Dead pie fly. W.I.P.

Am working through section by section. Pursues Poetic Meta Fiction akin to Clairce Lispector and some Beckett. At times via Free Writing — meaning “open sesame” in terms of ear to la lang bang plosions of Jouissance, and “filling for cake” like in meta fizzics Blake and of course Finnegans Wake. Often referred to as Marmalade Sky. Also eggsamining a continuum of “beauty and sorts” between touching on Absolutes and Camus’ elevation of the Absurd. — Dusty

Storms of sweet and vagrant mana, wanderlust, sanctuary, death and the uncanny. Body is meat. And I am its question mark.

Roundelay, roundelay, abject beauty, cloying angelic gruesome trauma, slant violent interludes with destiny’s child. Scruples running wild.

Where violence sacrifices like a drain of the sane, at obscene forces per unit, my merciful delusions. Errant and torn, fall and maul, the higher and the dire as a beautiful catch of fire.

Young and tongue. And on the run.

There is no me…. ? Find one find one —

At edge of distance, angels bite the body like holy nerves, like a dog always hungry.

A slave to invasions of beauty?

Bad cases of it. Best worst cursed thirst. Migrating destinies draped in sweetness and horror, sacred and the demonic. The negative religiuex, beauty and death on a stick, luminous naked, being part of its trick.

A vain beautiful tourniquet.

I am its mayflower, I am its ticking bomb — I am its motherless child.

To mark an obscene height and force a brazen cliff and jump off where absolutes meet the absurd at flesh is word — over hill and hell.

Finish it, finish it.

Sleep. It off. By the dozens. Scales the contrapuntal, sweeping and leaky disinters, that relish its crushing pie, up against my stolen eye. The mal a door too too wondrous to stop. To ever stop. The thousand hearts of beach-la-mar. Yet like a drunk dancing in a cemetery.

Jackets jack off behind the mortuary. Collecting frozen specimen. I am the pie in their eye? errant shimmer of abduction, glimmer of suicide, a hundredfold of negation and gender — Sun ray realms of lucullan purgatory —

Love getting lost —

Swept away, swept up in oblivions incantatory coattails, rhapsodies transcendental spasms dancing dancing, in the void, undressing sacred horror, living a madness of desire, emptying itself again and again, where waits on idolatry of death.

No idea?

Why the heart falls in falls in, the crazy con sous mate, misery and madness, sweet fry pie, ferrying madness bellies up from the concave, so abruptly pyth ob and cess where madness leaps with pie like a disturbed nest, like raging black flies.

Nakedly lust wilderness in the bush, slam glam thank you I am I am, give me your eyes.

Goes for you the vousvoyer, the journey for true, that falls into love that falls into havoc over every saw gut and mumble falls into death as arms akin, the skin of nail, the cross of rail, the burning bush.

My bush. For a tailspin.

Rock paper spin. Pail mail air — sac and sail. Out for hunger, hell is a decimation, layers of lorn mourn porn, digging through the sky piles of buildings made out of garbage, buggers starving al around, layers of horror smacking the eye, the religious excuses for dead pie — sly.

Be my frantic.

Be my cloak and dagger, be my filthy, by my spy. Be my naked gunning cunning eye, from head to dick, from hard to loose, flying up against the onerous grievous mundane ambits of time. Something terrifying and beautiful always collapses in on itself, weighted down by the hideousness and pomposity of truth.

Desire churns the naked half like a cake half baked, forever carry over cooking — its culinary monstrous and beautiful, a fork at every crossroads, an uprising at every rattle of my brain to throw against the fury in your eye.

Beauty’s floating pocket battleship — I am the mystery and a marplot. I am every sin — as the corn goddess from hell and back rushes in with impenetrable kinship — intimacy, estrangement, hungry and wild.

working NOTES

Drop in on me

A life scraping against electrified wire. Liberty or death.

Desire and the manufacture of prosperity and contempt. Count me in out other, bereft.

Misrule courses through the sin in my skin. Like a religion. Everywhere spins on your beauty dropping like fire. With nowhere to go.

But how the head spreads, shoots left, goes north.

Hair full of swimming rage and angst and desire, conformity cutting like a razor blade against the meek in my skin, treacherously intensifying.

Coward and the call. Head weighted down. Channeling leafs in gutter for a fall, harrowed by the narrows. Eyes spooling round and round, like a clown staring into the transient shivering.

Descends every tomb of poe tater.

But its a crater, a moon crater, where beckons the waiter —

Dreams are a resilient category. That permeate logic? Tragic or nostalgic. Sills or ills mix with nil as tiller of forms. And so I was born.

With poles to fill in holes. And other throbbing members, like the hidden value of landmines.

Or startling winged sight parachute arms and silver underbelly of a common roof rat oh suddenly flying.

War of Noses

Penelope is drunk looks out window is always watchful.

Feels shell shock. Like cabbage, mute.

Life had shrunk to a warped and holy disquiet.

Fin of sins ailing against friction of air, what to call it? the weatherman.

Sparkle in his skin his mind raids tin.

Penelope loves sleepers and creepers, loves being teased with feelies and weepers, because they know how to disparple.

Urge to merge and purge says victim of vermouth, sidelined angry and yet soaked through, with daring brutal license.

Of the angling and the holy. Reek with tenderness.

And an astonishing raise the limits, of frisky risky terrifying creatures — freakily unfolding.

Something monstrous imploding.

An exploding heart that loves and bereaves every stolen minute in it.

The pure and the vanishing

Dormants crawl all over the sword of mercy.

Like gods bonking under my skin, they dream under my skin, I am the thwart that visits their tomb.

Death is a living god.

Every day play dray mutiny against the term, oil alive in me, that crossed with stringency of cart and wrath.

Find it everywhere — under fingernails, digging into my throat.

Weatherman, slithers down my back.

Jenny Little

When weather is bad. Not just bad. Very bad.

I run to you no matter how many times you kicked me out. Of your head.

You are a sorrow. Go be dead.

When the roof explodes on me, and unmercial day is all composed of work for the tyrants

bears liquidate into paws

start running across my be

vain and merciless.

Your eyes make it fire. As proof at all that I continue to exist .

The unnameable buried inside the boot — and under my tongue.

As a honing device.

Every gesture becomes a treason from the known, an opening orienting with vestiges of augury.

Your love turns me into a floatation device,

caught in the turbid and falling falling into the holy.

Infinity minus 1

Tailwind, nexus, node. Gang up like a forbidden city.

Every genitive, indicating possession or close association aesthetes its pyrography up my vacuum cunt.

Every edge deliciously contaminated with baptismal font, sacrificial fire melting into ecstasy, imperviable, willful —

Risen in its bed, bleeding with the sorrow, the hungry, the dead.

And stolen, all stolen somehow. From an interminable source.

Like angels dug up by the burden of gods and monsters, my vestal slaves aberrantly absorb them.

I am their lost and found — I am their ever becoming. All things wretched, beautiful, equivocal, mystifying, intransigent — ever aegir to collide with indeterminacy.

Dangling with odyssey.

T.S. and Less

This wasteland — bears burden of feast and famine.

Any slightest blow and the floor falls thru, unveils a desolate uneasiness, unnamable panic.

A wilderness of desire, shifting, tantamount.

Inflammations burgeon the heart —

Fires are humbling. Hell tumbles into a frenzy with shocking defiance, a sabotage of lethal intensity.

Every moment losing control.

To risk everything. To save yourself. Swim up a waterfall. Dive across the racing water — for you, for some abominable rescue — from its endlessness, its wooziness —

Cold, hot, warm.

Twistical, devious, innocence once touted as glorious. Swoons at the wretched, swoons at the beautiful. Fulgid and riveting with life and death.

Negative policing

Where dead doesnt mean dead?

But raging erupt disturbances in Baltic eye — of wretched lovely loopy pie. Love as it dies recedes into screeds. Everything defiant relegated to tinctures of royal blasphemy.

Strange potion disputing permission my sex. To be is not to be. To fly is nigh. Like water under a flood bridge.

Sweet lugubrious exuberant loophole. The achey brakey void. The taste of its floating waste. Bright and shocking. Like smoking crack, same basic non solution.

Crack resolves nothing tastes oily for hours and hours and rolling over the nothing with drain of empty sounds from my motor un running on empty.

Section 2. Getting there.

The greed of beauty and death

Ghastly true. The poetry ghastly.

But its blades are beautiful, the of crime my motionless slime, off to Baltimore.

Heady freaky mean when want to be gentle.

Fathers and nurses, purses, thirst, oblivion and heaven, rocks and climbing, gems and portage with indian blanket oblivion mining.

Religion arun with a court packing gun. I am its flyer. I am its dead sunny end.

At limits the rivets, swoon at tunnels of raging emptiness, wild woozy hole into bunny got trapped, with cunt in sunning for golden showers angel hair, I am not spared.

Weary monsters plague in my heart where hopeless lays slain potty rotty snotty and furtive, waves of voices up from the sublime, balk of love, who knew the grail was for swelling tail at a far low tide, alone on beach with its sand and pail turning on toes like dead ballerinas dancing.

Beaches fosters adopted my irish maggots on the mind, partners in crime, wriggle as we eat.

Spills out golden showers, graces that mortal emptiness, splendors my pie call: sides of death.

You are a plate of flying peas. I catch with my breadth. Make love with the breeze.

Section3. Doesnt blend yet.

The Robe

The Math Robe.

Is a quainted with tremors. Shows up counting missile toe, versus party tenses. With intruders, mine feel like mopey moped freaks, conquered by holy spies. Who reak havoc and die. Shakespears untamables, the unnamables.

Quiet and perched in nameless numbers listening to barking like a hog for pig log, the mutiny of masturbation, a steal off their paws, into corners with guffawed with pineal eye.

Discussing uncertain separations —

Had to be dealt with

Pie seeks, pie hides. Crosses river — glorious whirls of contraband and the purging altar. Every Vampire knows rocks off. It being endless endless endless. Love as a stick of dynamite. Consecration of essential tremors.

I am a perennial monkey orchid. I laugh when I should cry. Reason degenerates into a beloved treason. Fountains of red. Oceans of black. Unspeakable and sacred. A haven for gods living in abeyance. I am their vapor, their thralldom, their voluptuous marigold, softly —

The black market. Is not about US and slavery. Slavery here slowly powerfully unraveling. Its bo he me anne freedom.

Rash Mash Remember the Lash Crash

A longing to disappear. Down corridors.

Around the gate house keenest. Across the golf course. Empty full failing.

The purity of a relationship with arriving at the door of death. And hidden inside it caves and tombs of bones and worms and racing through the corridors like lunes, screaming help me help me, falling laughing, disappear where.

Tomahawk and mercilessness. Singing while scalping.

Longings stretching fiendishly up the treacherous leg, estranged by its lovely madness, a reprehensible escape from terror and the contrite. Absurd relishes, lovely, indignant and bruising with wild fears clutching heartbreak, tomb of the roses, as if heartbreak and the absurd are turnovers on a skillet of genius and death — where love, superfuses?

My soaring cunt, wretched sacred vessel — Echoing with monstrous desire, every beautiful atrocity becomes a waste case in my dreams, a culprit, a deceit, its forlorn horror chopped up and chewed into linguistic magic pie — Frontlessly hunting for the unaccountable. Any idea why?

Weasel

And by its hostages, I am condemned?

As a seemliness bordering on disease.

How hear angels giggling — at the edification of evil.

As if

Achilles tender foot — caught in a bold delirious ransom, affixed, captive. Irrepressible.

As if something Greek had finally given way, given in to losing its boundaries.

Greeks thought the limitless — had lost its integrity to the real.

But the real had become transduced by a carrier wave. Set off by something impulsive beautiful reckless whimsical, a violence burning through its exigency, hopeless I was to defend against it.

Once inflamed graces circle and circle —

Like an erupt inexorable portrait of sweeping beauty — a tantalizing bravery.

And yet in it, would burn and sting a cynics defiance too, vigilantly connected to the absurdity of a love forever falling falling falling —

A pietism of boundless immanence glowing beneath its stalwart.

Embezzlement relishing an unspeakable freedom, to explore beauty as sacred and unholy, as obscene, diligent, ludicrous —

Gods arise to smell the beauty that limits are a misery to contain —

Immeasurability

Who plays in its nets. As an emptiness that vets. The real from its provocative allure.

Not my fault you are beautiful, beyond your cups. And that I was born with multiple drawers. A shop for stuffed animals. Seven, counted them.

Justice or injustice — tease and appease, try reason with my bedwork of monsters, all of them gods rimmed in beauty and jacked. The jackets. That strange immortal thing that makes my life impossible. Improbable. Hopeless and immune!

Stand back, watch in vain, as my heart explodes at your withdrawal —

Infected, sordid, ransacked, naked. Yet how I fight back to remain.

How I still I believe in its holy departure.

The grace that folded into it — created room — to exist as something else.

working thru still

Believe in it, like a clue from out of the blue sent to where elephants once went to die?

To grab at life, to tear at core. Defiant over the meaning of death. Against life.

More and more minute variations.

The glorious spoons out of control?

The tyrant sexual nature of gruesome burgeoning flowerettes taking over?

And what becomes of a notion to fly.

Denials made unnecessary

The inevitable returns unawakened, something of its ignobility, its corruption — sound asleep, cold and harmless —

A lazy mazy yearning like a can of disappearing film. Its mischievous amorous emptiness compels me.

Love’s slippery bottom, a heretic dancing with menaces.

Churns thru persona.

Inescapable desire bleeding out their innocence, as the most precious of all the damned. A grace to sin as proof of living.

The unknown — boredoms tyrant throne. The bodiless flying, uncontainable, inside Pandora’s box — The carelessness of innocence?

Is my love careless? Yes. A tyrant taboo. Yes. Forever seeking mediators from the aquatics of sin and the treasury of its hopeless becoming. Yes.

Preposterous — is a vulture of scorn, the visionary lies in it bleeding merciless sorrows.

But its all been borrowed grievously, recklessly from the pornography of horticulture, as a body of the plant. And sways when touched. And revels in thoughts beyond the bellwethers of sanity.

Not Above Hoarding

Every day tip a glass to its continuity.

And to its feather and to its lamp. And, ineffable you.

As a treasure of map, of my exceeding the emptiness with a belief in the living.

Like clouds across a continuous front. Thoughts about you turn imbecilic and glorious.

Girls Breeding Club

Riot descends into quiet. A pillage of reruns and crossroads, the tea kettle of eternity, an endlessness as its own sanctuary.

With no need to die? Only to leaven again and again — the flight of resurrection —

And another torrid rebirth?

Saws keep time. Holy invaders, splurging on hooks. Space is preternaturally open to it.

And salubrity. Rhyme contravenes to test it. Tests soundlessness and the reverb. Sinkers add in negatives — as absolutes create infinity without value. Without mutual destruction?

Love lingers over the health of our fugitives. Disinclined to nihilism —

Last resorts gives way, gives way to process, appurtenance, confessionals, persuasion.

Club News

So I joined a girls breeding club. As a matter of cause and effect.

Agatha, Colette, Clarice, Joanie, Virginia, Syvie, share from here to there, a weepy wandering eye, as gloriole and nation of grief.

The pensive one reads math.

For the endless turn up of new category!

Its a hopeless resistance to existence. Searching for ways to detail — vibrations from circle of the impending unending, as hope and loss sear against upraising skin — like air conspiring to become breadth.

My heart floats across to meet it. Can’t stop its vengeance.

But the vengaence is beautiful. It turns outside back in and inside starts out, a raw balance of pedigree and shame. I circle their hunger, desire for wire.

Grapples ripples purges merges. Into the heart of a gem that has fallen from the sky.

Twixt for Twain

Unzips his pants and says, ten little indians.

Immediately, infinity doubles out into tens.

Gimme a bare wet four for your tender hundred.

You can pay me you can pay me.

For a dance.

Eyes all sweet and laughs askance.

Arrow Wood

Arrows come from the heart deep within, skim off leather — the discovery of oblivions, royal sin.

A bluff of shimmering white ubiquitous basalt —

In a geological series of rhythmites.

Ringold formations from age of floods.

Ripeness, near river, still pours out to shores.

Nothingness is time, and time an insatiable presence? Figments and pigments of theories for the unavoidable.

And for the advent.

Wrapped in a golden tan of blatantly irreconcilable clues.

What’s in a gypsy’s audacity of tin. Escapes to embrace my darling gruesome.

NOTES

Pie is Huge. Pie is zoom. A multi plummeting magnifier. Hunting beach for dead pie, sweet ghastly invasions every moment intensify.

Danger dogs — a gothic sickness? Bandied, vagueried, crushed. Doesnt mean dead? Raging erupt disturbances in Baltic eye — of wretched lovely loopy pie. Hopeless and cunt tankerous, beauties that kill kill will will.

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1 Comment

  1. tilo lJanuary 20, 2021

    Great post. Thank you and good luck.

    Reply
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