Says Camus

As comes the melting snow, a pile on. Where hate grows a gorgeous head, beckoning bait grows sate with dead. Picture a fat trout on dry dock. Eye opened dead. Promises Promises.

Lets do fish and chips. Growl, agree to disagree, and gently sip.

Back on the burner chewing and angry and spitting and beautiful and teasing and torrid and — quiet and sober and instructional, my sweet pink confines of the grouse, screaming as a bird I am fucking useless. Sorry I am sorry…

Where heart howls and digs in to join with destiny, whatever the outcome! As opening for sun thru fingers to tell time with, and love and death clocks me a new one —

Wrestles again with brutal emptiness, and its beauty banters lovingly with fate. Love equals hate, language is fate. License fumes with triumph.

Pigs kneel sword in quest — thou be the call of the “useless,” my painterly useless, bright as morning snow. Escape through that hatch into nothing nothing NOTHING and there I go.

Negs’ inter rotational peg leg swings right round, life closing in on the “possible,” turns poof into magic, and disappears behind curtain.

Where flows the incendiary cosmos. Beckons me “ill?” Oh back in the nill?

Catch it in the pinky. Err I toss! Zenons carry over cooking. Et tu? now a carry over. Yes thankfully.

How does that feel?

Full. Full of it! Budding roots of prime and evil. Thing the thing up against brittle potent endless call of love and death, screams — demise the wails, sorrows’ entails, tanning flume of beauty preening at hair for scope in lieu-lieus cotton candy fluffs at cat nail in foot dementia.

Transforms ill into oil. Negs are a kind of floating comical dimentia. Itself being the point. Says who?

Oh, yeah — Camus.

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