Not getting anywhere. Thinking about it. Thinking about it.
Thoughts about death intrude. Thoughts about death always intrude.
Fictioning with Meta. This piece is meant to be sketchy. A conversation between unnameable clowns in fond pursuit of meaning and its invention from death to madness. V3
Even baby sicky. Poor thing. You poor thing. Eyes make faces. Worry then blurry.
Not going to make it.
Make what?
Its a bird its a dog. Its a pill and its grim. Madness you say is grim? Like a lost limb.
Slim rim runny gunny spin spin spin — pull the nail out out of the sacrificial hymn, gahead jump jump —
See the bunny, even while fucking, how it rolls like a log. This frantic peace. No use leaving now. No use leaving out. Everything begins where it drinks the magic and info seeming party to the tragic.
What is what is? The what is and not, and all the hot for trot, from spoon to rot.
It whims. Madness has its whims.
Whims, roaring like a fire. Fires that roar, deaths that soar. How madness eats her pie?
Lost all fondness to reason then?
Didn’t say that. Did not say that.
Starts with 1. Ends with grace. Pride of place.
And everything in between? A sinister plot — to fork it over, to fuck the lot.
From Death to Madness
Fucking often appears as a religious symbol. For flight night and plight, for treasure pleasure and ? liquid measure.
Words written in clouds like white powder — “when all is said and done.”
When will that be?
Well, except for periodic screams brandishing conditions of desperation, as a matter of eradication —
When will that be?
For once and for all.
Fucking is — for once and for all. Every time. (IOU a line).
Riding riding, in a car with a Mummy is not the same as robbing a bank.
Yes but when making a desperate chase? There’s difference. And then there’s difference.
Or was it a truck? Or was it an escape. Every turn a new about face.
She (who must be conveyed) can get lost in a flower, lost in the shower, lost in a cup, lost when you say, “aw hell, shut up.”
Lost all fondness to reason then? Pick a number. Any number.
Number number, of sets. Sets are regions. Regions for beings. Neck — breadth — deep. A funny absurdist patch of mottled hair in the shape of a triangle, alternately described as “porn with a horn baste in forlorn” or “tutless the gutless misery.”
That, for a fact?
Looking at any number of things — really looking — undress in silence? a sudden wave of contristate —
Whose outreach phathoms dancing to death, every little death, for instance the noose and fetch, or the cock and rock, or the sick and span. Inducing its frivolling — in thru out to — every beauty imaginable.
What next what next?
Assumes conditions circling negative in sin of pin, the highers up up have spies, spies are known as V (for variables).
And just as aqua V, running in reverse?
Where backs had hands. A hole in through the heart against the soul and it blows (like rape and Rome)(propagating backwards) —
Full thru to madness…
Whats that smell?
An abyssal race to place it with link to the sublime.
Smells like hell?
Waves and sinks —
Never happen.
Too many voices not to be voiceless ?
Fill and kill, clean up the spill.
Genus Ziziphus. Displays: Carnivorus Eruptus. What muckenfuck ness.
In mist of bed with a very fat head.
Yes but where’s the golden fortress?
Black forest bake a cake? Here there and nowhere. A lie that not shields the truth.
In clue — ding ding?
Disembodying the carcass sacred. Exsuction, figgers, lucks like a chickenshit.
Lit her alley.
Train of thought, bought or what nought vomitus up from the mydalein, comical — to the routine, rabid pavid luctual and wellaway balene.
Bib lick all.
The gift (and grift) of meadow and branch, of crew hill teas and avalanche.
Forever playing restlessly ab ov it. In a raft array .
Of missed steps? of melt downs?
Under the waterfall — and around the bends. It all depends.
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