Holy Shit

The “squander/plunder” bunny — Keeps on falling into bunny hole. Bunny hole is tacit reference for going down with the plumb. 

Exchange of beauty accompanied by death, violence accompanied by death, enthusiasm, love above, duty accompanied by death, fathoms spasms of license to love, falling head over heels, accompanied by death. Another oblivion to shiver through, death dancing on every freedom — a loss, a languish, a lesson, a lessening, a lurid strip of sacred blood, flies glued to their death like a ritual of violent hunger, authoritarian depravity, madness, resurrection, repeat. 

Open mouths in the spoon of my monkey head, screamers, floaters, scanners, pouring Japanese teapots kimono visions, a plague of scurrilous fantasy, millhouse kerfuffle dreamers on their way to the abattoir. Jam and a poke joke. La chute and the waterfall. In between beans illness fillness dysnopia. 

Morphogenetic magnitudes of tension in suspension. Whatever that means. 

Bulging at streams. As flowers in dreams. Pessimisms rioting thirsty negation searching for reasons for being here — purgatorys compendiums of the oh so — nothing, nothing. Dead ends in bed. Arm around cut off head. Surrounded by wildflowers.

BJ

“Char” is a car park — for my free falling carcass-eye. They are fallen angels. Now referred to clinically as organs without narrators. Stems from lacking any one narrator? Suffered great loss of belief in character. Left me empty handed. Started stealing feelies roister oysters from other shells who admittedly faced that questioning with hell. That said, lug thy Shakespeare lexicon, as Marleys precious life pulled by its chains. Call it coal miners daughter. Or the chain gang. Whose motto is? Free the terror. 

Department of Girls — make announcement: Have always been filled at moments of orgasm with blewable-rueable Penisneid fizzum up the cheeks and out the terminal. Since first started dreaming in body parts. 

Char — right. BJ is char for Bad Judgement. Char sightings admit place setting and potency. 

Yes — Have exhibited Bad Judgement. Right-o, no denying it. After heart blew up, Bunny fell into hell. So far couldn’t see out of. Devout moley poley wall of the falling, can’t see out. Falling is an expression of wind. Blunders and wonders. Wind is the fall of Spain against holy skin — and the sin of it of swallowing the fin, and the in fin it head of its exploding pin. 

And it springs like a sudden death — awaking to its mystery. There is a mystic pull to its race against time. Strange torrid longings for freedom. Gives in to them. Plunder Bunny evil and sunny — bouncy bouncy, bounces off grievous and sobering — 

Makes the admission. Weepy and pie. About being bad again, bad rad sad, to which horror scores the evil laughter, and heartbreak tumbles out of, and no ending the endless ends of its sin tin pin. And its garden of heats grows beets, back hands are bloody crazy, carry us over the edge.

And its pounding pounding like heartbeats from heaven, as if getting shelled, as if in league with will tell misses and hits — all kinds of blistering spells of crap-a-zoid hell — dance rants strange cants — elucidating crucifying sulking waffling forlorn, its a consummate miracle? rage of the unborn, surprise surprise arise arise — 

HELLO DOWN THERE. 

NJ

All or nothing. Equals one?? That disintegrates. Suddly. Crossing zero zero — Pledges NJ for No Judgement. 

No Judgement, turns out is egregiously given to swoons. A sought unwillingness to make judgement creates pools of fuzzy logic diffusions emanating from liberating stalemates.

And meandering through its tombs, open wounds — resurrecting its organs in my head, and the dead are divine because — deaths truly endlessnesses manifold the void, emptiness sees its coffers hardwired, an insidiate infinity of buffeting relentless periodicity. Free burning, mandates of purity, smoke in your fucking eyes. 

To a point where silliness must interpose. Brushes with the absurd. Sees abstraction as liberation aberration inebriation — up wans the absurd? Becomes godawful lightheaded, prickles and giddy, twitches an exuberant lawlessness. 

Hope turns…

Folds again.

And the distancing becomes anguish.

Pluri Party

Life bleed still. Cameo of a dead body, rolls down hill. Darkness is a freedom. That is hard to forget. Words roll into pleads, feeds the dirt, dirty is a slab, a sacrificial grab. Love and hate break into assertions, contradictions, merits. Char cars are disinters of love and hate — so vibrant with merciless finalities. Beauty, death, fold! kick! compromise? Ho no, shake it off, dance. 

Theories third eye lets molt with cataracts. Singular suddly standing under its infernal collapse. Tragedy maggots. PP for Pluri Party. Pluri Party inverts freedom? Its larceny lets loose the cosmic noose — erotic chaotic hydroponic — Holy spectrum. Not just hippo oppo dialicktic — but blu bayou all the way thru to bleeding heart and yellow jacket. Fugitive stigmas turn frenzied, deeply sad crazy — Writhe humiliating spasms of atonement. Coming at you. Bad made worse. 

Take a bow, give thumb a finger. Languish dear dear dear, kiss the floor get some more, flourish an elaborate curtsy. Bunny stop. Courtly delusions are blade for stuck in Arthurs rock. 

I don’t exist

Then that there “I don’t exist?” Standing on a soapbox of marble in wield of statuary, in a pose, geek of Greek. 

None of it none of it does. Here comes the fuzz. How death awaits the weary — 

Nonexistence is a sorcery for “immunity?” 

Every angel is a submission to freedom? Zeros out, sums? Existence perishes at same moment it becomes. 

The number line puts zero at flat. Empty the flak between possession and the negative? 

Emptiness heals? Reveals a constant cult of death. Throttles on its (bulimic) breadth —

Care bear in lair of snare. Carrying colors of flag. Green red purple, gradient yellow to emptiness of white. 

Abstract the machine. Leibniz’ stammer. Factory Argus. Raid the night? Sleep turfy and tight.

Nature Log, Marienbad

Nonexistence is liberation from judgement, so? 

1. No blame, for blasts over precious plundered past. 
2. Nor for hysterical crash ups with High Digger Poe. 
3. Nor for the devil himself for the love of fucking snow? 
4. Nor resent clamant conclusions’ forceful resolutions —
   • planting flowers at Grave’s End. 
5. Nor shame the cloud, after another breathless round, under rain of desire and pain —
   • However brutal and knows it.
   • Sanctuary cries all over it.

Every start is a finish, and then… 

1. Penchant for angelic food is ode of ancient code, 
2. all bound up in simmering primi tiff stiff lift, 
3. semiotics of 
4. sacred pressure/pleasures of hunger and blood. 

And with a bellyful of snow crow, Virgil and The Dynamo. Pluri Party has no answer — but to swallow the horizon. 

As a kind of sword of hope. 

And a stranger thing than kindness. Beauty’s (contristatic) floral envelope. 

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