Is It Hell?

1.6.20 V2 Something keeps on reaching out anyway. Reading signs — in the emptying sand, weaves shadows into meaning, and comes alive, at stunning visual distances. Lives for it, loves for it. Something irreparable keeps me there. Searching for surface of love. But what, what am I reaching for — what what?? For reach. Reach itself is after reach. Evil go weevil, loves after making me reach, to have cause to reach for it? It’s not madness nor even pretense. It’s some sort of shared resolve that has to be acknowledged for it to exist. Silence rings with frantic revelation,…

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Body of Hate

Small defiant ludicrous. Nobody seems to like that. But there is something here we love. The worst it gets the worst we love it.  Keep on cooking for the holy books.  There’s a foot there caught in trap, in jaw of trap, turns into a well, and the well descends, and we pull on chain as swim around it, drown (multiplied times) and pop back up.  Has trouble finding what — permissions. Always the horror starts with permissions. The gape the gap and all falls in again, knows its paradoxical, knows its married to the moon, revels in beloved repetitions. That…

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Bobbing Blue

1.1.19 Last Catch Sickly Bit? The heart was corrupted again with delicious goods, goods that bob in the blue. But everything is a haze now, snug in a silence, a sweet meltdown of the beautiful travesty. Reading L’Innommable (in french) is heavenly corruption too, the thing is balanced on a nose, shiny chatty taciturn pithy sardonic blithe stoic — echo scopic and blueshift too. A racing collation of seminal goods, lunatic chars, sweet restless unshuttupables — multiloquent knobs.  A wispy vegetative patch of the avowal vehicular, that exhibits transmembrane visions, visions who seek voice. Never the less, néanmoins. Rapt, corrupt,…

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Admiring the Parallax

12.21.19 Dont always realize what my mash imparts beyond these (rather) reclusive confines. Parallax it is called. Spoken of as distance between one and others perception of juncture and extent. My “shrine” aligns morbid rafters, christ with spiritual heists, where fly the bats — And that it is food for the beauty, and the curse of it too. Unruly, unbroken! a counterintuitive form of love. Whose clucking and looting supports/cavorts chars from way back when — who were capture, and unduly have a beauty of their own that still enchants me. However a cage, of near glorious near rabid defiance, but…

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Aw Hell

12.18.19 Occasionally writing is glorious for me, I find that astonishing. And intriguing where it goes and how it muses its way there. Speed reading Beckett in French, new affection for Beckett again! in a way thats right on top of what I am doing, with giggling Proustian fits. That are tinged naughty disturbed scathing morbid sentimental a lease on horror starting to call Serious Pastiche, that allows as a perog its seduction as “vampire” who sucks my blood, as wonder bread dipped in it, and vice versa. Lucky, the vampire is, like all Vampires, a befallen angel a garrulous…

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Sickness Intercedes

Eek Angels 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,…

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“word-storming in the name of beauty”

process of compiling