I pay for ghost of the dead — feels like — with everything. My life is their life.
It fathoms itself a sickness. Beauty nestles in it with hunger and death. It is a sickness. My battle with Burroughs on birth control.
Burroughs and Faulkner were escape with little red riding hood — a meteoric fork in Halo Road — their ecstatic longings succumbing to the visionary la langue banging. Gave visionary poodles my comets places to vomit. Hm — adored their dare bears. When tears in in oh cents soul would bare its hugly bugly muppet foal, scribble and howl to the Low Well, on dads yellow pads no less.
They gave syllables to my visionary ires fires choirs, its a sweetness to call them vampires, where death succumbs to beauty. Pour Moi.
Tremblers who fall — fell all the wayway back — through visionary vehicular master bate tons the rhyme to frame the coming of the —
Resurrection, as a holy death bed. Makes that “for sakeness” pretty one day? But who blew knew My Name is Sue — back then. The other whirl (in Maya) was just a wilding comes the desiderata who was seeking for and peaking on the fat — but burning wick kept on blowing up in my face, with powerful business.
Poems were a way of responding with words donated from the wood — greatly helped think thru issues (in free writing) — not just thru own sparkies but actively in anothers very different “domain” — using yes, using it, every which way — to understand better.
Acts as virtue — the share care bear — of writers actively engaging in pouring thru solution — Certain aspects of the mighty mulch — is that it is dirty underwear washed too many times — in vermiculture the more cycles of dead worms in composte — enriches nitrogen?
Jokers defend against urge to kill off like in 1001 Arabian Nights — what was her name Scheherazade —
Undead pies wallow in their life-and-death markers — its baudel’air the fragile and the cruel and loveable something in heart sauntering with Dulcinea, whose body is angry and mischievous, blood of desire stuck cruelly in dance of time — her beauty marked by defiant sin — the unbridling sweetness of a defaulting apprehension? Baudelaire didnt default. My Dulcinea loves Don Quixote right back for his refusal to die without a fight.
There is a brutal twisting mobius dimension between nectar of delusion in every surface of art (including dada and Duchamps 1917 “fountain” of french urinal) with Teddy blowing “charge” —
Mamma calls them all pretty evils.
Sherry identifies it with the male priori — and her unescapable release from life as a pin cushion locked inside with box, innies primitive potents lively dance with love, escape, deadly sorrow — and the chips of hatred where insurrection resurrection lay ship in bottle skin migrating to distance in shores —
Negatives pulling at hair, ripples with darkness. And sun with wind — Sherry baby is a desert flora.
Poets walk in with them, chars — mentioned something that it was part of party of the defense for sharing tar, was to kill off Sherry baby.
Historical example shut in chars: Heloise, Emily, Sheherazade.
A head for wood. Death in desert of the real, is at tip of tongue, every moment king is absolute, Sherry battles with absolutes everyday to stay alive — revise reflections mutating resurrections caught out, the banal storms, against her deadlocked skin.
Ponder-rosa knows its ludicrous — but its not impotent — thats the argy bargy that swirls around like a “red scarf” —
The shadow at edge of entry/infamy —
Tree alphabet, comes early thinking — signs as equivalent to potions — for their seemingness potency — everyday a desert primitive girl locked in desire for thoughts of escape skim violently against skin of death and hunger, and desire to love at distance of fate.
Sherry babys skin — is crawling with its livlihood and tenderness, in mind skin crawls through trough for little explosions of thought. Thought as presence — in itself — a fissure of sense and tense —
Men Tor canned goods are divine !!
Door bangers at threshold get very shy —
Ying Yang and Yen
The male female thing is powerful. But I had no idea about secret writers board for metafiction — free form fiction — that such writing even existed.
Tho its inspiration did have to do with “ground zero,” with that crazy crack up, violently in love, the radical singular — and how was unable to let go of its singular beautiful evil. Still haven’t, never will.
Turns out I was completely wrong. It is MUCH better to see as oceanic reasoning. But it is and it isnt. Wrecking Crew is not everywhere, is it?
Makes no difference.
That it ends up multiplying into spectral visions whose largesse is (for me anyway) like a magical square on Alicez royal chess game for motion (move that piece, nobody moves) and “war” booty —
Even though other artists are unlike me. There’s is by their own admissions very different from me. The char I call My Emily waking up in middle of road with a bunch of beautiful revolutionaries of varying very different kinds — And yet each can do it upside down and backwards. Gives continuity to original enthrall. There can be no uncertainty that as a dodo bird one can sing, no problem, but flying not so much —
Point wanted to make
Daddy o drama stuff is pure honey bee and it just sits within me as cage and quandary —
Its sublineal (below the line), subingression (secret or hidden entrance), suppedaneous (above the foot but below the knee), subincuss (brain is shaken by it), and a subconstellation (tellers of the sky) etc. And its subcontrary to the negative.
Which lets love, for me, a concept of assiduous religious epiphany, stay live.