Bobbing Blue

1.1.19

Last Catch Sickly Bit?

The heart was corrupted again with delicious goods, goods that bob in the blue. But everything is a haze now, snug in a silence, a sweet meltdown of the beautiful travesty.

Reading L’Innommable (in french) is heavenly corruption too, the thing is balanced on a nose, shiny chatty taciturn pithy sardonic blithe stoic — echo scopic and blueshift too.

A racing collation of seminal goods, lunatic chars, sweet restless unshuttupables — multiloquent knobs. 

A wispy vegetative patch of the avowal vehicular, that exhibits transmembrane visions, visions who seek voice. Never the less, néanmoins.

Rapt, corrupt, collated and collecting after itself, the stillness rancid, robust, riotous, witness and duel. 

Yes. OK.

Kundera has influence on my paragraph construction too. Where it slows down. Where it speeds up. Almost certain.

Kafka on the shore

Everything that was preached with sanctitude growing up — driven under the skin to bone, skin has mind of its own, steeped tyrannically lingering on medieval lubricity virtues delicious roots and weevil the evil.

Effectively stole the kitchen sink.

Yet beneath all that, like paint first revealed as sleep is a mask of death even in pupa, the thing that thing that touches after the slain, what little death the ejaculate lump brings like miracle into being, not just wretched but passion and spark, rangy and boisterous and hungry and taboo.

That sickness weak and troubling, lets it fall — lets it all fall again, knocked down the goody-goody. And beauty’s sweet galling rankle, alive again with notorious time — lets holy loose, the gaze of darkness joist and jewel.

Though shunt driveling with blasphemy, what steals through in waves of squirmish with misery, heightened, graceless, turbid and devout. 

Greedy with migration, vanities spluttering back back — back, after that righteous lawlessness for milkweed butterfly, for archipelago of the dauntless and canny — spiritual, nonlinear, incendiary —

Tetchy too. A wild insinuating state of dis-grace, lapsidarian intreasure. Coursing, genus corvus, suddenly — shamelessly — lets another one fly.

The bird bolt and the catchpole repetitious habits forming, like a scratching antler for spots knoll and deep, seems more stocking stuffer anymore — than leaky spluttering projectile.

Kafka feels it — deeply. Weeps safely to the shore. Nothing less, nothing more.

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