Rains every excuse
New Chapters working up — in effort to topic out Character Sets, which in its development takes advantage of a broad susceptibility to rhyme — throughout the narrative. Because its there, it sifts up like smell of gas. As spin bottle for Chars, Chars is short for combo of character sets and figures of speech. Slippery post modern themes, somewhat transgressive. Examining repetitions: loops, switches, come pair a sins, a bleat in heat. Drilling down best I can into the cow chow now for under girth with under grounds den of ticklish, awash in guess jest behest of Char, these figures and patterns —
Compiling now with open hand, that is to say with hopeful volitience. Piece is a WIP for up coming book — presently entitled: A Subliterate Voluptuary’s Joyful Grimoire.
Version 1.2 Still editing:
Prisoners of joy, touring adjacent harbors in mud boots and fleshlight, searching mercy for rent of words like ghosts of a reunion that’s forever about to happen. Rains every excuse.
Hosting tea Saturday every high noon with dante’s yearn infernal looters and fitters — Dirty inferno’s corner preacher, sweetness is Divine. Tender and damned.
After all, the grappling gotta lotta potta knotta rotta spotta. And every rim infernal murmur — sweet heap-a siren polemicals — can take said breadth away.
Murmurs loopy rotto ride/tide and wrestle with trans missionary dadas, hiking up the chimney —
Said came and came. With go-to Chars. Chars, live beside the fire.
Chars: possessive perversions, mans the bans, sweet beat the fleet, virtue violent peri orbitals —
Dirtys dozens, the great escape.
The luge and the spiracle
All Avengers called to order, arms and charms and worms and serums of Lady M. M is for Madness.
Warning cliche is like a string endemically tuning.
Stands devoted. Holding kill-the-fish-intrusion pole. Duty Spiracle. Blows cupcakes. Spikes and spills.
Guards call their daily risen cage for turds.
Agnes in a floating ring around a sunlit pool basking in permission, its sunny and warm. That Rush with water through hands.
Mist comes up from the hot tub. Its empty. Everything is empty. Quiet subdued breathing. Nothing nothing nothing doing.
bleed bleed bleed —
LiLu never gets around anything, once on wall, wall turns inside out and mirrors but thats all thats left. Thither and nether, falling eye through eye, fell through slits nocturnal
But the wonder of it — all that blood shed, dead pie swarmed quantum pours in, into Beauty’s flake rancorous runnel of knock knocks.
Agatha says, each death explodes like a dehiscent sponge.
Naughty parkers. Point of attack, stack and hack:
All Chars love musers to death. Up the hill, up the hill, march, pull pull and rat a tat —
Guards. LiLu has a fence of guards given as sword down throat of obey or death so be thankful, behind the walls you will stay —
No, its better stay connected. Religion as chains of noosies. Rather bake in swamp. LiLu has catalogs for Victor.
Not the kind he wants.
Flying floating — repulsed yet swarming with tender gesture.
Lady M (M is for Madness, Morose, Muffins and Murder) always too riddled mourning future as a collection of hopelessly unstoppable deaths.
Wartime radio suddenly comes on — Agatha insistant, “come in come in” fine tunes fine tunes —
The sound of gunfire.
Dance he says to women in dress with bullets.
Skin the color of black swan.
But Agatha is frantically turning dial.
To save the truce from random fire.
Venturing to consider that somewhere something of every Char lives at edge 0f war zone.
Birth of requisitions — Chars are often taken esclavos.
A dingy from the Rejectionary wrapped in horror and boredom raised to digits, what turns wild and morose when quivering wrangles with beautiful plug, stuck in it, trembling, wriggles and grubs, a kind of methodrone mayhem?
Kernal abuse — ?
Wait, wait for it — grey velvet walls. Revolutionary rash of bombinating blue in puffy trimmed mules. A nightmare at Blakes. Agatha peers out from window — won’t open.
Belief? life has heavy spiritual perp os (for bone) — whowho whatwhat must it be?!
To relieve herself in — most exquisitely. Agatha and LiLu, sisters by wartime definition, looked to took to dis belief.
Metagrabolized depths — purple and precipitant encryptions — sacrificial variant possessives’ sorrow of the stone.
Cloy backcombing maudlin and wersh.
But for LiLu, but for LiLu the nameless sickness was grazed by shockwaves of silence, fuckoff-and-die dismal, right up to and including a sentiment of puke —
Agatha prepends “it’s not uncommon,” uncommon, not. Tails get bent, faiths a wild pig. Feasts get graced — what includes sacred evil.
Floods LiLu LeSuere, with mellisonant stormwater — percussive and quaquaversal incendiary, great as big as sky, its beauty and sickness, one and sum of sun god — with whose treck, of hunt hazard, sorrows’ blood altar came to claim perfidious repo —
The Box and the Slab
The precipice and the ditch. Brink and sink. Agatha summates, “sly and the well wisher” went “sleep deep” into hiding.
A marching band land scored for by: Sly and the Oblivions.
Conspired for busloads? consummating with revelation on ways to die.
Now and then, eyes closed, Agatha is theoretically captured, thinking tautologically in watts its — piffling thru stacks of stark stock fluttering obesities.
Squirms that are worms — relay, shockingly titillated — with the urgency of emptiness — “Call me.” Crackers. Emegency. Emerge agency. LiLu’s found yet another — sweet lonesome romance with the limitlessness of death.
Thus, Agatha is stuck with white furniture, and yonder blue , LiLu’s monstrous quantum libido so easily startled by sunshine —
Turns slunk slammed the slept on slope burnished furioso with wild puritanical hopes —
The Poses —
Poses are what Chars all flame for. Poses counter factuals, epitome to falling into a spell.
Lunch, lurch lurch and valley people kicking wildly, rules are askance —
mockery and mystery and masturbation — whatever — the fell tree in forest next pit lit for V’s mits.
Bird caws “diderot diderot” — sweet nephew phagia. And such.
Agatha says the happy “pale yellow convertible” roadster must be. Looked greate but it never worked properly screams LiLu. “However many times rebuilt” —
Thus, Pessimismus became a wildcard, a visiting conditional.
Poses, are where what who — manages Char deposits — drip for drape. Beauty and plug divide into the all-not-all, storm cellar, collecting conchology.
Yes. Pan-transcendental illuminative transgressive open and shuts — wisp wisp clean with dust brush.
Weather reave or rave, grave or save or slave, hole and roll, alls boils down Holy puncture and wound cosmology.
Hair of Joyous Fillips
All called Chars — as if to be a Char, is of body enshrouded in magnifico of impotence — rage-racked beauty, fairy query nary — touch of impossible and death.
Gesture. When gesture burns through — could feel no difference between it and blood and bone.
Staging a holy comedy, and sweet cosmic crime deadlocked in poses with miracles of death.
And the negative became the positive became the negative became the positive — descends into exponentials, a reflectionary inflation surging toward climax. Love – was a monster on my soul. Beauty too.
And grew where anger and desire threw itself — into a wilderness of despair and there hiked steeper and steeper stormy with an ascendance of the negative. A Char I sometimes just call The Hider In The Trees — anxiously every moment of hunger up against the song of death — And is defiant about it.
Creatures stuck in ever evolving world-painting of beauty and hell. Very Dante. Very old world. Surgy peaking levels of jouissance (sock to cunt) preying irretrievably after itself.
And the worse it got — the more would be sought out to points of pure unknowing — wild infectiously wretched, arrant moments of unknowing — that were virgin territory. The imminent immaculate.
And then cooked and cooked until popped and thwart — Would push away from the edge — in a wild confiscation. What makes it — many say — is what breaks it. Becomes wily and indiffusible.
Jouissance is a spell. Spells seek to take over — where beauty suffers, that violent beautiful essence of leaping hungry wistfulness —
A Char I call The Divine Entry Stuff. Religion is just another way of writing about it. As discovering extensions in sky — as image — was starter logic.
How negative trips into mercilessly beautiful defiance — a defiance that can feel oceanic, and in realms of gaping for progeny, antics desperate to gain entry into what can occur as explosions of merciless joy.
Can push out to peaks where nothing feels limitless.
Foibles fascinating fictions — body and being of it — so torturous so small so insidiously ingrained like a throwing Madonna — yet caught in a constant constant battle with language as excrement.
The tyranny of angry haughty naughty gods, became enveloped in casualty and laughter — was in theory just a whimsical crotchet of gorgeous gorged on meaning languishing in hell.
And god became — just another word for that what wanders and wonders, in plunder of thunder, Char called Bunny of Being.
Earliest associations, all swept up in projectionary — Started off so very sly. Like being hidden while at the same time hiding behind. A sly fascinating exploration of the mystery of itself, started way before language (so painfully acquired).
Had a life force all its own for dipping and grappling with extensions, and tensions in the extensions, delicious preposterous mysteries conditioned to unearth where ever could the subplots accelerado. Tingling at edge of abyss — treading on evasions, equivocations, betrayals, indiscretions, impertinance, deliquancies, of holy and the taboo.
Which found irreconcilably potentnearing toxic levels of jouissance. Sworn it a virtue in pursuit of a freedom — beyond life, a freedom that life could not steal —
Focus — pornographic with enthusiasms, to point where thing is intransigently strained beyond any by-product of belief — Breaks, the thing breaks, into breathless and unknown —
Consisting otherwise of nothing other than its own brash flash willingness to persist. Despite All.
And when subsides — feels like death. God awful like teeth of time eating you alive in dismal waves holy ominous with death. Terrifyingly surreal. Absists with a sudden unmerciful infusion, conquassate (shake up) of nothingness. As zero exurgently (comes to light) approaching an overarchinig infinity. A climax occurs, a death ejects —
And yet, and yet — A Char call The Wonder Asunderer — is meanwhile in the “theatre” eating it like popcorn, draped in wondrous waves of stuffing and emptiness.
Succumbs to Stormy
When step out the door — got very bad, so naughty wildly plummeting with sublimities beauty and her odious malcontents.
And horror bled into reaches that broke apart into horrifiic recognizable pieces — and each an All of its own —
Resulting in a wildly transformative sod-on of deeply felt confusion —
Spells get punctured indefensibly by horror and the mundane —
Was fully engaged in a fear of being stuck forever in its hell.
And then thats what it became!
Magic Dead Pie
Ah but the entry Point. Through a hole in the bucket — that swept in mysteriously along with Camus’ vast thorny, absurd, which is stock in socks of rhetoric at this Poinit, that relishes too the happy desolate —
Jouissance is a spell. Spells are another aspect of the jouissance. Spells are wretched and fabu lotta with beauty that is filled as a temptation of time. Hungry ugly hazardous zealous. Something breaks breaks breaks the delicious wicked spell,
As within it lies also what could be called its curse — of becoming like this — a flying pig —
Or what run back home to Jaysus.
The god awul empty, when lies dead with it, a plague of unhappy limbo, how it can reap the leap of reilgions searching to relight suddenly the god awful dead pie, cut past the thousand waves of breathless mysogyny.
Where fathoms rooms — vast and long to treat such vampire kindling as “an unbroken trust.”
Where Cave of the Winds challenges me to treat it as plunder — knowledgeably, that snakes can live in darkness, darkness and the virgin vampire tomb.
I ask forgiveness for my love of Pynchs V whose way of moving around pronoun magic pulled me into it, and thus sprang this leech.
Beckett’s harp-o bridge, where settled down in away, after the wild incendiary that went on in McSweeneys trees. With my betty of the baked alaska.
But McSweeny is also a Trickster, where every branch feels the drafty, and the dodger and puff of fumes from burning midnight oils.
Why I do it is because You Help Me Let Go. Of All/the not all — you know — that. Which is very thick here, creating Dante densities.
But its absurd hold on me, well, it is in the bone.
Marrow, tallow, pharoah. Daddy long legs prongs are a young girls tersed reef from happy talk.
Apologizes for Rings and Clumps Looming for You
The blurrer. No question stole from JJ. J blurs it, beauty and strife. And humor. But its not The Real going after it dead on like in Philosophy.
Cause beauty never ceases to relish the adorned and urgencies — to make the bitter, cherishable, at the bowl and blender — beat it even softly against side to break out clots with side of gruesome.
I see these essays as fiction. I write them as fiction.
Being that fiction itself is a mazy knot of pronouns copulating, sometimes, not always though — not always.
Z gave me the all/not all.
A list of what Z pulled out of his pants and willed to me, will probably bring up a lot here — but its is, as I hope he understands and knows, a clown for me in part, not all speaking, what clowns pull out of pants is technical, are tools. As demonstrates in so many of his “pose” for pix.
Poe-sies I call the writing sometimes — its all flower on water. Wanders and blunders over plunder of language tripping over itself after something lucid —
Twice I fell for “tripsters,” and make use of it, restless, beautiful and foul, hopeless and hungry with that thing, that “limbo” that tripping brings in, everything beautiful comes with a side of curses — as are crossing over, into the unknown, searching for bottled up or dying treasures.
Me, I rhymes like a soda jerk. Form porn lorn corn torn. Viscous and topply. I pray do forgive.
As is what destiny squanders of me — and popelessly devours, adorns, suborns, spiffy and tippy and hells bells, but for the liberty to write about it.