The Halls of Piss Off Papers with Pessoa

Bout de Papier/ The Pail The Lure and The Bunny/ Disappearance from Common Sense/ Arty Party

8 28 The Double No

Gonna be interesting see Leibs through his math. Especially because of where it comes through. He does that he cross weaves its his speciality.

The double no. Killer Bunnies. No being repeated no. Supposed to make a yes. And it does and it doesnt.

Killer bunnies demonically enthroned somehow. Rimbauds assassins.

Trauma flightings in the belly of the bosom of the beast. On run prison of hate. Late. Never sates.

And it became relished to a mechanical infusion of skate hate round the plate, hating deflating baiting dismaying dynamiting - I fell in love with dyna. Calling my crime rhyme counting the tension in robbing hood space.

Pictures smack attack as a joke of kafka insaitable nomens foamings

Hate is used solid, used to make the do bunny come out of the trunkload and vomit.

Comets.

The negative spaces fill me with gloomy gutter grappling in sands of nonbeing and being, a tenderness scope the hope and slipperies off into deathfungus Mungus in the car tunes, as trope loop lopes and rattling, frequencies. And damned by it somehow…

Flying off with Nash, I later joke. as a bespoke seeking seeking letter man. The psycho ward was same as everywhere else.

Kicks. I would do bang bangs, dyna taught me. Miss him tho. the run and kill it, in fear and explosions a curiously wild curiosity.

I collect the hate bunnies. Corruption. Poison. Evil. I collect them as the reacher.

That gets forged into Alice and chalice. Use nonsense as a scat rat. The throw, medusa’s throws are mortal aches of pirate and his folly Molly.

Turned into battle, beauty duties, chasing the darkness falling into offerings even, and the twists on that — were angst driven in sanctuaries of mad rad had bad sad and the lads. Kept on trying to crawl haul fall ball my way out of it.

The Halls of Piss Off Papers with Pessoa, are filled with its beast yeast trying to calm the snarls of oceanic motion that fed the cave I gained rain. Messy pressy scar tar.

Words to release - from past into this present into now.

And I couldnt dismiss from tunnel of love. It refused to pardon go stay or anything.

Kept on trying to change me. And me too I wanted to change. I still want to change. Useless and not broken. It is pulled from bucket of love but I complain to anna, friers, I fry into by bye enuff I have had it

Into the scum… oddly the bunny of hate takes it, as a challenge and mortal bait. I should be softer. If I do that — get softer, worries everybody I am going under again, call me pussy, not up to it eh?

Its hot tho… NC calls incendiary. Its like crossing a fire. And magnetic too. Gonna send NC some Leibs… Reading through.

Used to get obsessed with waste product words… In all my notebooks. Words words words. As some kind of bucket of rain crane and disdain for the present… gloomy goddess….

Circles of gloomy clam ness trying to get alone, how pull away from all that, back in day — knowing Id not be able to keep up anyway. Infected by it, it lures into sickness with wall weepers and the death bunny, so deeply absconded by dismay shivering with damnation flung to and for by the darkness with tied up in tombs the walking undead. Talking down down, to my rattlesnake and mummy.

The oceanic scared me the longer it folds in and out and in and out the sleeper it ferments.

Damns breaking everywhere. Again and I wake up screaming?

Sheesh fairy beanie berries with god knows, the wire and scamper and lamper and still call it love.

Never left it wasnt searching for an ending or a beginning just an understanding… and then it turns into, bug rug lug tug funky white boy…

Just as exactly said would happen.

Polish polish polish. The porto demolish, distance creates torture and drag.

I like whats happening in the book. Its third pronoun and naming just enough, to drag a way from first person. And pulls in a lot of poetic prismatic some of it over time as to say old forms used again, reformed, stolen from chess books.

Let go into poetic larva. There’s a book about freewriting, called Larva. I have back in NJ. Its tough read. Mine too. Makes my eyes bleeeeeed…. Blood of the sacred gest.

Its working over there for me lately. Seems to be coming under some kind of control. The language decisions Mallarmayyyyy\

Writing here to make me keep to it, going in after that frigging novel however hopeless and transient, using others to get to what it is when it gets hard harden chop chop sear wants Bolt the fearless

However tears apart.

Bout de papier.