Visibility & Collapse

How, in lurching waves of splendor, moony loony defiant, and supplicating, got caught in a struggle with death, with distance and blankness.

Caught in a dire form of dread, where present tense seamlessly disappears, insensibly vanishes into perturbances at edges of meaning, muttering for salvation.

If only to be relieved of ludicrous abundant and dissolute ravings of desire. That then through a coming on of madness merges into a sublimely constructed horror.

A cruces that becomes a crux. Uneasy and shill. Melting through to the mystic, croon and squall against body bloody hunger, an anointment akin to holy death.

Heaven and hell are reversible, the great reversal, a ramp destitution that is also a sumptuosity.

Stuck in fascination, astray with shimmering birds, speaking in tree language a wild rain at mouth of cave, sunburst to a thirst and desert upon us, of light and darkness – sweet and warren ruderally thriving in the disturbed and erupt.

Frees the spirit, in moments that seem to surpass existence. Tandem with climbs and falls into hell. Every time hit a top, the bottom opened up.

In freak junky storms of rapture and death.

Darkness wells up against sky, mourns with awe and grief after every wave of thunder disappears into a lull, starts attacks again on impossibility.

Spunk Junk Monk Flunk

I love that word. Junk, everything turning into spunk and junk.

Riding through on a manifesto of horse hells-bells, as a manifesto of love. It befell me as a charm. An emergency. Like running from a ball of rolling degravitating self hatred rolling bearing bursts of fervor and awe.

An ogling gun, as symbol of disposable annihilation, of apocalyptic insubordination, absorbed in time as genis and rheum, dancing up against fires of oblivion.

Burroughs Dirigibles, Rimbaud’s Drunken Boat, Becketts Mud, words themselves incarnation for relish, to no end.

Biblical

Burroughs didn’t just survive what he wrote about, it lived off of him, in any media –

To put into biblical terms, seemed both to feed his sins and drive his penance.

Kicks, the kick back (Burroughs and Beckett both illuminate on this) at dizzying nature of acquaintance with death.

Burroughs again and again bingeing fiercely on freedoms deadlier allures, eclipsing the occult – creation dancing in a twist, with its own disintegration.

And turning like-hell-I-will against the program – against the master plan.

Burning Scrupulous

Burning scrupulous, forlorn, in revolt in words that merge rage with desire. The glories and scorns, a match of friction, every attention to incursions routines categories. 

Lucid imperspicuous contempt – difficult to interpret, trolling with captivation for difference, between meaning and show of meaning.

I sank, when I saw, sank into with crossing exemption, relievo, temporal, venial, cursmudgen, stew and plank.

Merry weary, the morbid birds as beauty hawked effervescent circling sculpturesque graves, cut to a core with sorrows fervid sanctimonious rage, a ransom a snare.

Turning tantamount to cosmic, mud and straw, sacred terrible masks, absurdist theatre crusading, yet damned with disbelief.

Real as hell can only be.

A consociational antagonism rising up as if against the void that belittled it, rages between meaning and show.

And ranting at center to a surge purge mutter and dirge, felled musically and ritually into virile consumptive storms of enchantment, fire blister rigor mayhem & woe.

Pad eyed buzzards unfearing to address without capitulation whatever the defiance, impossibility, horror, fragmentation or ruthless rupture of desire, unbearable loss, etc.

Fate as the fall

Death is a purification of the fall, its witness written in ritual, retroactively assigned to religious cum sacrificial, to cleanse soul of its fondness for eruption and freedom, where desolation dissolves, with phantasmic resolve.

Excuses, excuses

Born with a barnacle in my brain drenched in a dreamy childhood unleashed out of loneliness – riotous and surreal. At any moment relinquishable to the eternal hyphen infernal, hunger for the sublime and something beyond constraints of time, beyond the erasure of present tense.

Timelessness doted on the sacrificial, the birth of loss, battling, the prehistoric and feudal nightly.

The day so dreary with curious emptiness – my only true pleasure was to escape, from Book of Memory? Hearts vulnerable, enfoibled, chained to love, desire eternal infernal benighted and riled in service and expulsion.

Gestures of ardor and blunt with sacrifice.

French fables

Stories tend to embody character I call Beauty, after French fables. Beauty rising up against limitations of time. And the ferociousness of her death time and again. Love’s only identity somehow or equality – could be compared to – was death.

Something I did not understand. Was curious to me, as hell.

Somewhere “in there” love had only one force equal to its presence – crossings lines with purity and invention.

Fables burned round and round, blustered to winds of prehistoric ritual dire and wired, impossible and familiar moving through the body of my heart like a conquering worm.

Tantrums vague and horror more and more beguiled, sea-sawed, thru waffles of anger, desire – contempt.

Lady of the Lake

And a constant need for more.

A third eye mazed and tracing after every impulse, however suicidal and starved, which eventually, as if on a stage of unbearable longing, burned into a kind of substitution for my death, as only way to relieve the breathless epiphany that shined in wild spells of awe and disbelief.

Ancient tremors stoning the caucus with love, death, thirst, damnation, beauty, devolving into a submersion, came to call my lady of the lake.

Passion that over time, over years really – took hold a thousands times a day, always at risk of another rising cosmological death, as an angel of misfortune, dying in arms of an intrepid emptiness.

Wild and urgent to be saved by truth from sketchy horde of brandishing conflates, ill lutes, pandemonium recruits, lurches, angry flies.

Ferociously fond, destitute and beguiled, lost in a bungle of love, death shining down on everything – exorbitant hideous stark, and yet desperately murky, contravened with, tossed, on a lark.

Back to future

Blaming somebody else? cause I was walking around shellshocked? caught in a madness.

Pulling at ropes, back to safety best I could.

Like a rope tow on a ski hill in a landslide – seduced by Dante’s levels doubling over each other and Joyce dreaming in crossing pronouns.

Incantations lived in language as created, wing and bird. Becoming poison? Drunk with it — for courage, for any courage at all. To make a break with time.

Gusts defied in rhyme ran back and forth under cover of my heart pounding madness –

Early on, moments of awakening, awakening of symmetries, a mystic verity, transcendental heard beyond now.

Vowed and wowed to turn on those whose inspiration looted me recruited me, to give it back. Where fell into a vortex between visibility and vanishing, the heart pounding was a sin against temptation, surface of my love burst into hell. 

Puritan blood thing – that neighed at night in the valley of dolls. Its ascension a shared convention, pact between mystic and death – OH, to not confuse righteousness with appellation.

How a body carries seed of in its crock and neck. Grift, graft, riff and wrath. As chivalry is to cynicism – How loneliness entangles with itself and survives. Mad with exquisite intention.