Camisole de Force

Dribble, these puddles, I see them as puddles, puddles that grow fish, fish become bruised and rapture ruptured — heavenly strained — therebeit granularized, the sky that pie and fry. Weep scorn and sizzle !

When mention becoming human, all suddenly flips, suddenly slips into darkness there is no middle —

And its totalizing, the turn of spig at neck, pressurizes. All about the doubt.

Get out the mop. Having hard time being strong.

Thus as a simpleton with bunnies in the boot, I have constant affairs with dead poets.

Living poets its not affairs its camisole de force. Its a kling to a sling to a prick to a brick. Beauty ravages it all.

Growing one, for my part in a series on Vamppile Logic.

Where refer to as inseperable sex the fourth gender. No ones left out. Everything about death and meaning klings ferociously at the roots. Love becomes a bastard love child who spits and worms, jellos and germs, in frequent bouts of horror and death.

Happiness, if ever about, splits like a drunk into slave to happiness robs the knob in sleep induced frenzies.

Syvy is a dangerous ghost, she goes black. Jane there are a lot of Janes here, they brought her back. Violet pressing down on dynamite and its going off all around me.

Lake last week they all say, farting round the campfire, slave spirit week — and it is super especially over.

Lots of talk about slavery in philosophy. Its all over the place. To do with love, to do with religion, to do with emptiness, to do with capitalism, to do with communism to do with socialism. Slave to this slave to that. Remember thinking as a wee weepy tart, slavery was life and all you could do was dream your way out of it.

When I think of slavery think chains, death, misery, and every tomorrow is no tomorrow. Aligned with the N words, not no never — never is forever, thats the thought as slave sinks into night to never return forever.

Slave economy of my heart. Bunny quizzes. Syvy I say — love bunny quizzes.

Forced by possession (that is my shirt!) — Possession? is ownership, ownership is religious. Honor and decency and purity — everyone quiet.

Hush sweet Charlotte.

Balk balk balk, the crow balks. Raven rides the grail.

Process itself possesses the clock, says Shemlock. Hail the pail. Torrents laugh, laugh at the loosies. Loosies are singular and very heavily smoked. Redeemed in smoke, beauty dies as lives.

Is that opportunism?

And in the Converse

Or is opportunism a conversation — dibbie dinner dunner downr has with fountain of death.

Cuts always cut thats what they do. Westies is for naming conventions, for nominals.

What like about dead poets best. Their deaths. That Syvy wore slingbacks to her own suicide.

Why see emptiness as death — the cycles and hat bat fat — cat or klingerman —

Oh — Syvy was a signet man too and she had beauty but mine is stuffed with horror —

Grind on, only dead are true to the absolute — the rest is trickster, puss and play and prick and noose — beauty pulls at ancient roots — baits hovering the no no no to rehab —

What goes to black — draw draw slave drawer of flowrs to subdue her death into “relief” — as teach is for me too Coucou hello —

Present tense — its structure — forces me into pres tense and its a direct giving even a mommy thing -/but today is a multi check —

So jealous of Syvy — she had backers — she sent out constantly — and with her head in oven and a blue green white beige checked skirt and pearlescent leather slingbacks — she sucked it in and put it out — offed it — offings are glorious in a neggers preggers way, they rage 😤 with the promise of death.

lusty losties

“Une fréquentation forcément funeste” translated by goog as inevitably fatal attendance then Monsieur Kelly says — get out while there is still time. Stoppage sputters why ugly anger decide decide abide — endings that are qualifiers the elide germ — drink the tide. Of flowers of efil.

Total slurring of words almost, its drunk on it — I am starting to call The Drain Bandit, its affiliated with art movement called DADA and (Ezra Pounds) Vortex. As well think in end will be bringing in talk about Bataille’s headlessness as emblem of freedom — from high church dogma.

Stay may, no matter a drnk ??? or le haute who sinks into the bloody pink —

Rimbauds for lunch. The clobber against the slobber where gruesome is a french whore’s subsitute, the knob break middle at Genets Mettray, break middle break middle

OH dick dock never regret the sightings of ghost —

There are lusty lostyies as well as hozed hazey loosies both ends burns the tiger.

Beckett in fench mode calls Madame the Blake: patsy pet tuna wish pish dish — helps p’or artist cope, as art transgresses absolutes and can x pan beyond simplicity for nuggets of Frido — who screams from bottom of lake, shoot me where it hurts.

Shut up Frido. Frido always dies the wild dog.

Perhaps its that simple —

Ear regardless -/ the ca ca caphony of wild unsettled blasphemous useless and cruel — Syvy makes believe its just dog the Wall we all call noodles —-

Veterans affairs UG, down again down again never come up.

The share market squares with mud beckett and bit shop whips and quips — Vamppiles struggle with muggles in ferocious blow where crows puddle cuddles plaster baby hedgehog — ohh laughed Syvy with it always. she laughs in it.

Its a struggle to come out.

SYVY

My darling — the fun dunner of Him maul — why keep u out ?

Or Beethovens — gruff and wrapped — the pitta petta in wool — spools and pools wretched lovely tools.

Syvs sylls. Just before and after. Reading Joyce.

That hard turning hell beauty compelled to touch rock and its murderous throws.

Of angelic woes —

Vieux monsier deliceux

Murphy, now end of chap 2.

Msr kelly telling her plaque-le — dump him.

Prev page summarizes “vieux monsieur deliceux“ descent into “les hauteurs son crâne” heights of skull “allaient l’emporter loin monde objets sur reéls” importing the far world that it prevail (over) real objects —

Ride the swish —

Fem must tic battle of generations / negations —

Write flight night varmints slur les hauteurs —

Pain in my name shows up if at all only as a livid liquid — lost perversion of rant art farts — and pill paint —

Spring enuff to bear beat downs with Syvy what a goal to live by — ?!?

@& historical messesity.

Girls kill me too. Just as bad.

But ponies are the best blasphemy ever gdgod created —

Haze in rays pricks ona dick dock duck no wont duck —

No three or free, duck didly deadly and means into the fan — and let the feathers draw quarters a blood nono no gemmisant Vamppile logic, pull it back pull it back, from riding a bull?

Water on the mountain.

Spend a Dada day with Santa Lucia. At something cultural.

Rideabull 1

On riding the bull and water through a bottomless pit and obsessions one compared to infinity and the other acceptance — at mad strains of life. 

When the wind whips up against impossibility of what your up to — in face of the falling — falling that falls into it —

That starts it off.

Water through the pan fan scan also ran of meaning that pertains also to being here at all, head pounding with its hack lack smack, everything not going anywhere and doing it everywhere.

Never cured of the absurd is a charm that is hopeless mischievous and impossible. Word beyond when others work as fuse muse giddy and sympathy rides across it mired in fumes of everlasting death.

That’s all perfect pals. You must stretch you must stretch. Ballerina ob jects. Stand at bar. Toes alive with muscular bone and sensitivity to drama.

The bit woozy

Lil. Lilly is a napkin ripper. All sorts divers. Angelic and thirsty, crispy and cursed.

Thats how. Came into view. The Camel in a rowboat in a scarf.

Screaming “you got no reason to barf.”

Honey bee sides.

Collapso calypso has Wayways — Wayway is a new char, Jane brought over from Hawaii.

Infest many infesterz.

Doll and dollop.

Heavens to Bitsy, dates all the diffs and it grows into muffin miff — laffing fizzy wuzzy fits.

Over the stove.

Ask agatha?

Indian beauty pervades soul where tricksters lurk divine.

Takes it toll. Every fallen from the belly of life fol.

Dunker spelunker dead injun now lives in honey? What honey where.

Eating strings of beef jerky. Cheeks ache with dynamite. Death cycles by trying to calm the fairies? And to acknowledge that its pervasive in theatre very Mary mud pie. When the work begins to exist for itself.

Look book wise.

Syvy screams from box under stairs — is allowed to tie boat up and pop out for sunflowers and daisies.

Art exists that exists for itself courts with disaster.

Lamb with Sam

Butta whatta.

Calypso collapso and burn it down barn // babe the pig //

Just fell into a Stinky.

The Poe Trick Fork. Wad of dada.

Fork in pork —

Slipping in against aspects row toe the Poe -/

Poe touches not just horror but absolutes — touches absurdity at lengths of horror — yet in Poe love that loses all for the other is the be all, wildly perverse slop on top — reversals prove the rule. And horror as an hysteric draped in tears arrives at odd ferocious obstacles — to unity — as rippling in the blind of every fat figure of fate.

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