Up to Nothing and More

Cling of Sling

Cling of Sling is in part part of an adoration fascination with god, love, resurrection, spirit — an intrigue with synchronicities and opposites hanging like a feather clipped to a bridge.

Piss Art book is pastiche. Starting Version 3 — expanding.

A revolution liberation rant odalisque, that blends vilification into shame, and scandal with crimes of dubious wanton passion.

Beauty’s rage, Cling of Sling, caught in a hyperrealism — over heartbreak falls through to a shocking incredulous boil, like a screaming kettle of death.

Face of Card

Meaning takes on an inspirational/conspirational inflection as a wicked embrace forming over a fountain of sly drawn sky, but that can turnover as face of a card, into a wild jolt of sudden death —

Horror upraises the roof, in a sense, capitulates — and Cling of Sling swings into the bloody whore for more, again is fluttering, flaming, active —

A blind running sort of freedom flies at Beauty in Traction, fiends bat like and dire, sog off — for a machinating strategem muscularity — to absorb the fatal blow.

Reaching for fathom, break in, breach it!

Run run run, run away. With the sacred bone.

Boxer

tries to get in close — Angelic and forfeit and slippery and free.

but then is seduced into incendiary

the trigger pops out

for small punches. Which a naughty a kind of wonder bribe. Breaks with everything.

A white square opens up Clingermans sci fi high

and candle of loom doom room swallows dr who crew fly on a line

to lost souls walking terrain, the undead, take me. I am yours and I let it pour. As kills for a rhyme. Or something horrid, caged, impossible. The beautiful and the bodiless.

Pulp drinks it for culprit — the flipper for skipper.

But also lob and flop house. Girl runs in screaming, laughing bursts in through song, radiating suturing scorn porn lorn adorn the challenge

prismatic frantic stamina

raises the gist of mist to a rub a club dub of lonely insidious — yet not without beauty —

pirate songs of love and curses. 

Three points and beyond.

And virtues agony progeny rossetti confetti whose hair bin bun loves me ruthlessly.

so the weatherman has to barf

and laugh at these perversive that falls to keep the moment at all —

falls back into excretionary splendor, from the spool of infinity

clowns of the reknowned call it the brickhouse function

Lilu threads the noose, obsessed with things hanging nets unnamable clues fish swimming retracing the four folds / winds of mystery. 

Call it sic ness if you will. Thrown through doors of love, and then Marcels nighty rides trident as virtue and eye beauty blandishment survive the lie vacuum and victim of pissimus pessimusz “3 turds a day” as ransom for a life. 

Pimona

Pimona is a pross, not anything like Celia,

developed first on insta have to pull that in. to take this any farther. fellini off shoot from sweet charity. first blurt — pretty ugly still, . making rule have to choose which book whatever I write. body of hate. surface of love.

Pimona is a dancing slave of a wretched pirate curse, but then gets boat to straighten the foot fall falls out again, then slips into V, la langue impossible with hope, of wretched ornery sort.

Seems to go along with it. Then come the demands.

Does mysterious swan dives. But is after is this. Is the work. And it gets confusing. As its innertube time hallucanigenic epiphanies saddles to its spine fills rills pills hills nills to the faith that blinds its way into it,

tearing at stills. Lets the fly out of flybottle. Lost to its token demands, as a situ. Place formal or something mix and pasty. Art and soul.

Its lovely in its way.

Bugger for a Beer

Writing screams at me. I have been turned into a toad. And am sitting in its restive fervor wallowing after sublime that goads me. There is no conforming mutiny.

V2. Its a start. Getting itself organized. Still pretty ugly. V2 is often a going over of plug uglies with beckett and a beginning to bring in langauge from zizek about Songs of Sabotage.

Joy lives inside its linking drowning beauty as a sorrow and a boon, tether and a swoon. Ducks are up to nothing. Nothingness filled with tattood harpoons. Go for the whales. Make it count.

Always unacceptable. The damage is remarkable.

Cats are out. Want to scratch up the moon. Eat its dead. Dark and stark and lark and hark and park and fall. Its an anvil floating at the head, up against time — searching for time aligned in rhyme call the magnificent trots.

Rough shot of pavement, sweet and brutal barge — where arm is tap tap tap, open open open the tap, my tapestry of gargling gargoyle emptiness. The beauty and paralysis of words.

And beauty is only real is only real is only real whats in front of you brutal flying emptiness. Wracked with desire, to swim and steal.

Sad sad reach sad reach. Spoonfuls like dust, cringe capsulated feast. Empty the dumpty and chase. Miserys sprung freedom, a born again and again and again mystery. Strung up in lace. More more more more.

The tide of time falls into reaches of swoon for sweetest embrace. Searching for ecstasy’s religious fuck. Its impossible to deny.

Right now its all scald and scum and feather and done and boot heals in face of the dead eye, gesture the gesture the gesture in and out of pictures on purpose so as not to escape the moment but pander to it — because its out there. Eating me alive, the feed is my greed.

Mummy shake grass lamps. Foot on chest squeezing the rot out of me. It’s a squeeze doll. I know its yellow fallow wallow, rhythmic and purportedly empty.

The emptiness is massive passive and beguiling, lives inside of a mummy’s stiff curse, lamp shade and strings of grass beads, leaving empty footprints. Falling again. The fall thing.

Whispering tunnel and funnel and cudgel and doddering, wild blasphemous deaths the cluster of dubiety, will to shine the pine and pour. To some fabled core. 

And dress it up in hoops loops, the tender, a splendor of wrappings. Am burning up with it — take me am yours, am writing not writing. Beckett talks about writing not writing. So does Pessoa. My sad sad girls.

The sadness the torture and horror where sorrow carries itself through my veins strictly fickle, impossible, always in vain. The bade a fade is triggers of desire. Putting itself up to it. Finding somewhere. Just waiting. Not doing anything. Finding somewhere.

Birds, land and pace. Birds pacing. In fire escape.

Red Tailed Hawk, dings and flies. 

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