Serious and the Delirious
Oh the bloody hangover.
Beauty fed on the serious delirious as the only way to find freedom.
All things every moment pushing up against the life death thing, having to be somebody, and everyday counting towards it.
Love a raucous harbinger of truth and heartbreak.
Oh the bloody hangover.
Sense of humor, occurring backwards, as a rush of the absurd, or a questioning after its negative.
Especially “subvicious” at moments of sheer glorious astonishment. Clean up. Get pretty, one day.
Absurd creatures of my heart, love to to mock it -
Cartoons filled with violence, presenting every good and evil as a wretched stupid cartoon.
That transcends “the basics” as a constant misdoer, desire overcome by horror, grief, love, stupidity, etc.
The quixotic turned into a cosmic thing. Cervantes humor ascending to a star.
Beauty wildly born out of the absurd — Madness giving it a place to persist.
Madness, as a sorrow, that visits systemically with the tragic and settles per variance on the absurd, as a laughing at truth -
Beloved Flies
Excavate the exponential, through rhyme — Lewis Carroll nonsense rhymer understood the math behind it. And how amusing that is.
Penchant for rhyme was not at all expected.
It just is.
Like flies around the head are an early condition of faith.
There are a thousand different ways to rhyme.
Everywhere epiphanies drowned themselves, burbling with visionaries in a flood of truant awakening, that were mythically equivalent but didnt abide by any one religion or rules, and sorrow overflowered where horror verged with blunder asunder wonders ferocious with assailant —
Crimes of the sublime.
What would happen if rhyme were allowed to rule (again) the narrative —
Shelley in the belly… Where mystery and misery defiantly thirsts to capture what bursts through with it, as a nominal duty.
How does rhyme pose allegory in reverse, or for that matter perverse — is rhyme closer to what dissolves, to dissolution.
Oh the Juice Man preying on particles, particles are not defrayed, here. Simply because they are contraband ?
The melancholy squirrel is mad for nuts —
As between time as an eternal present and my bunnies — Who live in a bottle that is a restless infinity -- That doesnt know its end —
Rhyme looms after what incarnates underneath the language —- is an underground hound, however condemned to an atrabilious delirium of function, that performs surprising cross weaves.
In rhyme I find a way towards contraband things.
Including the lure of the pure…
Cervantes uses Quixote to say what can’t be said.
Rhyme’s fatal allure.