Presently working on this “essay as fiction” for book: Pissing Rain in Spain, Delusional Variations in Excremental Splendor — Welcome to my playground.

V for Voussoir

Knick knock knock. Important repeating burningness of shrub. Joke with the jail time. Slave to life to god to time. As a zig trigger wig — thing, very.

Seeing aspects of desire as slavery and elevation of freedom to beauty, inextricably a ruck of anger and proud loud ground it into wormhole or swamp bunny or what others.

So many holes dust with ripe delusions as a devotion to the pain slain lame RAIN, the crane in rot of brain, arise arise reek with shakes (for spears), sweet as devotion — launch the party to a mystery, aloud aloud and in performance it seas, comes

screaming against the shallow rocks bent and scorch along the porch a lurch filled search arrows through with fainting indirection this and that and the other and then the so so on. Swoon gusts moon the lune for june —

Shiny bubbles,

and bug hug lug suck with me sand witches.

Feminine Jouissance. Gloomy. Dark and rheumy.

Indirection that fatal twist where nothing is the thing roasting as delusional timelessness sitting skin fin tin, in the be wanted, and all of a sudden it craters, hysterically goes up in flames, full of wild absurdities, that life is a joke wild sweet chumming ambit of racing beauty as ludicrous, aw hell. I fell again.

For want of you.

Delicious its pouring, it poured for two years hi got SMOKED — petals flying floating downriver picking off Genus Bellis, poe width of bee, flow slow row boating —

IT IS what it is

Its a word. Rhymes with surd. I love because I write it. Or write it in order to make love to it.

Dog tail wag, puppies in snow.

Misty loves canoes. Running from the Blob.

Steve McQueen says oh its nothing. Its money.

It is money. Tallow and wallow are skills, that kill through this ducking bill, down down down she goes, H’alice and aw HUCK holes. Chew your straw. Lovely. Girls on film boys on film. Why hate film, why ate film, why float along in time as a hover clover of the mean screen and other die texting recordings, life as a pop the blister of warn and torn and car and far and turning it turning it —

into film.

Film — keep it in its place. Never confuse folly with fantasy, fucking film with “real” dick. Why your dick? Oh drama trauma and the Crusty Llama.

Dramatic mysteries chasing killers. That love, to swing.

Every projective miss isle. Process princess the horror as nonsense.

For a smile.

Ho ferocious killer pastiche. How thou undid me.

Stop till You Drop

Fall all rail pail nail. Pastiche the supplicater.

In a brown raggy leather Jack.

Tall ones with the Becketts aw heckits. Mind you, a DRINK.

As if somehow to pour the fallow into liquid and let it grow windrows. Ears spreading fiendishly thru mawkish dismay seeded by violent visions of the festering away day — body has no other sense for escape but hope! to escape escape escape, and mind your mountain rape — a wild flower.

Its just part of the body goes there tower.

Drew punzilla. “How I hated innocence.”

Nothing worst than being innocent. Its a hammer and a hand. A fire making popcorn. Its everything clueless and lonely. Innocence is brutal and vengeful.

Virtues fevered over hungers in a cage of darkness. Hateful like a yoyo.

Drink away, the fear the anger the rot found fucking what. Sham the fear into living, believing. Poets drunk bit.

Ta.

Crap-tacularly addressing itself as legitimate.

Monster Mill

Fear and loathing with flowers — brutal beautiful mist raging — as a strip tease with existence and sorrows wild fertility, that snaps like a branch, in stormwater and windthrow.

The beauty of bleakness, brontéen unswishiness.

What throw thee?

Force apples Newton.

Play in snow — snow white and the apple eater. Bewitched as a matter of fact and fury by the dream and scorn of real seal deal wheel heal feelie kneel-y squeal.

The rhyme thing comes to get you.

Serfage of rhyme.

Sweet abruptness let me steal from you, time at edge to write it, as a devotion to being here. But Thomas Mann doesnt shut up.

Hills dwarfed by the infections. Playground rubs ear to belly and floats a wicked wick. Candles, floating candles. At a pool party where life permits.

Lost your permit? Got burned in the crossing.

Swam, sunk, exulted and slunk, in tandem with holy horror, and the cut and thrust Resistance. Wandering blinds in billows and willows of ludicrously enamored dementia that carried all there was and wasn’t out to the edge of the Nothing Brigade.

That’s all. Its a fall through — in lieu there of, you.

Give it up

Ludicrous and ferocious and dubious and surreal feels sublime lime, steps steps steps — girls slobbering over desire. Boys are girls , girls are boys, traders. In gender hex ploration.

Made it worse? Dont know. Its always better — its always worse.

The wild urgency, to wrap up loose ends, to make the mend. Better but not worse.

When love is being consumed by thoughts of taking the step — and not.

The is and not is a panicky two step. Hanging over sledge at the edge, switches are fatal.

The “step up to bat” recategorizes something deliriously panicky — into a farcical subsistance of acrobatics eeking through my head as blood is red, spins up against sweeping questions of did I die just then that there is, or what.

Hack A Demi

Do this with syllablizing, to get in on the sensitive, precarious, or taboo. Push beyond thorny or even fraught, by breaking down approach into sounds that capture the question, yet manifest indirection at same time.

Indirection — turns out, offers a surprising readiness into the taboo you, what lies underneath bears open questions of contempt or beauty or love — a leakage of The Subliterates —

From intimating whimsy or ludicrous– to all out frisky with interrogative dubiousness. A beloved winding minding a way around the pin in head, reveals subsurfaces of the sublime unexpectedly through indirection —

Feels like the grace of a shimmering heart willing itself beyond the concealed or forbidden — flirting with both exemption and contempt.

Thousand cuts

What falls in love with nihilistic stirrings of contempt —

Contempt? a cry out of darkness, coupling feverishly with innocence forever in free fall.

Versus boredom versus epiphanies — deranged with longing. Licking bottom strangely upraises sorrow to bittersweet ecstasy of challenging heaven.

Learn as you burn. Sparky takes a turn.

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