Receptive devotion hurls me into this work, into this joyful panic room laced with the half-devoured hymeneas of vengeful sunsets, exhaled in the sweet scent of animal breath, a room at the bottom of a quinine pool teeming to the brim with the remains of a feast of merciless freedom celebrated through the muffled memory of being entangled alive to a cartrunk or a seashell, sentient with flowers erupting more suddenly than warheads and gorged with gorgeous ageless angellike semen. The first stars feel the cacklings of an undying fire mating over their legs, the sky paler than the scooped-out thoughts of a virgin oozing from a gigantic smashed-open forehead pounds with enamoured violence. There's a will from the words peopling these lands to lap onto the world and leap in great heaps to become beasts unburdened, resting in the sway of cummed-upon fluorescent ferns or playing dead. There's the jealous brotherly enslavement to the cajoling rigmarole of relentless slumbering hands slapping the very same face they've once in the air inbetween sleeps tenderly sketched. Here we are held, suckled and pulverized and we hold and suckle and pulverize too, feeling our atoms constructing us as we in turn construct them. Gossamer wings and rose spit rise like palms to the brain. A chaotic histolysis in a dark alley wrestles the rain into being. Here, espousing neon bullets, we sizzle without cease. What a handsome event is The Birth Of Venus.
breath, a room at the bottom of a quinine pool teeming to the brim with the remains of a feast of merciless freedom celebrated through the muffled memory of being entangled alive to a cartrunk or a seashell, sentient with flowers erupting more suddenly than warheads and gorged with gorgeous ageless angellike semen. The first stars feel the cacklings of an undying fire mating over their legs, the sky
paler than the scooped-out thoughts of a virgin oozing from a gigantic smashed-open forehead pounds with enamoured violence. There's a will from the words peopling these lands to lap onto the world and leap in great heaps to become beasts unburdened, resting in the sway of cummed-upon fluorescent ferns or playing dead. There's the jealous brotherly enslavement to the cajoling rigmarole of relentless
slumbering hands slapping the very same face they've once in the air inbetween sleeps tenderly sketched. Here we are held, suckled and pulverized and we hold and suckle and pulverize too, feeling our atoms constructing us as we in turn construct them. Gossamer wings and rose spit rise like palms to the brain. A chaotic histolysis in a dark alley wrestles the rain into being. Here, espousing neon bullets, we sizzle
without cease. What a handsome event is The Birth Of Venus.
(blurb/foreword)
— Purdey Lord Kreide