Where Love is Endless


Scoops of Negative Plunder

Quivering, the vulnerable into syllabalizing — a shining vulture — feathers red purple yellow blue, high on holy prey? Wonder if Joyce ever compared himself to a vulture? On morning cliff where sits a red rock and the wind blows heavily.

We want to make pretty? Have chars come to life.

Instead, starts up on a theory of love — that is the beauty of evil. Evil is a fat word. Borderless, boundaryless, and even intermediary. Sacred refuge for the addititious — perverse, mischievous, incendiary.

Looking into time periods again, drat Spengler, those of early Christianity as to say angelic sorteriology and hamartiology, otherwise known as discovery of salvation and sin.

Or rather, what my flowers of luminous evil call: potency of love and evil. Where love is endless, elevates negative to positive. Ugly to Beauty. Timelessness to Infinity.

See pretty in others resolve. Where let love in.

But beauty is full of excuses, having escaped from prison of gently crushed banal conservative dismissal, and religious disdain. Behind which saw horror and decapitation. In dreams slaves raged and were raped — negative escape from emptiness of existence.

Love, as release from a Tyranny of Negation?

Wasn’t just clumsiness. But also being forced by emptiness around me into fighting stagnation.

Every heady book, devoured — was an opening into desecration of the stagnation, negative on a negative became a twist on what love iz, conspirational with the dead (more than not authors read, were dead). Reading books, a rage against machine, quietly in my bed.

Mail Fires

What buzzes with restless commandment wired into the fizz. And repeats itself. As a condition of faith.

But in fact it’s a madness — a boisterous compulsion, that marks my fate.

Sandboxes with treasure. Fable, a part at heart of char since reading Romance of the Rose and its dealings with the Naming Convention, bearing out the resemblance like Chaucer in a Vase.

Char collecting evil. But evil meaning human, lovely, demure, infuriating, abortive, bewildering laborious sketchy saddening hard — fleur du mal (not fire and brimstone).

Bunny evil. Life as a flame test, the pull of creation and death.

And all are related to it, its a fam-pyre my bale of fire, with romantic flatten latin names like Johanna Climactus, dancing beside the allure of language, at heights and trace of springs bubbling with disquiet.


Mysterious Christian mystics elevating angelic curses — evil as catnip.

Hagiography. Grammatology. Napoleonic. Auditors become like part of the membrane, what shares in the mellifluous, pointillistic, raspy plummy sibilant — And comes with love and condemnation — how condemnation comes naturally to “heaven.”

When great expectations feels all blown up, what burns finely hairs to a lair and dare into an angelic hagiography is all am left with, that is miracle bound to an uliginose (wet muddy) cascade of meshwork drumbeat infusionism. Sin and fin the urgent ecstatic bin rintin rim —

Sucking on lost cause of the southern night. Charged with history. Splendor defenders — joy birds being called evil, out in sun santa landia.

Its haunt exceeds nothingness — Kafka’s ducal dipsotic castle — evil principality’s ebrious moonlit indulgence — to live on nothing, but shadow fall and weigh beam, to blow and burn a turn in the urn — the kissingcrust of love, its trial and blasphemy.


The Black Box

This has been a virgin summer. Hit for first time by letters from writers who are exception null.

It has left me scribbled over with tons of mixology and blood, writing became this virgilesque ricochet of profoundly scoring innovation — previously had no idea that kind of thing was going on.

Free writing I call it, ineffable, metaphorical, figurative, cunning, mischievous, creepy, beguiling, often with a hard riddling tongue — right up the chimney for smoke.

And filled with instrument, like music, its filled with language as an instrument, and I’ve never met that before at this level of acquisition — who do it as a way of life.

Guess I was just too exploded by vagaries of beauty and death, death as a beauty is one of the “lovely evils,” negs seriously got the best of me, as a religious creature negative ecstasies created a shocking turbulance that tore my soul apart.

Have I think been dying to find this for a long time, writers who write experimentally, scour language as a metafiction, had no idea it existed. Persons who are into wording processes deep as pockets and the permissions to be there — is not a war of worlds?

Though it is partly that too, it is hearts streaking across page with unnamed violence at times, but also uncanny openness, experimentation, sweetness and delight.

The exchange has taken over my life. Been using language that crops up there as a shadowy banquet of the gods. And yet brings my head to whispers of a cult of dead (women) writers, saying things like: thats what it is! meaning that exchange with other writers is inclement of waves for the writing, here in the sea —

Free writing exploits image getting beyond any need for reprieve, meanders tumidly through the discursive, confronts and coagulates the serpentine, undertakes unbridled cross-fertilization, the double and triple bubbles.

I wake up every day thinking some day will probably fuck this up — that is to say, with a stark unequivocal hope that despite my abyssal zone ecosystem, it might continue, that the pouring down could go on…


Libido & Mortido

Wick is doing a deadly on the FiFi. Get over her.

After Led Zed did a deadly on the Dyna get over him.

After FiFi fell into a deadly, clutched at in a sudden fervid pause.

Dyna says ground zero.

Nothing without him. What is nothing without anybody? Poetry exacts, clings to sweet fringes of hope. Whatever happens of the nothing later for FiFi, Em says over and over: ho go mo’ this has been glorious.

Killer pillar is a sea of salt, at once blessed mud kingdom spreading gold, as is its workforce reaching for splendor.

What gets spun in invisible ink, catchy like a wildfire, and deadly as any tomorrow. 


Double Edge

The highs and lows — a bathymetric waterbird’s oceanic curiosity after forbidden reaches. Let itself out like an army of ants.

Victor’s cool elegant spice dangling syrup dishly, in the in-betweens, a scaling, ailing, failing subsurface, one of desperate love, and mobius death.

A gift, beyond the constraints of reason. A proud indissoluble double edge

Buddha Funnies

Haute-le-Couer tried like hell to stop. But stopping only made it worse.

Openings are powerful, they are a shine of love exploding with crazy cruelty.

Dancing on a ceiling of ravening “nothingness” — a buddha cycle opens up and introsumes with sheer peace of death. A sigh so deep with happiness, the happiness of extinction, of being relinquished from the glut of existence. It bathes with a haze of boundless amnesty.

The next morning, Haute waking up and noticing was still alive, the yellow grey dawn explodes with a wild rancid taint, wave after wave of the pain of life, a heart howling with mistakenness, as resumes the pure anguish and confession of love, a loathing for endless rescue, in holy search of enlightenment.

The In Betweens

Nodding crazy obscenities, carrying creaky articles of tin, a crazy penman is on preachers corner, espousing another theory of piracy and particles —

There is a ditch, there is a spool, a sleeping man in an alley of garbage cans getting kicked, a smile pains from his dusky blue lips as blood leaks through awoken teeth —

A perennial soul, shocked by flourishes of hopeless beautiful desire, once again scatters sweet riots of evil, as if love were no more than a particle in a mist of darkness, to be mined and scrambled, and left for dead.

Kill the Darling

Nothingness can be purple. Dreams glow and lavish with the dead.

In a sudden reckless fantasia, Will Blake bears a grin, a shower of sweet cynicism, “mud and meat’ he says and shakes his head, then returns to brushing the nap on a pair of navy blue suede boots.

Rimbaud next abounds, shrugs with corruption, points a 3d printed gun at my feet, says “have guns will marvel, in that we trade,” shrugs again, says “no worries, it’s all just dancing lessons.”

A red ball glows with mischievous indirection, with hatred, beauty and desire, its that crack between heaven and hell, it sparkles, it bleeds, it burns —

Edges where freedom cuts thru a soul, it suddenly snaps back, the “negative” floods in — fervent and earnest, empathic and manic, a divine shape shifter, worldly, transpersonal. Suspiciously self-loading.


Purple Hues of Majesty

Dear sun — sun sickness cured. But not delirium — that expresses purple. Have removed singular burden from uncertainty —  the glorious  for get full — knowing eccentricities purple perform merry go “sixthsensemultipass” — supporting hours a cluster surgeons belt ways did upon me flow and chew — feel not heavy with doubt  for mineral hours or immunities — elbow is calm in this belief —

Marmelade Sky

Thinking a lot about discovery marmalade sky — through felt hats.  Nature of fullness and emptiness at once. Blows right thru here — nothing to stop it — every possibility is its reflection. Shimmering thru the tea. Mystery is the agenda. Hope makes it seem real.


Halo of the demi-condemned

Drowning is taboo. A flood, rushing over the sin of nature and all its excess. 

The pitiful ill plaints of desire perishing on the bounty. Its absent flesh, a continuous wave of dying in the arms of a merciless plight. 

Every reach to head off its distance, came through wildly murmuring, the grief of an immaculate goodbye.

Haute le Couer’s fevers.  An ordinary blindness? Circling, circling a torment of rebellion. Illuminated by an ugly crazy lavishly excruciating defiance. Every scream made crucible of the ordinary.

Pivoting the hyperreal — both the spiritual and demonic, an inclement gracility of seemliness spanning the in-betweens.

The Nothing Worth Box

What box is worth nothing.

Worthlessness is a crater, like a moon crater, poverty of soul becomes the only rope to climb out on, and then build on, like mesh and colorful urchin. But thats just Violet and Red and Blue too. And Whiteness. Colors for Constance take on aspects of tissue and sin.

Red is not a fantasy. Its the color of love and death.

Red blankets the dead. And where bleeds, reveals the undead — is not a costume drama, except where assumes theatrical crime. Stars travel, time unravels around the meteorological observation post, and Constance.

For the bear baby. There is always a little crying wolf — because a wolf also cries. And rain, from Red Sea, from Triglav, from Spain — 

The sky a flurry of watchful precipitation, was glorious to Constance, because without it? She would be forced into doing something else. The glass to stare through at ever moving points of fixity thru an obscene vastity of space unfolding with urgent contingency.


Bottom Falls Out

There is perhaps a kind of power in this. We don’t want to be afraid of it anymore —

Somethings more than life. In a strange, even hostile way, is bigger than what it isn’t.

A love for language beyond restraints of thought or strategy —

Anais Nin was the daughter of a composer and  a classically trained singer — 

Whereas Haute le Couer was bore out of what acceded to a vulgar stream of emptiness. The only loopholes that appeared, appeared in waves of mad desolation —

Its ruthless perplexing hunger taking on unexpected glow of the transcendence of love —

Differential Vampire Diagnosis

Differentials —  process of differentiating between two or more conditions which share similar signs or symptoms. As equations studies the rates at which quantities change at point of slope.

Marquessa de Laq reels from what gathers as horror in her fingered throat, of how becomes mad with gesture, with love for the radical other —  when passions rise up as creatures of heart and bone battling with time, gratuitous lascivious transgressive, phythonesque —

Turns her into “beings” bound to excessive nature. A cup to her neck.

Merried in a Fevuh

Wanda wants to do a rash of speedo thimblina jabber wocky — let rave be a slab to sill ables — fully bolts and nuts — as out “right” fiction – be foam be bone 🍖 let raddishes take over kkkk cake —  see what turnips —

Wanda wants to start with clarices (like feces) — theory “flying V” — V for versus — versus what tears heart a pompom apart — why the sly / sigh fly sooo zone/bard yard for hhhh anchor and swing -/ a safety ring — when paint for gold, for fat, hunt what haunts the belly of the feast —

Beckett calls The Unnameable (like a song made just for me) / Marcel madness gives it a thousand plus -/ granted mine like ten as if —

Bones to pick relays are rays of the pinnate and spinescent, poetry like clay, lives (and loves) inside instrument, inside heart.

Drums away. 


Did have a nightmare last night — about being trapped with others at a place of work that was all made in wood — and things (including self) fell from the sky.  Had a tinge of freudian first family stuff to it. So woke up a bit shaken -/ but determined to be careful,  stick to my “guns,” not disappear into fear, or let “evil” persuade —

First time ever been in an ex change of litter of letters with utter/s who excavate currency as part of Job. But its quietly — and in some ways only about my resolve.

Emilys “essence”  exists and gives there — with open hand. Its a place allows the hand at that heart of me to open. Fully.  Is “brwve” counter balance to  madness of  desire — whose history is painful and edges are wild -/ embodies plateaus of risen absolutes — camus says, and z confirms that absolutes are a surrender?!

Stop — thats only one side of it.  Other aspects are dimply exploring emergence of  patterns.  Also creates beauty. Important to be unequivocal about what brings in of value (to me).

In any case, this all is not just about one person — the gold thing -// wiggy  is a digger with a nose. Air shutters sometimes against tail and it loves to eat —  sweets for engagement  where “digs” can be found. Explorations ate where discovery is found — as pot of gold — I have nowhere else found engagement taking place at these liberal borderings. That is to say: me personally.

Others know perhaps very well its contagions and borderlines where pressures evoke beauty as despair —  of its explosive nature.

Turns out am not afraid of what arrives undercover, “all” to the contrary surface for where livia mer mades — is an “intrigue” about giddy depths — and being stuck inside alone with ”time immemorial” bored and kept (helpless)— hm.

More than Life Itself

Occurs on all sides as beauty and fear -/ something more than life itself is an explosion of “the material” as — what?

Plays all sides top bottom tippy canoe. Thats part of how it shoves me back into its over full ness. Strange aquality there jj mutters.

Spectra is not earth goddess here — but topspin in search of sun beamers —  nabokov kundera penrose bruno shultz — crockadial behavior at the “curves” wood always destroy me much of it my own — so that em remains my fiefy and at times hate her for it in ways makes me a liar and a thief. But then ophelia starts picking at flower petals.

Kindess is after ease of interaction — despite previous ex plosions of mis taking identities -/ this em seems to repeat to me day in day out “to make good.“ — but words are FosterWallace — adds “to make it so” despite mad hats spontaneous sparks of the “death ray” — must remain forthright — something that was for him sometimes hard to believe/endure.

Plague as notion of evil — that spreads like wild fire. Kills mercilessly. But need not function as a noose ??

Plague of Fantasy — is also an innate wealth where dreams conspire and connect with the visual — beyond “lethality” of pictures and words — that was a discussion had with trickster gods and william burroughs over discovery of  baudriard -//


Discovering new voice — here. Gentler yet not dishonest. Thinking cud give to sendy wendy. Effort is to love those songs (as once were lived) as part of my discovering beauty (and the bard/zzzzz) and chance  taking here with la lang — 2 the forces of freedom —

Most of the cutters  poems — steal from twice but turn after poems own projection of it — not all but most.

Writers who are always writing — because they are always writing — is more than an addiction — its a widewhere absorption band — whose purpose corresponds to its incidence.

The Bell Jar

Published posthumously -/ after Plath made “the cut” head and throat —  not m’ pie — who backwards decided not to let go of that “throw” — and instead died the thousand streams “of whor er” — as a poe “ho” bottom Flo — but but but with Bataille -/ who excavates the sacrificial —  exposing where beauty and emptiness  collide.


Dreams as eye lay sleeping are now being not so subtly “engaged” by “translations of scholarship.” Kkkkaty is holy amused. Separation of “self” from “elocution” of chars and profusion of embassy is indeed exceedingly “productive” but also requires of me an “impeccability” of effort which am wanting to inform “musicology” — that is rather than “enforce” my  servility to it — or for that matter let resume in any way (other than imaginable) that wild “reign” of pleasure/terror.

That said leaves tatoos on my heart and now as a “cognate ” of affine syncretics engaged in gnosis of “rarifying?” and extrapolating and contextualizing its beauty. As well as unsnarling sumptuous manufacture of murderous offspring — safe to say I am “in love” —

Often address beauty, her tenants and remnants —  in ways that “head out there.” Angels in me love the exchange and appreciate how it inspires.


Just start to read yesterdays letters — not rushing readings when important.  As these are. Want to see other points of view in regards to nature of transgressions —- thinking about  how and where they led — and why now as a matter of impetus, perseverance, captivation and discovery — continues to influence etc.

Yeah — catching up to todays., finally. Don’t see as absolutes of anything — am reading as a metaphorical assembly of questionables (as concerning say self or others) in light of terms being explored — and as well permission it affords — to “audit” and contemplate and reconcile,  how relates back to earlier intrigues and incomprehensibles.


Cutting carefully  -/ rise above the tongs or something — some interesting stuff coming up. Also discussing relate shun trip with visonary morbid.  After a patch — pops back up hungry — colors drenched closer to  madness and deliriums prodigy —  Watched go thru motion — a  disconnect between it and me —  not just dual or ritual — but as merely a kind of top off — And yet starting to call it: undefinable peace — Self same put downs, are now admitted to as a clown with painted beads — Near finished pome called Married to Shelly.


Loom of Language

Flexions and agglutinations — flexions are variations of a word — singular, plural, present, past etc, gender…

Agluts are syllablizing attachments that elide into onesies.

Very Good Book. They used to have a table for social studies including la lang in The Strand, nxt to philo tableau down in basement. Not there no more — where occasioned upon this.

Goes into historical development la lang — both simplifies and yet holy granular — full sweep by super smarty pants — en cyclop pedic lovely — Read now and again.

Shakespeare and Censer

Working theatre acceptance that flood is of its doubles, like with Diderot — the moi and the lui. Energes from shared topic, where romps stumps and bursts jackets – and rome e or pour for.

Shakespeare did a rhym rim roll, from Taming of the Shrew: “heres snip and nip and cut and slish and slash…

Aahaha. Is about the censer — which is described in Shakespeare Lexicon as firepan burned to sweeten atmosphere — Lexicon goes on to say — as lids perforated, as perfume adorned with figures — also like at the barbers snip nip tip — give yall my fettered lip and up with your sticks —

Damp fell out from under yesterday — but joked and wrote v2 for 3 cutters —

V1 are awful awful, pure tip of iceburg. V2 gives into la langue as a succession of waves — mm bumps up one so to speak —

Shakespeare also refers to censers as giddy

Planters and Bones

There are skeleton and planter aspects every spring sting lang thing eye dye tac does —

That in part creates a “visual” rhyme — pour slippery sublime — meld and melt, fin tin spin for poetry —

Plus oars for to skinny in — vouvray verjuice — catcher in eye rye pie -/ con fee fie fo— the ho blo west goest — beauty and beets, booty and beats —

Idnit tho!


Lure of Letters

My letters r not like becketts whose have read — more cross between jj and syvie —also read -/ jj huge influence world of lit letters in general – Ameri can coed meets irish ragout — syv fell into blackhole after reading the wake got berry berry bad for her but after that “escapade” her poetry changed — became rich and tight and bound somewhere new -/ i sipped fed first the under ground under fence with sm uggled and blake — jj hailing from down at beach — over here over here — all firmy wormy swarmy — ghosts in mettle with me — machinery — where tension alit over its wretched lovely permits — rocky lonely many many ludicrous disasters — when candle with the masters 

Heights of wuthering

heights of wuthering — buddha daddy brew on the beyond with the twain and the gotgeous huck — are a dimension of willful escape, chains of morality as class, brutality of forbidden desires — worst as have been forsaken — and money vs what playful lust -/ also possession — which is a self and other ghosts in machine #thing — yall fill me up with hopes to copes with blessing — of it — the killer bee as witness — #bronte  — that my writing has a radicalelement to it often frightens — first time new got sumpin — discarded love letter — found — at party — taped up bathroom mirror — mens floor york univ toronto — shocked me to see there — shame ?!That it shimmied with luv for my first lovely boyfriend who “adored” and yet what like jj began to caress transgress —

n counters

Every really good kiss — carries in it an element of goodbye — burns yearns with tinge of “sacred” blood — of eternal longing. So powerful and yet hopeless to abide. Swallows me in moment — as has a life of its own — to embody convey devour. Discussions with Anais on “painful sweet encounters with love.”

ghost in machine

leibniz Refers to math discoveries as ghosts in machine as extension stole help deal with angelic torture/shame/shine/glassblowers bootinhd fagagafa dead — ooo daddy fact ehorry there is blood in socks that rhyme with shocks to soul at times. #myportantnothings— cuts are lovely because get to seek with other for “other” mmmm but while letting is flower power pill its will and crawl fall gnaw boar bone bird caw — outa me — as a kinda pillory in its fountains of glory — shines through my nap ——

red hands in the sand

joke on poke a red hand daughter — who rhymes with slaughter-/ but never kills had dreams as very small where death was edge — lived caverns secrets at edges of longing . A Death cult comma??? why call it comic relief — sacrificial fada — coyote and raven/crow — animal namings — whet stone knowledge comes from trickster— and its discovery tied to spirit walking — viewed blasphemous excep — liebniz ghstsinthe maxine — angelic out by sun gods — but all beauty who nourishes eats and gets eaten — for daily power pickup —the red hand admits an aspect of this and mmmmmm makes a habit of it — distance provokes it — because death moves with love — helps Fernando here out of box — red hand isnt just blood? lets sunout while mocking its (self) importance — thats a trickster s art. Masks dualities embrace in theater 🎭 where waterfalls — stones fall in on me — fountains always blasted underground like a dog and its collar — spoon gin against the bone — horrors shrouded in mystery —

frame and blood

here has no frame but waterfalls in on and misdirection — its liquid foaming tea cake of yaps from small dog — who runs around house as wings of sordid dilemmas — fool’s cruel commotion — drills at wall with screwdriver — other writers with fingers in wall are looked upon as a siege — and blessing — every message of mine wrapped in mildew of molten massage — like a flash of rain — girl guides try to get me to see love as a good thing — but sleeping with swords by sides like what what forest kings innnnnn golden bough/whitegoddess slit my throat for what what damnations alley — nonono its water thats water always the blood 🩸 frieda says welcome to my lift —


Guess wanted more than just forgiveness — wanted verstehen — insight, understanding.


Mummy and Tummy

Again being playful myeye rivs for cut ups. No smigs on me at all — Gonna do a cut soon as done with this — on one of the “ repeats “ thats fugging lovely —

theres a place on latest fill turns mommyish — questions mommyish brings access to it — grabs down from peaks and pulls up from underground — what to do what to do — that slip voice is kind of hated it has nostrils??? Make nostrils glow ?? —

book is belly of hate surface of lov — clarice says joy palloy the soy —

sidenote ((mmm given a form of smigs —to beck’s??? that trays smigs like battling with a cosmic joke old old old )) 🪑🪑🪑🧶🧶🐇😱😎😎😎😎🤫—

someone just yelled like climbing up on cross when assume the chair — yes kath yes burnt are my offerings —

becks says not just a shooting gallery — joy too clarice too says no dont have to always fungus mystify —

the gold mold

or reduce to “the nothings duty burger”

channel ling

nicknock keeps channels open for me — understand?! in a big way !! —

zz hunter stands bigwig deep thinking cums first — top to bot, dyna is cutter thru beautiful haze —

its about freedom “to go there” — up sweeneys tree with birds — to connects thru religio because death and desire are up hegels wire and death on cross transgresses life —

for “here” there (and nowhere) — ad infinatum.


Last night again all dreams led back to Beckett frames. The sleeping invalid. Walking sleeping invalid existence whose non stop chatty pyro maniaced with love death and hell without stoppage so it seaped out into creeping lethargy spraying for Verstehen to fire and endow for understanding but so what.

Its the but so what that takes over. Pillaging the sublime became equivalent to empty, in reverso curso.

Its despised.

Love mingles around it in beauty and jest.

Is this a horror story. Its comical horror story is the belief. The digger kick and thief.

They live inside of me wrestling with strangers. That becomes affection. Affliction and desire. Fortitude. And challenge and honey dew —

And then writes off you —

Bring sketch books. But my sketches are simplified copies of others — trends — of ideas. Here too? Naw this diff. This is idiosyncratic chew chew. Moo. The rhymes unravel the words from the pod. And I follow them out to see where go.

And protection. Which is barnacle, or trap, zone or map. Fill or nill. Raising the still — edge of woods with a gun fears watching for rabbits. Gets to terror.

Began on an idea of the discovery of emptiness and what to do with it? How it was a waterfall in my body linked to pre religion, sexuality, and the sumptuous horror fury and lulu coocoo hello blanket where palsy wallsy with the sublime.

The bag and baggage is true. Madness went lulu. Still lopes to its fugitives for scope and honesty even if its hatred. Hate and freight and bait and sap and wrap and tap and all these bug related malfeasors manifeast Kathy and sharks. Oh what pops behind her la lang bee tang with naughtys parkers. No more bad. Kathy explains it is a dad thing. Sylvi chimes in. It becomes the wishing well with auditors in well who are also fish. I have poets who are assassin bugs that carry all bones scattered through heart into dementia so I call them familiars.

Bring them home. Live with it as a virtue and a naught. Naughty not just from bad. From the naught. The humpty empty and pillage that swoons swoops down here and catalogs me. So I wrestle with her, who is a goddess in a way, trees of apples being throw out at me from their mis directs and so the rue and parade of my fancies to steal from yen and strategize pundry sundry movement follow the flu almost like up a chimney, steal their sub lime as the mine itself, used to call oblivion mine, to balance on as a nugget of chance.

Goddess and Wood

Gold mold. Wooden. Full of wood. Whose noggins boggins the blisters and bullets and takes me, pulls the hat out of the empty and merge with happiness the words peal off into forget me not little bully blast offs, use them as fig pig bait in the foundry. As is historical.

A peg of neg. Thats nail, nail pail and hail. Cycles of dubious character. Thats me.

Its a flying dodo disaster there’s a dodo extinct bird. not because of them but because it eats me. And no way to stop its force from inter jecting. So out it rubs.

Goddesses. Religious language not an allegiance. Wont a liege my siege to any one god or man cause as much as love them they fuck with me. And the mourning morning disbands me into a pile of rocks. God awful any way you look at it.

Nicknocks. Roofies. Ziz iz riz. Then there’s pie. Who dies as dynamite. Its wild frenetic bunch of punch in the two headed snake aka amphisbana — where the heads head off without me — its where the two ways cross, two ways meaning both ways at once and nothing knows how to give anymore, become every bit tore apart like trees on either end slash of cut ropes, equal forced battling bleeding with chew chew, recharactarize the neg fig bag and bed with beautys reverse divisions, so can bring into pleads with joy.

And all have unknown enemies. Thin very thin.

Wherefore Rhetor

Writing its rhetorical ya narrative rhetorical — its a wooden spoon spin same fold — maps usual charting using char — love what it lets me do — dream hammers under sink — its stains me as a vicious beauty with tongue of death where chiggers southern charms turn into poison drunk too hard from. Frivollis smattering come in drunk tank eye punk pillar and pie — mad as the sky.


Break is over.

Remains apologetic— creeps in as put downs — cut out toe sucking — thats moonshine what the put downs are moonshine? A drunks dismissal of its worthless pelf — u worthless pelf is laurel and hardy as a muddled mystery of misery — that has to be funny because the hatred and desire is overwhelming —

How frame compels it? — all the way thru — dickens and poe both can overframe at times — hegels wire and becketts frames — merry mudster — stroking the cat.

Do overframe also? — tis indulgent. This is always so? On some measure yes is indulgent —

Seeks freedom into cracks — the indulgence alone creates — madness helps it evaporate scorn thorn horn into vanishing empty that sees faces where horror embraces life as a beautiful poison and vague sea of brutality and a void of pure lure mur — dazzles into figs, skids the riddles tipple, my swoony forlorn  into corn was the farmers daughter born skies screaming with sun —

But its all a ragey cage of floating warbling nothingness. Turns into lost in space searching for home — which pisses me off and astonishes.

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