Lucy switching television, falling into sleep where plays over porn and wantum random thoughts in and out of swoon ocean drifts, curse of the perched.
Agatha snorts searching for “tremors” in semiology.
The endless defenseless ramps to replete.
Lucy says shut up. Be gentle.
Lucy wants Hieronymus to collaborate.
Be undead. Cold turkey.
If for nothing else — to help Agatha stay in key.
A Body or Knot
A body in fiction.
Raised for signs in dark and tunnel, the wind the wind.
Where disaster burns into a grace of anger and death, at age 7 —
The fallen. The fallen again into a battle, rage, consternation, denial, Jaysus buttons dangling with sword and anguish — A ripping lolly.
Void and vacuum — Its treachery reprisals domain and arrogation of tantrum — defending its turf?
Suddenly Lucy can’t remember what of it?
Agatha says: She loves him for helping, for lightening strike, if nothing else, it never pardons. It’s poison it’s freedom —
Love can be a holy thing,
What does she mean? Hieronymus asks, he is painting another birdman. Sticking it inside teeth.
Something brutal ruthless and intoxicating? This makes him laugh with a tug of sorrow and gaminess. He lightly dapples a wing with powder of white — smiling with combinatorial ecstasy over birds as reproductive of human effigy.
Hieronymus paints in metanome.
Tracks it, with lists: let it flock and grow pawky to provoke evoke transfigure mutations that reek of time, place, logic, deeds, distance, crime, heresy, tergiversation, penance, principle, murder, witchcraft, phenomenology, tears of shame…?
Seven times 700.
Get Cost Of
To die in arms of elevated suspense.
Lucy had to get away. Rushes that come over in a respiratory wave —
Elements of beauty and scent of lust — lust searching searching for one of its own.
Titillation and turbulence,
From spark of lust to royal inanity.
Lucy churtles, yes yes yes. Peaking at hilltops.
Agatha asks: Dante’s fucking hilltops?
Yes, Hieronymus adds at visionary points of oblivion.
Agatha decides, lets lunch with Dante.
But Erasmus shows up. With his love frames of folly — Lucy calls the Holy Up Your Surd.
News and hues, Erasmus coos, endless love and the infernal drama.
Angels are such a havoc, still Lucy believes in sweetness, believes in cavorting.
Screams for mercy that awash over desire, says Hieronymus — sacred blood percolating with mysterious affection amid flashes of fire.
I paint to stop being consumed by terror.
Agatha exhorts. And waits. Till the line breaks.
Strobes against the wall (around China).
Something dark, resembling emptiness, looks down on pot to piss in and shivers violently.
No it isn’t.
Yes it is.
Neither knows the other knows, or what the other knows.
Making the unknown a thing full of suspense.
Awaiting revelation? Something combustible. Hieronymus puts a duck in a noose — Riveting even, deadly and yet desirable. Behind the miracle of existence desire pines by the hour.
Time bore-holing successive visions of hunger, desire, horror, suddenly seers through —
Lucy yells: girls on film. Caught in an expression of coming (while ‘thinging’)?
Restless reaches for otherness awakened by its beauty its hunger sorrow atrocity. Rhythm and pain of orgasm,
Lucy walking through. Dressed in black green white photo filtered camouflage track pant and black ribbed top with embroidered emblem of a V with fingers on it.
Thick levels of sneaker.
Inside, she stops, in front of a precocious mash fake 24 x 36 plate glass inset, printed chromatically.
Of Baudelaire and his mum.
Background is blurred vintage photofleurography black and white fussied up with a rhapsodic strewment of floral disruptive.
Foreground swiped with saturated bits of scratch and pilus.
Lucy mouths at the camera Poe says hello.
Baudelaire having been first to translate Poe into French, with the help of his mum.
Baudelaire’s mum, in dark ruffles, to the throat, hooped full skirt. Quarter turned in chair at table with a pointer against paper and there she awaits him.
Baudelaire’s eyebrows commensurately outlandish. Stands in art smock, haunched over, backed by heavily drenched shadow as mantle of light. 1200 Euros.
Lucy sighs. Money, naw.
T is for Timeous.
Cowboy walks with a mournful gate his heart listening listening for train whistle to blow.
Targets glow below scarred but hungry.
Decides will shove it all. Be a weatherman.
Harmless harmless harmless. Hail harmless.
You Want It Wilder?
Lucy wants. The nothing and everything.
Desperation is a kind of extortion.
That is exquisite and mortified. Sometimes she finds it hard to breath.
A vast weariness erupts between what is and what isn’t.
Her heart a factory overspilling with resurrections of flower.
Lucy screams: I have no vase.
Agnes mumbles adoration of cock is a different kind of license. Playful nubi furies around any corner screeching hunger and shame. Beauty has to fight every inch of breath — to scale nails, wrists rip to escape it.
Money demands payment.
Scraping by day by day by day by day.
Focus lured rides out rides out in rave bathing rallies of figurative desire that pound beach with waves of thirst, and want of breath, also endows (with cock) like a sacred rash purpurating, sweet mutilations, terror stretched to the heavens.
Gape and ransack the sublime like gods jerking off to sounds of thunder, this very young Lucy didn‘t understand why but it swallowed her like a fish.
Not stop, Lucy making gross declarations of resistance — to the acceptable. Won’t stop can’t stop.
Astonishment at voices screaming in the dust, battling with virtues worship of absolutes bedeviled with loss.
Murder row Agatha calls out — the profound intensity of femicide.
Murder of want for royalty and privileges explodes with merciless immediacy — soaks and burns for a rummage against tether of skin — lets signs touch grace, plagued for laughter, stings, pulverizes.
Run run run the scream, go leave come, the scream hopeless, so hungry for him, to sleep beyond the shadow of death.
Hopeless with defiance, its horror aches all the way down, gloat and useless with pride. Sandwiched between deaths. Covered in lung.
To The Niches
Murder at Rue la Marigold forms at tongue of blue sky nose against casement, stuck stuck, for an escape.
The Deadly as Agatha calls it burning with payback.
Always allures at side a track, furtive for piston, the royal ramrod, up up up from oceanic sacred cock and spur. Up up against virtuosity of its limitlessness as ghost of a chance.
As tillage at holy cross — holy cross is always at crossroad — of beauty with death, its body of faith a miraculous martyrdom, pledged against the pugatory of existence — death at every moment being lost to time, beneath quaver of her skin, violently preened to resurrect sexual immortality.
Lucy cries how the fuck your cock mystifies, anger at its urgence sweeps her under a surge of waves like a drowning mercenary. Arms up waving for charity, the long goodbye…
Angels are beyond forgiving. They engage in its odd a sea, counterpanes of sympathy, sunlit fields of gesture.
edited up to here//Blue Livid
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 –