Friday, September 30, 2011


            Jill's votary was  a dog, a votive notation on the 'crumble' of time. She's crumbled and crumpet!trumpet!  What is that way she speaks leaving the cake to the nodders .  Someone holding. Hold hold hold . It rings that way Capital C. A crest tuning  the fair wind. Winding the wheat the tunnel wheat? We're not sure. The first time on the steps outside the factory at the laboratory of Vincennes migratory workers stage  harder facts to believe. Breasts come longer . Nugatory.  Along the . Along the Along the. A long the . A long the A long the the the . the. the. the    ~  THE

and and
and and it working and compose . Post. Past paste. A thing rung the worked  brass and metal and rough edges . Adze and axe the astral moment of     and she looks good Russian.

 and this way at the outer cusp it's real and the reel to reel thing repeating itself. Over the verdigris tub and                            combines of dumped out shoe like object _ call it a shoe horn, but nothing like a woman with hips moving like an old ringer washing machine~! o BOY that was something getting laid  __ laid? lait? laid as in ugly ___ ON the Bus ------

Franny consoles herself with many velvet workings. Humming to herself the long treatiste of belongings and her becoming the ever-ever wave of love .


Thursday, September 22, 2011

On end

                                                          Mona's moved into the kitchen and Jill's hanging on her head.     Lovers. Of dogsand other bodies. a Blue lamp,a kidding goat's skin.. something a jazz working up to its denouement     ~ . Palavers and crystals  coaching the ramy evening     ~.

Mona's hurried  four score and ten, the blue ship, the rocking moat. Jill's boot-heels
tender to the touch, an oedipal haloo and leading rhythm section. Cut that baby making your head stand on end, and wonder to the end. A dock? She means a wharf made of the pristine choice of her lips. 

She's gazing in wonder at him talking. About his school chum and other brigands a moonlit anecdote and the  balmy hesitation of early autumn. But if she gets ready to sail off to Europe none of it will matter unless there's a war. Sail! are you nuts! crackers!disjointed! No, it's the full moon of full moons hankering down the low autumn sky    ~ and the fields are practised . At what? at being . 

Being? lovers and other secret  lavender paramours.

i'll buffo and buffo your buffalo house down . On the marvelous practicum of your love. 
And if this way she sees me good, if not what then . it's the round the hill and the half-sweater. Beckoning by  billet and fragrant two young women in their thirties waiting to cross the street. And  the avenue glitters with hope, their hope lascivious with the wind. 

No 'lamnetala' this but cantilene to your over-wanting sensuality. 
Who's? Jill and Franny's, (the young lady V)  and the skirt. Mona's not 'into' flowers. Say,  daffodils, daisies, and chrysanthemums. She's  rendered them, had them, held them, cultivated them. But recall them? Not a  chance .   She's whiskered by cuts and crates and  no flower remains in her hiphead, this war-locked  remaindered brain. Without a creamy road a brushing pre-eminent to her path along ward what would she do? Not a thing at all actually. Virtually, she's got seven lives to give. so , So what the hell. She's the  twittering  ironist of annealment and scrolling a very true tuba tune. Her lute's the fickle passage  between room and  sun.

If this way she uncovers the pellet she'd find her way back to the reredo, the repetitious 
concoction. A pittance compared to what no one knows else  . If she's fishing she's headed to Cuba, to other masters  of the deterritorialized and the Silenus, the silence that encrusts her worshipping .

 Now if thighs mattered she's be on the first train home. On the steps of the Sorbonne, what did it matter _ it was summer , wild and heat heat heat  heat! what a monster! a lover of trucks and other unions besides big digging hips... Not a muster but a seal. If choose to,  she'd foster tum-ti-tum,  she'd ring a wish of hamstrings and  harmonies paid by the hour, but no such things work in her favor.  Living on the bum is best made this 
way, begetting not foraging the link between sun and eye. If this shapely thing's her nave then she's best behooved in the tropics of yawning . 


Friday, September 16, 2011

Jill who's not been ....

Jack, who hasnt been around in a while and, who was the
editor of 'L'Antioedipe' vaguely recalled a photo in a hotel. Near
a lake where the sun beat down and crickers gave no funding and
no relief when the river ran hailed a well hail lady to her panties down around her ankles~ she
's rusted and rued in her deceit a. failed translator! a jealous pumpkin! afraif of her owned paranoiac sincere desires
to be a delirious .

something . and Jill tripping over hand. and ripped her paper, and rubbed the pleat. Pleased by overcoming and loving. and this way the kisses was tripled in their quadruple becoming.
More anon good book and bestest grammar of my bawdy love. She has wended her way to September serpentine and rivers rush by the side.

and what is this resounding variation over the tune  of love's body and memory.

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

Hot Bacon! Trims!

Hot as gammon and better Hot as Russian rushing hot loving cross the music of the sphere. And the busttop and bust stop her long nosemouth. Double up to breastloving its careworn purse. Is this love's gaudy? She says yes around t he . Wrinkling her nose and love knows no race. She's not sure. But better she's sure her pipe is nomamapapadeterioration though parents have their place. Apparent parent appearance is the love of the surface of becoming's . Brother and sister black babysister .yet if she wore her lovers. like. something else. which a maniac in a restaurant muttering. What hellhole her breasts . Dozened to belong to a past a fugitive future. How does it go ~ ?

Its along the bank of the Seine. She's rafting over . Victrola Victoria the lover of men and women . Sneak a peekpreview   ~  View is this love? Or care's mightyMatterhorn? Matter Horn! are you nuts she say. Say she composed her past presenting her lovers As. Boxes of illegitimate jealous lovers. That way she gets a hard on. Bu t the weary days do not cry for tears. But hardy buttoned lovers unbanking themselves.