanging percipitous by a string.

Pinky at window pounding suddenly “they are coming they are coming.”

Pillow Talk

Everytime Pinky thinks of Stinky she thinks of his shoes. She thinks of the souls of his boots. Thick ringed black bottoms like for climbers, jut for jags with mock burial cut outs. Stomping stomping across wood planks warped with tread. She hears chewing noises and farts muffled and druid like creaks in wood weights on cellar beams.

And there is absolutely nothing she can do about it but putt putt putt, carefully quietly Stinky’s tomb of unknown soldier putt putt putt back into its earnest grave wide asleep.

Stinky good as rolls over, his belly falls out, yawns wide – not unhappy with digs or eats.

More farting semi-mindless he helps it along, gives it strength – of the noise it makes serenely not unawares. Cave of The Wind shows up dressed in a beautiful Indian blanket. With a mandella map of rings widening widening like waves in ocean from fell of ancient tree. Aglows as a Christmas ghost: out out out with those chains –

This rebuffs Stinky’s pillow, its eider down puffing up again, good pillow. Snug once expensive & soft, unrelenting.

Toungue in Ear

Pinky sticks her tongue out, at Stinky’s big ears. As if roars a skuffle in pirate years, ticked-off leaps with endearment & darkness, torn apart by bravery, falling through chasms of mad muddy hell, the beast in her plaintiveness, scurries across the wavy lines, carpet of her soft cell –

Angels are battling with batting wings, louder too loud too loud oh no she looks at their faces in pool of yellow stark star light sees a thousand thousand fractures and waving arms of multi armed gods, whose gestures are brazen, lubricious, bottle necked, reflects widen into circles, grave brave maze of circling sounds –

All of a sudden blobs up in her throat a pinwheel, shiny and spinning obliquely for the reckoning, silver blue and pink and white, and yet hand to gods muscle, sheer randy, pure bright blight.

After Effects

Laughter that laughter that really is a demons feral sigh, hollow as a wooden spoon, a sudden snort at very very back of Pinky’s stiff neck, the whole thing is compromised compromised –

Smitten by doom, love in the fire swamps – danger, unskilled sirens honking wail with emergency.

Somebody scortched themselves. Wisdom comes from folly but that doesnt change its essential character.

Prowl & Growl

Dancing bears beat their chests growl as viscous ruesome liquid bubbles from inside corner thin black blue lips.

And in the gift shop window is a blanket with wild beasts drawn as cubs with playful mouths and big impotent feet. Matching kids pajamas, underwear. A person whose sole job for the hour is to walk around only to ensure that all remains stuffed neatly into their folds humming along with piped in bells ringing version Beethoven’s Ode to Joy.

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