Jill the Puddle Jumper — races after epiphanies — a defender of splendor, with a spoon for the moon. Shadows fetch through darkness after strains of ugliness, wistful and yearning, incessantly for incarnate species of beauty. Any which way.
Curiosity trembled with a tyranny of honor and lust. Every scheme incurred some element that defied reason.
Powerful bursts of the holy moly resistant. Waves of defiant wonder battling with a fire of emptiness. This emptiness is space to jump through. It is the meaning and affectation of life.
Soul becomes body cut loose, running with the wind, meaning bursting through confines of forced conformity — and not just for glory numbers, but slippery reckonings with brute gruesome hopelessness, burst like a coffin that only opens at night.
And its day that slips under the mat choking with terror.
Jill has a nose that swoons against the distance — and given any sudden room to roundelay in, shifts into rapidly sifting views, perceptions find clearance to reverberate and imbue, sudden exponentials turn electromagnetic with buzzing cruces — these spiritual quintessentials are enshrined in beauty of all kinds.
Including the femme fatal. Escaping banality and horror of everyday strife into elements of sacrifice charged with freedom, as a rapturous negative beauty.
Or to philander deferentially with morbid exuberance — searching the highest rafters for edges of destruction. To get the heart climbing.
here everything shut in and suddenly turned outward, and by this burns so quickly from sudden access to sun.
Unruly, unbroken! a counterintuitive form of love. Whose clucking and looting supports/cavorts chars from way back when — who were capture, and unduly have a beauty of their own that still enchants me. However a cage, of near glorious near rabid defiance, but what of that matters “most” to Hester, Lucy, Victor, Dirty, Nasty, Lulu, Haute… etc
New ones arrive all the time. Chars are dreamers and thieves. Who for me, steal brill, per force even its wager for skill, that kills for a spill, that windmill round the nil — None can let go somehow the raw useless rebellion of their birth in counterculture, hostile, aggressive, inclement — well, at least not entirely.
Yet pursues good things at times too. Its those chars that in fact came to engage with “the other” as impetus and bull work. As crisis of their birth, however mired and conspired in plethora (and cupidity) of death.
Am I worried about Forum? Index is up to date. Talk is of complicity with what inspires others and simplicity of language and yet, and yet —
Humor is where defiance defers now, lately calling serious pastiche, will somehow have to be acknowledged as a big chew-chew on Nick Cave’s rabbit’s foot (and Zizek’s too)( and of course Shane who can be ribald and indecent even is charmed that gift of Chaucer and makes me laugh) because humor (theirs helps) saves me, because it must (or else!) due to maniacal moles that big dig for tunnels of madness and love — A rash child-like madness was (and still is) anxiously perceived (sometimes) as the only “way out.”
That the absurdist punter struggles with haywire. Launching on delicious horse meat (gurgitating spirit and beef of deaths they meet).
Share the partaken, rake in catalog.
Because the night
The good thing goes South when sickness intercedes, lets itself devour/be devoured, shimmy in a rinse off, gusting through as (sublimate in) medium.
If an entry — let it shine! or beastly growl! Or what? reduce to cabbage patch kids?
Be it cat or a mouse, light in doorway or sun of god. Rising to the ugly, its cleft to pluck, to loop in the soup and scale it up.
Every butterfly buzzes bayou is light and death. Lives for it. Conceptious conceits (a la shakespeare). And what hunger for that does — when risen to a leap, the mystery of its powers ailing quailing over me. Is riveting.
As are acquaintances who parlay — feast of the parallax — always astonishing, that then quite often finds me lacking —
However the sickness intercedes, still roundly appreciate (and cherish) reach (and permeate) of parallax — for what it is — and what it does, for Testy also hermit the suffering solipsist.
Gimme gimme solids — to go forth (out for limb) on.
Then BB Becks bursts out, “she itches with it all over. Its a Sanctuary of flees.” St Agness retorts, “Violets and Buttercups pursue different bees.”
Shakespeare says: however well known or not (respectable lives otherwise), one works for it, that is all. Knocks on my head hello hello. Says: eek lovely, eek angel, and “loyal royal” conversion to serious pastiche. Sword suitcase sail of log.
Cat curls up in cup with sin of itchy skin. The peregrinity of ferly and gliffs. Qui cache, shiny bin.