In the body of the body of the body.

There is Pre Monotheism Greek influence in my circle of giddy melancholies, aliases, a virulent body nostalgia.

One of My Semi Nude Drawings

Humble Pie

Roll call. Every neg. That spikes the plunder. Now can pop like bubble wrap. Think of as capture. Put in columnar as artifacts that rhapsodize. Rolling with the thunder.

One foot hopper. Holy mulct ? Every wag hog creates hampers, and cavorts with titillations in mulct that rallies with love.

Work thru the moo cow — as beauty stretching after limits. To cross into neg can assume sacred posture. As revelation.

Thralldom was a catch of fire. That love burned from. In the body by the body for the body.

Can become a treachery, and sufferance too. Relating to battles with the absurd and the fallen (cycle of death bunnies).

Thralldom can be about grace and its attendant insurrections. Body of the fallen, can get captured by violent sulks with the elevation of the singular. Must push through push through — reactionary traumas, puzzling hurdles of structural blindness.

Take Work Seriously

Yes take work seriously. But still mock the reveries.

And at this point can call “it” — anything, from soup to nuts. Metaphysical and the allegory has become that “liberated.”

Homeric? even.

There is Pre Monotheism Greek influence in my circle of giddy melancholies, aliases, virulent body nostalgia. A kind of war, with gods and sirens (taking sides?) in a milieu of curious darkness. That windmills with Cervantes.

Also heavy influence of St. Mary coming through Queen Isis scattering parts.

Primitive lures versus holy spotlessness of the mind, bares weight, as a struggle between beauty, violence, hunger, desire, horror, what not.

Excursions occur at religious elevations — the cum bunny’s angeologies, taking escape from trudge drudge into Dantean dramas, into the woods searching for woody.

Decoys

I don’t think of other artists as decoys. But working through their own reds, glimpses, exponents, hydrologies of nightmare.

Is Joyce a decoy any more than rhymers I peel fruit from.

Intentions are now quite plain. Don’t think of other artists as decoys — but colleagues. And that includes whiffs of any metaphysical elaboration along with collaborators — haulers, suppliers, miners for hearts of gold.

Other artists inspire me at points of departure, where am afflicted with sudden touchstones, phrase hunting in the rhetoric.

Its a Joyce foist. Thats how I see it. Rub in the tub with the flowering shrub.

Even if scathing. Scathing is an old cleanliness torture.

Carpet bagging is about taking advantage of my defeated.

Do I take advantage of anyone else’s defeated. Perhaps as much as they do…

Try let it be whatever it arrives as. Play at its beautiful distraction, live in and outside its mystery.

Starts Back With Blake, then Rimbaud

The “sunflower” way I fell in love with Blake. And Rimbaud.

How Rimbaud’s rhythms swim across in front of me while writing — in excess of rhyme and as spirit in air, immersed in its wild dare.

How Blake’s “true” authenticity in the “breadth” of his delusional wanderings, finds Rimbaud’s, out back somehow, sweetly squandering...

It leans in, a search for genus and range of authenticity, with respect to my own such “classicism” — my own odds at sea —