Learning to have deference again, that it is what it is, even if it isn’t what it isn’t. Spawns like a counterweight to PouLou’s beloved hysteria. As always, she shouts: to overcome a cornered lovely blasphemy – obese with obstinacy, stupidity, cowardice.
You have to have respect for a madhouse, and its luster of infamy, impossible boundaries. As an acquaintance, say, with whom one searches, through the image, abound with symmetries, for blood and fire and sweetness of relish.
There is a threshold, a high point, among the naked and the neurotic, before anything begins to descend – where ruthlessness is the sweetest of shared potents, an unyielding pertinacity for scraping the bottom, and understanding it as a kind of enthrall.
Overlaps with songs of death, of course. Where lust conspires for transport, romance is an urgent migration, and yet in it carries the divine, a nail in a throat on a cross, a Merry Andrew riding a horse upside down, a misery and mystery that is highly suggestive.
To dream in The Language of No! Curses. The-Not-Can-Haves as a bath, wallow of life rutt up against death, something in its ferment starts to cypher and subsume itself in waves of The Unabiding, unholy fish that leap as vehicle for the impossible sky, a swell of total disregard for constraints of water, defy the day, ride.
Rapacious, determined, suicidal, seeking through the sadness/madness/ba-ba-badness of nonbeing, for a clarity of sorts, its own inextricable ecliptics.
PouLou, staring out – beyond the stark raving fickle roses of love and contempt that savage her heart –
She watches, waits, funnels/tunnels/runnels triggers and bait, ferocious as a bastard is relentless for any sign of likeness.