Heavenly Hybrids/Novella

Paris Catacombs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Furious the curious and/or haywire?

Bad Lamb

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reek peak leak…

The how and why.

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

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

Fault Lines

Beauty is a deadlock a weakness an aberration. Locked in body of a Persian cat, on hind legs, with wings of an eagle, and the head of a paradox logic Athena —

Athena, goddess of wisdom-war-and-weaving having been supposedly born fully grown out of forehead of Zeus — after a very bad headache. A vestal of voluptuaries in the virgin of birth retread the spread? out of the head of the spun of the sun of the one. And gift Athena got from Perseus ? the head of Medusa.

Flying into essences, metaphorical and malingering, bastard ruptuary magicing in the perverse ? a shocking climb out onto a rock from sea to shining hinge.

The furry fairy weary fountain of persona plural empyreal cosmocratic. Venus the shell game who is also St. Mary fairy — treacherously lit up by fires of hell, lost in the lathes and liberations, of sheer and engulfing subtartarean spells that battle with meaning and death.

Everyday sacred treachery of a god facing brutal extinction — as party to enchantments, of the Scheherazade. As if hidden in maps of Venus and Mars, uniting the duties and deities of Love and War. That thumps and rattles, relentless and rocketing.

O fiddly and tiddly and truant and the trog.

Frightfully captivated by the pull of its violence, a dreamy inscrutable lugubrious slog, mirthful and ironic, puerile too, and irreverent, as real is to the resonant.

Flickers of positronium (electron anti-electron pairs) leaking out and about the Victor. LuLu reels, defenseless to it. Descends into a wild restlessness. Erotic featherland the netherland at cliffs with the sweepers weepers leaps of oblivion. O nothingness and the absurd. Blossom ineye a zombie holocaust, bleeding red in the flower bed, with mournful delirious sympathy of the devil. 

Shocking assassins crackle and pop at tortuous magnitudes, of latency and the absurd. Freaking frankensteins her. Fits of future past and present riotously righteous bunny multiplying. 

Shining, shining on paths. Of love. Entwined with mystery of death. Dirty flirty exchanges with duty for booty. Its fickleness vulnerables oozing with flights of mortification. 

Mystery Misery

A shambles and fume-ology of fair foul cruces —

For flammeous wonder wads. Weave-y, peeve-y and potty ? A ferocious fleurotic need to gurgle off the faburdens of gloom. Bendlets in purges. Glorious urges. And then, suddenly again and again LuLu succumbs — to terrors vicious and inscrutable. 

As entailed by dinky offy curses of her birth… ? A trojan of saints arising among the fallen. 

LuLu is tormented and perplexified by the whole damnation thing. Adorations, that rash like poison. Searching the deep, where pick pockets weep. Restless monsters arising. Seeding an underground fall away of sea and rock and siren song. Sorrows howling and dumbfounding. Beckoning for what ? Something of Victor’s fabulous archness — 

Strange immutable assassins one after another reeling her in. Filled with colors of the impossible. Defiant swarms of aching tenderness. Derangements feuding underground. Unsparing and bright with the impossible night. 

O. She was in the next group to go in…Yes. 

Hating it too… wretched and taboo.

Enter the Gruesome — still researching. this part its a grab bag for simplicity but the historical part is not relevant ??? not making relevant?? Paris catacombs is The Side of Dead in the book. Sure why not. A cat combs book.

there are poems INSIDE catacombs, ok fuck me, gonna have to go through all of that …

Paris Catacombs. No elevator. Five stories underground.

It’s 131steps down and it’s 129 steps up. No elevator. Watch as you go heel and toe. No running.

Down down down, around down down some more — takes her awhile. 15 minutes or so.

Entry comes into a roundabout. With a limestone chamber, off to the right. Filled with glass tabled maps and low lit signage. Go stop read look.

Then a street above mines collapsed, leading to an establishment of Inspection Générale to inspect and repair. The last straw, sin of all sins, a restauranteur went to get bottle of wine from his cellar. Only to discover it stunk to hell, a wall from adjacent mass grave had given in, had completely collapsed. And there was an eruption of remains spilled out into his wine cellar as an open soar — in his bloody wine cellar. Thus: By Royal Decree — ultimately, the complete removal of public city cemeteries including guillotined from french revolution. Making small part catacomb into public ossuaries — That opened for visitors in latter 1800s.

Go on go in do it.

LuLu ventures back out into the roundabout and follows a sign to the Catacombs.

Enters a low bearing tunnel, that is kind of clammy. As in enclosed inside of a limestone clam. Its ceilings so low can reach up and touch.

Les personnes de grande taille s’il vous plaît : faites attention à votre tête.

The tunnel is long, it goes on and on and on. For 1/4 kilometer. Before anyone is to see any bones. Narrowing here and there into single file. Tunnel turns and worms, goes on and on and on. 

Finally they come upon a door — made of bars of iron, like entering into a dungeon. Which takes her into a commanding hall. She is surrounded by columns, columns encased floor to ceiling in planks, that painted black and white, with a tower-ly rook — as from a royal board of chess.

(Chess with death ? Gruesome but marvelous… )

And at opposite end, a doorframe also painted black and white, but with diamonds like from the game board itself —

And overhead that, a limestone lintel chiseled with the words : Arrete, C’est ici l’Empire de la Mort.

Paved in Stiffs

Pile after pile up of human bone — distinctly set off into sections, labeled with chiseled crosses. Names and dates of cemeteries, from which bones were rezoned . Par example, Cimetière des Errancis (one of four where Bonnet Rouge disposed of the guillotined). 

Walls and chambers stacked and packed with human detritus, steeped several layers thick, vertical and horizontal, packed in tight as brick. Skulls heaped on top.

Skulls inlaid into adjoining walls, one after another, forming a mischievous stripe of skull after skull, facing forward.  A large round chamber, with a broad circular column, its composition of bone, separated into types, creating an immaculate compaction of subdivided stitchery. Neatly as a beehive. 

LuLu irresistibly touches a skull at height of her hip with mystically raw, savage tenderness. No one stops her. No one stops her. She continues on.

More whimsical patterns — inlaid, in wall after wall with a decorators glee ? To adorn the dead with a soupçon of cloister-ous artisanry. Skulls inlaid into circles, skulls inlaid into crosses. Pirate crossbones with skulls set kitty-cornered, six in a row.  Skulls in the shape of St. Valentines heart. Mais oui, but of course. LuLu’s nose points up to the other side — As if to dare the dead to dance in her heart. 

Gulps suddenly for air. 

There is pressure there. Where revulsion meets its lavishing anguish…

Stuck in a bestial obsequies peepshow. Lavishing a poignant droll liberation macabre as coincident with detritus of her fate ? A dubious whimsical misanthropy roars through her heart precarious with disdain. 

Suddenly, LuLu succumbs to a massif attack of limbo and fatalism. Stuck rock chuck five stories underground, harrowed by her mortality, peevish and distrait.

The necropolis relic insoul of Paris. Staunch glut landfill, pottered labyrinth of six million plus dead. O. Dastardly abysmal relish. Get out, get out alive. 


129 steps back up. 

And up and up. Huff huff huff.  Up and around up and around. And up and around. LuLu stops and leans over. Goes at it again. 

Makes it to the top. 

There is a table. There is a man in a polo. A Les Catacombs de Paris polo. He is tall, with beautiful cheek bones, his skin a mix of black and tawny, with a dash of red hair.  He has to check her bag for bones, for stealing any bones ! 

LuLu opens her hobo, no she didn’t want any. 

Two people come up behind her.

And she is gone.

Out through a vestibule to the exterior door. Out onto a narrow quiet street. O outside outside outside. Breathe again, breathe! 

Grand sweeping sense of release from dungeons of time. 

The exit door steps out from a different building, many blocks away (from where she went in). A wall of pale brick, no window, wedged between two modest apartment buildings. No sign what lays beneath. Outwardly, sacred to the dead. Air is fresh against her face with a chill. 

Its coolness clueless and occlusive. Her life for theirs — a ransom of hearts amid playful grotesque. 

 Bone bone bone of the deep down and dead.  

Looks up on phone. Go to end of street. Where winds back to  Square Jacques-Antoine, a traffic island small park, where six streets come together. 

Death is a hunger released from desire. The cold coats it with freedom. 

Gallant shock of tender mercies. Giving way to plumb bunny effusions of love. Hatch rash flash fish upstream yearnings for Victor. 

For what the hell is life. Monstrous as ever, it billows up as sacred quintessential relish in vast swallow of time. Erupts into the tortuous : A) Stop enough, enough enough enough;  B) Life is only life. That’s all it is. Never give up. 

Generates thick hungry binary. Wedged in despair. What is or it isn’t. With nothing in between ? 

Absolutes are cow the cosmic, arrive undiluted. Renders out in sheer suspense. Blanketing her brain. A teetering merry wary fairy go round, pivoting with lustrous mayhem. Wild ponderous distortions. Countertrippant waves teetering with hope and surrender. Like dancing on flames.

What is she doing here ? What ! The what what. Be here just to be here… Boners. Loaners. Roamers. Takes on the carnage of sexual urgency. It’s a death or life business! Take as am. Do what you will! 

A rash of scorn — bubble bubble — biliousness of hell — Crash. Crash. Halo of sugar crash. Hell takes on prodigy. Beauty surrenders. Loathing bursts into torches freak Frankenstein and tragic. Prayers for relief from the wantum quantum — meta feta, sending her off on expeditions to find — Bees knees of dead, piled up underground…

Go forth and pererrate (wander from truth ?),  to fuck ? to be, to be. Just to see ? Or, make love to its counter terrorism ? in a shallow of death. 


Buying and selling spilled into the adjoining Cemetery of the Innocents, where illicit trade and general debauchery formed a danse macabre among the tombs and decaying detritus that boiled up from the fetid soil and communal graves. The vast necropolis of Saints-Innocents welcomed the dead from every parish in the city. Human decomposition mixed with the blood and guts of the market, with piles of rubbish to form a putrid stench — Rosemary Wakeman, French Politics, Culture & Society

Gawky plucky melancholy mystic surveil –

O fiddly and tiddly and truant and trog.

Frightfully captivated by the pull of its violence, a dreamy inscrutable lugubrious throng, mirthful and ironic, puerile too, and irreverent, as real is to the resonant.

Flickers of positronium (electron anti-electron pairs) thrashing out and about around the Victor. LuLu reels, defenseless to it. Descends into a wild restlessness. Erotic netherland at cliffs with oblivion, her cunt adorned that way ? blossom ineye of zombie holocaust, red in the flower bed, with mournful delirious sympathy of the devil. 

Shocking assassins crackle and pop at tortuous magnitudes, of latency and the absurd. Freaking frankensteins her. Fits of future past and present riotously righteous bunny multiplying. 

Shining, shining on paths. Of love. Entwined with mystery of death, as a sacred ornament ! 


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