Body of H8 Surface of Love

Paris Catacombs

Standing online outside entry into Paris Catacombs. LuLu along with 25 others.

LuLu, going forth to bandy up against habitus of the dead.

To make a good ripe skulk of it. To relieve the obliquity of love, and its whirling jagged abyss. That the dead had a distance (from life and love) to share ? Freely, almost triumphantly ? That life is interlude of a heart’s rebellion, a thumper flung and sway, en face de startling infinity of death. How death draws beauty from its absoluteness.

Paris is chilly under a bay of clouds. LuLu waits. Lulled into a stupor of silence. Dressed in black jeans, black puffer jacket and thick blue trainers, a fuzzy orange shirt with little leopard spots. Long scarf wrapped around her neck.

Her thoughts remanded, seeking a separation. As time is to snow. 

The haunt and vaunt of meaning and desire, wickedly unravels into chasms of insidious seduction. Ancient rituals sift up from the maiden despotic, always hibernating waking up again in the indeterminacy of her bones —

Longing after life — impossible life, spiraling into dire pants for impossible freedoms, avenging the wait of time as a miracle — a virgin birth a prodigy an intercession of love death fire. 

Furious the curious and/or haywire?

Bad Lamb

LuLu has a bad lamb — the sacred and the damned. Besieged, by lures at thresholds of a guess warp sublime.

Transports in sleeves of beauty as breakaways, holy sulkies, curses and the miraculous hard on, pietism and pie hole cosmic gasms gender protogyny.

Virtues of a sacred vessel drifting up from the sea. Privileges and curses stuck to her heart, twistical and treacherously, perplexed at a dividing line between life and what it is not.

Like a rubric of death, seeking its precipice, on par with god and the god forsaken, as one and the same ? A cruciate shell game…

And stalks and stalks of an erotic ruthlessness, hinge-binging with hyperphysical avarice. Rising up against crime of time, tipsy with reluctance and loth servitude…

Careening as a noble replenishment. Epiphanic and vulnerable, the torrid and sacred, dashing with (13th hour) row-as-you-go (Pea Pie Poe) implosions flooding in and out of a balmy affliction, treasury of heart in clumps and startsm pulled atwain and scattering scattering .

Waiting online with her head in a pail. Charcoal dust on her fingertips under her nails, the bin. Dirty and cleanliness fought in the bin as bloated bilious dream basin in love with two forms of life. The is and the not is.

LuLu shushes herself outloud. She knows it’s a sign of contamination. But they are at a standstill. Only 8 are allowed to go in at a time.  Stare at lawn.

Plunder bunnies, devising always devising and revising amorous run ins with rectitude hopelessness and boredom, swarms over with the quizzically ruthless. Ferreted inherited immersions trace along with it —

Feeders of head bled dread and fled tho — has a sacred element, is duty bound to seek ?

Reek peak leak…

The how and why.

And Victor ? Why is his snowplow stuck up the where-where with the there-there like an avenging angel wrangling with perils of mercy. 

Rips like a rib. Strange wired in staunchness. Flow bears choking up the fell innies. Flutterers and shudderers. Treasures in the turbulence, atone atone ! down in the catacombs ? with lots and lots of ossuary.