Like a theme park water whirl. Or a compass that relies on the wind.

A lovely racket Angela says to herself, as a way to calm heights of terror and ritual. Projecting beauty on surface as a condition of tragedy, trauma and faith.

Pumps away in her heart, an unquenchable thing, of a sleepy glum extol, furtive and delirious, mining the emptiness for fissures of beauty, conflict, contempt.

Its surprising repetition, a density co-equivalent with language of the deep.

Darkness, tears and terror, laughter and fucking – Squirms threefold: beauty, sanctuary, resistance.

Angela falls back into these strange and noble urgings of the primitive, defiantly labeling love a most forlorn bait for all of human possibility.

Excess of living on air. And its incendiary, like a devotion to melodic death metal, devil-may-care.

As exposes what is nothing. Its all in her heart. Shimmers with it, to a fault, blinding winding curiosity – Provoking titillations torn with quizzical trauma, and the need to know!

Angela, frames it, as a kind of impetuous incestuous rain. Percipients. Drizzle, fog, outpourings.

Eviction and derangement.

At a place in negative space — where darkness demands its plowshare – infiltrates, vandalizes, implicates.

Someone on street yells as she walks by: helplessness is attractive.

Angela stops in her mind. And deliberates: how it is and how it isn’t. Having after all, been down the “hatch” with fire and a match, unable to stop the fall.

Heartistically

Her life, back on fire – Angela screams out, how fastidiousness is a relish, but doubt is the mother ship, a tyrant.

Bodies in the water, along with bicycles, bobbing up in a river of dream.

Falls into litanies of defiance, trying to escape its invisible carnage, a terror of invisible empties.

Every one of them cherished as well – for its shocking absolutions, hounding flourish of intensity.

Drifts tenderly into firebombs. Designates, with mocking gesture, as an accordance with cocktails.

To browbeat panics, endear sanctimony, that can surpass negations of joy, also known as joy in the negative —

Angela decides once (and forever) — she must give in to all of it.

Create points of relation — climb onto the life boat — and breath breath breath.

Before ever going under again!?

Sinistrorse vertcul beacons in Angelas cockloft —

Her weaverbirds never fail to dream a way back in.

Flos de campi. Flowers and fiddle wood. The soul is divine because it exists as more than one thought —

Regroups, and defers. In a scurry of cycles.

Prompting a rake up of tectonic slips and intersecting crossovers.