There is no me

There is no me. There is no me…

LuLu says this a lot, to the weather, to the wind.

Walk the whole way?

Movement, heading home after a gig. Back in city. Gigging for cash.

Even in cities, when walking, distance embodies the mysterious. Head down, eyes peering forward for anything might present a situation.

The nightshift. Movement as a grace, to let go of the day.

Afflicts like a well of all souls, in the open air, every beauty and horror known to time, right there. To live in its freedom arising to a sentiment.

As darkness descends into anotherness, releasing her day from fracking for dollars.

Up ahead. A gathering of “hot dogs” hanging out in a clump. Walk straight through head up high.

No go around, go around. Cross street, and go around.

Urgent in sudden little surges, antlers up and sniffing the ground. A deeply infernal sense of the dynamic and luster of lust, raises like a fork in the road.

Avoidance? LuLu thinks of as practical awareness, that in it wrestles the restless, that is a recognition of animal crossings, as crosses from ground up into a possession, of life and death.

Turn right then left. Done. Turn back over then ahead.

There is no me!

Loosening up her sanity ? contraries extemporizing the brutal beautiful emptiness. Bites after her body like holy nerves.

Tiger tiger always hungry. Ardor the protomartyr.

Exist exist, yes, never, no…

Best worst cursed, with too many thirsts. Despairing to be free of…Ferocious susceptibility – ceaseless empressment. Again and again awakened by it –

Victor…

Desire, indulgent, subversive. Sweeping LuLu up, in reversals and counter-reversals. Her heart running riot, hungering after thresholds of freedom.

Spirits ancient and contagious devolving extraluminally, into a token of the omnicausal, like elf punks of pain. In damnation alley?

Exist exist…

Walk walk walk walk towards home.

Vertiginous and Revelatory

LuLu, just before waking up, still tethered to sleep. Diffused from any allegiance to time. Nonfactive loom band of sleep.

Now what ?

Time time time, crashing back into time, straight through hell’s gate. And LuLu remembers it again like a door slamming: it’s alive. The thing the thing the thing in her heart hungry ashamed alive alive.

Victor…

Chagrin arises like a death mask, a strange intangible sorrow in spin cycles seeking reeking silently shrieking, its endlessness shocking, wakeful, bottomless.

Snaps her awake. The flame and the lame. LuLu is afraid of her heart, engulfed by intrigues, turns her insides out.

Everyday awakens to wander around in garden of delights that are wounds of the damned?

The quick and the damned… Time, laying into it…

Oh. For sleep again –

Where the void fills with abandon, a camp tramp lamp against the world, slipping into the dizzying breadth and spaciousness of the void. Cunt tin candy.

Silence bellows with resumption, a dismal lion crouching and pacing breeds in her…

Looping and snooping through the hopeful the sardonic and taboo, encompassed by a shocking hunger, passion, yearning burning spurning.

Reels with feelings of chaos, a chaos that woos, graced by streaks of terror and the sublime, erupts again with a mortal crack.

Victor…

His existence a hex for sex teasing her mercilessly, for what it unleashes? Coursing through her body like dynamite. Vivid, reluctant and defiant, irksome, riveting.

Dare to Care

Stuck in time and yet, elsewhere. Time-bound attachments to attendance more and more caught up elsewhere, prepossessed, in a nameless susceptibility, liberation and terror.

Detached disaffected, mutinous even. As time had begun to fall through itself, gods miraculously descending, one after another. Lucid and shadowy with apotheosis.

Astonishing scope and rapture of the delirious, like flies sucking wondrously on the sacred blood drizzling through LuLu’s soul.

A hurling unfurling cast of speechless dissonance, livid and greedy for freedom.

Something in her began stalking it, jealously. Fate tempting her to engage with its reveries in a pie-dog battle with the present, bloomy and brimming with it, on the run.

Finding Victor to run see her run…

His destination somehow illimiting the rue and ensue, letting it fabricate, get all slippery with possibility.

Contemptuous with the now? Wildly sadly distraughtly so.

Her heart besot with stir up of license, a way-sliding of change in proximity with 1) the present 2) the not present and 3) death.

Hopes forlorn willful, up in arms, in a wistful fight, with treading masks of death, dying and resurrecting over and over again, for freedom.

Bouts of raving extension that suddenly lionize –

Dare to care !

Dare to be there –

Every death an apotheosis, a charm, an unsparingness, sub-mirroring subtleties of the infinite, tastebuds of god – haunting the hungry animal in her, joyous, barmy, condescending, and brutal. Grace always hinging on a contingency.

Never trust the present ?

Distensible from the present – catchall and truant.

Give into it? No no not again ! no more no more…

Forgo the subversive flow!

Verily, its spurnwater rapidly confronts a withering bug out that is heartsick and morose.

LuLu mysteriously resentful, emplumed in resentful waves of hate. Searing, taunting, uncontainable.

Victor –

What belays freezing in fires of hell – warming only to its spell.

Grifts and Lifts

Online at Post Office. Ten waiting in line in front of LuLu.

She was sending another package. The sending packages thing. Makes her feel closer to meaning, congressive with the future peddling peddling like on a bike to a distant shore of forgetfulness.

Its beautiful transitivity, enmeshed in streaks of innuendo, stealing laughs that prick the intentive inventive, sometime wicked slacker gaffs, or smothered in shamelessness in spirit of love…

LuLu as if faraway from where she is, peering in at strangers in her coming to life and doing this. And how she loved them. No matter nuts to nonsense.

Essence and pretense and post-tense. Merging for her into a body of drama trauma evoking itself over time, proclivity and irritainment. Diagonal to the absurd ?

One more two more… Five more to go.

Waiting waiting shifting weight, dread of its weight engulfs her with nonquasineutrality.

She can’t she won’t let it go. Must be true to its virgin Sainte Muerte, as rises along with the fallen, in garden of delights. The garden of innocents. The garden of the damned. All existing in the same spot, cresting in and out of transit.

Triple up, aching under skin.

Blunt runt cunt hunt, an impulse for transcendence, or a vengeance, some or another retrocausality, that riffs shifts lifts and slams against her animal tenderness, what it means to sail ail – wail.

Or fail – let it hail. Wailers’ cries – unyielding to death.

Dread fed led, the gritty pity city, tantalizing with tantrum, that gropes at love and death like an assassin, ply and asphyxiate to last mortal drop, exhale of breadth…

Creating a mortuary angel.

Victor sniffs, tempts and flees. Lobs cuffs puts off tuts tuts, LuLu the loop on a shelf, his curiosity sniffing at her touch and go – refills her with possibility, and hope explodes into a wilderness of intimacy.

Boredom must obliviate itself by reaching out. Stealing from darkness and light, let light grace the darkness with the undying.

What arose in flows of lovely dementia, free flying, then raging, then awkward and wild, ailing with fevers, cawing and pawing at the dark.

Then giving way to – diabolical bench wrench stench of remorse.

Assaults of the brutal brittle and the trembling, in states of grace, arrive and connive as thieves for its passion.

Only to disentwine awe from aweless, tiger tiger, sweetness from the sullen and remote.

Harkara

Where engulfs horizons in lavish agonies, destiny’s ravaged child, running beautiful and wild.

Two more in line. Getting closer.

A battle in the bottle brain of her body flaring, without any separation suddenly between sacred and exemption, transfigurations of grace, like a fish up the falls, exaltations running bat out of hell, a revel in routs.

Sending bending wending, its birds brain, lifts her like a freedom to fly rash splash out.

Phantom flows. Plummeting and spiking. Bucking and buckling under to its seeding ramping fealties. Sparring with her insolence… The deranged and the devout.

Flammivomous tokens of a tender sticky madness. Shameful, antipodal, semidivine.

How she stands up to it, is by standing in line, to send a gift off again, invite and denature its limits, scale the hog, oggle and slog, quizzical uncanny, like wing walking…

First in line.

Pour Le Feu

A fifteen foot painted Jesus, nailed to a cross, hung by chains from chancel to nave.

LuLu standing under its martyrific effigy, at Church of the Most Precious Blood.

Submits to its splendor, the splendor of its process from mortal to divine in a keening sweep of moribund ecstasy, submitting to its sacrifice, its holy un-justice, No Take Backs! Sacredness and sensuality –

The divine overflowingness of palming off, opening veins to parallel import. Flying up, into body of god…

Head back mouth screwed upward in sacrificial appeal, empathy for, appeaseless drips of his divine extension, mired in blood, the sacred seemliness of an angel’s blessed share.

Let it flow

Traffic in snow…

His crown buried into skull of Sainte Muerte, rattling with horror and beauty spectacularly emblazoned with the allures of innocence, wretched terrifying innocence.

Mounted, in qualms of virgin hell. Orgasmic spasms Horny Porny and Corny, kiss and cuss sins raving in her heart with galling sheeny outsized abandonment, a mercy to its gape/rape/nape…

Eternalizing effigy of unquenchable beauty, engaged in its suffering….

Where heavens solemnity embraces rhapsodic hunger for life – A pathway to sheer tenderness.

And its vulnerability to sacrifice.

Surge to a Dirge + Purge

Intentions circling infinitely in a rapturous free fall. Shadowy and infected with everything and nothing like a two headed monster with no door in between.

Every flaw a beauty mark that was increasingly deadly.

Breaking LuLu apart at peaks of oblivion, a sublime nectar of death, moribund with ecliptic degradation, and a clockstar of crowning aberrations.

No middle ground left, at edges of separation showing up anywhere and everywhere.

Principium tertii exclusi not holding.

Where proposition is true and its negation is true… Like the square root of 1, is both 1 and negative 1.

And tingles where logic smells a bat fat hat. Like dipping feet as elevations rise a foist above hell.

Oblivion, an extraction shimmering in the lining of truth.

Roaring up against the fickleness of time, and silently screaming:

Victor come back come back.

Villain Vagaries of the Vanishing

Villain vagaries of the vanishing taking over the helm, out by his pirate, in the precious blood of its darkness.

Wheels on the bike falling off, and multiplying in every direction,at the same time.

Feelies scaling walls of defiance, wandering with nullibiety and righteous where the heart breaks most.

Wanker treasure and the hankering spasms of survivalism.

Seized by a screaming mystery in full blown snare and despair, caught up in a startling breathlessness, all liaisons permissible between thoughts and words.

Tyrant flowers extorting ruptures in throws of snake skinning for the roots of oblivion, reeling up against its subingression, fleuve fleural subdural.

Like a portal into the subdivine, where living is in a state of flux, heats up into a jam, sugar in junkyard heaven, honeyeyed.

Go the mile!

Melleous bouts of changeability and the unknown, a grace wrapped in debacles of the sublime.

Cunt punt and stunt.

No no no…

Skylights

The impotent and the impossible. Surds, are values of the absurd, but still non-negotiable. Engaging with the impossible and its imps potent to fire up the sublime as fervors mystify, chew on blood of its worm, forlorn with faith.

LuLu boarded by a fickleness for life, its insurrection shining down on her, the simps pimps and imps all creatures of the night, like a boot on her neck, pulling her down, in swells of oceanic panic.

Desire springing holes in her soul, hordes in torrents, making it spark.

Screaming for it to stop. Begging for it not to.

Somehow, anyhow, anyway – !

Slow it down, slow down the metamorphism, spinning into knots.

Grievous enchanted and hallowing, pressing caressing testy and torn by rigors at play in the cosmos, bunt with little flames shooting out of her soul, each a resurrection of both the sacred and the damned.

Its lust metamorphing through eons of love rangy and treacherous as a tyrant. Love heroic love a tyrant ? It’s scaffolding racing, on fire.

Dizzying enveloping encroaching cooking the books. Its poison pill, passions of assassins, murderous and sly.

The power it took over her, took her over in cascading rhythms and trail mail bale hail nail sail…

Frightened her better half, to death.

Heart of gold burning alive, its sacred element lapsing and collapsing, in scuds and water-gall of ancient largess, her innocence rolled up in its slippery socket, tied to the interlocking wisdom of its chains, rotting like cabbage.

The sea surrendering to dissolution, foul dissolving into food for its chase. Child of god forever damned. The insurrection of a resurrection, another thief in the night.

LuLu, falling through bottom after bottom into the cold at depths where its bidden and hidden, plunging into hell’s open arms.

To escape the divine ?

Impurities chased by sky, into pearl ash of its crystals lixivating hot white.

Cry catch a sigh.

Gambling rambling into junkyard for a Fly, miracles that lie rolling in the rye what a coyote can’t see with a plucked out eye…

Lawn Chairs

Home where havoc churns through brittle bursts of belly aching monstrousness.

Disappearing into creative projects. Focus locusts… Precision is a kind of gloating… at the in-betweens, casting against time itself, blistering with the slap happy preying on the dismal.

Home buoy, hiding out, disasters grudging procrastinators, riveted and shell-shocked.

Family, lawn chairs and cookouts. LuLu sits quietly there but not there… Unconditionally belonging to… Quizzically embossed in its sunshine.

Hush hush sweet Charlotta, dismay of smoldering platitudes, a roving hungry disquietude, chock full of compelling indecisions.

A mystery of its misery and escape into plaint and paint and visions of nothingness, subverting into the methodical. Fixating on the routine, how easy to destroy just by spilling paint.

Grab the wet pallet, and decorate – Terror of the sublime, make pretty.

Jealously morose – Helpless to it like jailbait ? ply a second coat –

Les identitaires

Restless raging execrations of desire, hands to feet full of defeat.

Turning into a monstrous suicidal beroll down the rabbit hole. Hell separating into fire hydrants circling hamlets mill.

LuLu becoming a sea of separates, in time out of time, grace and the goon room, creatures nameless, more terrible than terror, wired up to the moon.

A rush against its impact. Like defying the gods.

An emptying sky, a clockwork of silence, shirking at singularities – Falling like furniture shedding its shape, sick in the mud.

Les identitaires disunifying, rag nag zigzag, bloody scrunty intropunitive schizodepressive.

Agonal secession of unclean screams dancing frenzies with death.

The Deadly

Hidebound, by skin of teeth, to its conundrum, wilding terrible spasms of love and hate, a jar bursting with immaculate sorrow.

And the enemy, a mysterious arse-about-face treachery that enflames possibility, rages at its torments, and leaves her hanging, swinging in noose of its flower-de-luce… Crying trying raving riveted. Both holy and heretic…

What the fuck.

The Holy and Heretic – equally beautiful and sacred ?

A bewildering sense of the apocalyptic, that force of zealotry imputing upon things most captivating, costly and deifying spying lying plying – for Madrid.

“Deadly, the deadly.”

A vivid shocking dementia, tipping into bouts of epiphany and madness. Runagate paroxysms, that broke like auto-antonyms, subdividing LuLu’s spools into rules, ghouls and a resistance of mules –

A yet, a shocking suicidal tenderness for Victor that refused to lessen, refused to mitigate, refused to refuse.

To be or not to be, torn apart by its flux, torrid with terror…

Made no sense.

Say it sidelong and fly, to a homeless deeply dirt-encrusted paragon – who gives out complements – easy as pie.

LuLu smiles back. Hungry for both.

His salvation and its need. Dispossessions and appetites.

A fire in the living room

A fire in the living room. Treading its terror ad madness.

LuLu gives in. And sets off to find Victor de Loveleye.

Hair twirling premonitions, rub up against her sanity, at every attention. An overstow of beautiful nightmare.

Unbridled and prodigal.

A need to defy her beliefless gravity? Arrive alive, cake and eat it, relieve its parry into movement and madness.

A rage cage bleeding beautiful – crying diving sighing trying – the kept and unkept.

Unraveling with trodding lament.

Hector and the Prince

Lie detectors. Swat and fly. Hands in vial Nile skeptic poppop gun gas gold horrors of love horrors of war.

Violent brew and the killer in the filler. The sacred and the gruesome.

Kill the bean! Sheen spleen scheme… Love humility grace death…

Burn candle burn.

Without them, what?

Things looking down head down mining for coils in toils and spools where fools like a fire engine head down into plow with a cow morbid and the master baiting sensitivities clouds like an atlas fed red head stuck.

Without them LuLu had no way of looking up?

Gods kingdoms filled with martyrs. Egyptian judgement of the dead meeting up with Grecian beauty. Priceless as poverty.

One and the same. Find a frame.

Victor and the Prince statuary embankment flying, the bunny dunning, flooded and wobbly.

Basement Floods

Curses curses. And yearns.

LuLu working in front of a machine again. Down in the basement, cement walls the color of putty, in roll chair at a terminal. Compiling. Corporate to be or not to be: its eluding to perfections on the paper which listed financial data, inputs.

At least it’s not for the jerk off magazines. Twice it’d approached. Tried and quickly died…

Mums the word.

Through, a hazy rage as arises, sirens fury, wasteland dollar for donuts, focus slit split, never quite.

Pirates numb and nanny, in the pit, catching a stash, interims questions of settling, peddling like a dog about to run off.

Docklands Cock A Doodle

A shooting range. A foot under.

Pucks like ducks in a lethal row. Love where it pounds, hounds goes endless rounds.

In the sweet lunacy and moon of its mortal glow.

Glut and Gutted

When daylight brandishes everything as absurd. LuLu’s neediness trembles to exhaustify, reach breach and leech for heaving with heavens gates, and revel with its bait, reflection insurrection.

Turn smoke into mirrors. Woe brimming fulsome, the never versus always.

Ferocious biting at Victor’s lips associations fragmenting –

At every break off, rattles roars runs aground rips.

Eclipsed in a mirror of apocalyptic terror. Fire and brimstone lurking in the woodwork, crawling like an insect who could die any second still in love with belief in life as a destiny. Up against pop goes the weasel scrunch of death. Hypnotizing with energy.

Sacral Leap

Walking silent through the softly lit catacomb. Everyone in whispers.

Bones stacked in shocking beautiful heaps, impresses upon LuLu bigly, a sacral leap, risk and dutifulness to the death. Wall-to-wall consociated with heavens breadth.

Sweet morbid grace, what passes with mortality. The shell shocked, the prevaricating, what gets stolen, in throws of mulching of the mischief and an explosion of endless love.

Faith in love. Slave to love. Awakens inside of her and floats with parallel import to sacred heart where slides through divine map coming after Victor.

Awash for her in a loft of its own predacious undoing.

Hard sentimental prig rigged…

Wallows that beckon with turgid obscenity, insane turnabouts running full circle for a lab rat, a reaply corrupt sweet and sickly raving grace, tickled into treachery making chase –

Screes veering off into a heart racing tracery.

What deteriorates into a passion –

A crime of passion, thwart with immanence and impeccable imbecility.

LuLu visiting monuments ever since graveyards covered in snow.

Morning drunks rebellion against sleep, cheek to stone and thinking of dead as having escaped the bet the threat and just met, of drink till you drop.

Snow cold like justice. Time slippery and wet floating through gape of time as its mystery.

Red Fire and Black Flies

Prettify the whale that swallows in the sea. Torments slipping over thresholds into blasphemy.

Goading, mazelike and cryptic.

LuLu in its tub bathing off the sparks, wretched beautiful flyoffs overstuffed with the magic tragic escapes into divine spots on maps, meaning just about anywhere – else. Present be damned, divine was trappings.

Divine trappings, all blight and mercy. Bifolding into an anarchy.

I am void and devoid.

Hears it pulling her away, run away run away.

A vulnerability that is unvanquishable. Fetal and feral rush of its beauty and blinding like a magical insect elect sickness, like a wind rose in throws.

Scatters her apart as mortal plant seeding the barter with god help me.

Wayward and strewn. As gift of life. Rules and rulelessness righteous and ruthlessly afflicting, dilated and permeant –

Fatal, but.

The welshing tearaways.

Lowly and withering, semi-tortured, as skin of spin, bleeding sin vexed. Its larceny suffocating lamb and thief.

Lamb and thief… Switching places ?

Nuzzle

Radicalizes her, aluminates like a power vacuum at end of a violent muzzle –

Its puzzle, a mystery dystopia myopia, LuLu baffled and waffling.

Caught. In a rug tug lug, barrel and plug, throwing herself over the cloud falls, the yin or bin of white outs and black outs –

Inundates, perverse range of sacred cruces, aching and beholden, subversive and devout.

Flog the Air

Melting pelting sun. The hoarding boarding sun. The miracle of its heat and rage. Ifs and sifts and lifts and buffs and rough house, clamber and cut…

The captured and the hunt. Harbored in a resistance, hanging on hook or flood with epiphanies.

And then.

Stuck up against every horror of poverty that happens when looking down its barrel like a buzzard or a gun, weighing in like a threat of death.

Hunt hunt…

Every fleshy quintessential bother for a dollar, to steal its hours, like a flower carefully picked, absorbed, and crushed, made into dye. Its beauty seized, sorted, disenchanted? and localized.

Sold positively for cash?

Comforts… and color. Beauty and wealth.

Ponder and wander…

Dollars for Donuts

Dollars for donuts. Stash ripening gig to gig. Solid. LuLu liked to pay it back. Free the debt from its weight.

As it made life less reckless.

LuLu was of the opine that debt was a form of wealth to be protected…

But what.

Jealous for freedom, Victor helping himself to LuLu’s angelic watts and snot, plots hints rinse, fizz Lizz.

He’d provoke her like a twist of fate in time’s diurnal the eternal, as freedom , as bait.

And she would have to succumb. LuLu’d miss his piss on and piss off lift off and doff.

So bad as sad.

She’d suddenly throw some and blow a wad for sod.

Rood and rod, root and sot… Run spot run.

Lime and Cocoa Nut

Got to airport. Feeling the look, notoriously in shambles. Last night too late, this morning finders keepers somebody left a baggie.

Still in last nights torn jeans and asymmetrically cut out shirt.

Stopped at security and got searched. Too tired to resist. Sure whatever…

Put monsters of tomorrow into a dream living story about just finishing a : big gig.

Boss the furioso, who kept changing everything over and over. Taking a break, leaving the continent…

Mumbling ok.

Not garrisoning not prevaricating, whining. Talking to The Mom.

The Mom of clipped responses and built like a brick. The naughty hard working child, after a celebration.

Low subservient voice a choice to whine in while walking through it.

And all she could think, otherwise, was about taking off.

Fly through the air. To Victor’s dare.

Desert of the gong.

Cause she’d paid most of it off from last time. A little left on the table.

Ready steady for another glue on – Could feel it pulling, pooling, up in her winged thing, rolling like happiness, down her chin.

Flog the air, beat the drum.

Belt and Collar

The precious and defiant ?

Borders up against the real, screaming. Erupts and corrupts?

Coinmaking overtaking, let the drudgery calm the belt and collar.

Its right there, do it, do what, screams from the darkness. Fuck them. Be feasible be feasible…

Poverty emasculates. Constraints light a flame in the darkness.

Ignites the angry. Implicates. Turns implacable…

Pockets and jumps. Go find Victor.

Stray Light

Pistons somehow dangled off Victor de Loveleye’s breadth with visions of movability.

LuLu is locketed in eensy weensy dunes of tragical terror fondling after tameless nameless delusions, improper and proud, like a propellor fixed and breaking fixed and breaking…

A caged aloft of wowser charms. Every rebirth a thousand more fly, die, and fly again.

I am just the meat they live off of.

Fingers hands cunt flew for safety, flew to stay alive ! flew to make him pay ? Allay allay, the demons are their stray… Roundelay, roundelay.

Runs to him, in scrapes and clutches for reason, where deadens flattens dissolves into desire, both voluminous and strangling – stirs to a glow.

Devours in tremors a garrulous emptiness, buffers its exorbitance in holy gloom.

The uncanny invading with prescience of sky-fall, goes sinewy and gorge. Glowing independent of consciousness ? Pulled her in.

Work on: Freed and thickened, to the palpability of a ghost dancing nearby.

License, LuLu finds license by him, and follows it out. Breathing it in, munching malicho, refluent and visionary, vortex and weaving.

Corn coded in hell

Until, topples and ruptures into something incendive and monstrous. Its beauty glowing with mishap towing her along.

The freakishly abject being one of its many disguises.

Gruesome, angelic, a burden of mourning.

Tests reason to its core, the mana from sacrificial trauma becoming over time irremovable, old as the first sacred crow, sacred wound.

Insects biting LuLu’s leaf, a kind of adorning of the corn, coded in hell, in half daylight and darkness back and forth, back and forth, a shocking sorcery.

Lunges for from one to the other, like a hole between half lifes, darkness, storm of mutations of color and living like a sponge.

Focus pocus locust

Every rift contravenes – aches between presence and sorrow, lavishes her flabbergastation with contrary interludes lost in concetti, increasingly imbecilic to whats sitting right there in the present.

Focus pocus locust.

Destiny’s barking awakens the forsaken child, running beautiful, touched by light, damaged and wild. Thoughts obscene errant breathless.

Nothing to do, nothing can do.

She cant stop it.

Can’t seem to come down from its abominable heights. The adornment spikes with astonishing eruption, an oceanic storm of mourning, raving and incorruptible ?

The flowers swell, suffocate, colors flame like tokens of madness.

Density traces over it, heart and soul infalling perpendicular with hail of mystifying death, a numinousness of deafening chrysalism, trailing with torments that beckon her beckon her back.

Shows up again. Ear to task, dribbles and tops off tethered to it, beloved and aghast. Labyrinths greedy and blunt, pained to velocities, wobbulating.

Soften soften soften anguish and cries.

Howls prowls scowls of adamancy and righteous overflow, bonkersdom…

She can’t stop it, won’t, gets worse then, riots .

Beginning or End of Something

Tongues her. Dizzying, like a smelt of grace. His fingers drag across her skin, her skin a raft of shirk-y murky lurking sin.

Angels make waves.

The unseen and the unnamable, drifting off into beauty and violence and the absurd avowals of majesty sufferance and contempt countercasting up her cunt.

Astonished her, endlessly. How a drain of ocean filled her mind and was always in transit, its breathlessness borne mourned hexed vexed purged and remounted.

Hole and corners sifting up, the vile vial, its neck on fire in darkness, insane for rain.

Sense was and is not – sensibility. Logic a canny toolsy inbred contortion extortion, a prehensory scar and hard on for twilight measurements, logic magic spin the numbers, rogue and flight. Knowledge of the abstract linguisticky polyfold dissective…

Darkness unfolding mechanistic but hound and crown from fairy flying borders mystic entanglements – scarecrow town, the marrow arrows, sorrow and weariness, scathing attacks sound, challenges slag rag and wig wam on her flax. Stealing is breathing.

Crib Rib

Orgasm as first sign of life in the awakening of making, a magic tragic miracle driven through the rub a dub dubbed, crib rib, rover over, midst tantamounts collapsing into dreams of lyrical love empircal love satirical love death and empire. Pie rise robot dies. Has to think.

Searching for reasons to stay the fuck alive. Find one find one. The one the one the one.

To sink down into the ocean and sift up from its bottom, crushed by its tensions, engulfing her in the perpetual moat gloat pout out of a rushing shimmering abyss sirens singing like a violent tyrant rushing with attentisme.

Love in limbo sends her flying, dangling on precipice that jiggies like a high wire, tightrope of hope, time fracturing into a contagion of borderland contentions, all mixed up with ache in mortal coil of its stunning robbery.

Taunts merciless. A desultory melancholy, a raging tedium and indifference to time, landslides of fervors, merciless messy testy vulnerable —

Verging on the immaculate ? On the immaculate is what terror and visions of mercy –

Stalwart expurgations of time, shining, cursing thirsting for blood of stone, for the immaculate. Bone ?

Santa Muerte

Tart and bluff with fiction and flood. Zigging through the zag. Drink in hand.

Something about something lisping through void of emptiness into night and the merry mystical, like an incision in the middle of time, leaking out, with a shine of being free from days disappearance into office duties.

Its mystery relieved of pretending to belong anywhere else, floating up like a influx of outflux of wind liquid nail tail and pail. Lamb and pail. Baited oven.

Floor came alive. LuLu tripped, slipping past sober, little light wave of a vertigo, grabbed an arm, sympathies with the devil, sorry sorry sorry. Looks up. OK I put my drink down here for a minute.

Does anyway, leans over bar both elbows, makes it her space.

Fact: Almost fell. To do: Get some water. She raises her finger and keeps it raise, leans over more and waits. Lip syncs water – gets a nod. Waits more. Water comes. She drinks it as a horse to water. With enthusiasm. She turns around and leans back against bar.

Want to see something he says. She saw him do it before. Intensions when contacted seem to hatch. As they fall. She wanted to see it.

And pulls up his shirt. A skeleton tatoo winged jesus with a sugar skull is what it looks like.

Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte, he says.

Our Lady of the Dead. Speaking in a whisper of sacred pretension.

Eyes circled lined flowers shadows of red..

His skin is middle tan, rich and fluid. Not too old not too young. Not too anything. Full of time standing there.

In drinks obliges a lovely oblivion.

Santa Muerte is showing all her teeth, LuLu looks up at rapt in its discovery, smiles. Moments in drunken splendor are freed from past future and allowed to swim into the meadow taboo merciless forgetfulness full of yawning and dire motifs, walking back under the sun.

Bends forward, by the neck, LuLu takes a finger as if to outline it – Crosses a line, maybe cant get back, maybe doesnt want to get back.

She points. and he lifts up shirt little higher one side so she can see exotic bird perched on shoulder as pirate in paradise. Beautiful.

Finished last week, he says.

A fin under her skin prowls up her skirt. Booms against his warm sensitive brutality. Brutal and sensitive the masculine realm. She starts laughing.

You think its funny.

She shakes her head. Yes. Laughing at death, morbid strains like mouse ears leans closer everyday day of dead she whispers, as if its a greed that will employ her if speaks it too loud.

Mexican. Yes he says bit of Aztek and chicano too but also Santa Muerte.

Discussion on tatoo. She starts smiling again and laughing when ever can find one.

Slippery words, fanned by liquor, of trying to find one another way home home way through beautiful torments of liquor. Beats against the sheet of time.

Cuts across her virtue vanishing like a lions heart preying for rain, its menace crouched in uncertainty and outcome –

As if to bring her down to its picturesque level, where figures burning through morning and fly and float and dread and molt around the maiden mirrors fungus fun gusts that join life to death.

Vauntmure

He takes her home. She goes into the bathroom. Her head is beginning to race after and condemn, starts in with the swims, she sinks down, the tile is cold, the monoliths angry.

He sees her there, wets her brow. A vagrant mana coos up in her throat and barfs on his fingers. He washes her off. He pulls her to bed. Holds her, tongues her, fucks her, as she lay there, raw. A vauntmure on top of her going after itself inside her. She wants him to take it.

She is there she is not there, a shroud ascends, all archangel and shadows like an overpass of hanging jesus cradles curdling molten with its sad taunting thickness sickness prancing angry above her —

And then sputters through a vast tumult, into a lurking pocket of emptiness. He comes.

Her murky stomach voided of its thirst. Her heart a weary wall of fire. Its oblivion caught and ransomed to the night.

Eyes mixed

Eyes mixed in a solution of staring boldly coldly at black rubber mat that covered the floor.

What now frown cow —

Immerse immerse in a perversion excursion —

Multiplies across, an attack (or lack) of bewildering constants, that do not stand still. No, a compound proportion equation, without length — or was it end ?  

The math in her mouth made suds into mud wanting measurement for unanswerable equivocations, as to why did she keep on going back again.

Unable to stop herself.

Its insolence was frightening. Hidden in dark corners of contempt, glued to its question of ill pill in the mill and hopeless constraints in the paints, strange transformation stations, turning back and forth into an abominable beauty, intensities empty and erupt.

Shock of finding herself standing there once again lost in a sheer grace of its forbidden continuity, limitlessness of its recidivation blossoming out – Like hordes inescapably mazy.

I am the abstract of mayhem I am a genetive no.

The answer is no. No no. Not now.

Uncross arms. Feel. Condole. Blatant with sympathy and compassion for the out “right” objective.

She didn’t wear a working face. She just showed up at the bar, thats all. On time or else. 

Turn Over Till

She walks in, Casey turns over till, Casey leaves. And LuLu takes over behind the bar. 

Two were sitting at the bar when she came in. Names. Names. Didn’t really know their names.

They were afternoon regulars.

LuLu is night.

Names sank against darkness of time, without necessarily any attachment to where in the nameless they arrived, unless connected to her by needs or desires ? No even then…

The void rides out to its fixtures, subsumes into mystery of roaving samelessness names terrified her… Out at lot where beauty devours.

She didnt have to worry about their names. They often knew hers. Stay attentive. Bartender. Especially during the night. Head above crowd. Fights can break out.

They were hers, she owned the responsibility of night time bartender, mama bear on righteous assignment.

But its slow and its early, reminding herself —

Be present, be present in the present tense. Victor, she whispers without moving her lips. A bear hiding under her paw crawls out of a faraway armpit and screams a violence of silence so loud it reaches vagrantly into the distance. 

This makes LuLu blow out air. Lean back. And decide. To wipe down the bar, and pat-a-physical manner around the two still sitting there. 

Beauty and Flight Blight – move later.

On the train. Going home from temporary office commitment, out for money money.

Boy next to her watching his phone, it is a close up of Asian porn held fast in his fingers. He is young, his skin milky bright and tawny, he has strong bony fingers, he is a mixture of heavens races. Everything about him seems to tug and twitch with antipathy.

She breathes it in like melancholy mist of watching him watching it, with defiant incredulity, as a endless rope hope and elope for spurts of orgasm hidden in the hills of just sitting next to it.

Like at the Library, at a table. Under a wall of books. A young homeless royal, shiny and buff, 17 maybe 18 sitting beside her, jerking off in the library. Joker poker young and out hawking, with nothing else to do, in truth and false of his dereliction for freedom.

Caused much a tado. After he escaped down the stairs. Boy across tables comforting her at the glorious shame. Phone number to check she was ok. Righteous clamor.

To scorn and to mourn – at same time – is that a razors edge to the vastitude of porn. Another blessed empty hand held, seeker of wad, stealing itself into heavens graces, a spillover of pure thirst – into the darkness into the endlessness of its sacred blood curse.

Reason Seeming

A heart ravaged by compulsions of beauty that aims and shames enflames to defy, the mummy boundness of death in throws of existence. Craws that crawled out of her cunt like a knife at night with everything to lose.

Bounding away, emergent and its detergents, like a ghost arising from gravid lavished graves of its machinery of love in all its unreasonable art of form.

But nothing of the uncanny. Uncanny and absurd somehow different…

room for thought against its flatness, until like an arrow suddenly thrown into it. Balanced over the fall line, Victor…

Revealed unfoldings to her into the present, that defied the flatness of reasonability —

Occurring, suspiciously — invades as sinew, with sudden prescience, and skyfall. Everything is set up against it, so it glows, independent of consciousness.

As beauty itself testing reason to its core. Toppling it —

And eventually, turning monstrous — into a seduction of resurrecting sacrificial trauma. A sacred wound, gushing with abject martyrdom.

Beauty can be abject ! Truth can be empty or overfull ! Reason too can suffer from the pull of the fallen in all its heartbreaking disguises.

Mystery or Misery – bring in mystery side

Customer through the side door. He’s an early night guy.  Tall with his neck slightly politely hanging over. In baggy work pants, winter sweater, and a woolen hat. All blue and green. Round toed boots. 

Blasé. Is she. Wordless with mystery or misery, take your pick.

Mystery or misery…  That’s the sequencing everywhere media scavenges the lust and creates secondary pits to fall into with a gust. Jerk and perk, fall into the darkness let it work. 

Acknowledges customer by lifting mouth and eyelids. Protection,  LuLu owns space behind bar.

Mystery or misery, the fatal fem sot bot beauty and all that lot, St Mary of the misery exists as a tricky sacrificial tremor in LuLu’s life that is held close, as beneath its fissures emanates a wild sacred jest, that inhabits love as a shock of duration and sorrow as a whale, with a blow hole that scales, and wails, sorrow, in throws of desire, teetering into contempt. Skinny of sin in its din. Dun and pun and sun spun.  Put it to use. Put it to use. 

The usage doctrine. Flowers for a sail. 

Gleamed, guiled and galled, by medieval pains in sacrificial eye. A burning bar of radicalism desperate with gloom whose freedom to bloom overtakes sense, blurs into rushes of a latent blasting synflorescence, clustered notions motions potions of time as an infinity that ports with epiphanies, glory without ground. 

Somehow founts under Victors rally and rake a way in and out of it. The impossible between them fawning with wicked dread mountain high distentions commingled with ornery fetters and flicks of brutal dust.

That challenged LuLu to brinks of torment and assignation. Falling into parts of a his wildness ripeness stand up go find back doors, get in get in. Stop here. Get in here. Walk off and find the door. And see whats there. Look in… Thats all just look in.

Hair of Roots

LuLu again and again running off to find Victor, at wagers of her runaway go to him ragers, stark and strange ominous sorrows and terror at loss of him and exploding tremors flipping her out.

Whenever away from London, back in the states. Desire to free the beasts that came burbling up around him, burbling up from belly of beast in her heart — 

That steals for what it feels and defeats itself in wickedness of her wanting again.

Shame that haven of hells ditch loaded down by dynamite, the in-terror-gators, as a sacrificial night bite and mystery’s flight. Duty to parking with ear to rape grape and arrival of the mutes.

Do something. She was she was there.

Every which way pull away pull away…

Come by me. Stop. NO.

How did her heart become so oddly, brutally stuffed with its tenderness. 

Hopeless hapless dust in eyes angry erupts at being born.

Tear terror exploding with wrong foot blowing up and slipping away back to the river.

Early night guy — always first went to the bathroom in back. Then he comes round to bar on the other side as is his way. 

He is relatively new to the bar. Newer than her being new. Is now forward at the bar, on his elbow, finger up. 

She nods head, lifts herself away from the bar behind her, wipes hands, half smiles, says “hey,” gets him a drink. He pays for it.  Leaves fifty cents. She’ll take fifty cents. Wipes down the bar again. 

Early night guy likes to sit at table by window that overlooks outside stairs. As he can see across to the mountains from there,  countenance a glance at big sky as sun goes down behind the mountains.

Also.

From there, can see anyone else coming up the stairs. He was early night guy. Didnt see him after it got crowded. As it did principally every night. Between 10 and 1. 

Men made life come to life, and gave her the principality of hell. No no no. Layers collide with fears being yelled down, awkward and slippery mind full of mystic warriors and virtues laden with absolutes and plod of condemnation. Mind a litter of nay-sayer layers. 

LuLu never revisited garbage art, that life was a big old barge of garbage art. 

One night in Paris. Stuck on artist’s house boat, after metro shut down. All the furniture made of cement, woke up with a swet boy longhaired French guy sleeping on her arm.

LuLu got up, immediately he went thump, and she gave him a freaked out questionable look, and still dizzy with wine, left… 

Money

Money. Food car fuel, protect credit. Credit gave room to move around with money and without more credit the better. Better to hold onto your cash — and go into debt.  

LuLu still believes in the usefulness of wanting to be a bum, the not care just be there mode? Escape from poverty of the demeaning. Except for luggage, as leaves hole in the hunted without protection for safe keeping, especially while passed out, this she knew. Geographically speaking. Always listen and know the cunt is a hunt for the grunt… It’s insect madness. 

Some risk death for it.

Fast Freddy did what he did to that poor drunk soul he found, head against a tree, passed out in the park, four in the morning. Fast Freddy sees it as a free one. Rat that is for a rule. 

Rules rules — of the hen tend to your bird pen, passed down through miracles of better you better you bet : The Moms’ of are-go-naughts. Money money for getting down mountain and back up again, lovely get is hot running water, hot showers were one of LuLu’s: favorite things, sleepy was a rag, sleepy was a nag blistering with vehemence, hate city and sympathetic voodoo, hate city was a puzzle — in LuLu’s brain, lame stain crane what a pain.

Money made her want to die, some days: but for the price over her head… 

BRING section in from Fourth Version

Palm Bomb Wan

Heart Soul Legs. To wrap around you, LuLu’s brazen funks, beating bag against beam.

The murderous wan wags a dog murder, yank Hank spank the wallow that illuminates sublime a vaguery in LuLu’s mind whizzing abhorrents — racing against time?

Wafty embedding trick. A vain beautiful tourniquet. LuLu’s Nana.

Darknes to an obscene height and forces a cliff and jumps off where absolutes meet the depths verging with the absurd at flesh is word — over hill and hell.

Screaming finish it, finish it.

Its relish crushes up against its own stolen eye. Coyote pie. The trill’in fillin hearts of beach-la-mar.

At hungry thresholds, animism farmably alerts.

Like wetlands : deep but suddenly shallow. Opposites cataract. Cheap but generous, revelatory but cursed. Torments cross the soul as visiting logic. All incantations prove quasicrystal, vastly overarching. Give into it? Give into it!

Lip and nits.

Be its ticking bomb. Wrap a heart around its trunk.

Whispering embers: be the murder of it?

How the fuzzy searing into that thing, the wicked illuminates the sublime. Abhorrents whiz by in a race against time —

Turns into a vain beautiful tourniquet. That marks an obscene height and forces a cliff and jumps off where absolutes meet the absurd at flesh is word — Screaming finish it, finish it.

By the dozens

Yet like a drunk dancing in a cemetery. As if all death every one, belongs to her, blood and skin, Sainte Muerte. Sits in the land still attending.

A principality of darkness hovering over living jinns, their body a share, every disease of the heart, every mortal portal every merciless miracle of abruption.

Jackets on the street, jack off in the park.

Dismembering like a whording pile up of counterpart, collecting darts. Blood of arrows seven swords.

Defiance in a gloom of pie in her eye? errant glint of lost down its tunnel by its abduction. Screaming to let go get to it or get out of it. Round the bobbin.

Scheme teams with glimmers of suicide, a hundredfold of negation and gender — Sun raying realms of lucullan purgatory —

Love getting lost — Love being hell.

Love never ending.

Swept away, swept off on oblivions pessimissamamas coattails —

Rhapsodies transcendental incantations chancy dancing brunch naked in chaos and void, undressing the fines and scarecrow of sacred horror, a madness living for growls of desire, emptying itself of every credible witness, again and again —

Where waited an idolatry of death.

Blood spattering from the innocent.

Happiness is not my job, he said.

I dont care. I really dont. She wanted to say but didnt. Working for the man.

Heart vagrant for for the excesses of champions.

At every brink there is always the chance her courage might sink.

Installed a squall at solitudes of time in corners being busy with business typing and copying hand outs and checks getting signed.

Pay attention.

Why the heart falls in falls in, the crazy con sous mate, misery and madness, sweet fry pie, ferrying madness bellies up from the concave, so abruptly pyth ob and cess where madness leaps with pie like a disturbed nest, like raging black flies.

Nakedly lust wilderness in the bush, slam glam thank you come alive come alive.

Runs away again.

Vousvoyer

Goes for you the vousvoyer, the journey for true, that falls into love that falls into havoc over every saw gut and mumble falls into death as arms akin, the skin of nail, the cross of rail, the burning bush.

The bush. For a tailspin.

Rock paper spin. Pail mail air — sac and sail. Out for hunger, hell is a decimation, layers of lorn mourn porn, digging through the sky piles of buildings made out of hungry piles of everywhere garbage, buggers in her heart starving all around sponging off of elle wood.

Players of horror smacking the eye, the religious excuses for dead pie — sly.

Be her frantic.

Cloak and dagger, pie spy try. Naked gunning cunning eye, from head to dick, from hard to loose, flying up against the onerous grievous mundane ambits of time. Something terrifying and beautiful always collapses in on itself, weighted down by the hideousness and pomposity of truth.

Desire churns the naked staff like a cake half baked, forever carry over cooking — its culinary monstrous and beautiful, a fork at every crossroads, an uprising at every rattle of my brain to throw against the fury that slapped against her eye.

Beauty’s floating pocket battleship —

I am the mystery and a marplot. I am every sin —

Corn goddess half life in hell.

And back rushes in with impenetrable kinship — intimacy, estrangement, hungry and wild.

Dew Drop in

A life scraping against electrified wire. Liberty or death.

Desire and the manufacture of prosperity and contempt. Count me in out other, bereft.

Misrule courses through the sin in her skin. Merry misrules of haughty and nonsense, rove crave hover towering mechanicals like a ruler.

Ruler religions hide the girls. Everywhere spins everything on body of beauty on your beauty dropping through the kismet like ancient fire alarm. With nowhere to go.

Hair full of swimming rage and angst and desire, conformity cutting like a razor blade against the meek in her skin, treacherously intensifying.

Coward and the call. Head weighted down. Channeling leafs in gutter for a fall, harrowed by the narrows. Eyes spooling round and round, like a clown staring into the transient shivering.

Descends every tomb of poe tater.

But its a crater, a moon crater, where beckons the waiter —

Dreams are a resilient category. That permeate logic? Tragic or nostalgic. Sills or ills mix with nil as tiller of forms. And so she was born.

Goals holes poles to fill. Drifting here to there and there startling winged sight parachute arms

Silvering underbelly ringing up from the tacit bemused suddenly flying.

War of Noses

Drunk looks out window is always watchful.

Feels shell shock. Like cabbage, mute.

Life had shrunk to a warped and holy disquiet.

Fin of sins ailing against friction of air, what to call it? the weatherman.

Sparkle in his skin his mind raids tin.

LuLu loves sleepers and creepers, loves being teased with feelies and weepers, because they know how to disparple.

Urge to merge and purge says victim of vermouth, sidelined angry and yet soaked through a sudden sense of daring and license just to do, also time turning ragged and brutal.

Of the angling and the holy. Reek with tenderness.

Pop Went the Weasel

And an astonishing raise the limits of seeing and then the seeing eye creatures —

Freakily unfolding.

Something monstrous imploding.

An exploding heart that loves and bereaves every stolen minute in it.

The pure and the vanishing

Dormants crawl all over the sword of mercy.

Like gods bonking under my skin, they dream under my skin, I am the thwart that visits their tomb.

Death is a living god.

Every day play dray mutiny against the term, oil alive in me, that crossed with stringency of cart and wrath.

Find it everywhere — under fingernails, digging into my throat.

Weatherman, slithers down my back.

Jenny Little

When weather is bad. Not just bad. Very bad.

I run to you no matter how many times you kicked me out. Of your head.

You are a sorrow. Go be dead.

When the roof explodes on me, and unmercial day is all composed of work for the tyrants

bears liquidate into paws

start running across my be

vain and merciless.

Your eyes make it fire. As proof at all that I continue to exist .

The unnameable buried inside the boot — and under my tongue.

As a honing device.

Every gesture becomes a treason from the known, an opening orienting with vestiges of augury.

Your love turns me into a floatation device,

caught in the turbid and falling falling into the holy.

Infinity minus 1

Tailwind, nexus, node. Gang up like a forbidden city.

Every genitive, indicating possession or close association aesthetes its pyrography up my vacuum cunt.

Every edge deliciously contaminated with baptismal font, sacrificial fire melting into ecstasy, imperviable, willful —

Risen in its bed, bleeding with the sorrow, the hungry, the dead.

And stolen, all stolen somehow. From an interminable source.

Like angels dug up by the burden of gods and monsters, my vestal slaves aberrantly absorb them.

I am their lost and found — I am their ever becoming. All things wretched, beautiful, equivocal, mystifying, intransigent — ever aegir to collide with indeterminacy.

Dangling with odyssey.

T.S. and Less

This wasteland — bears burden of feast and famine.

Any slightest blow and the floor falls thru, unveils a desolate uneasiness, unnamable panic.

A wilderness of desire, shifting, tantamount.

Inflammations burgeon the heart —

Fires are humbling. Hell tumbles into a frenzy with shocking defiance, a sabotage of lethal intensity.

Every moment losing control.

To risk everything. To save yourself. Swim up a waterfall. Dive across the racing water — for you, for some abominable rescue — from its endlessness, its wooziness —

Cold, hot, warm.

Twistical, devious, innocence once touted as glorious. Swoons at the wretched, swoons at the beautiful. Fulgid and riveting with life and death.

Negative policing

Where dead doesnt mean dead?

But raging erupt disturbances in Baltic eye — of wretched lovely loopy pie. Love as it dies recedes into screeds. Everything defiant relegated to tinctures of royal blasphemy.

Strange potion disputing permission my sex. To be is not to be. To fly is nigh. Like water under a flood bridge.

Sweet lugubrious exuberant loophole. The achey brakey void. The taste of its floating waste. Bright and shocking. Like smoking crack, same basic non solution.

Crack resolves nothing tastes oily for hours and hours and rolling over the nothing with drain of empty sounds from my motor un running on empty.

The greed of beauty and death

Ghastly true. The poetry ghastly.

But its blades are beautiful, the of crime my motionless slime, off to Baltimore.

Heady freaky mean when want to be gentle.

Fathers and nurses, purses, thirst, oblivion and heaven, rocks and climbing, gems and portage with indian blanket oblivion mining.

Religion arun with a court packing gun. I am its flyer. I am its dead sunny end.

At limits the rivets, swoon at tunnels of raging emptiness, wild woozy hole into bunny got trapped, with cunt in sunning for golden showers angel hair, I am not spared.

Weary monsters plague in my heart where hopeless lays slain potty rotty snotty and furtive, waves of voices up from the sublime, balk of love, who knew the grail was for swelling tail at a far low tide, alone on beach with its sand and pail turning on toes like dead ballerinas dancing.

Beaches fosters adopted my irish maggots on the mind, partners in crime, wriggle as we eat.

Spills out golden showers, graces that mortal emptiness, splendors my pie call: sides of death.

You are a plate of flying peas. I catch with my breadth. Make love with the breeze.

The Robe

The Math Robe.

Is a quainted with tremors. Shows up counting missile toe, versus party tenses. With intruders, mine feel like mopey moped freaks, conquered by holy spies. Who reak havoc and die. Shakespears untamables, the unnamables.

Quiet and perched in nameless numbers listening to barking like a hog for pig log, the mutiny of masturbation, a steal off their paws, into corners with guffawed with pineal eye.

Discussing uncertain separations —

Had to be dealt with

Pie seeks, pie hides. Crosses river — glorious whirls of contraband and the purging altar. Every Vampire knows rocks off. It being endless endless endless. Love as a stick of dynamite. Consecration of essential tremors.

I am a perennial monkey orchid. I laugh when I should cry. Reason degenerates into a beloved treason. Fountains of red. Oceans of black. Unspeakable and sacred. A haven for gods living in abeyance. I am their vapor, their thralldom, their voluptuous marigold, softly —

The black market. Is not about US and slavery. Slavery here slowly powerfully unraveling. Its bo he me anne freedom.

Rash Mash Remember the Lash Crash

A longing to disappear. Down corridors.

Around the gate house keenest. Across the golf course. Empty full failing.

The purity of a relationship with arriving at the door of death. And hidden inside it caves and tombs of bones and worms and racing through the corridors like lunes, screaming help me help me, falling laughing, disappear where.

Tomahawk and mercilessness. Singing while scalping.

Longings stretching fiendishly up the treacherous leg, estranged by its lovely madness, a reprehensible escape from terror and the contrite. Absurd relishes, lovely, indignant and bruising with wild fears clutching heartbreak, tomb of the roses, as if heartbreak and the absurd are turnovers on a skillet of genius and death — where love, superfuses?

My soaring cunt, wretched sacred vessel — Echoing with monstrous desire, every beautiful atrocity becomes a waste case in my dreams, a culprit, a deceit, its forlorn horror chopped up and chewed into linguistic magic pie — Frontlessly hunting for the unaccountable. Any idea why?

Weasel

And by its hostages, I am condemned?

As a seemliness bordering on disease.

How hear angels giggling — at the edification of evil.

As if

Achilles tender foot — caught in a bold delirious ransom, affixed, captive. Irrepressible.

As if something Greek had finally given way, given in to losing its boundaries.

Greeks thought the limitless — had lost its integrity to the real.

But the real had become transduced by a carrier wave. Set off by something impulsive beautiful reckless whimsical, a violence burning through its exigency, hopeless I was to defend against it.

Once inflamed graces circle and circle —

Like an erupt inexorable portrait of sweeping beauty — a tantalizing bravery.

And yet in it, would burn and sting a cynics defiance too, vigilantly connected to the absurdity of a love forever falling falling falling —

A pietism of boundless immanence glowing beneath its stalwart.

Embezzlement relishing an unspeakable freedom, to explore beauty as sacred and unholy, as obscene, diligent, ludicrous —

Gods arise to smell the beauty that limits are a misery to contain —

Immeasurability

Who plays in its nets. As an emptiness that vets. The real from its provocative allure.

Not my fault you are beautiful, beyond your cups. And that I was born with multiple drawers. A shop for stuffed animals. Seven, counted them.

Justice or injustice — tease and appease, try reason with my bedwork of monsters, all of them gods rimmed in beauty and jacked. The jackets. That strange immortal thing that makes my life impossible. Improbable. Hopeless and immune!

Stand back, watch in vain, as my heart explodes at your withdrawal —

Infected, sordid, ransacked, naked. Yet how I fight back to remain.

How I still I believe in its holy departure.

The grace that folded into it — created room — to exist as something else.

working thru still

Believe in it, like a clue from out of the blue sent to where elephants once went to die?

To grab at life, to tear at core. Defiant over the meaning of death. Against life.

More and more minute variations.

The glorious spoons out of control?

The tyrant sexual nature of gruesome burgeoning flowerettes taking over?

And what becomes of a notion to fly.

Denials made unnecessary

The inevitable returns unawakened, something of its ignobility, its corruption — sound asleep, cold and harmless —

A lazy mazy yearning like a can of disappearing film. Its mischievous amorous emptiness compels me.

Love’s slippery bottom, a heretic dancing with menaces.

Churns thru persona.

Inescapable desire bleeding out their innocence, as the most precious of all the damned. A grace to sin as proof of living.

The unknown — boredoms tyrant throne. The bodiless flying, uncontainable, inside Pandora’s box — The carelessness of innocence?

Is my love careless? Yes. A tyrant taboo. Yes. Forever seeking mediators from the aquatics of sin and the treasury of its hopeless becoming. Yes.

Preposterous — is a vulture of scorn, the visionary lies in it bleeding merciless sorrows.

But its all been borrowed grievously, recklessly from the pornography of horticulture, as a body of the plant. And sways when touched. And revels in thoughts beyond the bellwethers of sanity.

Not Above Hoarding

Every day tip a glass to its continuity.

And to its feather and to its lamp. And, ineffable you.

As a treasure of map, of my exceeding the emptiness with a belief in the living.

Like clouds across a continuous front. Thoughts about you turn imbecilic and glorious.

Girls Breeding Club

Riot descends into quiet. A pillage of reruns and crossroads, the tea kettle of eternity, an endlessness as its own sanctuary.

With no need to die? Only to leaven again and again — the flight of resurrection —

And another torrid rebirth?

Saws keep time. Holy invaders, splurging on hooks. Space is preternaturally open to it.

And salubrity. Rhyme contravenes to test it. Tests soundlessness and the reverb. Sinkers add in negatives — as absolutes create infinity without value. Without mutual destruction?

Love lingers over the health of our fugitives. Disinclined to nihilism —

Last resorts gives way, gives way to process, appurtenance, confessionals, persuasion.

Club News

So I joined a girls breeding club. As a matter of cause and effect.

Agatha, Colette, Clarice, Joanie, Virginia, Syvie, share from here to there, a weepy wandering eye, as gloriole and nation of grief.

The pensive one reads math.

For the endless turn up of new category!

Its a hopeless resistance to existence. Searching for ways to detail — vibrations from circle of the impending unending, as hope and loss sear against upraising skin — like air conspiring to become breadth.

My heart floats across to meet it. Can’t stop its vengeance.

But the vengaence is beautiful. It turns outside back in and inside starts out, a raw balance of pedigree and shame. I circle their hunger, desire for wire.

Grapples ripples purges merges. Into the heart of a gem that has fallen from the sky.

Twixt for Twain

Unzips his pants and says, ten little indians.

Immediately, infinity doubles out into tens.

Gimme a bare wet four for your tender hundred.

You can pay me you can pay me.

For a dance.

Eyes all sweet and laughs askance.

Arrow Wood

Arrows come from the heart deep within, skim off leather — the discovery of oblivions, royal sin.

A bluff of shimmering white ubiquitous basalt —

In a geological series of rhythmites.

Ringold formations from age of floods.

Ripeness, near river, still pours out to shores.

Nothingness is time, and time an insatiable presence? Figments and pigments of theories for the unavoidable.

And for the advent.

Wrapped in a golden tan of blatantly irreconcilable clues.

What’s in a gypsy’s audacity of tin. Escapes to embrace my darling gruesome.

Danger Dogs

Pie is Huge. Pie is zoom. A multi plummeting magnifier. Hunting beach for dead pie, sweet ghastly invasions every moment intensify.

Danger dogs — a gothic sickness? Bandied, vagueried, crushed. Doesnt mean dead? Raging erupt disturbances in Baltic eye — of wretched lovely loopy pie. Hopeless and cunt tankerous, beauties that kill kill will will.

Basement Floods

Curses curses. And yearns.

LuLu working in front of a machine again. Down in the basement, cement walls the color of putty, in roll chair at a terminal. Compiling. Corporate to be or not to be: its perfection.

Through, a hazy rage as arises, sirens fury, wasteland dollar for donuts, focus split .

Docklands Cock A Doodle

A shooting range. A foot under.

Pucks like ducks in a lethal row. Love where it pounds, hounds goes endless rounds.

In the moon of its mortal glow.

version 4

Time and Again 

Drip drip drip.

Dipso-manic episodes. Lures of lethe-like excruciations, a stupefying boundlessness for freedom, except boredom erupted like death — and nothing could take that away — as it had its own enterprise, in the great escape, outwardly — turning into something precocious ferocious. 

The violet green hues in a puddle under a street lamp as night arose, and LuLu in city boots for stomping through — just to see it melt away.

And wagers up night to dawns ferocious pawn…

And the next day in, on the 53rd floor, after 3 pm — was entry into hell to pay. Sober and hung over, hide ride abide, awake, as an inescapable tool of sanity.

When the night fell, city becomes hers. To be free of the mandates of the sun, of the day, was a refuge, darkness was a refuge. From the totality of it, chagrin, indignation, frustration, boredom, spectral nodes and modalities, seas of repetition, right wrong and what the hell do it — join subjoin adjoin — Then bolt with a jolt, release the cabal from its precious wastrels, alive in the dark, blessed forays afraid of disappearing into compounds of midtown towers — 

Furies arose smoldering imbued for a bit of self-immolation, cheek on its own tomb…  Time stuck in laundering repeats… money money…  

Furies can withstand only so long before chasing the beast. 

Distempering its larkness monsters as sky fell into darkness, beautiful cities of light, and it invasion by darkness. Was a different crowd. Was for LuLu a freedom in the taking. 

Of nights, wandering nights. 

Drinking was something she earned, as payment for gigging away the hours dollars for donuts. A mandatory broadside escape from rules and rituals of too prolonged sanity, raising the task torn tediousness to a payload of drunken exponential incidental, alight with wet throat conversational ease adventures into the out, arms out, in the screaming rain, Jimmy crickets. 

And vegetating at the bar, lining up beers and shots, like a ground being raided by succulents of the absurd, the ridiculous, the impossible… 

When logic began to flow, parting and farting into the impossible — with dreamy candor, fell beyond the net. And yet maintaining candor, in the impossible — and its ferocious dragnet, when time flattened dollars by its own tenacity into portions of its the impossible as its own death.

Cokes up for the impossible. From bar to bar, with treacherous consumption, endurance, fatalistic tenacity… 

Too many Ice Teas in Texas — half way there.

Too many Ice Teas in Texas —

Just another getaway in LuLu’s getaway car. A navy blue hatchback. Small but serviceable. She was up to her fourth used car or was it fifth. A 4 banger. 

LuLu dropping off a computer part to a friend of a friend who wasn’t really her friend. Still, seemed as good a reason as any to drive through Texas. Taking the Southern route. Cross country crawl.

Cops sometimes came up behind her loaded car when moving again, and stayed behind her, just following for several miles. And she thought, stay with them. As her accompaniment. Drinking buddies back in city, cops stopped in… She stayed with them too. Finally they had something else to do… Project meet everybody.

Driving East to West. LuLu ran into Bailey. Who knew who she knew of the other one who knew them both. Bailey was beautiful and she worked in PR.

Sunny afternoon. Standing around on green lawn.  Drinking Long Island Ice Teas. Too many Ice Teas. 

Escaping from the importance of anything but sun, sky, lawn chairs, and Ice Teas.

From thoughts of Victor slicing her into feathers, instead being one with the sun. Talking sheer unpredictable nonsense about what would do when got to Denver for work. There for summer while another she new was off to Europe. Look for a fast gig, something in design.

Too many Ice Teas, slipped down throat like a pail of present in the tense love practicing freedom up against the open sky —

Then letting it fall into a delightfully transfiguring emptiness, wobbles and woes sprouting ridiculous laughter… In Waxahachie, Texas.

Consequences consequences.

Nowhere to go. Hotel ponder yonder ? Too many Ice teas.

Bailey took a hold, led her into her car, took her home, and then tucked her into a spare room, ahh wealth, light green and white velvet, canopy and scrolls. Met in Paris through school.

 Movement itself engages with the virtue of trying. 

There was sweetness in it. Without relay. 

Bailey’s BMW ease and attention to detail, faith in good fortune, optimism — It  fascinated LuLu. Shocked her, out of her irreverence —

Profusions that slipped from disbelief into despair? belligerent reckonings with brutalities of truth, the treacheries of a violent contradictiousness. 

The glue of money sweet on itself, Bailey! Lived in a townhouse in Pecan Hill, family money, the given and the giving, without silence or hostility. Praise the maze… 

Too Far Tar

Drunk. The taken too far, wretched spins and the room began to fall.

And squeeze against her brain. The swirls of epitome blasting a din of wretched bliss. Everything wiped away, Victor no longer damned to her incendiary, burning itself up with brutal trance truculence of a self eating scope splashing over this and that side, the heart-ness of darkness, its wicked balance dangling where time dilates. 

LuLu gets up. Water water drink. Holds onto wall, with a groan of differential ecstasy that is puritanically blasphemous.

Hand on sink. Head under sink. Cold find anything cold. Head on tile. 

Brutal sanctuary of negative, rupture the rapture in her pants, beyond the bend, out beyond reasoning’s shockwaves of imbecilic flatness, waves of it against her face like a lost lamb.

Its own treason, detonating like a time bomb, in and out of underpinning and the overlying, sensations of permutations felt like a deadly medley stacking up to high heaven with angels for the fallen, bleak and truant with blinding necessity —

More water. Exhale, out out. Look up. Recognizes standing there her sozzled face, a studious felonious reflection, mischief burps, yes still possibly alive. 

Better bit better…  Slope back to bed again. Groping the blistering emptiness. 

As a new dawn wreaks in…Slowly light through yonder window cracks. 

Freshness of dawn. Bailey has a backyard with a table in back made of glass. Outside outside air.

Where Bailey later found her, chin in hand, smoke in hand, shaking head yes, smiling, thank you thank you, so nice here, peaceful.…

Up with the eggs, after all. Drunk let loose, for morning’s special relativity, and the grace at Bailey’s kitchen table of a hungover madness,  any importance attached to life itself, complacently obliterated. 

As she was being neat-handedly fed. 

There are moments when the gods forgave everybody. 

Buy a Bed

On the road again. Late afternoon. Greedy for sleep. Buy a bed, buy a bed. Charge it charge it, who cares. Dallas to Denver.  Air conditioner on and off. Hot. A lot. 

Sign says $38.50. She doesn’t stop. 

Sign says Pool, Continental Breakfast. Pulls off. Drives by. 

Pulls into shopping plaza parking lot. Phone check. Amarillo. How far from Amarillo. Forty seven miles. How far Amarillo to Denver. Six hours 31 minutes. 

Top Choice Inn $44 Nasty bathtub black shower curtain stained, walls peeling and food all over the microwave.

The Southwestern $68 without breakfast, $76 with breakfast. Marijuana smells…

The Lone Star $52, Outdoor pool. Free breakfast.  Comfortable Beds.

Ranchero. $77. Good breakfast. Courteous staff. Total bait and switch. Door looked like it had been kicked in. 

She did not want to be anywhere cagey, wasn’t going to any bar, did not want to find herself knocked up with drugs and carried out by some dude in a suitcase, who would do what it took to fuck a warm body dead as alive. 

Books the Lone Star? Total cost $70.

Larkness Monster 

Key fob or tomb raider? 

LuLu’s glistering distempers, laced in seductions of beauty, where time ravages the wind. 

Its tenderness, a charm, that mayflies “dead pies” this way and that, as it meddles in the sacred shower of tragic surging with impotence — imp potency — bottled up in the  beautiful and the tragic.

Victor, relayed with her impotence… turned them spurned into imps potent of char tar oil foil moil … worming, barn burning. 

Flies off after itself, falls out of present tense, into focals that raid and fray, haven and crave, yearning explosively against time, existence, and place? A fervid hide and seek with burdens of reality,  maps into the eternal dancing into ropes with stamina and the damned… Damned as a willingness to risk being wrong, hanging int rafters of dawn embracing its anguish. 

Only to hang out in the mystery of it ! Balking with death !  LuLu’s heart racing with beauty and terror, her mind bursting into waves of serial incantation, and fuffle (a.k.a. a group of rabbits) crossing over at ledge edge hedge pledge, into misreason —

Tremors tingling with hate, an incendiary of tyrants forever falling up from hell, through the licentiousness of time, unending intensities rising up in her face with a smack, its unearthing giving birth to immanence? overwhelming LuLu with transfigurations of fate —

Suddenly a desert hare jumps out of the fuffle of rabbit and hat, throws a blessed wretched tantrum, vicissitudinarianism — makes cut, scissors in hand of a grace, cut from reasoning — for trying, for buying-in, for rescue. Craven and ravishing flavors of life and death, assassins spinning cruces, damned to innocence and its insurrections — 

Her tantrums lapsings fall into an indepthness, opens timeless chute of defiantly sacred reincarnate vulnerabilities — blooming up like a fury of glory. Up  from numberless impossible perflations, exploding with exultations of fear, only her pride could hear.

Sweet dastardly desperate LuLu’s cowardice burns into a larceny of heaven. Arrayed in hell’s glory, impossible martyrdoms, availing of the unavailing, elevations of truths whose torment is vertiginous — and history’s violence of truth. Trading windflowers with Victor and Hector, for moreover conquering the impossible. The impossible — 

LuLu flying off again — with the angels. Off with the angels! Massless propagators! Same unending conclusion. That her brain was a pail with a hole in it, and holes can coil, drips can cascade, loops that can taut to a hitch.

Mystery or Misery

Customer through the side door. He’s an early night guy.  Tall with his neck slightly politely hanging over. In baggy work pants, winter sweater, and a woolen hat. All blue and green. Round toed boots. 

Blasé. Is she. Wordless with mystery or misery, take your pick.

Mystery or misery…  That’s the sequencing everywhere media scavenges the lust and creates secondary pits to fall into with a gust. Jerk and perk, fall into the darkness let it work. 

Acknowledges customer by lifting mouth and eyelids. Protection,  LuLu owns space behind bar.

Mystery or misery, the fatal fem sot bot beauty and all that lot, St Mary of the misery exists as a tricky sacrificial tremor in LuLu’s life that is held close, as beneath its fissures emanates a wild sacred jest, that inhabits love as a shock of duration and sorrow as a whale, with a blow hole that scales, and wails, sorrow, in throws of desire, teetering into contempt. Skinny of sin in its din. Dun and pun and sun spun.  Put it to use. Put it to use. 

The usage doctrine. Flowers for a sail. 

Something in LuLus merely being alive,  finds itself gleamed, guiled and galled, by medieval pains in sacrificial eye. A burning bar of radicalism desperate with gloom whose freedom to bloom overtakes sense, blurs into rushes of a latent blasting synflorescence, clustered notions motions potions of time as an infinity that ports with epiphanies, glory without ground. 

Somehow found, under Victors rally and rake. The impossible  between them fawning with wicked dread mountain high distentions commingled with ornery fetters and flicks of brutal dust.  That challenged LuLu to brinks of torment and assignation. Falling into parts of a wildness rancid, stubborn and forlorn.

Hair of Roots

LuLu again and again running off to find Victor, at wagers of her ragers, strange ominous sorrows and terror at loss of him, whenever away from London, back in the states. Desire to free the beasts that came burbling up around him, burbling up from belly of beast in her heart — 

That steals for what it feels and defeats itself in wickedness of her shame,

Shame that haven of hells ditch loaded down by dynamite,  the in-terror-gators, as a sacrificial night bite and mystery’s flight. Duty to parking with ear to rape of the mutes. Stop. NO.

How did her heart become so oddly, brutally stuffed with it. 

Hopeless and the hapless. Anger erupts at being born. Started out that way…

Early night guy — always first went to the bathroom in back. Then he comes round to bar on the other side as is his way. 

He is relatively new to the bar. Newer than her being new. Is now forward at the bar, on his elbow, finger up. 

She nods head, lifts herself away from the bar behind her, wipes hands, half smiles, says “hey,” gets him a drink. He pays for it.  Leaves fifty cents. She’ll take fifty cents. Wipes down the bar again. 

Early night guy likes to sit at table by window that overlooks outside stairs. As he can see across to the mountains from there,  countenance a glance at big sky as sun goes down behind the mountains.

Also.

From there, can see anyone else coming up the stairs. He was early night guy. Didnt see him after it got crowded. As it did principally every night. Between 10 and 1. 

Men made life come to life, and gave her the principality of hell. No no no. That takes blame on childhood as layers collide with fears, awkward and slippery mindful of mystic warriors and usual condemnation. Mind a litter of nay-sayer layers. 

LuLu never revisited garbage art, that life was a big old barge of garbage art. 

One night in Paris. Stuck on artist’s house boat, after metro shut down. All the furniture made of cement, woke up with a longhaired French man sleeping on her arm.

LuLu got up, immediately he went thump, and she gave him a freaked out questionable look, and still dizzy with wine, left… 

Density Escaping Into Infinity

A sense of density between being and seeing— strangeness creeps in, thickness a compactification, compact space is a space in which every opening — is also made to measure, to close it off, called a sub cover, inside, underneath, keep numbers from escaping, going off into infinity. Blocks them in for measurement purposes. 

Present tense — Escaping into infinity. Visions of beautiful sympathies that fall through images, upturned cards on street, dead birds in a box, everything beneath a hood of mood and tenderness hatred and death, as a sign from time, battles through to the absurd, negates as it inflates…

LuLu hordes head in hole, shower of flower and formative trauma. Stuffed to rompers with height of horned pout and raging with self abnegating doubt. First, itself as a no self — entirely lacking. Then body and mind immersed, falling too far out of sync, expanding to within tooth of terror, where a mysterious multiplier explodes into nothingness, licking wound, licking cunt, future in advance, the impossible, continuity and death, love overtaking like a sponge… is worst of all, the lost in space face, angry with its overcatch, overreaching, cinder and smoke up the chimneys forsaken, like echos in a cemetery voting. 

The whether balloon, the whether will or not balloon. Rushing at her head screaming abdabs, edges crumbling into a blindness of desire that can’t be put down. Lost in what of it touches her. 

Victor could pull any rug out from under her. And did. Always came back to pull it out again. LuLu’s mind where it came up against the crack — was somewhere wandering out by him strangely attached and unattached, license to gleen keen and pot of bean. Mischief sheen sprinkled on her demons stunned irresistible into silence. It leaped like a bug into her mouth jumping from one parasite to another, pair a sight… standing next to Victor in the elevator. Every time she saw him it only got worse… 

And from there, spread, to a blizzard of reckoning with torments of the subdubrub cribsibrib and  for cornflakes with the undead. 

Suddenly LuLu remembers the truck.

Truck

The truck the truck.

LuLu saw one night, a year ago, in a city back east, coming out of a bar after getting so drunk she danced not he bar, in the meat packing district, a dump truck full of cows’ eyes, a truckload of cows’ eyes,  rolling down the street. Three in the morning was a treasure of strangeness and its oddity, a stark relief.

Bailor with her pail — T for spaceless exquisite trails of time through the hour glass, lush tetchy and sublime, scales the wrist to a nail…

Her heart somehow always being up on that cross, between today and tomorrow, mockery at the absurdity of her heart, defames the sky. 

Tears into her, because and effects, like a dog eating her brain, for sustenance, like a sphinx riddled with survival — 

Tosser. Tosser in a pail for a tail a fail a wail, the nail… 

Taunting beautiful piddling extenuations, that heap to a fall, notions of potions reheating up, undulant with abysms, of shocking absurdity, and tirades of self abhorrence, brutal transfiguring liturgies, sacrificial night charms… Stuck between rent and a hazard of trackless passions, frisson, heartbreak, smoking and drinking and flying off to who knows where, her mum would say, to who knows where…

The beauty of it, disembarking, into spaces between places, signs floating off, fervors maddening, fondle death as a wild stealth, quixotic for life. Aching for a reprieve, from whispering sorrows dangling and toppling with riddling lucidities —

But for those moments of sheer sublime breathlessness — where proclaims a miracle of its freedom, as a release from elevations of death ecstatic death, an epiphany of brutally beautiful abject breathlessness, where nothingness and infinity merge, on the spur, into a boundless praising tenderness.

LuLu is resolved, at this particular spur of the moment, changing out one keg to another, behind door in fridge, to pay attention to the nozzle, it can be a bit tricky. 

Not dissolve into the fractious and its withering attractions,  as nozzle on keg coupler must calibrate to a click. Which she did. And then decides to sit in the fridge for half a cig. Not to think about love, hate, death, god as a cod sod or bod, not now, no. No, NO.  

Pulls back refrigerator sheath,  heads out,  shuts back clamp on door, is back again behind the bar… Nobody new. All is under control. 

Language of No

The language of no… Lateen rigged. Graced by defiance. Brave rave grave contentions with — what is life. Chucking up the sponge. 

Sponge and piewipes, n for noxious beauty. As relies on a heat that elevates exsolutions of hate, as threshold, a sundry of riotous expurgations whipping at the wind — beyond surges of beauty beyond tyrant scourges of innocence — turning wild with discovery, flying off again, for Victor’s what? A brain to feed, the beauty in her terror,  the enemy of her  hate.

A fire in the mire. How hell lights up the sky with holy subversions — torments more luminous than reality’s scurries and worries? unforgivable cruces, raised to a feverish spate. 

Work’s neuroeconomics — toggle that switch. Walking home from work was, nine out of 10, better than the rush in. Money’s onerous time serving need need need, a pragmatic up her evil, urgent with branching necessity. Broke is walking with death as an alarm, filled with pain of misfortune, beside the failing farm. A crusading panic sends her out for cash.

Cash comes first… 

LuLu sometimes pulls her legs up, and sits on the stainless steel counter next to the sink, leaning her elbow on the bar. Another local walks in,  down off the mountain, says it’s snowing up top. Could be another dump of up to seven feet tonight.

LuLu bobs her head averring. Locals hang together  with talk of the weather. LuLu gets down from the undersink, pours him a drink. He puts money on bar. She takes money, gives change. Machinist named Jason, at end by the door, points at his glass for a refill. LuLu nods, takes his glass, pours another. Waits to collect money… Collects money, gives change.

Jason slips a buck over the bar, for a tip, a tip…  LuLu eyes it, kindly cleans up around him. Takes it summarily. Turns her back to him nodding thanks. Two more and he gets a free one. 

5:52, four more had come in now sitting back at table in corner. Three at the bar still, intently waiting in their drinks for the night to begin. LuLu,  in charge of liquid and the lights, keeper of the refugium — However hexed and perplexed, by guardian French sphinx — that bites at throat, caressing death… 

The mystery of the double negative. Reversing again, impends of a sullen mulling, all whither about Victor’s heady teddy, fiddle, middle-finger riddle, scorn torn and/or forlorn… 

Dragon wagon, take take take, and for goodness sake, savor your lickings. 

The language of no… 

How ruthless it hounds and bounds. Through a gleam of transfigurations and transferential violence that whorls about her naked thirst.

How hard it was to separate lust and horror from the hunger that suffered for its beauty. That life and death seemed to own, as a body of hate, for the surface of love, restless as a free radical, highly reactive unpaired electrons, searching searching… 

After Victor’s, honey and bear oh bother.

Unable to defuse the impetuosity in its reach, from going in on her, like a cobra in a bottle neck, intruding after LuLu’s heart, exceeding any of her dashes off or wilding meltdowns.  As it never left, as it always came back, came sliding back, in a turbulence of mischievously diverging sensitivities. Strange, her need greed unable to heed, for his bounder, his license — inciting, insinuating mischief, transgressive — Her astonishment infected, altered. Left flittering like sun rays in catch-water. 

And what of her latest plight of fate, mountain beautiful, breathless anywhere you look, local dive barmaid, having fled again, strife with its death, alpine net for a noose. Reactionaries in the fur below always running off, running off — third city in as many years, flying off into the hurly. 

Wagering with the impossible, death like steam in a bed of ice calling her ghost, back into being. The impossible… 

The thought of it, of her running off to find Victor again, pondering shame dearly drearily wearily — The thought of it, superimposing, rounder and bounder,  stay go flow row, yo hoe — 

The thought of it, makes LuLu glome like a head of flowers, her guilt suds up and gloating, imp-like with shambolic resistance, to persist against the untenable, like a flying fruit bat. Leaning back, arms crossed, unspeakably savoring its transfectability — wavers, quavers: no no NO…

Dollars for jukebox? Holding out a $100 bill. Asking for five bottles German label, premium. Visiting park-goer, presently arrives at local dive. Sure no problem. LuLu carefully sorts and counts change. $5 tip. Darkness was upon the day, night beginning to walk in. Along with money for the till. 

 JACK

Jack is in trouble. Two nights ago he caused trouble. Jack comes in earlier than usual. 

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t care. Move on. 

Fight almost broke out. She put an end to it!  Shut down music. Turned on lights. Shut the bar. MaMa bear started yelling. Ruining it for everyone. There were over fifty in the bar.  She is its lone ranger.

Music off lights up shocks everybody into silence. 

Goes over to them. Right now she’s say right now. Not yelling. No discussion. End of night. Bar closed. Your fault. Deal with it. And she looks hard at two who almost came to fists, were pumping chests and pointing started yelling, she starts swearing under breadth. 

Takes away pool cues. One by one everybody goes, they just do… 

She invites a few to stay… so she can come down off the anger, and have a drink. 

Never just one tho — or they will try to kiss her.

Mama Bear grew out of  owning the bar from police. Domestic disputes. Slicks and kicks, bearing knives. 

NOTES

Or, sweet and rant abstrusions to play on fuckuppery or flame her.

Mary bod of god’s Virgin sex Slave…

Victor prognosticates that LuLu’s a fizz Liz. A rash mish mash.

Frightening her half naked — running through a field of rapture, leapers of reapers rolling in its flowers, a deadly medly of flowers, as they weep and die.

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