We went up onto the roof and
      Leered into the sun:
      … Ave atque vale, scriptor /

               I

Now I am alone  left with my obscur’ty
What good’s the noctilucent  for my nyctalopy?
Another stupid communiqué  drenched but in steril’ty
Fulmination of the sored  pig’ded recanto of the guilty:

(earmino:)

Messere Venusjancker
strove thru to hilt of crabs
a section – muted – spoilers
patsy serfs riled up & cute

– now just as much beridden:
to make me a hassartist, really:
or / c***s with too-much corporeal’ty
a sanctimone devaluation,
 tumid and cocksure;
welcoming the overlord
false and anti- and – (S)
– but hostile so hostile to the host
to themselves and to life and to death

(“No touching: I find it disgusting”)

Strung up in halflife fall’n lower than low
– pooh pooh I bring Love burning cleanser of all.

               II

A Narkissipous, swelling with love, ah ma certo
idiotic in hauteur – précieux!
(what can I do? I’ll make sure to ruin it, sheeit)
so the idle word-leakings onto the page
inept to bring oneself to chresm
but where’s the diva amica desideratissima
(if endings are wanted)? one might d’vote to
the God, and the master, and devoters – but:
messer Venusjancker enters temples eagerly in hope
and sees the holy driv’n out and the body branded sold
no more flowers, cold ascesis, locked the door upon oneself
(shoutout workers, if traduce you, shoutout spy!) and
lose lose lose myself …
For all that, only lost and never had, in ignominy (… – – –)
to ebb away, in ugly comeliness, the bachelor in his study –
still a shout(out) must be made
(after)
(the missed-out moment voulu, non vécu
supportable une seule fois et jamais plus)
not words, nor #2 or #3 (only pure demoralization)
 – klaggesang already,
 unthinking –
but was rapt, by smile of life (meme webm smile)
shooken to the core, grinning something better
perfect all the rest if not strict sense unblemished
(let’s not go there)
youth so cultic, very swelling, – could oh could
      – shameful offerings are nothing
      and now all is nothing nothing
      could’ve been that loveful smelting
      to lose lose lose myself …

Ok this schitzo! But im njot judging

it's not even very Artaud-an;
lame how everything is decried as 'schizo'!

or, you know, you could just call it poetry