#003 Eye and Sea

“…desperate over-egged metaphors and lunatic, pencil-snapping, last-ditch attempts at something, my God, anything – you  have learned to hold fast Stealing triggers something metamorphic —

He said, describing the Creative Process.

Surfaces like discovery sudden pile on treasure isle.

Whats behind or under, what feelie wheelie reveals up from the muse -ic, and yet its a prick with a strange noble kick to it — its blatantly informative, challenging, it compels.

Stealing for me means that something in my humanity has gotten caught there, dares out of these hidden spells — the shell of unknowing — doesnt just hear it but sees it coming out of itself in me.

Beats slip into counts and the reboants are hungery devouts in bouts, still neednt be so destructive because its sharing in feast of expression and what that means to the work — becomes a wild thing, a smoky heap.

Where sifts grifts uplifts, where deaths brutal sacrificial porn itself hangs out to dry, on peg by the negs, bounteous treachurous negs.

Yes they still fascinate like spies digging for plants.

The Submits. Sublits. The Regenerates. AKA: Chummies and slaveys, Joyces words.

Stealing is love, its meeting up with the goon show to caboose loose truce sway stray lay on swing on porch and poach the instrument. Theres so much I dont know somehow.

Not just distortion but a raving ghostly blindness that inhabits the flux — which is from Newton.

Receiving fluxes from Newton — picturesque up comes char — calling her Did Eye On — there she goes caught by fumes Newtons super meta physical ferocious gloom, Newton was a nut crackers suite — in his way — Did Eye On pulls up to beach in sports car —

Lays down in the sun under brellie, and watching the ocean move about reads — mathematically inquisitive histories about discoveries of Newton — because the numbers for emptiness pulled her in, over by the Submits?! searching for flimsies where again and again fantasy Adams would say livery broke into Poe pump kins —

Tragic wings, 13th hour solutions. As if numbers would protect her from scoping downwind — Its tied to love where inhabits the mystery of “vous”.

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