Blue inn

The failed painting innocent to itself again. 

HC

Who said that the mother is the one who makes something of her love; without the loving and the making, what is?

Living with fresco (Anamosa)

And while no, ye mighty, it is not the worst thing of things that, as Chuck Jones did for the coyote, few care no more for the enchantment, we were meant to, in that being and seeming pooled into miasma to dip the pen, from here, begin

wide hand hip hold

sleeping soft, “infant softness,” and awake once more and in between is it you I knew to always meet the yes reduced to such and such expanse unfixed for love of fathom, at the clasp

Birthpangs in triplicate

Surface obesiance. I cave more for. Ambient chernobyls. 

Bis du dann noch

Three minutes of Chinese Roulette and I speak German, for a second time, again. Not that I know what any of it means. As for. Days in painted silences without belonging to the field. The question of the sexual carrel. Choose yours. No woman an island. A seduction of self into self. Mien. 

dior swimsuit mirror

I thought Rachel Cusk had said she'd reached the end of the English sentence. I guess not. modern society, its limerances, the resolutions of the percussed void. The apostate's awareness. In my smile the mother's smile. As simple as.