Its a brigade of tottering tirade – always afraid, always afraid – as if life is a wrestle with sex of my death, how sweet pea & wee wee think of death as a third gender.
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 dress military jacket, silky lining smells of dying (with boots on), albeit overcoat is pure wool (with insect size pinholes). Dark, a sailors ink drenched deep and shadowless, oceanic blue.
Fingering Marcel’s nighty night as Marked Goods, seeing it through seeing it through – touring paint of flesh, in slivery silvery night dress, a brilliant execution of beauty succumbing to heights of the bleeding heavenly –
Contrives, sacred love as soul’s survival, eyes disappearing into lids, up up, desires at a distance, up up up to the last –
Albeit, with 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, as a weathered dowry, weeping with Pastiche.
To separate grind from the 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. Like teething and gums.
Go ask Eros
Hang out in heart of whale and linger on roots of desire – ocean depths and rhyme, seize on whats thirsty there – its not necessarily without mercy –
My mongerers subvert aft glum and sump of plaint and 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, hooded the shuttered in, with storms of vagrant treasures, elevating death to that sacred robbery (on a stick) – graces mesmerized by a thousand juts at just that place where heaven splits –
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.