Can't Fake or Make

Fateless Rhymes of a Lugubrious Sing Song Hiss-Tear-Ick

Have two poetry books online on my site which am working through right now, trying to organize. Redid design again on my site in order to process it.

Organizing books for publication and I am struggling with every word, its flaming tedious.

One of the books is presently called Fateless Rhymes of a Lugubrious Sing Song Hiss-Tear-Ick.

Its pop shit, I have been told. Reeks of it. Torments that are both frivolous and struggling with what does and does not lie dead in the deep.

The idea that comes up behind it, is that the trite and the forlorn is so ominous, obliviously so, that it reeks with oblivion —- as a glory and a curse and a bedwetter and a nurse.

The niceties in it are forlorn and searching for some circumference to adjoin with, that could let it let go of the madness, that despair both invokes and belligerently transforms —

Groping after sweetness whose wrestling with the mystic as trickster eternal and defiant, tantrums escalating out of despair, finds a curiosity galloping backwards — through a kafka-esque portal, that beckons as glee — but also awakens a sickness to saint or slave tyrannical with elements of porn.

The crypto comical finding itself laced in a thickness of shiny dormants, as treasure, pleasure and also hate, sticky stinky and stolen, ferocious and frivolous —

But can’t let what life is go — because then life loses all meaning.

Can’t fake or make, its acquaintance.

Organizing the Dustbin

Hydroid The Void.