Tons of stuff here but its such a mess. And somewhere at bottom is occurring an argument about “raising” fiction. Clarice is arguing with Agnes and Agnes is losing? Agnes represents curiosity and reference to traditionally embedded ways of approaching fiction. Clarice breaks free from that and goes after whats in the writing but refuses entirely to let go of notion of Chars — since she is one. “Discussing with auditors purported options.” Still some paras here are pretty “swell.” Writing is not the problem, organizing it is.
Romance of roses porn heroic born. Sound of a whiplash — Fellini’s whiplash. Over another sudden death —
True loves, great hopes, buzzard and buzz of saw, blow into Lilu’s face with sudden death. Wakes up the dead.
Sudden deaths always wake up the dead.
Grief shimmers of the mystic, searching through depths. For waves of distension, uprightness, horror, escape, beauty. Boredom grieves insidiously with desire and contempt, flat indigestible, everywhere constraint, boredom grows wild —
Brandishing delicate vorticity of the withheld, mystery of beauty burning at bottom to open up — till explodes and collapses, when grows airless at the top —
Devious and devout float by like angels on cornflakes —
Something frozen and wan riotous gong and throng, flung and watchful, cagey and lowbell, hurls engulfs overwhelms shocks with jests infinite wild confusing emptiness.
Time breaks. Steals away steals away.
LiLu found treasure humoral groomer edge of soggy daily lube atop mystic mounting hunting for something incandescent wavy gravy tough love up from sacred sacrificial burial grounds a strange lonely divine sublime crime pietism tons of religious banging contempt for daily rounds repetitive with hope against hope to get away come away.
Its lollying flames and groans, of grasp and desire, of mortal sorrow and horror, reaching and screeching prisoner of body boredom beauty death, the high dungeon of hopelessness a wild closely held refugium of desire, loneliness, begging begging mah mah begging.
Slam, everything felt like servitude, a slaves grave riddance and pittance — Birds of prayer and prey, the wallow the wallow — Hungry devout, variously precariously for escape for freedom.
A fusionist for sunken and uncanny merges with “distant” callings, essences rise surprise devise cries to languish wildly in stormy replete.
Seers and spawns at impasse. Seductions reverent nature, bang up wan swan against subversiveness of desire, curiosity the hunger wrangling for freedom often appalled by yearnings — Lilu’s yearnings burning. Afflicted for Victor de Loveleye — Strange unsettling thirst.
Beauty — wields into wretched lovely tempests, storms for the impossible — the impossible rises up — rises up against sudden death.
Claude for Rains
Sudden deaths are hammer to head, head bangers with Claude, Claude banged heads.
Violence falls into its timbers strange god awful wild dirty delicate fragile unreadable Claude.
Ferocious finicky in hat upheavals, murderous defiant lovely orange headed poisonous —
Suspended between ferocity and trepidation spontaneously dangling with sex or sudden death.
When V shows up
Out of sea eating his own trepidations whatever waiting out in unknown own hungry and homeless —
But Lilu runs halts and freezes, falls thru — into the sublime, started happening all the time!
Mysterious prison of its mobius deaths roaring past her however hard tried to break out of it only got worse.
Ground and fill, denuding in dirty waves of beauty, a swarm of lies ruthless hungry cadgers turkeys the old animal whorl where madness hung outside as hatch from hunger and death at every corner Shakespeares guest list?
LiLu and her bayou, flew back to Paris, for work. Dollars, lovely dollars.
Admission to Pirate Ship
Agnes beams down from heaven the agency. For love lorn angry religious fidgets scorn the dare and the torn got followed by Claude tall and dark haired.
He jumped out at her — from behind bushel of trees in white. Dressed in white.
She crossed street Agnes’ nose always perked up at threats of violence due to impossible threats of violence. Its figures familiar. Could hear his heart pounding.
He was hanging out by the lights too? Not far from the 7 11. Cross from the school.
Agnes walked whenever she could as a way of getting away, getting away.
Cave of the winds whispered about him.
Ferocity and trepidation heart on “the stopper” jumping out from behind the trees in white Agnes heard itself repeating. She crossed the street at a wide angle so she could watch him, almost hummed for moment with silence of a impossible happiness, went in, called to get someone to pick her up.
Had a friend from camp her boyfriend killed her and cut her up. When got home realized everything now everything now would never be same. Her body had made somebody’s map.
Then he got her number somehow, called.
Must have been him. Agnes thought. Must be.
Wanted the call to get violent dirty full of stick. But she already knew dirty by the throat since predawn down a lonely dark glowing well of rising blood and flame religious awe. Where hell burst into view.
Agnes was lucky. Considered it lucky. That she had an Indian prefriend some friends arrive with the body of land says Spengler. Always astonished — that voices in silence whispered out to her from beyond words.
That diet of care against storms and violence she called him Cave of the Winds. One time best friends. Saved her skin tons of times. Love and beauty are insidious with pokee mana.
He was a shape shifter.
Make him hang up — but not loose face. The face thing was of holy importance when dealing hearts. Already she’d gotten anonymous notes in school angry with desire. One day somebody would put in mailbox a fly strip, a strip of dead flies.
Careful with the knife in his eye.
However wretched hearts are vortex for beauty and hate. Under hard ham are delicate folds.
Agnes take it down agnes, take it down.
She proceeds to talk about violence vomitous mundane things read in paper grotesque and sad, in incremental detail, Cave said plugs, softly bring in “the plugs” to woo careful careful intubate bring it down dont underestimate his banger was also his head, went for a feeling of queazy kind of cotton mouth ugliness — traces of what, mountain girl bride? sister who would annoy him slightly brutal always where I grew up brothers were brutal. Parents too. Was nothing there for her, the emptiness seaped in so early, mind left searching but the body is trapped.
Transfiguring it into random suddenly w.t.f. dirt bag her mouth of the stunned on unholy garbage. Agnes never knew what it was till she said it. That was plank sister walk the plank. Violence and desire through walks through fire. And fluctuating housewife fussiness. Muums cleansed, Agnes banged her head against the wall and books began to fall.
Pride of possession.
Till there was silence and he hung up.
Subside the rush of fury to/from hole. Sex was religious at its inseparation infinite potholes, everywhere incendiary and silence. Peepers creepers peeping.
Sublime bursts any space from its surface and fill, burns sweet and rancid, beautiful plenary accost and stranded with sweet blasted violent ethereal emptiness. As up against sublime — whirls sudden impossible death.
Lilu suffered for it, lived in a well of desire and will to perpetuate both, enchanted pushed for the impossible but fell before it also the shakespearae disease where madness traveled into murder ambition love but madness was the guest list was outside realm of hope dug into sanctuary of death — death made faces.
Death makes faces. Death masks. What is a death mask. Claude told Meade he painted masks tattoo fancy.
Death is art. Girl in heat as a cat is meat refers to dead that comes alive as undead as playful dubious rush about head banger, as a gender who attacked LiLu with succubus longings and Agnes who has to fight against its border town terrors to relieve suicidal ding dongs knocking at heavens door.
Agnes called them “fall” lines.
Violet bordered violence with stubborn defiance and crude dislocational incendiaries provocations.
Didn’t realized was weaponizing backwards all out against the vivid vicious constraints of purported wisdoms and beautiful lies.
A kind of nameless incendiary stubborn riled math of the where lay hell in all its damnation and beauty built on entasser (pile up) of hay —
The blissom wilding and bawdry, always contingent, staggering, incorruptible with thirst, wave after wave of rocketing solicitousness, like an avenging angel.
Black sheep black sheep blown to a burst.
Tracing deaths masks, brightness and death. Claude collects images of death masks reproduces through them into something else, each becomes its own pregnant pause, paints them.
Its his thing. They are bright and gorgeous, nasty and sacred as only an art can afford.
V is on foot
Wide wind on range, at dusk of morning — noses burring at cold in mountain air — the sun bleeds through.
A vague vulturine lacuna of black and gold, followed Victor around, red, for heads —
Nest that holds itself out on the horizon for Lilu sometimes has no breaks, lets itself loose — threw dice at desires head threw into struggle wiith nonbeing, emptiness and death, time like a pickaxe lured into rhyme, balking at life —
The religious thing as offer the body to time, as ghosts tittered around the sublime raising stakes —
Lures in everything frantic and beauty and gruesome — trailing assailing wailing — Impossibility and the pleasure port —
Come away Victor, come away —
Lab Fab and Slab
Lulu knows, triggers as if searching for treasure.
Triggers nye and puling?
Prying for pearls to unfurl, that trigger and dual. Trip hammer, conversion disorder?
Rich red potent, blood of bullet and grave of brave — both visible and invisible. Beauty lies inside folds of bold holds wrestling with death, to confirm difference of death from sameness.
Suddenly LiLu remembers reading sell buy dates with habits of mom.
Triggers are always dangerous. True love’s curse — that what dredges up soul for radical thirst.
Radical singular confiscations in throws to reality that banged away in LiLu’s body wherever whenever.
Dogs Guard Hell
Claude walked to store. A mountain dog walked by with tail mysteriously broken.
It comes off as charm. Mountain is high, free itself to a thinner air, grade and every lookout a fucking masterpiece.
For any penny dread fill full yon boniment, ripe leap connection direction his dick could find. Released itself to its junk, greedily.
Reigns to grab, like a music lab, symptomatically slab and fab.
START EDITING HERE> LET THE TOP GO>its a start.
Nitches and witches
Where beauty has edges, and loves’ furies blur into impossible labors — haunts a fourth gender, one of the combineds.
Where angels recursively bask in blender — alchemically nurtured on combinatory virtues, lures body and slug, wild blowing fetishes wrapped in meaning there of.
And sorrows snare dare blare their sweet godawful blasphemy, in a wrestle with death, with sex of death, fish and flesh, spawn of hope, mad desires, rising in the distance — billowing wallowing filling, nil fill will to a focus burn and learn — what cascades underground with prometheus — who steals fire and floods sturm and drang —
Tricksters bound to beauty, fly and die, challenge the gods, construct absolutes. Withal aneath — naught, fragile and fly —
And dogs guard hell. And loves’ aerial, ladders and parachutes, plies and defies in sweet vicious blends rubbing the night for divisions of grope aerial ecstasy.
Bad. very bad.
Dribbles to Botttom
Fly and die — die and fly — triggers the worm subderm a tryst of trauma — wrestles religious with singular radicals torn and born of love for the impossible, love as a sacrificial charm — slaves come into head screaming screaming beauty of gods when martyrs with death.
Desert souls food of agony that throws itself in — for the divine. Pud mud fug rug slug shrug long ding dong prong fly — flutter spawn a song of experience —
Less than nothing is something. Sweet devious dormants ring of rising bendlets.
Where everything risks congenitally with intensities of death the 4th gender, springalls baff and tucket of freedoms — come away come away.
Go ask Eros
Hang out in heart of whale lingers on flutes and roots and of desire – ocean depths and oneness seizing on whats thirsty there – not necessarily without mercy there –
Mongerers fleck it calls cars mars annihilation chars, subvert aft glum and sump of plaint and rant boisterous fertile taint, from battles of innocence, where purity buried its lament.
Lacan “real” subverted into Assassins (under hoods of a tyrant faith) whose squander laid it out – brazening out the hooded who as deaths compannion lay in fields of Medeival hay stamp and torn shuttered in,
Broke in storms of vagrant treasures, elevating death to that sacred robbery on a virgin stick – graces grommeting by a thousand juts at just that place where heaven comes together and splits.
Carrying a contra’s dual-facing umbrella. And on it is printed layered collaged transparency, of a photo of photos that are weathered, slashed, spit on, splashed, fenced and brick, bare-ing a brittle dewy faced bloody psychotic, revelers mining the horror & dreary sweet oceanic contra, violence’s grotesque abundance in The Real – as American Indian sublime – as war paint.
Caravaggio smelling Marcel’s Nighty
Caravaggio pops in, admits he’s gone missing, admits was last seen meeting up with Marcel.
Caravaggio is wearing a second hand rose dress military jacket found for half a song, wool is soft and pulled, silk lining smells of dying (with boots on) its sweet with deviance and vagrancy. Dark folds again folds, this thing agnes calls folds, a sailors ink drenched deep and shadowless, oceanic blue.
Fingering Marcel’s mighty nighty —
Marcels nighty. Is a smoking length jacket of meadow green silk.
Bubble sublime light against his darks folds Marcels ragged flesh slivery silvery night dress, great expectations cake party for bunny beauty succumbing to heights of the bleeding mummified heavenly –
Contrives, sacred love as soul’s survival, eyes disappearing into lids, up up, desires at a distance, up up up to the last –
Caravaggio’s murderer kissing at lips, lips heavy with task –
Beckett’s Cur Plank
Beckett has pixies, that escape into logic and math, as a way in and out, a philosophers subsea bilge pump, walks miles with grazing stick over hills to seas, to unthicken, unmildew the shut-ins kettle of terror and schtick, where languor-er’s defiance is especially war-demented –
Calls theatre weathering the ops, miles of piles of bombed out restlessness, localizing a beslavering loop, wherewithal channelizing the dreary the puzzling and the upkeep of the unkept, as drizzle and dismal, as poopy and scoop.
Beckett the comic one day recognizing he hasnt any other choice, will never entirely get out from under battles and blunders – that bale, that is from catherizing the pig for being a morsel, in a chamber of death –
Pawed over like tholes attached to swirly whirly paddles, Wily in bum drag, girls go dimples for his dowry — weeping sweet glades raids, french phrases gun powdered, everywhere blown up, left to nowhere, Pastiche.
To separate grind from every sweet find – racing against faux pas, where teeters up, on poetries of wasteland and death.
Suppositions fall latent and dark and ancient from stir in sky, as religious upheavals, as a stubborn defiance, to believe in application of gods of laws of belief at any length – running gunning spinning thundering quasi (re)births after lengths, after lengths – pressing (this piece of snit and stump) forward towards each other as gracing after an absolute, or symbolic or General Purpose and the mystification of love (and death) as is fraught haut oolala caught with defiance suborning to reel-to-real.
Sweetening the fly paper.
Monsters Under Beds
Shelly says: dont worry about ryhme, its part of the sublime.
Burst with blending desire. Strange deafening rage that lifts the lid on beautys wild complexity of thirst, up against hog and log and dogma cannot suddenly (not for nothing) tame it, turns perverse –
And thats how sacrificial tosser ends up being dramatically “saved” – by falling in love – with wild & perverse.
Orgy of argy bargy
Well of all souls – as universal Imaginary, Cadmium calls it: demons dancing on edge, and all of it is personal?? all of it is in a way about other people –
Havoc over notions of beauty and the grill drill shill mill till of beauty’s wired in forsakenness.
Nurse, purse and thrust as sexual personae’s Dewy does Thorn Horn Porn.
Interjects nothingness above its dimension as a cloud of something that is wakeless and should be hated but – alas, seeks itself, like an apology – even for being here at all!
Holy bowers flower with beauty’s blasphemy & sadness.