It blew and blew and blew. Something pinned her up against a sacred wall, begging for it and running away, begging for it and running away – wild as hell. Haute-le-Couer couldnt understand why it was so crazy.

Living on and off a beggar’s cross, of what – sacrificed tomorrows, how beauty can mischief, estrange, reak havoc. Hope spring forth waves of sorcery. And sorcery at odds – wiles madness, madness is a brutal astonishment.

Fighting, fighting anger and fighting swamps of hatreds pall fires whose ferocity birds and girds and herds the affliction, up up up into trees squawk squawk – from tireless floods!

Dante scaling for nectars – of time, Beatrice shouting shouting – for blood divine, stripped down to a hopeless claw, rooted in beautitudes of ruin – Craven craven caw caw caw, the ninny raven beady-eyed and shiny, a heart that hinges and feeds on horror and fire, bursting heady with defiance –

Like Poe cruising for a bruising – push back! push back and tear it down to immediacy’s size!

But it wouldnt, it didnt fall. It just never did. No matter how much Haute-le-Couer tried and tried to turn the madness round to face the space the grace the haste and let it down from cross of time gasping aghast and shitting sublime.

It did not give in. But remained untamable, ravageably at swim and stinking livid – in wildernesss it was born and awaited. Some lovelinesses are feral. Its wilderness cannot be reasoned with, will not dismiss. Tisk tisk tisk –

Insolent and indecent like stolen goods, divined in between astonishing deaths, a holy mattress a church on fire, a sorcery at war with sorrows – crying fleeing begging wretched.

Arun thru hearts with vultures gold, a stake thru life, but never saved, never forgiven – devoured by Victor’s slippery mold as wilderness bleats of treasures breaking loose, for once for once from sanity’s coops!

Ever snigger in a throat or two? out by the royal moat, sinkless and deep? Forsaken kindnesses, still rummaging, wilding at ruins, gaping at blunders oceanic peaks –

And if anything touches it – does it leap? like a reptile scurries, worries and buries, eeks and sneaks. And never surrenders, its stolen defeats –

Divine like berries awash and crushed, where wine turns to blood, where angels weep with thirst – awakens the thorn on throne of scorn, and heaven tarries, and heaven waries, and heaven farts and heaven burps.

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