Flower Drums of Paris

First Draft 3.8.20/ Much Still to Edit 6.26.21 — It has a floor, and that floor is its doors, every line opens up a closet and looks in, via la lang bang. Every freedom that pops up in usage and time, is pursued. And repetitions lacing through also give it the sense of a floor, a hocus pocus locus, for its odd fastidiousness, no stone is the thought, once upturned, not overturned. And language is unrestricted, at liberty to extravagate. Thanks to the Symbolists, term got from Ed Wilson. (And the big 3.)

Vampire Verity

Vampire logic started out as a closet with press open drawers after hourglass began to fill up with testimonial — magic block built to have somewhere safety to rum for extracts, for blood on the walls of the ravaged, with force of love, rummaging through the manger of desire, a loam in the mire, beautifully attired —

That then turns into a hunting lodge of sorts. A vampire lodge? Posters: Hotel of The Undead. Purple and black velvet papered walls with red streaks, plush black carpeted corridors. Wing after wing, with draped open sesame coffins, each pitched with red satin like a halo of dusk under an altar window.

Char named: Cinder, dances down the hallway, in drapey and crepey — grey black green till strikes it red.

To long for blood or die trying, radical doleful Vampire Verity — turns and turns until provokes: a system of hyphenated young, measuring length of tongue, the pitter patter of bitter batter —

Hex tensions, I call them, scuppered overboard. Like pictures in sand turning into hungry glands eating the night for a fork.

Strangerness and divisions. Extensions, incisions, afflictions of proto photo religions. In regards to the stray from the present tense.

Shem longs to let Sir Lance A. Lots out of any consternation obligation. Erase any whatsoever implication — based on fear of dubious acquaintance, loss of simpatico, rue and foil of the ramp arts untraceable repartee.

LuLu preaches: resist resist: hainamoration, under burden of freedom — calls out: I don’t know have a nice day.


New thing: nets. Getting stuck in nets. Thats the new thing. All the way up and all the way down: the Dante. Bodies stuck at stations, inside the cross — Yes like a horror movie.

Do you have “they are bombing again” dreams that show up as a violence in paint.

Do you obsess over making maps, a beautiful geography of the mortal imp pour ovium of salvation and the wispy wretched wastelands, hell as a statement of system and project.

Yes I think of treasure maps as wing things based off of “the nether regions” — a Vampire wing thing bought off Dante with string to latch — chin down, she walks with lit candle, dressed in robe of the bottomless hoody. Cruising for extensions.

Wilty and guilty — scraped off sides of a shoe and pleading to hang out, let out, be out, go go go. To the end of reason and round the treason, and back around again, loop di loo.

Lulu is a mighty shrub, shrug, canvas to lug. Stunning wretched beam of beauty. A jump off wild American peaks, hoarding the mountains, hoarding the requiems of fold out deliriums and being caught by leg at rim of source — o leap and I will catch you in the eye, bash in the tawdry.

And, just like that, its a bird in a yardful that wobbles, falls through you, o ancient mattress, the feline Rhine veiled in breakwaters of a sweet falling failing emptiness.

Bums along the vine, desperate to affine, on the in betweens loving the yen the pen the yes I can — body, and banter, and buoyancy — open up the Walt vault see what sneers inside.

Thank you for parking on my lark. I will never let any of the Sue Rues live it down. I will honor it like, Flim and Flam, as an eternal flame. Where once, just once, in strife of the Fife, the home box got filled with gust of thrust billowing through my forgotten, my cherished four courses of lovey and lame!

The Vampire noose belongs where it swings. Long low and loose, till you’re caught standing.

Cut a thigh for the vault, fault. Dante o Dante is ravenesque ravishing hills pails and plodding–

The variety that haunts vaunts taunts saunters down the inferno (last sticky pa!) with vampire virility and puttering sputtering shuttering ass-o-nonce every wake of the take I am a lake. Off Wolfe’s crotchet. Forgive me that destiny, pleads the wake of flake by your brio.

Defoul defoul that smart set case of the hoods? Sure: with long churchy moans, chants of the pious filled and raiding and emptying with musterful groans, to The Beats of great drone —

Yea o sacrificial self worth — its beguiled through the “saves” sweet devout to be en thralled is to be en throned. The fix came in, showed up. Pot it be cloven.

Kettle on Foil

Philosophy’s finical reaches are for the purgatories —-

Sniffs, siphons – The Siphs, loose leafs at bottom is the Kirk, who Guards despair as precious nexus of death and underwear.

He was a sad girl!

Turns as it burns into kind of arson. Firestarters in la vampire village along with Nills, Fills and Wills.

Couler — let flow let drip. So now that’s — from folds to nets to drips.

Nowhere is everywhere. Stays put. Same old triv.

Remember bars with chars who live in moment in general peace of mind — were generally drinking or about to be drinking —  had a cocktail with E after museum Bemelmans, east side The Carlyle.

We talked and talked and talked. Sweetness came back. E reads and writes.

Why do I always obsess on french?

There is a word in Mrs. Byrnes — mytacism. Byrnes defines as “using letter M to an extreme.”

Yes. Divine says — definitely. Malific mastogophoric myriadigamous musicomania —

Assuming categories of the sublime. By way of grazing, the compounds, mummy nummy rummy — where to put the M for Madness?

Mummys wrapped in vampire voodoo step gently off of train. Meanwhile Vampire Verity is again emptying the bloodshed — net suddenly turns into shed, everywhere covered in monster mold, awakening with every death of the thing to hiccups and morbid infatuations and treasure of the madre.

Mice swooping round and round in spinning wheel. Add hat coat christ.

Body la langue is a trixie dixie fixation, body la langue falls into vat toxic swamp yes its damned, sticky —

Our hero, from great distance, on high, falls into moxie toxic for vampire verity and then forever after — was forced into assuming identity — superhero and monster — the jackal and hide —

Emily takes rides.

Fertility monster juice that befalls into a mystery. Emily pranks and sleuths, but its a view to nowhere, cement and grass, empty and quiet, fences and backyards, squinting at sun, playing dream piano in the dark.

Its sheltered shattered, bugs zoom by. Scarlett letters, the Pip monster. But nothing quite impairs like high hair pin trigs for assignation, hibernal infernal — where vampire verity first charted — 

Foot stuck in larva, is flashing window shades of prisoner in the dark, a latch opens —

Goes out on roof. Quiet everywhere on the street quiet quiet quiet. Hatred welled with hard confection, could not resist its méchant slats, weepers, dead heats.

Reading and translating any unknown words, page of Murphy every day probably do about a quarter of it. Then back to translating Colette. After that maybe J will let me translate again. Don’t bet on it. I never bet on anything.

Hang, vampire noose just hangs.


Started something called Vampire Logic. Just basically an outline so far.

Will have new RHF up end of day.

Leather. Sifty makes mud pies eyes at leather rhymes with feather. Both a must. Roll into everything with rhyme. Let it roll. Call them Joycies Juicer.

Leather infers straps, scraps laps maps ships dips flips crypts. Mimps. Qua qua. Its not that bird book is not a fan fic love is a brick. Its the Lester thing, Bangs I mean, which was always explosive self destructive — butter in frypan — dairy fairy wells and fells, into riders of the storm parades, New Orleans funerals with dixieland horns. Every fell before the gun. Triggers and guns. The Run Aways.

Faires are weary?!?! No Shakespear says no. Thats why they cause so much trouble. Fact.

Guest lists. Its my new name for relevant Shakespears madness figs illumining for chars.

Present tense. I will bring gum. Free Emily. Its just a case of not being the right kind of salesman? I dont think so. Writing is grim, gloat and not as glandular as fright night. Its a bucket for Sweet Pee.

There’s a section in philosophy that discusses Art and Excrement — Talking dirty as a mystery in artful garbage?


Loathing lilted in frenetic sprouts of love and injury over landscape in time like a dead baby suspended in a jar lifted into place by some anti mortal god li quid but raised to a damnation bored resolutely to death. To death.

Aha, vampire logic, suppose thats the sleuth sloth froth, learning how to shit outside your pants, of vampire logic. Vampires love and loath death in one breadth. Bored by religion bored by school the sameness and lack of magic was tragic. There is no reason shouldnt take it seriously. Call it a topic. Its way past prime of vampire rhymes re book and movie thing. And yet for Moi, its fright night fresh.

Present tense: Midterms. Textile book. Busy. But writing pounds its way in. Longs to be first. And it is when writing. So theres that. Middle of Midterms.



The writing itself manages to be honest and yet doesnt impugn up heave’l the evil on any one ☝🏼 source(rer)-/ at all — turns out bees very careful in that way — mur allure —

Sunday at the mines — working thru ticklish online — mostly quotes some notes — Stole lui and moi from diderot! So lovely — beginning to use lui et moi for quotes and notes on reading ticklish.

Desperate to change artwork online feels out of date —

To show up like with Victor and yet be there in pt for pres tense— thats all. Can nut count on me for anything more — pt is all am after.

Sign in the darkness and neon starts blinking in ludicrous blue and vampire red: test test test, as rover goes over slips wishing well gold fish into the n word no non ne —

I always lie about it everywhere else — westies gave me a place to ditch the lies and dig — means more to me : than just about anything — to hear the truth yearning to come out on both sides — was glaring and cruel and unrestricted. And yet stolen too as these things are — truth is stolen from shadows lurking after the real —

Am taking stock.

Every one of my craquelure is interesting from a language poetic kinetic perspective and occasionally knocks it, knocks right into IT — verse however is not as rim riding as has emerged for the narrative —

Researching methods of figures of speech, has had me piecing together ways (from shakespeare ==> post mod lit) might blend figs and chars into a “burden of freedom” that could appease pronoun toppling thing? for fictionally subjective plurality in the narrative. Hmm.


When dont try merge into Chars — but build “as is” weave them in and out dangling, as they do — so to speak — much better then when pin down too much into Character.

Actually tradl ideas about character have dumped and sump pump instead around Char looking for liason with their destiny as a poetic encumbrance and release of the Goo Woo.

Its blowing my mind.

Calling this thing the unnamable thing is for me a second stroke of lightening. Ireland has a thing about the unnamable. It passes on from poet to poet. How I got mine?

Back to beginning of “the tribe.” Religious horrors immediately abound. And singular radical jewish thing kind of turns into jesus the bloodhound.

Who wanna meets a naughty parker in reality for a drink. MMM can taste the rum. The drunk now lives only here. Only here. Not in present tense. In present tense do best just to be present.

That’s all.

Sent red balloon to perfume — poem written via reading — lacan — la langue framework from lacan.com — les trumains — turning in circles.


Reduces to kicks and pricks so fast magnetizes makes it like a black hole eats everything in its path — beauty turns buzzing bust lust into clowns — clowns attach, clowns wear war paint -/ beauty ecstatic prismatic burden of freedom — dreadnought which turns into love — and never lets go.

Its what the vic sic lick brick slick beautiful dick — impacts with — a windblow of quixotic ecstasy climbing up up up in lieu with death — blowhardness there raging paved a holey hide inside offside — starved for skin.

Everything spire and higher and higher — the pyre is a choir — the mill dew foe vous who who who — distance and pant skint and rant—- defiance hidden at reaches eating bruised peaches —

But it was Lucy fuckakk Lucy (matron she holds them accountable) oh Lucy goosey did me in —

Chained ankle to ankle with achilles lady of lakes beautiful sins — scarlet is a letter melt as hilt on eye in fire, ruthless burning lies a burial ground of golden ear -/ thick as anemone — wind thieves.

My Colette calls her fucked in the head mad masturbation parker. Sweet as dirt and fallen dead leaves.

Idea of having to submit -/ verily makes a village of pillage for leaking perfume.

Is it personal is like saying is it doomed. The answer hog and flacon — french for flakes —

Kicks wake up the undead. Monsters grow right out of its head.

3.2 Too Many Hats

Yesterday wrote poem called Head on Bowl.

Who thinks of writing somewhere between shaving and bulimic —

Writing is gloomy dark forbidding yet pulls toward mann pynch and all the colettes. Who love just as plus much.

Its not all about any one thing — that said the singularity got stuffed stuffing itself —shots unt the dark — peaches discovered the wild west then fell the fuck apart. Too many hats 🧢


No matter how turns body it still itches — writing eye spies for ? cake up of blood in ratios of morose to distilled — beauty bubbles up right underneath it — fill of wasted breadth — always astonished by my taste for that kind of freedom — burning up on a frozen stretch// writer now calls “my mystery habitat.” 

Thinking 🤔 over habits rituals — writing emerging from out of — black smoke billowing — soot covered — bleeding car wreck — that sort of thing — next step forward — not a disaster movie — not same as past — hibernal by the infernal — how change outcome —

To steal away steal away with others strengths and virtues ?! — virtues are skyey and fly — tumble bunny lets nets fall beautiful beyond reason. All can do is be true to IT — with own hands glands tits slits courage perfumed to sail nail mail fail ail grail scale — 🍊says to awe named heck — rhymes are for pop tarts. Meaning rhymrs give gape to the in between — trader joes tombs — azalea in loom of room where give in go over the falls in a thunder of hisses.

Oh he says I blame Thomas Mann — Gertie/Bertie got pirated by #themagicmountain — gender comes in halves — brays still kind of hangs there — with missions aeries baking seed cakes.

How now this cow’s dutiful beautiful perversions have been released from sacrificial fire-pits of beloved livid lunatic past — shock it was and still is that grubstaker leaves never not zero ever — but parkers by influx here afflicted, because of thunder — where floats dead pies The In Corruptible — as a (radical) life boat from paralysis starvation suffocation // also drowning 🍊— 


Its from fiction that have been developing a modality for essay —- and in essay often pops out figures and chars — that is to say — for the fiction —

Thats where confusion comes in.

Chars are just beginning to separate — not in alignment yet — 5 milking so far and fascination for it as pronoun toppling is fiercely loose and provokes a kind of bell-fry of collision collusion — gears and skins violently recombinating — a grove graven slave to the grift — used to kill me — now appears over mountain pass as openings — grave rave oceanic messianic dryad raiding ravages (alas, also bunnies freed by poes lethal cabbages) for very thick and throat of it —

So it goes.

Dump into Trunk

Pinky and Richter

I have a happiness bunny called Pinky who shows up for drinks. Met new friend E at Brueur Museum to go see Richter. E remarks you could walk through here and say he is a different artist in every room.

Destroyed early works. Happy Social Realism. Wiped it out. After the war.

And became experimental — Squeegeee scrapes, gorgeous blurs, sculptured mazes. An wall size 11-pile-sheets-of-glass. A masterful map of 6900 squares using only 3 primary colors.

1/2 installation: ink slashes in black of the brutal empty edges where madness meets the war forlorn, print on paper.

1/2 installation: pure all out technical perfectimundo, precisely sanitized flow go row, factory charms, clean as a whistle.

E and me met at a ski ball.

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One response to “Flower Drums of Paris”

  1. In an extract from his new book Surviving Ireland, Colm Tobin takes us through the many shades of Irish rain

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