God Awful And Relentless To Boot.

Smoking Mirror

Work in Progress. DESCRIPTION. This is not done. Its still god awful. Its about living as a flatfoot in hell, mired in drama and hunger, is forlorn dutiful tainted vain glorious and stubborn. Some of it works, but there are still paragraphs that are so going for it – that it comes off as well a crazy dwarf – will turn mainstream off like a faucet thats shot off its water line. Thankuforreading – Celine you remember Celine showed up (ok visions of the dead), twice now, sticks his cool cat head around corner by fridge in a checked black and white bow tie thats dangling like he just got off – from working it, thick black wavy hair, pug nose, big brown brogues lightly dusted, he is waving something at me – a bright green chartreuse shoelace – but has a hanky up to his nose like Satchmo (who bled at lip) and says – honey, dont worry be happy. Celine like Pound was jailed after ww2 for a year – as a collaborator. A high pitched voice (like market call from recording of girl selling cut rate resort vacation packages) giggles & confesses: I love collaborators.


CAL WAS searching for a bellibone midst palpable fusions of untrustworthy Greek. Pound’s translation of Sappho’s poem that got rejected as not in accordance with earlier standards issues fillers in. Pound’s blank but beautiful like Haiku Japanese. Language bandied with mock cackling suffusion. Cal thought: emptiness learning how to bleed.

His honorable, a cut-throat eidetic parvenu, Cal called Dumpy, eidelons arranged themselves into names of gunslingers, this one Dumpy had slid in again as between wall and wallpaper. Blood was a wooze that oozed at him as light through window breaks. Wretched wars between farters and snorers. When a revelation struck a giddy sting illegal its illegal and lurched him into ransom for the gods its illegal with saltatory spasm of something definitely greedy & no less mystifying.

A wankers favorite place to be.

Thick hues scurried. His house had low-ceilings it was a cottage with treated wood facade faded, some pieces at corners cracked off, wind fallen, blue green that he covered with tar and treated sandpaper and 2nd coat of tar and spray painted – till fix later. Three and 1/2 rooms whose shade ricocheted between dark and light. Every flat surface hostile hosting piles of mail and books and glasses, plates made it to sink, he soldiered thru the dirt. Bosom tightening a heart full of quiver of a brutal resplendence – beckoning almost, well godlike. Cal felt the shadow of death – forlorn and restless cross his arm nearly gave him a shiver.

Death, that is, the Inquisitor. (Bergman’s book on Images.)  Death procures cautiously? curiously. Lonely and haunting in corner (under Brown’s on material poets/scientists The Limits of Fabrication).

Cal dug & dug as thru a devious impenetrable well his mind rutt and cast with deciphering its potents skittish peppy pantomime dogged distant stinky replete grave and poisonous, enthrall – if not believed. Cal had many beefs that swarmed with beauty and reality of down trodding hell. Taunted by gauntlets begging randy scorn to storm bullyrag to acquire fuel and tarmac in sparkling absentia, zero makes it flat, in any direction –  

The lovely lord of maths skimming the Intransigence – battling with tempo. Raging, wired, testy, troubled, wry, distant, like a sanctuary of beauty and death, stark stung too many times not to know its situational, a dormants fuzzy lazy quaint squinting squalor, lights were off as long as he can to save dolares, this small house –

Front patches of lawn brown, he mowed maybe once a summer but weeded and seeded never, few be the furniture, sifty, dirty, impossible! fenced. Even the front yard. Fenced. Like a goatherder. Lovely wide ears big brackish nose. That could twitch. Praises to gods forlorn. 

Ghosts are ferocious. Gespenst. German spectres laughing at dawn. Arose and soured drenched unquenched by intoxicating smells of sweet slurring lurid defenses, a loud raven birding like hunger after its patch for poison berry flowers. Berries marked it. Flowers cut the poison. A saddle goes into battle blessed and cursed, riding an enemy whose blood sings high and bly – and guts his thirst.

Cal is unable to hold back, dutifully curses and nurses it – the pull is a swamp in late afternoon like buzzing insects singing for darkness. Heart sloughs like a rainbow toppling in after, buckling with the insistence of mystery and misery – enigmatic blusters could hold Cals attention for long lost hours. Approaching the catalog?! (what is this, jazz?) perverse and crazy or lazy if not insane or on edge of its false convictions – false means what, astonishment.

“Freedom” a bespeckled voice in a basement, a mutant lover of things that like death and love moved however dreary and cartoon cinema, voices staging jumps into battle for the ruins of time and all that horticultural squalorology sublime. Voice inside a voice inside the fist of you – descending…

Holy water. Cal aching partaking for holy water that lovely holy fire imposes. Raging with scares, ardent hopeless dust-collecting arts so ruefully exposes – This will willow ill fill nill spill skill still may never part. Its desires covet sun and moon fall back fall back aghast a-gasp obnubilious obmurmurings simmering low stillness threads a calling howl through ramp and oceanic loom, where beauty and evil scud and dray. For those who can not meet half way.

Heart devoured, loft like stench, moseys in after the divine posies restless concubines an alarmingly lethal sketchy map – where marauders of the soul kill to eat as much as pray. (“An autocrat tic tic-a tic train pulls up “to get back at them, for going away” and doesn’t shut up. Go back pulls him back — ) Sacrificial larva burning furibundo with triggers of bluster and cage and ruin, torn apart by gods of sun and flame – where slavery stuns. And theres no one to blame.

And by this strangeness dangling as by steed with toil and foil and noble invidia tacit turns wag-on-wall most impractical haremlick, sword by my love grew and grew uncontainable in pants – a gun is a drug is a beautiful bloomer dutiful host unzipped it, and with Onan’s wretched claw, all things unjust could be made holy – 

A vision of horror releases gates of madness from their furor – reaching after peak for a leak, the excess extemporaneous reels itself in by charging death a final reward stuffed with all mysteries of blood – slaves, its been recorded were by Aztecs slaughtered in the round their skin skinned & entered for uncanny beauty that thrives like gods hunger for duty, to your death, a beauty bursting out beyond tests, of time coconut and lime –

A gift to and from the gods, their coveted skin! exuviated, don the death, don the thing, ensorcelled in arms and legs of slaves dripping with majestic sacrificial blood of omen and death as a possession of god, his heart, his dick soared with violence – mirrored in the unforgotten lands boiling over in the sands its sweetness burning burning with symmetries lash and burn the sword hordes and rotting boards he covered over with coiled rugs, keep dry surfaces –

Vegetation burn to organic chemistry as fertilizer. Subsume the real. Ballast, hard squeezed  –

& forever unrevealed – 

As beauty’s greatest toll unleashed its arts thru wars of sorrow – unwavering thresholds raided with billowing gusts of Tezcatlipocas stubborn lust – to peaks of festering worm and spurn. As out it spilled liberated from coif to nil, the vengeance be letting go – A face comes up blank, huffing and puffing, then streaked with paint – blue and green – as silence rolls in like fog – 

Relief is always surprised by its remembering.

A young ferocious Cal with painted cheeks – at 7, at full run – round around the basement, a rod in hand that swears on mark forever more to chuck up the lark. Death his only partner – a grave but brutal friend. With naked eye a warrior defies in search of love and loss and lies bound to beauty and abyss – a fire worshipper, as he was when born again – lonely and shot-after, escaping in the mute basement like mold from half awaking sounds of headless deaths the serene metaphysical ignicolist.

A wave washed over of truant love, its ghost compliant as a bitch – plugged and strung out, deviant as if as if on stomach drooled its blood. Cal suddenly doubled over with a crick. He knew he knew he had pushed it. He leaned back cut up. Had to get up – Dizzy with disgust disgrace the mumbo jumbo of holy hate. Leaned weak against the doorframe sweating – send off – 

Meat the bate set the plate damned with brave gruesome righteousness of early youth – soul in violent play unlocks a haul of waging sword for squalor of wound – Hung with wings that certain feast of beauty and the slain. That rumbles across like music at a train –  

Mutilated Cal pushed onward. Hand to wall, out he went down thru the hall, opened back door. Only to sit on steps outside in back and stare at grass and chain linked fence there was nothing there but grass and trees and air some bushes summers eve heavy in the air he wondered blankly at invisible powers of believing quietly in heaven.

The spasm its beauty lifting suddenly a breeze, all that more wonderful because because of the wonderful things he does. Of its giganticidal relief. Cal laid back, hands behind head, back door steps made of concrete, knees came up as in a look out cubby, shoulders wedged between outside wall & railing.