Dead Pie Flies Again/Body H8

frontallaying 2

Beginning of Something

Tongues her. Dizzying, like a smelt of grace. His fingers drag across her skin, her skin a raft of shirkey murky lurking sin. Angels make waves. The unseen and the unnamable thing, drifting off into beauty and violence and the absurd up her cunt. It astonished her unduly that the drain of ocean filling her mind up was always in transit, its breathlessness borne mourned hexed vexed purged and remounted.

Secrets chimneys rift and sifting up, and on and on, about the vile vial Nile and smile — of her blessed miracle cunt. Sense was not sensibility. It was abstract wretched sweet lonely and abrupt.

Orgasm the first sign life is a magic tragic miracle driven through the rub of love.

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

Sirens in her heart sang for a rock to go down with, knickers and all, scrambling with temptations of purgatory. Love in limbo sends her flying. A drizzle for damnation, all paws. It taunts mercilessly her desultory melancholy, pierces through impoverished pockets and raging boredom like a landslide with fervor and desire of only the lonely, vulnerable, immaculate.

Bar rooms. Escape.

In a bar room crawl, got very drunk.

Horrors of the floor came alive in her heart. And won’t let go. She grabbed his arm suddenly struck by a wave of vertigo.

Hey he says.

Oh she says. Thank you she says. Sorry she says. Couldnt reach the bar she says.

Something mystical crosses her neck like a shrine, naked mysteries floating up wind.

Want to see something he says. And pulls up his shirt — reveals a tattoo of a Jesus painted in Day of the Dead.

Oh she says, new? And stares at it. Blatantly. Looks up at him. He shakes his head. Smiles conjecturally.

She kisses her finger to it. Says, Day of The Dead, ever go? Me Neither.

A fin under her skin prowls up her skirt. Booms against his warm sensitive brutality. Brutal and sensitive the masculine realm. It cuts across her virtue, like a lions preying heart, its menace crouched in stillness, its outcome — wedged and dangling.

He takes her home. She goes into the bathroom. Her head swims again, 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, its overpass cradles and curdles 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.

these are “notes” in poetic format, that need to be TRANSFORMED INTO SKITS — must “relay” into fiction says the Didders.

Infernal Flowers

Flowers are hours. Rank in defense of whats fierce and fatal about beauty.

She likes the night. In her heart of hearts, she harbors a cold resistance to the sun.

Sun means money. Money means death.

Every wretched dollar, another flower picked and crushed. Its beauty seized and martyred. Sold for cash.

Drink smuggles her out of the desert, a desert of penuriousness, of barely getting by.

The unwelcome life of drudgery. Aimless, angry and acute.

Where maybe love entice her to escape.

Something in their fatal ornament arises for her as epiphany of capture and the hunt.

All her affairs stray from the light.

Lust cakes up, unsobering a shocking sorcery. Pistons dangled off your breadth with visions of death. And every rebirth a thousand dead fly. I am just the meat they live off of. Fingers hands cunt flew for safety flew to stay alive flew to make you pay. Roundelay, roundelay. Beauty runs toe scape clutches of reason, where deadens flattens dissolves desire into emptiness.

The uncanny invades as sinew prescience sky fall, trauma. Glows independent of consciousness, ruptures topples monstrous. es, its beauty is abject, one of its many disguises. Gruesome, angelic, a burden, tests reason to its core, the mana from sacrificial trauma is irremmoveable, old as the first sacred crow sacred wound, abject martyrdom.

I am its sojourn I am its infernal question mark. Every rift contravenes — aches between presence and sorrow, breaches with ravishing interludes, destiny’s unwaking child, running beautiful and wild.

Thoughts obscene errant breathless, she wants you. But she is incorruptible? The flowers swell suffocate colors flame like tokens of madness

Beauty or Blight

On the train. Going home from the same old same old.

Boy next to me 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 beautiful antipathy.

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.

Red Fire and Black Flies

Prettify the where for art thou and why? That medieval yearn where misery comes with grace.

Pictures dance in my head of a floating crypt bathed and in a warming beam of light.

The vulnerable and the unvanquishable.

A solemn sorcery. This or that romantic imperial wickedness, encaging my lamb, enflames my cunt, with visions of exemplary death.

Reason Being

Truth defies. Truth extinguishes…reason sometimes ravaged by compulsions of beauty, its aim to defy existence, sometimes crawls up to knife as pits against bone.

The uncanny, suddenly unfolds —

It occurs suspiciously — invades as sinew, with sudden prescience, and skyfall. Glows independent of consciousness.

Beauty tests reason to its core. Topples it, turns the mana monstrous — into a resurrection of sacrificial trauma. A sacred wound, gushing with abject martyrdom.

Beauty can be abject.

Truth can be empty or overfull.

Reason too. Suffers from the pull of the fallen in all its heartbreaking disguises.

There is no me

There is no me…. ? Say this a lot to the weather, to the wind. To the tyranny of time.

That we are nothing

At edge of a distance, angels bite the body like holy nerves, like a wolf always hungry for fodder.

Enchantment is an invasion, an intercession of beauty and wickedness. Best worst cursed thirst. Nothing remains unchanged by it. Incantations are intimate. Animism lurks. Vertiginous and revelatory. Torments cross the soul as visiting logic. Give into it? Give into it!

Rifts and Drags

Falling. I am riven, by the taboo. It engulfs the horizon. With lavish agonies, interludes with destiny’s ravished child, running beautiful and wild.

Her thoughts — obscene errant soldierly breathless — relentless insolent, a contestation of mutants.

And yet she is conscienceless, incorruptible — Her colors flame as tokens of a tender madness.

Shameless, antipodal — semidivine.

Holy Water

There is no me…. ?

Something I say, a lot, a lot.

Say it to the weather, say it to windows, say it to church statues hanging from the ceiling. There is no me, oh sweet beautiful effigy. Curtailing for a long moment underneath, as if to surge to a purge of its holy fabulous excretions.

I say it to mailboxes errant and sly, I say it to public trash cans, a cops gun, a homeless deeply dirt-encrusted paragon.

Time is but a tyranny! unravels the trodding lament.

Rootles after me, like angels biting my body with their holy nerves.

Purifying the gutted? sterilizing the overflow? brandishing everything as absurd.

Palm Bomb Wan

My heart my soul my legs. To wrap around your trunk and all your brazen funks. But there is murder that illuminates the sublime A vaguery, of whizzing abhorrentsracing against time? < Its ricochet, a self embedding trick. 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 — over hill and hell.

>Screaming finish it, finish it.

Its relish crushes up against my stolen eye. The thousand 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!

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

Whispering embers: be the murder of it?

How 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.

Rewrite restart here

By the dozens

Its crushes up against my stolen eye. The thousand hearts of beach-la-mar.

Yet like a drunk dancing in a cemetery. As if all death every one, belongs to me, my blood and skin, a principality of darkness hovering over my living jinns, their body we share, every disease of the heart, every mortal portal every merciless miracle of abruption.

Jackets on the street, jack off in the park.

I stare at their dismembering like a royal counterpart, collecting darts. And defy, am the pie in their eye? errant glint of abduction.

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 on oblivions coattails —

Rhapsodies transcendental incantaions dancing 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.

My heart is vagrant for for the excesses of champions.

At every brink there is always the chance my courage might sink. So I install a squall in the hall at a variety of corners. And 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 I am I am, give me your eyes.

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.

My 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 garbage, buggers starving al around, layers of horror smacking the eye, the religious excuses for dead pie — sly.

Be my frantic.

Be my cloak and dagger, be my filthy, by my spy. Be my 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 half 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 in your eye.

Beauty’s floating pocket battleship — I am the mystery and a marplot. I am every sin — as the corn goddess from hell and back rushes in with impenetrable kinship — intimacy, estrangement, hungry and wild.

working NOTES

Drop in on me

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 my skin. Like a religion. Everywhere spins on your beauty dropping like fire. With nowhere to go.

But how the head spreads, shoots left, goes north.

Hair full of swimming rage and angst and desire, conformity cutting like a razor blade against the meek in my 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 I was born.

With poles to fill in holes. And other throbbing members, like the hidden value of landmines.

Or startling winged sight parachute arms and silver underbelly of a common roof rat oh suddenly flying.

War of Noses

Penelope is 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.

Penelope 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, with daring brutal license.

Of the angling and the holy. Reek with tenderness.

And an astonishing raise the limits, of frisky risky terrifying 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.

Section 2. Getting there.

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.

Section3. Doesnt blend yet.

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?


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 —


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.


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.

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5 responses to “Dead Pie Flies Again/Body H8”

  1. iconic

  2. Jeffrey Meape

    Perfect \

  3. fresh

  4. Great blog right here!

  5. Great post. Thank you and good luck.

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