Category: mybooks

Subliterate Swoons and A Side of Dead

Sample WIP from Novella, am presently working on, called Subliterate Swoons and A Side of Dead. 

Dizzying With No Brakes

LuLu LeSuere. Taunts epiphany with bids for transfiguration.

To pull her out of the carkness of darkness. Gloom exhumes. Darkness shines, becomes visible. Hears itself tearing itself open and unlimiting. 

Shadows pattering bang bang bang against sides. Like naked angels aloft on a fiery dome. Strung out on what gives: love death madness, its sacred bone. And, what else of the pathological grotesque. What horror does to fish. To the falling and the fallen.


Anywhere around Victor de Loveleye. LuLu LeSuere shows up in a basket or a casket. Her head buzzing so loud — time gets caught in a violent swirl of puckery and transgress. Battling the rattling, bodes modes at the crossroads. Of madness, purity and the fallen. 

Madness and desire lurching athwart. Torched and scorched. 

Purity of the fallen. Falling into segues, visions and outbursts, unmasking aberrations of love, banalities of hell. 

What is embodied in the disembodied. Time tittering on the sublime. As spoils divine? 

Dazed and piqued, adventuring a nobility of the lugubrious and turgid ? LuLu’s heart troubled truant transfixed. 

Prong molderings swarm into balloon-flower tenebrisms. Sheer as passion fruit flooding with densities, unsettling seductive layers of pith.

Ledge of Reason

Freedom. As what is but isn’t? An escape hatch batch catch. Rhythms shimmering in the halo hollow wallow from bathos to beauty. 

Sweet sacramental fervors looping through the givens, driving through LuLu’s heart : tender sparks, disquisition. Unruliness.

Doubling troubling into picturesque absurdities that wreak havoc on LuLu’s soul, on her attendance. Truant exigencies in and outside of time pulling at her to go, go now, find him.

Moments unfolding innumerably sheer inside of a single breadth. Driven into a furious curious silence multiplying with beauty and disagreement, fathoming an unmerciful furor of heartbreaking contradictions. Fraught dazzling compulsions.

Reaching for beauty, reaching for death.

Nothing and Everything

Somehow make truce with her devastating subversives ?

Or free free free the blessed cunt in her heart from the wavy in and out of mad desire, giddy with beauty and horror.

LuLu begging the sky for release from : the inane reckless brutal and ludicrous. Arising in her soul, with the treachery of a sleeping giant.

Endeavors of the torulose, swollen and constricted at intervals. Shining pining mining. Buzzing around in her brain. Raiding her heart. 

Engulfing LuLu in a lovesick tenderness for Victor. That tingles with oblique abstrusities, that bleb up with beauty, and glow in the dark. 

Its ardor threading, plodding, through the wank-tank, for holy rapture sinkholes ! edges of meaning, edges of death. Beauty burning for truths that transcend. 

Reach LuLu reach — make a breach for it. 

Continue reading

Fall and All

Dusty Hope

Love is all

And it’s nothing

Wind falls

And waterfalls

And O nothing,


Logic cannot


Its constellations

Its contradictions.

Its fevers

Sins and lures.

Rather let its lyres

Bandy about

Act out

Hopes absurd.

Ill contains

Love’s violent wind

As amasses, quags

Bewilders and aspires.

Rather twin and spin

The mortal din

Let its tenderness

Awe and plot

Lead astray

Desire, dismay

Cavort and pray

Pettish and breathless —

Rake up

The sock.

And spin

The lock.

Edges and Holes


Saucepan on head.

Not easily acquired.

Mouth taking a bath.

Their way or highway

whatever that means

tusk tusk allow for

blinking lights antenna

loud snaps. Joy counting heads

floating in pool. Head or alive.

Calculator has history for opening windows

all on its own… External scars

prove more bird than fish.

Bed of nails. Trash in spare time. Tart lemonade.

Dump unquenched.

Not her longing.

Check back tomorrow.


Life drank.

Life it spit out.

Was still a life?

Hard labor all day waiting

your move

your move

gazelle in a savannah.

Third bottle


Joy hoped retain

road to strangeness.

Argument, the parking lot.

So long. Thanks for the colonies

fig-leaf couture.


Ham booger ham booger

out of beef.

Never underestimate

willingness. Throw under sun.

Battle of the bathing suits.

How should be worn.

Excepting fate.

Beach as the kite flew.

Jaw and cabbage.

Grief for a love with no place to go.

Empathy vs sympathy.

But I hate people.

Pink as a house.


Accidents universal.

Flesh-colored yoga pants.

Charity gig.

Towels sup up sewage

flowing in from behind the door.

Wall full of death masks

could wear a different

every 216th time.

This is the last.


Crash of car through

the garage. Colored in deep space.

A soft burning yellow.

Hid the watch as men.

Cried for their diamonds.

Devil created red sparkly glitter.

You pay for your lifestyle

in hours. Folding as

a rental rolled to a stop.

On a dark road.

Piercing the window.

By mere millimeters.

Dangerous exchange.

Of hats. Glass tears.

At swim ballet.

Machine learning.

Thinking through Subliterate

Re Novella working on: Subliterate Swoons and a Side of Dead

Narrative Dynamic and the Plus Age Expressive

Rhyming occasionally touches after particles with Joyce. But it is kept relatively to minimum. Rhyme is allowed in, as a generator. As a butting in of allegorical trajectories unraveling across the fourth wall. Confronts both phrase and rhyme as an open hunt for possibilities in linking and thinking.

The approach does not assume any singular hierarchy for the allegorical. For instance, the rhymer sublimer is linked to the aquatic, as something of a mermaid — like Clarice Lispector’s Aqua Vive. Caught spinning as if atop a water fountain, with the burning man, burning heart, burning mind as a struggling soul of an indefatigable curiosity whose undercurrents sink into the limitless as a river run, as a steal through meta and allegory, amid gushes and tremors of language.

In that way it is a Plus Age book (post post modern). As relevé, criss crossing allegoricals that mysteriously embed via mythic, mystic, philosophy, religion, math — meta and the infinite. Invoking an expressive style, that is representative for me of living in the Plus Age.

The rhetoric is mostly European — but there are Asian and Middle Eastern religions infested in it, along with many things native to the Americas. As it is also influenced by fabless, by animal stories, by fem bots, and the filmic and pornographic.

Indeed, in some ways, I am seeking a kind of lang bang burlesque girly flow show, while also suspended in a repleteness of beauty and a sea of negative.

The absurd is addressed as something of a drunkeness with horror, unraveling into delusions of hope and madness, as a rimbaudian escapee, aching with beauty banality desire and the condiments of death (chess and the Fell Inni).

Lilt Tilt and Built

Bits and Bites

I am the marsala. Lilt tilt and built. Things not overtake able? Cheek in love? Farma a Suit a Call? Hear 0 ecology?

I dont think of other people as drugs, or even writing as a drug, I know drugs I did drugs. Experimented, a lot. Writing isnt anything like taking a drug I have ever done. Reading once or twice approached it on a hallucinatory level.

Think of writing as pulling la lang through presence that combines with distance alive in what language is.

Shakespeare has turned into a “usage” that shields MOI from fraud claims. I am a meth head. Once a meth is found to hang off a rhymer artist writer etc I litter rally slime sublime its vert you all dick ins. And row Japanese.  And call it halloween. Candy. Get into my belly.

I wanted to make peace with past — not as a lie but as a loan. What was a wild fallaway into pluri party. Streams and screams of hourglass fiction/friction/contradiction. Discovering the hinge was a smart bomb, then an escalation, birth of beauty looting flute and binge, ring a round the rosey all fall down, then an unmitigettable blow out fell into hell — swamp and shell, and so on. 

Legal ed helped under score love of argy bargy, nahh a little p haps — my writer hated it, KICKED IT TO THE CURB, proclaimed:::: eek (not for u). 

Beauty creates enemies? Love is the sweetest enemy, in many a way, p’enemies who you dare to love? Love is an empathy for permutations of desire, its a vampire feed even, to stay alive even though you are dead, you are the undead.

Love that scorns by virtues of? strange alluring victimology, is cast as field of roses and thorns for what is lost and found by the torrent of sea sawing admissions? Hmm when did the admissions start… Get turned into a laundry line to redemption??

Byronic pen is that sacred choral shock of fiery adornments that wilderness in the wind and wtf gun for it. Thorns don’t feel like an adornment, but something stuck in skin ripping into a living death.

I love exchange because it is experimental?! And yes endlessly want to conjure present tense to make it “right side up” just a little. I am not afraid of it. Do I hate life? Of course. 

How think of the Z wing kind of as a mentor. Since Seton. The word is a convenience. Thats all. Shine is now located IN THE WORK. Thanks in large part to exchange.

No reason to hate me for it?

Set Square

Set square is what I am trying to do — with Holy Fern. If can calm down and let it have some reality, mutually agreed upon way. I think it will be great. 

Not dull at all.  

Pure, present — miss and take, press.

Beckett discussions of the mis place meant thing. 

Beckett doesnt actually miss. But traces around it like with chalk on a body that is still moving, Beckett gives me a back and forthy internalized, better for me than Diderot, OK? SM gives me channels to airs that are unsparing. Vous Lou gives me math and academic and dog latin spaces to work in by ways of Ur own. Also, for instance: impassioned blunt and sometimes infuriating. (Which I sometimes have to apologize for. Tho YOU KNOW Haute loves it.) Red gives me immunity and can go raunchy and treats love as oxygen. I JUST TAKE IT, now. I guess. Treat as “red meat.” Or hugging the red line.

Dissoluble and density? Hmm. 

I have no desire to curtail. Conquassate at anti podals chance of the rose romantic up a sleeve for a weave. I am a necessity to write. I am screams in the night. 

Burns once wrote a poem on a window, it may still exist.

So YES I am grapefruit.

Up Wittgensteins ladder to yes, yes to weave yes to milligrams out of car tar yes to hair bears shares yes to whatever the snares yes.

So it would seem.

Latch Catch Patch Match

It is propulsive.

Desk work hounds the cash for groceries. So I can eat what doesnt kill me.

Neg pug slug grants my clap to a trap — en française to catch is attraper.

To a swell of freedom — form wise often plows along pecking at the ground, overhead schisms of reckless and the feckless — due to “glorious grotesque” preponderance of surface drift.

Am I in the quay? Asks quota baste stirs.

My gob is to rapture capture schisms prisms reflexes, complete onto introit trafficator — folds bold mold into liquefaction. No denying that lies at its essence. Nin pin and spin.

As virtue of seaward.

We are nectar.

You are a person not a personification.

I molt words of birds blithe and rife and tithe, in weld of tidal mores.

Sure. And love for it. Sure.

To emerge in any way I may at all, from the Great American Darkness. From its madness wards and perpetual wilderness east and west of violence.

Mortars of Coffee

Mosh Mash Fabric Collage by Dusty Hope

Swallow the flood. 

Let death 

renew creation.

Fill pump

to a ten-ton warehouse

in flurries

of mad ablation.

Every death

a surplus deal 

to salt the wheel.

Draw new maps

to enter with grim elation

flaunt determination.




O these petulant

surly immurations

angelic torments

tender flammivomous vows!

Burning through rages

wracked with empathy.

That set fire and scrub

fay threnodies divine

with a deviance for love.

Habit Tat

Spot on

Literature is a habitat for me now, a breathing organism. Tho one of oceanic starkness and darkness still, it has come to assume again a threshold of immanence — A decorum of intimacy, that puts ear to sluice of page, like Fitz and Zelda, Proust and his mum, or young Baudelaire riding his elephant.

To infest invest behest with rapport and gesture of a stir prizing fluency — as a precocity of endless love and abiding f’wend ship.

Its incumbrance and stealth, visits upon me now, as something of a shared bagpipe — Hi calls the bringingness of thingness — Constance has become less leery of carriers and more hut hatched.

Outright now interleaves as an ambit of my living for its fiction, theoretically cunning punning yes even in receipt of the stunning, and by virtue of that:

Hexceptional, in re milieu intérieur vis a vis its hyperreality — as to say — a sort of magic realism.

And So On

Pur tin netly, not so much hexperienced, fois moi, as obligation — but as shared intensities that are open schema to subjoin, and so to hexplore, luxuriate in, alas ductus arteriosus, with literati digerati, where crop dusts the void. 

Yes as if alighting on, to fair mind with, out “at limits” of pure persistence, where can attend / attend to, track out and trace after: priorities pylon. 

Mahhhhvelous way for dealing with baudriardisms re the “obscene” scheme and sheen of simulacra and simulation, and as a working macrocosm, in league with media ophedia. 

Metaphorically — porn suborn folorn through the air with as cavalry — aka: skull of Adam.

Because Because

Calvary is the anglicized form of latin, for referring to Golgotha, Greek Κρανίον, Hebrew gulgōleṯ for “skull” (גולגולת). In reference to —

  1. Place of skulls, where Christ and others were executed. Or,
  2. In association with the “skull of Adam” —

Intro Flo

Intro Flo

My name is Flo. And I am a cess, I am cessed with the work of angels and my life as an insect. Also drawing on gesture in a manipulation of thumbnails videotapes headshots. All articles of concession confession or prognosis — are stolen mind you, stolen. Flo’s mind is a mosh pit. Stolen: from seat of cars. A Chevy in Borno. Most stolen cars: Impalas, Tacomas, Caravans. Authority has it.

The sky is complicit. A beautiful disaster. Every culture performable consumable — makes us multiply. Gods show up as bodies fatiloquence fully ratcheted, risen and dropping. Flo loves appropriations. Bearing fruit or nuts. Shadows cross the land for quarry, guard guard. Stopppers poppers headly shoppers. Bags and bags of loot of the loom.

Bypassing The Swamp of the Dread?? Finally finally. Alls thanks to massing out with better red like a cherry — than mostly dead and wary, the repeat contrary.

While away was back in days of Middle Kingdom — a hunting we will go, every destination of the magic in tragic, worn by millions.

Get a job. Or go for broke. Broke went for broke and got broke. Crack — attacked. Symphony swallowed the crescent — as in Moon. Bait hovers were luminous. So luminous Red Lights Green Lights : ate the jacket.

But Flo, finally. Praise the William. After much ado, is arriving at K for Kafka’s Kastle. Reaching for D the door. But everyone insists on C for chairs, that they are a thing of the buyers wing. Flo looked it up. While sitting there.

Doctors insisted yes yes YES. It is contagious. By their aegis Flo sustains.

Its a crime, but so are angels.

The Fire and Ice heist.

Flo go slow. The Pearl of Ineffable Knowledge is anxious to grow. But from somewhere deep inside feather oyster, another suggests, perhaps not quite so fucking compressed?

Compression? Twain fans his neck. Points to points of pressure. Performs to pay for his marvelous house — Broad casters tv evangelists in beautiful urban war zones interrupt this appeal, from where sneakers are the new religion and bikes must be registered to save them from confiscation. Far away eyes is the new wealth. It is a situation to be compelled by. Built on knee breeches. The Knights of Compression. Nih nah and neh.

Hocus focuses the poke us. Poke a Hauntress. For reasons in body of ant dies first then cants, holy rants. Pheromones carry sorcery, a certain kind of compound eye, and sympa metrics to lang banging, at the berry bends, hard hard up, with cherry for a night of merry, a flying hedge into face of bluff, Dear Gov. Of sadness madness gladness badness, got any of?

Stuff that cant be fixed.

Carpets are repatterned for Flo and flown. Bottles are lined up and not for show.

Others who ride in front? File clerks, love goddesses, Same Day Bouquets, lush workers, biblioklepts. Also flowers of reason, merriment in the dark, misery of motion. Sex and gas. 

Sex gives Flo gas gas gas. She is in love for it. But only those who are registered with the Department of Cruising for Zeus are allowed endowed into the Feast of Abandonment on principles of just is. The act, the very, of procreation is without option. Is option less. It occurs inside the devil’s armpit. All and nothing comes alive there. Better weight than hate. Action man shouts out “take a break.”

It rains with your thunder, hurts like hell sometimes explodes without mercy, the meta morph mosey gets reborn, gets transformed, alarum alarum. Romeo vigils in Rome. Transformed as does water for slaves, fairies and Abes — the fundamentals, perching searching urgent — songs of sirens, grapples with tire irons, all measures of hope rippling with ridicule — Sobeit. Flo went all the way to Mars! for bars. For just a few bars. Brought the whole neighborhood.

She was toast from insect to dessert duck. And is still mixing with Harrod’s D-Bait. Lazy, phasey, crazy, Barman on motorized skates, came by with a bottle, and together they built a shop for a ship.

Love is in the air. 

South Africa. Pynchon. Cuffed to the Bed. Love is in the air. Residual trustee, also Agent for the Protection of Flo’s nest. Picks and spans for articles to build with, for nest. Flo builds nests, flutters for custody. Loves to pick off things — cushions of hair, bird feathers, bottle caps, green twigs. Finders keepers. Stuff stiff staffs for tidy abidey? at bowls on bottoms.

There is a risk in scaling the walls of tiger town, with Blakes book called “cashing in on the math” — copy out here. Says Mann for Man. Hung out to fly. A pride for the posthumous.

Nearly dead, one simply matteroffact glides —

Flo arrives at your miracle like a doorstep and you talk a walk. Bound to be bound to be bound to be hell swell, quell shell? Flo best friend Roger is a designer of costumes for clowns. An honored associate. Will assure you that IT will arrive with the look of Love. In a clown vigil costume, Roger calls: Robin Hood and the Restless. Every meta is open to suggestions. Capturing an equation for Feasibility Knots was outsourced to the Living.

Its open season. Its open season.

Cemetaries are angelic, empty and quiet or loaded with civil war veterans scratch in anywhere where its regional. Statuary upraised on sickness childbirth old age sanctuary and the violent. Travel papers. All across Wild West, and any other state you don’t like. Get your gunshots here. Call it god given to wanna new war what for the trumps a millions, and kill me gently or not at all. I am the ghost of my own abortion. Flo swims in their innocence and god doesn’t even need to forgive them. As a fog she is jealous of their fast escape.

We are on the ledge, we are waiting on the ledge, we are tinkering with the cosmetics of suicide, we are an enterprise devoted to progress. Even rabbits get bugs in their ears.

Darkness is statuary, shiny and ageless. Wings are fire. Dead cunts are morbid vacillating dumb stir divers.

All casualties taken.

No straight answers realized. Take to your sleeping gowns. 

Dumb times one hundred squeals very. The surface all for an illusion stunning is just stunning. Buddha rides the French left banks. Count Dantean clerks bearing flying trapeze umbrellas. Singular radical desert gods form night of the watchman vigilante squads. Night blighters burden with worry scheme the beam for quadrants of mercy, for missions of ecstasy, severe as it hardens.

And so Flo goes love and woes to seek peeks, lookers and hookers, at outer skirts of beauty, religion, trauma, philosophical exponents and indiscretions, living in shade of oscilloscopes and entropy. 

Sharing daring the cunt for a cunt ring.

Hike up the skirt and go. Have a miserable drink. Go Flo Go Flo.

Rake on it. Like it is a vision of beautiful hell. Lucy fell for it, hook line and pell mell. 

All hope and lethargy, thats all she was good for. Fucking her was like waking up next to Goldilocks with a talking cunt box that shallows gallows values every freedom that swings like a rope. 

Flo as she goes, all hope, hesitation, destiny, tragedy, a blanket of fire. A wire to a choir, a sock jock hopeless liar, poodles in the muck and miracles in the mire. Sucking on your toes. Girls with banners protesting down the street : signs signs signs — all about how hard on it is — sucking on a charity of dick. 

Sweet fascinations \ torpor and lust. Joy and all her bullshit must confess must confess must confess. Yes yes YES its time for supper. Evaluations cannot be meaning fully trusted. Says the friar to the briar she is a pain in the ass a real royal drag. 

I know, see what I mean.

Should be handcuffed to the basement. 

Two chucks and its all over.

The truth is unknown. Existence is not mandatory. Appeals for laughter.

Set a date. Circulate circulate.

Air to Airing

Restless and roundabout

grew and flew and blew 

the night for light light light. 

Flakes and stacks. The making

of moves. Puns with radicality

storming at the surface

where suffocated the horizons,

screeching with tremors

seemed to threaten allowances

counting all the way up

from less to zero.

What never fades

with wait of days

the wide wide yawns

for the wanting.

Willing to fly

as if to wait is to die.

A limbo erupts  

grave and gambling

with vicissitudes

pale pale blue

and voluptuous too

that yellow at dawn

blinding me softly.

Hidden resolves,

squeezed between walls

love taking sufferance for love

is not an untruth.

But intravehicular conduction ?

As pious is to seduction

as purity is to corruption.

And rimshots are to revelry.

My pious thanks for the bedevilry.

Woody and Flashlight

Adventures in Note Taking

I got “abandoned” to Frank and Alice, Jael says. Jael is currently the note taker. Language of abandoning syndromes – to leaky freaky whims of my pie, of nature. One knows its function is as a fiction. Chars often show up in triplicates. Char is something short of character, more like Italian for clowns.

Started a proj called AINT. Adventures in Note Taking. Notes from readings.

I am affected by other peoples stuff. As a way to think about looking into writing: Essays on theme, rhetoric, rhyme and other logical correspondences.

Notes include comments. Include mostly heady petty on philosophy, I too have char that relate everything to sex and fertility. Did a spree on the Z. For Zizek. His religious and fantasy island neg preg stuff.

O abject object space as, what else, “seeing things” in dimensions somewhat as a laboratory rat, “degrees of freedom,” sensation nation of the absurd, dense flowers as a prepense, particle physics “sea of negative.” Horror and impossibility of being / not being — in love.

Free style? Could I get away with that. Lester Bangs says maybe.

Red Hand’s Index is a honeydew for help on something and his paying attention to stuff.

Under the Counter

Understand my own fascinations are lark and terror and that I am musing people for beauty and treasure.

Have a thing with density, the immurations. And much here is only half finished.

It is mostly about literature in a way that borders on lit shit and science in a way that is curious and absurd. My first drafts are often weak topical inebriations, that can on occasion steal terms from academic. In re: rapture capture language subscription to whatever its fair game, dilemma.

And yet, my jars are full of bug recipes. Fissures occur as if flying thru density.

Lately obsessed with density, topic stolen from line in Camus.

Last few pieces churned up against Lit Crit (philosophy of literature) in a way that was partner. Pretended I had a Mentor for two whole weeks.

Woody & Flashlight

Andromeda has to force herself out by throwing things.

At some point the big ball in Lost Arc starts to roll and we all fall in. Sooner or later, the weather vane does it with everything.

Had to figure out a format within which to let it bleed, let it create itself — Inclusive of late at night flashlight, the ponder yonder bond (with fur), and wonder blunder asunder deadly o currencies, ear blows woes where flows sheer inbred constellations of fear, hex et era. The Feelies.

Feelies and freindzys are in part “God Offal.” On purpose. Go off on Lime in the Coconut, Alice in Space, stock and chock uglies. But for me — its more about getting in at Kathy Acker, Didion, etc. And Clarice Lispector.

Beauty, is in this context, researching itself for both degrees of freedom, and Holmes on the range. Thats what you gave me. Space to think.

My essays lean in — toward degrees of freedom — in fiction. Latest poetry is engendered off cuts I was lucky plucky enough to receive, whose input has been massive here, in terms of getting my work under some semblance of control. Rhyme for me is Primary. Will not get in way of that!

Catches on sublime hard time and quite often astonishes me.

But am really most interested in growing narrative.

Gape of Vision, Panning Dead summa cum Undead as Media in Medium

Space race, stole from Camus hi call density.

Gapes after sounds as ding dong, feather and landmine, I know it can seem like avenging madness in fast early drafts. But Joyce shows up and begins to cluck.

Have girls, he says, feathers will pluck.

Am always at some beginning for capturing dialog. Moi and Tu. The 2-way stuff. Baby loves crackers. Marcel pops in says my descriptions are “lending.”

Opportunistically, diligence to the dead is never overfed —

Juliet: O if one would let just let it be all about this, language as aspect of love, that burns like a rage for deliriums of freedom. Clings to shells like fruit of a nut.

Belief: at light of day is that movement helps. Cyclops rules are a living hell. But writing was pioneered from origins puritanical vs. the raunch absurd.

Heavies as levies, for fascination with dead, sex, numbers, religion, gender, fear, horror, drugs, bugs and other transformative creatures, shrugs, intensities, propensities. As can harbor in language and rhyme.

Dreaming in x’s

Feather akilter

the blood red fed and shed

and bandaged blue

there is no blue without orange.

A cardinal vein

a riotous spin

never fails to fly,

and pistle the whither

and amplify.

Unlearnable as the sky

yearns abaft the beam

gems and germs

forever turnworms.

Its freezing, its freezing.

But anyway stay.

Let waves through the feigns

pilgrims reign.

And pilt where drawers

come round on All Fours

for cherries lalangue

Hugger mugger

these liquid drones

for water on the knee.

Bred in a basket.

the vafrous & fulgid.

Head and sea.


Find credence

reading bloodstones

for contradictions immutable.

Crash and condom insolute

fingers at my neck

teetering & inscrutable.

Magic & fire locking horns

paint this body

an unyielding color of salmon

diving pink into the red.

Spawning eggs

on banks of gravel

scandalously high!

as a mountain of death.

Love is weather

love is the sea

tide in, tide out

chasing currents

for odds, insurgent?

restive as the sky.

Riven to a cross

that leaps and stalks!

paradoxically loath and sly.

Swaged in along

the whispering edge

sheer & taunt

catchwork rent & nigh.

Fatal rush!

fatty red flesh

tilt of jaw

& hook in eye.

Wad Squad

By Dusty Hope

Dear hands down your pants.

So the wind won’t blow it all away.

In regards to horror and sin

embraced in waves

of haunting panic

reaching for free

and the wanting to be.

The pie o my, dialed in

upsurging with overtures

pang gangs of angst.

Wending a way way

beastly balk delectation

laying waters to waste.

Plunging for runnels of love

sacred allures

staring eyes with evil

in battle for the shadowing

intubational wreck

everything open at aw heck neck.

Blame blame

sorrows deep

and put to sleep.

Cumulate histrionic habit

for rabbit that can dance

the flamingo macabre.

At sounds of a muddying

cry and nigh. Fills

the monster romantic

with incurrents coursing through.

Illure illure like an open casket

at devil’s peak

running down the wind.

Blue and thin.

Glory to performative abstraction.