Climax and The Horizon

Athwarts Division V5 Fancy chancy. Step by step. Doing undoing, aching forsaking. Neediness for day lights, wake up wake up, call call call. With LiLu LeSuere it was always urgent. Sun burning repetitiously up against sweet delusions of hell. Moils bunnies in their box, screamers screamers, the box is toxic, or its fallopian, always diverticular, making rounds, levels and stages — Images and athwarts admonishing — rounds the sounds of horror and happenstance, dire and fire — falls in upon — Where love surfaces to disinfect or replenish? As Lady M for Madness rolls in and all hope falls away.…

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Desert Stormy v3

New formula pursuing with a purpose. First pursue “bones” underneath, however dense or hit up against rhyme, whatever angels, auditors or chars pop out — Let them come knocking, let them in as find. All will bare aspects cliche but pay no mind. Just accept it and see what you find. Do Char hunting with the Shakes. Then see what shimmers / reverbs / resonates. 2nd edit underway Dell fell under plumb line. Nights mostly, looking for strays. What is the night. Why shimmers and reverbs, many ways hates the day? Defiant addicted terrified chockfull of puerility and emptiness —…

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Splash and Spill of Sacred Moil

adventures in note taking I got “abandoned” to frank and alice, Jael says. Jael is currently the note taker. Language of abandoning syndromes – to freak whims of nature. I let him out here. Oh thank fully. One knows it functions as fiction. Have new custom post proj called AINT. Adventures in Note Taking… starters are not bad, working title From Camus to Zizek – on abject object space as, what else, a dimension of love. Free style? Could I get away with that. Lester Bangs says maybe. under the counter Understand my own fascinations are lark and terror and…

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Symptoms of Idiomatic Sublimation –

Actions Lucy Argues with Wally over making up Plays on Symptoms of Idiomatic Sublimation, Heavy Froth, Torch, and Lure for a Cure.  Am ordering books on Stage Managment and and a thesaurus for theatre on Actions. But thoughts themselves come in drunken waves, Mur and Slur, Lucy thinks sure it looks like Love, love isnt a high bar, its a relay, really means it. Lucy says, sweet as she can, I am a symptom of emptiness. Opening into a sea of unsettling gusts that blow the Next fucking door. The arguments have started. Between the floorboards and the lights. I…

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Last Kiss

Last kisses turn buck shy, then grow suddenly fetid ferocious, then lapse into feeling free, what breaks the heart preserves it, too. Tin can eyes and art made of string. The archangel like a pumpkin is back in my bones like values and tools and jewels and a mule, hooves that gnaw at wood, its punishing and ridiculous and raven and mean. And then the other of the other suddenly slips out from behind a cantankerous screen – unexpectedly, like a tenderfoot of sweetness, that gotta take once find and eat as its secret blessed treat. Cause then – then…

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Flying Nun

Claudine – Falling in love. Transference. From Thought to Language. When topics are love and love appears as a beyond hope – there is no reality, shadows as orbital, incurs calibration with transference, otherness, occultation, the ecliptic, subject itself as language of death. Claudine is a: Fool in Love. Surrounded all sides by respectability taboos that are rung so deep causes illness if overstep. So it’s patently out of question. But not out of question. What happens when illecebrum (species coral necklace) show up, as venturesom espirit, as proposition with potentiality whose uncommon prowess is certain. Both Sides Now This…

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Throwing the Board

My Turn Guess it was my turn to throw the board. My turn for Fury to erupt. Mantra from The East, repeats and repeats, its nothing its nothing, thats its all in my head – composed to the addle of beautiful minds. I dont think other people accountable, as if at the controls, for shit I do when out in Badlands suddenly “peaking” on chop suey cide. I have tons of names for spaces that are symptomatic, Out the Old Way, Glen Bolcain from Sweeney Astray, Dante’s Map, Cervantes Trunk. And now I have another to add. The Badlands, finally…

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Flower Drum Song

Couple of months of sheer underwear heaven, she says to herself over and over. Underwear heaven is a new sobriquet for The Badlands. She loved The Badlands. The freedom there to persist as chimera of beauty (and longing): as resilience itself, as question mark, as yearning, as contemplation, as pyschomancy, etc. Its loss as a partner in crime, a secret nemesis, irrepressible/flagitious infusion of light – is barely expressible. And falling back now, into the blankness – of sanity, without any hope of mitigation – How to unseat Badlands incantatory aura of jouissance and defiance – now pouring seemingly into…

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Love, Timidity & Impudence

V4.2 Coming together finally. Visibility & Collapse How, in lurching waves of splendor, moony loony lude defiant, and supplicating, got caught in a struggle with death, with distance and blankness – Caught in a dire form of dread, where present tense seamlessly disappears, insensibly vanishes into perturbances at edges of meaning, muttering for salvation. If only to be relieved of ludicrous abundant and dissolute ravings of desire. That then through a coming on of madness merges into a sublimely constructed horror. A cruces that becomes a crux. Uneasy and shill. Melting through to the mystic, croon and squall against body…

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Undead As 4th Gender

The UnnamableThing The unnamable thing. 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…

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The Quiet One

Being broke was a kind of suspension, a privileged disease. Its needs so intransigent, brutal, endless. Its hunger a rage of demands that provoked a wild restless vanity that sparked against all manner of reason, like a demon bearing in its wake a license to battle to bleed, a treachery against the interminable. Waves lurked with sublime negation right below a painable surface. As with it had accrued a rattling numinous puzzle intrigantly crouched in an unbearable awareness. How defiance ascends — so devious and pure of heart like chasing a fuse around every bend — And the host gone…

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To be and not

A bloom of negative love ?? love destroys me poetry toils and soils one can get lost in waves of destruction as a blessed feat of thwart beauty, angst is a hoarder, in order to have it – at all ?? withhold as a behavior seeking to control it ?? Why cant defeat the runaway ?? yes yes its a dreamers paradise. but to say that – isnt enuff. barely touches on the beauty in negation that I got caught up with as proof of adhering after purity searching for a unity of truth – when all hell breaks lose…

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Thirsty Critters

Fashion thing. I must have la belle, beauty. She coexists as a monster of wonder and darkness. Horror tears her apart as a demon with wings. La Belle is a mechanism for creating fundamental relationship with honor and death?  When beauty is lost in the dysentery, beauty hiding out in bottom lands, hell is a place of descent. Both kinds. Dissent and descent. All you gotta do – is equate with poo. The dysentery – blood, mucus, feces – and it becomes ironical. Its a beautiful trick. Or. Urkingdom: conceptual ‘superkingdom’ lying at the root of divergence between primitive organisms and bacteria. Hells dish ha ha…

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“word-storming in the name of beauty”

processes of compiling