Category: mybooks

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.

Subliterate Swoons and a Side of Dead

muscular bod bw
Holy Fern Drawing by Dusty Hope
Novella Now Working On. Still a little stiff for fluid. But points to well made, with lots of attributionals, Beckett the absurdist shows up in accumulato phrasing as a free dusty. Joyce freedoms too, but curving toward shakespear, for keeping it play on familiar word formations. ish. To play with particles lightly pursued. 

Glues against something massive and passive, that then breaks into skipping rhyme, all the time, I just let it, let fall in with verses (music the) bardic as entry into sublime. 

Cut up is a kind of a naturalized expose repose to warbles in the infinite. 

Skitters by narrative Rimbaud though not as loose or pretty. Veers off into stark with Pynchon as steam heat, to wring it out, bubble and bath. And goes a little lost there. 

With this here benediction.

The Subversive and Radiant

Beauty balms, glow flow flutter hunt — Wan chancy LuLu’s holy pail to scale a grail, to sail with the whale, to fly flow quail…

Malfunction. Dysfunction. Flaw rupture impotence. Odd and woeful, and tallying beauty.

Taking it to lengths.

Turning tops with the absurd.

Death, scaling limits? swoops looping radiating residuals —

And LuLu fighting it, fighting like mad the duality of virtue and contempt. Whose reasoning are cyclical regressive inflationary. V for vagueries seemingly helpless as a mark of subservience to the absurd.

Like the resistance of an obscure medieval puritanical saint. Whose notions potions the merciless right along with a merciful hell to pay.

LuLu wags the log nog. The all in one and one in all, a monstrous belly under glass. And winged, floats for a flame into the light.

Driven at it, like a body of love gracious and damned, sheerness of its beauty loathsome and derivative, pain drain crane rain — down down more of the same.

Shocked into submission.

How not build mysterious beltways to rhapsody and the grimoire holding wan’s breadth, away.

Looking for a hand to hold. Speak easies and balm balm.

LuLu’s puking up the night befores. LuLu was a puking beauty. She swallowed the night and let it breath through her, looking for mouth.

Be it, breath it.

Swallow the insane pain, let it raise time to talk to walk friendship, drink it, make it, lake it, lady of the lake it, roaming titillating searching the screw ball and fall, for movement.

That wasn’t death. Try anything once. Rhapsody of exudes, exalts, V for vomits.

Fugitive numbers. Chasing after them, all bouncing around.

Mornings dejecta. The slope back to time hung sung, wrung, its courage like a torch burning merciless against both sides. Pushing in pushing in. The frenetic call to freedom lining street lights with puke. Wash and wear.

Push it out, push time away. Sheer it smear it smash it, fray and small against the too bright sky. Remorse the horse and ply and die. Where is, want else. The else is rum crumb forger forge forgery.

Going high go low —

Absurdness of its valiant breadth, ransomed to hemohraging, stringing bleary-eyed theory in gusts, flagging wagging with beauty, its wonders raised to a flail against death, breezy grizzly grotesque doublethinks, the flames of impossibility, magic tragic exscape from time, floating glowing wandering down brain slain the feign drain.

How death forsooths the pure and ponderous —

Synchs allure ablur, with epiphany, infinity, virtue, stoicism, remorse. Its stamina wild and tedium, hopeless and unstoppable, like a bug full of blood.

Passion, rattles all of a strange, imperious treachery walled in by ransoms of the sacred, religious imperiousness to beautify, crusading up up up the stormy and banal expanse. Tracing racing festering, glum.

Why so angry why so glum. Eye of hunger and prey of dawn.

End it.

Mystery of Thunder

The architecture of suicide, jumping through loops just to raid, stay alive? Give it grace.

Lonely beautiful breathtaking swag wag like mystery of thunder. Torrid, dismaying ecstasies, roots to all evil weevil and cling?

LuLu clings on and on, curled around Vic, release the hopeless from bays of flapping evil. Make blanket and sleep and weep. Lonely bottled up fried. Let it slide…

Time a strange pit of fluttering twinges, alight in her crotch, loose ends jacking off repeatedly. Over and over and over. Something inscrutable querulous devout swimming relentlessly abound and around it.

But. Everything, but.

LuLu a mazed by the weird, mystic relishes, that attacked in shocking waves of resistance. Something tantamount and defiant gurgled and burgled at budding limits, escaping time, absurdities abounding in a terror sealed hell. Magnificently sublime.

Morbid sketchy florid blunt.

Horror was a sheepfold religion. Martyrdom a burning belief in one absolute infinity. The infinite resilience/rebellion of god — exploding into billions of sighs, sorrow and the unutterable.

Every one of them, every stumble and sigh, undeniably propelled LuLu after something wonderful useless wistful, in the absurd, a joke and a rope, to swing by on. Hysterical hilarity of the absurd. Tricksters trawling between her fingers. Beauty reigned against fire in cock shock tick tock.

Go get away.

Mope a million. Fuck suck —

Tireless god rods wrapped in wrath, an incendiary whose affection LuLu mourns. Like a broken bottle or broken arrow. Or both. Up her cunt. Like an experiment in a death camp. That ladles in dreams prehistory serums. Piece of her heart.

Where beauty glows into rows of flying cock floating emptiness, adoration, sublimity, delirium madness hunger, as if lying in the sun with a gun — and hell to plow ?

Get up get up do something — court the wind — be a crow a redstart, a bounder. Prate, wallow, follow, fluff, get stuffed, exude your muff —

Girl pearl squirrel. Wordy the birdy curds and weigh, willow and the wasted basted in drunken slurs that wander away, like dawn before twilight, with heaven to pay. Every token of the sublime a suicidal survival at points and limits of accumulation —


Pages: 1 2

18 Everything & Silence

Begin. Again,

Every different perception

of knows

who you are.

Doubles points —

Another sign —

roadwork ahead.

Four is more than nothing.

Opening up

open open up…

why is pie and fly for the sky.

Called out her name.

Jaws and paws.

Time and again.

Met with everything

there is (to know about nothing)

amid secret orders

a crises of silence.

Always the flame

or spinning in a frame.

Palm to sun

shoots at tree with

a faulty gun. A song

can make amid ruins

a life of hyphens.

A black convertible red leather interior.

A case of fish and chips.

An old long argument.

Across the car lot.

A burger came out of the beef.

Colors bold and

skirting with mischief.

A phobia for heights.

Lizards with wings

are often legless.

How many deaths

along this pile on?

Murder by hornet.

Eyeing daily

wanderers examining

every sensations duration —

supposed predators

promising ice.

Large and white

appears overnight.

With hopes to survive

the next random five.

Coffee and rapture.

Things could get worse.

Lengths go to remain short.

Always a first.

To No Thing and Every Thing

Fingers tingling

at never endings,

always palsy, eating it up.

Feeds a restless wonder

for plunder.  

Heave ho, 

quiet down and draw

scratchy puddling florals

gawd awful

on purpose

the subversive immersive —


I am drawing,

everything is great

dates with fates.

It’s shocking to me. 

Can only do this way. 

Subversively ? a hog in a bog

gob sob writer

working away at it

like its string theory.

Rounds and rounds

of Frank freaking out

calm down

calm down

play up against

rioting metaphor

as a freedom


steals from horror.

Freak out again. 

A barrage of wild thing

death masks

flirting with tomorrow

as only a murderer can.

For span tan and scan

a pessamist bathed cartoon.

Inconsolable and



underneath it all 

believes in its intrusion

as deeply as a theory

on its contortions

for delusion…

The all = not all the is = not is

grows sub vitriolically

at, whatever

at is.

Sunny murderers

ferocious riot gear

battling butterflies and bombycids

living magically tossed

the map the book,

jarring marplod

thickness, see thru see thru —

Glass of fear

hear & dear & beer

drenched in marvelous

and the absurd

as shine draws near

sets the tile


to wonder the wall

for its winged

dome-warped saboteurs.

Proligerous joules

despond and fond

alert with shadowy bonds

ravishing sublimation operations

flutes for mutes

laws for breakables.

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.