W.I.P.

lit bit of a scream

Working on hard pencil edit. Getting there. Bit on the tight side — right now.

Dunning condum nation

Sometimes, turn it on here – just to capture its horror on me, its rebellion, expository cry in expunge of darkness.

Sometimes shrills up the hill – caroms and catches a cross current of feeding grounds, running around with a stick and other waves of shambling dynamite, freeing a sordid frenzy.

Swans scream suddenly burning up — on silence. Turns into a smoke signal, then laughter passing — with another scream — goodbye goodbye.

Living on Image

Frozen is a distension of hope. Never free from clucking after image as a pirate or pocket gopher does holy treasure.

Implicitness as markers in voodoo with void, both horror and beautiful almost every symptom a map of the world.

An awakening, hard spasmed wild contraries wrestling with rose entwined in bone, well known tattoo tragic god —

Talk suddenly turns solemn

Living on images. That thru a monstrous build up burn, reflect both passion and its obscenity, always rearranging agist, wag and flog, bright lethal odyssey.

Awakening fall into a dizzying chronic filmic, Pynch pops up poetically trained — by my flesh lost up in a lethal mesh, some of it haughty, some screeching hawkish needy, loved in ways unanswerable, shaken out of silence –

Or shocked into a silence that is remote — remote with what was once called music of spheres, or spheres of epiphany.

Eels or peels, always one sword that kneels, deep cut, one into another, next as if implicit with its fugitives from banality and eery rapport with what survives otherwise —

When its bottomless or tea totals – the wretched droughts.

Sci fi dread

When sits shivering, fondling morphisms in bred rave ludicrous desires, potents pulling at threads, full of rebellions defectors, seaweed and undertow, minefield of pleasures, wasteland too. Garbage swallowing alive its victims of beauty,

Call that function: ominous sci fi dread. Out of respect for siphoning off from the cyphers.

Born – not out of love? the weakness for it I mean – or is it or is it or is it. Love as a god can take over everything.

Hi Hower that Bleaks

Long so long – that slow virulent burn – taking a knife to all of it, swallowed alive by the feasting on it, how strangely destroyed ad visibility present tense —

Tossed, lost to its cut up, a nameless hell, where nothing can save it from itself — for itself —

Except a leap for faith enough to embrace what relishes while disappears – again.

Waves of images, still do too, burn to the touch, running benighted and frightened with a chisel into vigilant numina, nothing and everything all at once.

Searches cavort for wind creatures – lovely gruesome sweet dour vigilantes torn unborn scorned for their scars — that mettle into porn.

Flower and impetus, slave to pleasure their skin.

Young girls young boys battered scattered out on loan, bitters stick to it like hate to the bone and holding it in sits crouching rubbing against an evil all too sincere.

On Lamb

Everything or nothing? How copiously fetish is devilish with stunning love. And wild in its faith.

Redemptives old unwilling desert fears return, with sacred trembles.

And yet, at limits of existence turn into lust. Searching squandering even – for impossible hope.

Where at thresholds of wonder and hunger something of it breaks and swings wide open —

Peaked or forlorn, Joy sullen and cherished skulks after beauty both irreverent and climactic.

Yet nearer feels to truth — the more seized with panic and pain of desire, flat against the window. Both wild and quiet. Stomach falling in on itself, suddenly bagged by a mysterious panic of death.

Hard Pax

Fall into the music. Let it refill every pang urgent reflow of surface with love of moment.

Alligators lie low, are lurkers, blend in, hide out. Drink in mist at surface where runnels after stirring moon. Holy Corn Goddess Diana gets large.

Image of alligator climbing over a fence.

Then once there, once over — becomes another thirst where its a willing curse, of itself, for itself. Constructing holes in wetlands, in water and mud.

Once they come up — every creature tells own tale of terror and horror. Beauty and love, as splendor confides above it — somehow in every way useful. Beautiful and replete.

Nastiness that growls too.

Good to think of some image things, as eye (playing in dirt) for (another) eye that is sweet yet also unafraid to fathom where wretched.

Nothing cynical in saying that.

New directions

What is an Act? les émouvants – Can’t avoid it for reach, wonders like a war of tugs.

Shakes (with spears) shows up as Prince Valiant for allowance! for transhistorical thee.

Archway through to itchy heads scratching wtfuck and then it not letting go the gobs of haunting curiosity because despite everything there is a rig — of friendship about the gas line, discussing play of putty, and dealing in heart of hearts with all the nutties and other such melodic/melancholic excrementals.

Southern for swamp potato with a gun. Whose instincts are dire woke filler.

Or bait hovens patriarchal scum, bitters bold and shy, fervors foreign existences, fur that gets up in folds bearing yet whats ever unborn —

Hoven – dialectal past participle of heave.

I have to pull over heated in a rush. Like its raining and quick quick — take the laundry in.

Virgils virgins along the spice routes where thunder and innocence still burn and yearn the sublime to its limits.

Misprision, stick in hand to let out ghosts whenever wacked like a guardrail meanwhile waving to sky. Why does it make you so mad? Never was just a fad.

“…bound by some force that was part literary, part masochistic and all sad.”

Snatch

Markers and the void. Once the burn goes in — never blows out, candles in wind. Hot cold august night.

Furies snatch in teeth — where sits at mouth of Joy! and darts plods thru — how migrations are a force where death itself swills into compounds, of money power and survival, unleashes a purity of evil —

Gods that carry me away into globular constellations of flood, time as fluid for sky — where peripherals jest and beholden. Where peradventures comb out comb out riddles of evil and love lures after sentiments of paradise.

Don’t always fight it, that certain kind of helpless mercilessness — as it arises — suddenly feels inevitable —

Fire of hope rushes down my throat like a raven for a cross. Imbued in sheath with fundamentally sincere nymph logic?

Woe Betty. What.

Willy Shakes adopts a Nymph to answer for the unanswerable?

Nymphs, Colette chortles, are jealous of the freedom of mermaids.

Precious Metals

IM gave me “monkeys.” A barrel of them.

Monkeys gambol even out of doors with dire hopes and then hallucinates numbers or patterns out on every form from dust to dust. And in it mingles as a fire of fate and faith.

Thats a Monkey.

But Monkeys too fall into Movies where horror finds laughter.

And kleptos are born hiding, a creepy wild baked consonance, a ghastly love that storms up and gush —

Angels that pull me from its wrath — for periods of time — angels is a sneak in byword for blatant gratitude over bounty in them there hills where bounding in looking for Friendship Circles , and yet the Symbol for it is a swan.

Swans have long necks.

For when hatred suddenly starts to incinerate, stomp on shells, crash against fields of locust

Only to mysteriously float up, float up underside a waters edge, in oversaturated colors of sun — and Joy finds it — beating down on face of day, bled out against its impossible horizons.

Large Magellanic Cloud

Underneath there is always a handsome beast.

What does that mean? Judy Judy Judy. Reared on hokey hollywood love stories Judy says no I wont stop fighting for it. Fighting is insidious as mirth, what ever greases your pan. Thats a caution to you. It will never be dead. Ever. Forget about it. Its influence too jealously guarded.

Without its Large Magellanic Cloud where burst, there is no laughter.

I do not know why.

Mythic swell is like a musical accompaniment – much like words have event structure built right in.

Monkeys fall collapse into numbers and letters around heater in toilet where she is climbing out window to escape.

But it breaks too. Breaks at the sound of the clock. Thats from Poe. Blooms where learned how to find image, hears its flight plight of passage and magic. Her moin knees hourglass –

Last Remove

Battles with holy sweet cruces can subvert thoughts into so many directions — whole life in a way bot eaten up by what serves as splendor? where vert-i-go subverts to.

Criss crossing regalia with absurd. Portuguese French Chicken. Yellow to my toes as much as love kindles it for bodes with fear of death so defiant it buries me.

In a constant wave of impossible endings that sudden switch leaves me ludicrous — a clown from temptation as swells to a a new burst and laughter blurts.

Theatre understands she reads: those who dream –

Images stripped striped strapped stirring, searching thru char sets, like stucko grooms with Great Expectations, lace in web of teeth and Ophelia in her petals with Emile — for its en acting grace, impotent necessity.

Words rounding mountains, let loose, rolled out like shocked joyous dribbles from a bleeding font –

Clutching rope to rope — as Sweeney is to treetops.

Tandem as arms of Tarzan, misprisions sweet bloom in wan of sky.

Nymphos snatched by the god thing — are always turned into something else! Mortal but caught in pose of death by desire —

Something I call Shine — leaves the planet behind, “holy versions” circle faster and faster round rims where cats paw — and screamers mock incertitude with both horror and delight.