Cold as Her Fireplace

Cold pills, head pain, and bountiful exudations of sputum, climbing up and out of her throat, every minutes per five.

First come chills then come the sweats…

And the sweet and pornery? the fishy insipid intoxicated sublime — still roaring ? For the bidden, for the forbidden. Whore score and more. Her heart is a whore for more.

Thoughts of sublime penetrations beyond the inhibition of beauty. Sacred sunny days. Hanging from a cliff. There is always the cliff hanger. A cottage on a cliff…

On vacay in bed with medical ailment.

What to do with waves, of borderline temptations, ecstatic mephitic thirst. Badness sadness, a radical curse.

Time drenched in immobility, kongs for a royal get away, stalking for tenderness, wired for sex. How the eye misses its foot —

Hack three long ones and a juicy globule.

Palpitant Flares

Lives that she lives on, with ferocious presumption. Whore for tares, dares, flares.

The unending care dare affair for presumption consumption in an eruption of pull, pulley, up up out get to it, go do it. Sick as a brick, not now…

She swears at the window. Fuck you.

The curious siren scrabbling romantics of dire tire and beauty, odious and miraculous forms that embrace sacred flames and haunt her shame like a cat stuck in a box wondering when will it open when will they die.

Love and death struggling with love, beauty devouring her heart, also traumatic porn of flower through a resilience of viscus cement, in ancient rights vaguely adorned, scrambles with time and madness forming into a pool of blight and kite and doing whats right.

Shell games grumbling with fugitive sods in a writhey can pell mell and a rim of bodies.

Roaming round the bend.

Wet Behind the Ears

Flinging around underneath a dizzying feeling of waterfall, a heart tainted with roam for bone, whole hog fire and sacrificial fall –

A rug beneath the waves —

Her detective on the run, scrubbing floors with Beethoven.

Shell game.

Where distance swallows it, swallows in it, everywhere with prowling intensity, and a strange brutal love for its unstoppables, curious, truculent, a stage wage of rage and worst of all: devour-some laughter that is a mischievous resurrection of immaculate hate.

Angling through the day — zeroing blight flights into sex as love, for symptoms, the sumptuous and the sullen, hungry and torn. She whored to find out who she was.

Sweet dank shadowy webs of pain, spun in her head, cursed teaming balls alive, an incendiary of run to’s and walk outs, come ons and crossovers and her own rug flogging tenderness.

Clinging in her heart to a promotion of wretched colors to barrel with the cuspids of lucid monsters in shadows of blame, lame and feign.

Full of wild pilfer and panic.

Panic is its treachery. 

Intercessory Prayer

Depart Mental Alerts.

To break free from shouts of never, never again — that sweep through. 

And yet, heart that weeps sweeps creeps leaps for what? bloodless sincerity.

When love finds madness —

Rummaging in the reaches of its plying tyrant fold mold gold —

Love’s dangling boons of inference — sleep little one — cough cough cough….

Rasps deep into chest, coughs up the gunk.

Yello not green be yello not green.

Grecian Slung Turn

“Its the wrong way.”

Inspiration. Inference, deference, preference — looms, plumes, exhumes.

Turns into clam for chowder. Spirits are glorious and gruesome.

Purity’s dauntless receptiveness —

The V. For vertex vortex venatorial.

Warms, this icky place, it is a place —

Sad faced clown, worming around in red paint, in goo and glue, to slink into, where rides the tide, the render and the backflow.

Hop for the spill and mop and glow.

Cloaked and daubed in ash and coal colored mixed cottons, and lace up black boots, running down to the beach, out late, walking after midnight to listen to the ocean breathe. Afford perennial peeve the miracle of nature.

And yet

Horror child — goldilocks.

Times out for a springald from the wretched 10 an hour, with sacrificial Dirty — ?

Dirty appears as a sacrificial dance for sure in so many ways.

How Haute-le-Couer loves to skim bottom numbers, low as can go —

Playmates, Dirty and Nasty, soiled, bloodstained, holy figurines of bold roiled gold.

Haute remains afflictively rain-insane’d, riddled by tombs of the “broodiful damned,” sacred lessons of mortality as cows out in the desert of impossible snares.

Chewing on flumen.

Being driven like livestock to gates of hell by nidifugous lumen.

If I die I die

Raft cudgels of wild hope, blinded by angels eek trembling angels.

A sympathetic treacherous treasury of the beautiful and the hopeless, sleeping swept alive to wild flower perfumes, in ripples of rebellion.

Eek angels, relish the tumult profundus divine, excavate the mine — a map across destiny. Dante’s knickers and the girl in heaven.

Enchantments wily and willowy, the bile and the bilious, titillated by shimmering deaths.

And every hurt trans potties into a nit of the Nasty.

Cough x 3, spit x 2…

Another royal escape from halfway house to heaven…

Beautiful slag marginalia.

Up again up again, down again down again, cough cough cough.

To fill the raven craven roving pre emptiness with birds rangy for arrows. Fetch and goad.

Into the woods into the tire — the rug in a roll, between magnetoresistive dipoles. Love is the colors of ride te pride and hopelessness it enquires.

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