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.
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 —
By Emily Dickinson
One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted —
One need not be a House —
The Brain has Corridors — surpassing
Material Place —
Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
Than its interior Confronting —
That Cooler Host.
Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a’chase —
Than Unarmed, one’s a’self encounter —
In lonesome Place —
Ourself behind ourself, concealed —
Should startle most —
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror’s least.
The Body — borrows a Revolver —
He bolts the Door —
O’erlooking a superior spectre —
Or More —