Fill Nill Spill


Working up 2nd versions of Cutters Must poems. Today — Orbits the Gardyloo V2.

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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