Starts with Nothing? v7

Abject beauty, hungry beauty, unspeakable desire. Each an invasion — beautiful, errant, dire. What says my danger dog — gothic sickness? Voices alert. Got ghosts? Anyone.

Ghosts. How maneuver among voices in the pan flogging nectars of doom.

Pie. Is zoom. Magnifier. Pynch with an inch.

My thousand dead pie live off ghastly invasions. Dead doesnt mean dead. But focused erupt distrubances in eye of wretched lovely pie.

With juicers joycers disconnect disconnect.

Hopeless cunt tanker or bust beauties kill kill the feast trying to bargain endlessly with wonder horror and astonishment at greed of beauty and death.

The wrangling with gods leaves me hungry and helpless.

Math robe shows up counting exceptions versus tenses. With merry freaks and holy spies.

Nameless numbers barking like dogs, steal off paws, into corners with ancient precious and proverbial angst.

Discussing uncertain separations —

Every one crosses river of gyrations gender — glorious whirls of contraband and the purging altar.

Oh the sexes. Feb bot and dildo apprehensions.

Every Vampire knows rocks off. It being endless endless endless. Love as a stick of dynamite. Consecration of essential tremors. I am a perennial flower. Sinking into risky the frisk cat fat with lime what diment cha cha. I laugh when I should cry.

Thank you Charlie.

Fountains of red. Oceans of black. Cursed jouissance, the dance nest of moil and macabre. In praise of folly. But never shows up. Except wearing faces of American Gothic.

Lilt flames of lit skit tit flit into a nit where edgeless and the endless a blicks rebel lust for compilations of plus after bakers magic, tragic fragile and cuts, a lions steady nuts.

Leading everywhere to nowhere. And then back around again. And in background fears announcements. Dont call on me I am traveling the beast since 2. Never made it out of 2nd grade.

On certain topics there remain.

Rash Mash Remember the Lash Crash

A horror story. Fariy. Immersed. The pure and the vanishing. Sight along nose or mouth in nightgown and candle, a longing to disappear. Corridors. Around the gate house keenest. Flowers. Buggy.

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

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?

Brunt

Every god awakens under my skin. Sword of faith. In a lurch, a sudden awakening of the unnameable.

Its dormants crawl all over my tomb.

Nameless here for evermore.

The glory of their mutiny on me, the stringency of wrath. Find it everywhere — under fingernails, digging into my throat. Slithers down my back.

And yet, run to you — when it explodes on me, vain and merciless – as proof at all that I continue to exist .

The unnameable buried inside the boot — and under my tongue. Criss crossing genders go on benders — 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.

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.

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