Weave it be

Ricochets with pastiche, a wasteland clean up, the urgency, bordering on subvicious a plait of silly methods, to stay the hive –

Sub meaning under the waves, searching for thunder and fathoms in beauty, until something breaks.

Breaks, what could break?

Monkeys come in first.

Then beauty reckons with me you shit, says gentle Clairette.

Dont let monkeys go – Packy screams.

Dont let monkeys go, thats todays thing.

No Cleo says, who is a dirty bench for a white cat periodically – I let the monkeys drain out of it. Again.

Cleo has slats. Gathers the anointed. Be brave.

Clairette says, just dont act diseased.

Packy disagrees. Says its crash test plumb bunny when you let disease invade logic.

There are many ways to strip each other to a sexual slave encounter, that is misery, and flay the other, says Underground Man – with loves want of forsaken tenderness.

Lights are blinking. Horn bellows. Dredges up from night river. A modern pleasure craft, dumping its waterlit composte.

Nothing here, says captain.

Who else knows about this?

Conspiracies sift through, preternaturally.

Door and Thor

Cleo is sheltered in dungeon as poisoner of prisoner: its written into beach towel with blood. From before she was born.

Born a gnome dwarf. Given to and lived life as a gnome dwarf, but believes all destitution survives in god, its hands covered in blood, so everything is costly dense hoodwinked impenetrable.

The hammer. Pounding.

Wake me up door.

Door for a thor, link walls up, as squander and impossible nature of cost, that grumbles towards itchy grave – grumbling shock a doodle death visions, dwarfing with terror of time as a nature of mime.

What the hell is that? Breathe this one out.


Breeds barrel of monkeys whose phoenixes gasp back to life as spider and lobster – again and again. Savant antagonist heros assuming shapes of theopathic ubiquitarians. Properties of love. You understand.

Cleo says thats right – Packy got a gun and it fired back. And killed her, or in any case she died, or in any case was under spell what the hell.

Or in any case.

Shock of the litter.

And still neon horror whips around core stunned and clanging pots and begging off to sleep.

Clairette confides we are a clam, shackled mysteriously to your moon.

Bits and chunks, devilish gruesome, get away, spark and fold, melt bottom out like a fire tossed-on blanket, why thumb sucking terror of love, its milk sputtering evil, confiscated as reason?

If only had a different plot. What does it want.

Usual shoved in face with pillow.

Off End of story

Charter boat crashes into symptoms with allures. Comes a cough, leaky is seeking piqued perfusion of lovers knee, bent to a sudden break down.

Spider turns into a wired plug thats curled up in darkness pulled out.

Death with a blanket. Thinks doesn’t think. Thinks doesn’t think. 

Abject death as transformed into a splendor by lucid loops of dip shit.

Packy is a sunflower farm farmgirl. Farm is out of town – way.

Made especially for hierophants haunted by a mystery of screamers. A-woo for angel blood.

Every fall to the level of scream – becomes tied like a 1000 to death, wandering climacterically for fizzies, the murderous are probability restlessness.

Manrope, makes waves split into a trough, sheds monster seeds into gender specific waifs. Sea saw sea saw. Mobilizing ground buckles with rigid absence of fate –

Sighing, mope miracle freakonomics, stages battles with inquiring density – mope is tossed to a spiring mean value density of figurative distance and buggy allures, wild miraculous sentiment.

Miracle schemes prolong prolong the big dig.

In reflective-show yellow vest. Charged with standing blue flag. Waveons traffic, snakes go along, wind through misty mountain like cordeling, chopboat, snatch to block, spackling for holy water. With green apple jelly. A letter painters tube –

Evil prisoners contour-squeezed into false positives. Doubles as darkroom.

Mope as Genre

Stole the mope as a genre fiction? Thats fifteen now fifteen monkeys. Hello, gave density to Mope.

Hail the new place setting.

Clairette says – hurts because you let it –

Midnight sighting says Buddha at fuel pump, squirts from poison with a flower, lands in car of a stolen getaway get away.

Clairette says she will always miss Dags gang on sweets, but not the sudden purgative, crimson sage mixed with angelfire.

Packy says, yes will will. Clairette says no you wont.

There is no defeat. As an old defeat.

Food fight.

Two by two

Let Packy and Clairette go at it over top — crash versus lush – argy bargy up dialogue – running after Camus for waves of beautiful absurd built on top of Lacans diagrams and Zizek grounding forces.

You dont do dialogue in academic.

Wrong. You do. In a way. Says Wallace for a headband.

Print out

Let it fall into Poetry Spaces. Print out and blue pencil.

Sincere but also room for the remorseless. 

Peaches is looking up as if in a pending gesture. For a weekend of reading. Cant stop now. 

Stole Peaches too. Monkey see monkey do.

Abject splendor for the poxed. Hows that for a title. Drawing of some body naked, sexy freak alluring distortion, that is tethered to head of Frank.

Franks head is made of sand in a sandbox.

Monkeys invade but their unadaptable through the circuits so it is what it is. Hit incantatory peaks and fall apart. Thats the lietmotif. Lethal gene. Parallelable drive at.

Gurgle burgle freak, muffle whine cry out.

Lobster Landing

Feels like just made it out of the dryer, again. All banged up and impending with little horror show that doubles as symptom and gesture. 

Rock on head shaped like a bird as Brig who wears helmet.

Wires little dead end plays – wandering weanlings who physically choke on bounce backs. Let me out take me in.

Beauty wanders in half afoul. Know, say it gently. Breathless shows rows goes all doe-y in mini dress with face sticker stars, girls in curls.

Lost in the swirls figurative levels of odyssey but slave is heartened. Shoved in a corner left to die. Awakens to thirst after a trilogy. Hand in fire.

Packy is glowering.

That is beauty’s pelf Clairette defends. Not your bullshit what-not putt-putt to oblivion.

Coastal ships ghost by as stillness rises, beautifies, sighs.

Beauty hears measures repetitious pleasures saying, god in thunder, wind machine on, what stands between is –

Dolly Do Little (or Nothing)

Cleo interrupts: patting wall of sand one hand after another etc.

Bunnies, floor to curtain alert with nose, that surge with twitches, silliness itches.

Like a mortal wound.

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