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 never ending flower of tomb.
Can’t outrun peep show of hands, furtive demons are fragile ghosts, nor it seems this endless exhaust, that comes alive most after its hopeless —
Why beauty descends at these stubborn thresholds that are by all means any means transgressive.
Char set called: Shakes Spear comes up through holy sinkhole, and speaks and speaks:
Once where precious trawled for rarefaction of innocence, a battered howling yearning for escape, from storms dense with hate, where innocence gets bitten gets beaten —
Yowl, ham and dregs.
Suspiciously intriguing duality – that what got bitten and that what got beaten, suspiciously invoked alterity.
In league, are they? The friable and the liable, the punted and the hunted.
Spear adds: and yet all for love, lambent after breadth and surface of love.