Ziv/Body H8

Get up pull up, the pointing chin. At Ziv’s stone skipping horizons, as tremors pop pop and glide through his prisms of shimmering obscurity, every debilitating obscurity known to man!

Ziv cuts a staggering neurogenic figure, whose tasks blaze candor – 

And sniffing, Yeux-de-Chauve-Souris’ deceptively simple stylishesness?

But then, but then there reaches straight across the bountiful emptiness a hook shot, a snitch –

Preying after, Cave-of-the-Winds’ skying cross-eyed-Mary-mining, toss full of collateral, the hazards, the arc, the parry, the daisy cutter, the inadmissible –

There are dodgy incredulously fuzzy brightnessz – whose sorrowing complicity turned into chastity, slain by hoops of monstrous desire, into a brutal covenant, whose superdense silence, hill or highway Glow must honor.

Arduous is the divine, and costly.


And then, and then licking the twisted thread, to needle through, straight through Cave-of-the-Wind’s eye-of-the-storm, so restless and demanding.

So too then, Glow says to herself without cease: So too then, to the protection of Simon-of-the-Blue-Nile from sacred dreaded yellow beastly impecunities, whose deadly flowers trigger and flip her flip her down the river of doom, triggered like a toaster with store bought pastry whose insides bubble with hot steamy goo –

As if somehow, though Glow is a tin pot thief, a ludicrous prowler, fiendish and clumsy and seamy, still as if somehow it could, it would help havocs be better legioned, better stood under the hood, to the larger alliance of assident fate – 

Smelter & Boom

What a population, where geese glitter and goon – and the moon subsumes and revolutely consumes, to exact and extract trilling revenge, for Glow’s forlornly wild autodidacticism –

Unruly duex-sies in the subliterate department, rudely ruling confection, dopy cavernous and wild with chase – are the bends.

Glow shakes her locks, oh god the brutal bends. Unrelenting as a live loaded prick of glowworm, yet of worrying scurrying proportions, like that fatal rabbit.

A Moors

Hard and shaft with light, against the barrens and heathlands, where roam legless lizards and elephant shrews, leering with siren mischief.

To wag and dote, upon those ancient Moors, so treacherous and enduring, where dormants stage coach viscus precious corobbery, stay and bleed with devoutly descending monstrous preautonomy, shouting and laughing at the sweet and low –

Oh the toxic blows –

Damned to the purple heather as inky floods the stowage nile blue. 


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