12.14.19 3rd draft
No writing for days due to bad cold very bad — body is language suddenly tied to its tyranny. All that beautiful flinging whole hog at rug beneath the waves — wattles of work and etudier — and cold slams me down into pills and pain and disdain for time. That ornery sublime, loaded down with body’s tyranny in bed with complaint. 💤—
The curse of champ-on-bit whistles through derailing sickness — how the eye misses its foot —
Beauty admissively lives in a ferocious presumption of rose and thorn, palpitant flare, rave grave romance, angling through day blight for symptoms of the horn (and torn).
Misses its coming alive like spiders down pants — sweet dank shadowy corners to spin the cursed teaming myopia alive in — to cling these wretched colors to, monsters in the shadows full of wild beautiful pilfer and panic.
AKA Pirate Soup — What “Here Comes the Clowns” cavalierly call Depart Mental Alerts.
To break free from — never —
And yet, “knowledge” weeps for good. Alongside adoration confession and thanks giving. Intercedes —
The sickness — suddenly realizes all be it could get stuck again rummaging in feces of tyrant gold — oh for those lovely dangling boons of deference — sleep little one — mmmm.
How lovely it hides and gasps for head and lunk, to have and hold, chasing the bell, going for what lifts from behind, what comes from behind —
Deference to fucking what?
No no no the grecian slung chorus of great and royal urn sings “its the wrong way. “
Inspiration is not all weather deference — deference appears before Sister Agnes suddenly — as purity’s dauntless receptiveness to compelling aspects among us of what exists as graced —
No? the V (for Vortex) warms, it is a place — for lucky, (the sad faced clown aka The Worm) to slink to, to plum slink off — with a slip of Lucy — to ride the tide, render and row. Hop for the spill and mop and glow.
A slippery forlorn ferocious fodder, cloaked and daubed in ash and coal — Lucy’s tattered gown.
Cinder Ella lonely looks up sweep in palms, sings “sweet child of mine.”
Always in part a horror child USA — Yes, to take “times out” for a springald (catapult) with sacrificial Dirty — ?
Dirty appears as a sacrificial dance for sure in so many ways.
How Haute-le-Couer loves to skim bottom numbers, low as can go —
Playmates, Dirty and Nasty, soiled, bloodstained, holey figurines of bold roiled gold.
Haute remains a-fictively rain-in-sane’d, riddled by tombs of the “beautiful damned,” sacred lessons of mortality as cows out in the desert of impossible tombs. Chewing on flumen. Being driven like livestock to gates of hell by nidifugous lumen.
Where persist raft cudgels of wild hope, eek angels eek angels, a sympathetic treacherous treasury of beautiful hopeless, misery’s swamp milkweed, creeping thyme — wild flower perfumes of hopeless rebellion, hands on vice at sexy palm and slam, as stirring eek angels relish the tumult profundus divine —
Da, badgers Kekwajo chew on. Enchantments wily bilious, titillated with echapper of shimmering deaths, rowing backwards, the swells down under — all about getting back in stirrups, again?
For sickness interceded, and every hurt trans potties into a nit — of the Nasty. Another royal escape, remands itself — into the Dirty for wisps and recrement of beautiful slag marginalia.
To begin up the organ — again —
Up again up again, the truculence of destiny — for to fill that so-called emptiness with arrows, into the woods into the fire —