Book of the Fallen Blood Moon

NOTE: Book of the Fallen Blood Moon is just a writing experiment in the WSB cut-up method. 

I had started a surrealistic story about a young girl in a green boat outside of cultural categories of reality and ended up hating it and decided to cut it in two parts and re-write it and consequently started to like parts of it. Still not done, here is part 7 and 8. Don't look for any deep meaning because there is none.... 

Book of the Fallen Blood Moon

Chapter 7: Nobody’s business but mine

But really who cares of the man and his new order rot & metal deer, what of the girl, the girl

innocent and newly made from old things, like fresh water and wild crags floating away

floating on the green boat towards the ufo boy from the waking dream, the lift of star fire dark

in between the shadows, the shades, the broken ghost dogs and pits of men with teeth in gold

the cities of Victorian tv towers standing on invisible clouds of white, & sickness hiding wings

From above they are scattered out like black ants moving in all directions, a living information

constantly decorating themselves, they are powerless and innocent liars, unaware of the worlds

drowned in burning up from the inside out, unawares of the abounding fullness within reach of

memories and baroque islands of autonomous freedom, beauty up with yards left of feral black

but, visions of fire burning on TV screens all night long, right down below that long grey day

How to get out, is there a way, the sun rose, the beach got hot, and he was buried still in the deep

how in the hell is it going you ask me over and over again mindlessly mimicking each other one

ominously, goddamn it, there is poison in our skin and water and breath now you grinning fools

his thoughts dissipated and the glare hurt his eyes and the seagulls circled  like vultures of bread

just another empty head looking out and waiting for something that never comes

Wait he was a dad used to make rock and roll paintings of of

so there was a girl in a green boat, right, where did she go and after the fire what does he do

and he hung them the paintings around the outside of the house for what, for what seemed like

abstract unintentionalities, as he called them smiling making fun of himself cause why not why

and he did his suffering in private to the amusement of his plants and made a dime have doubts

A mother, a daughter, a lover, a ghost of an old woman or all in all & what was this girl anyway

the day’s sharp light and the fall of the moon and the writing to loose to matter to anyone but me

I know she was there in the green water under and over and somewhere the rain was falling up

Somewhere in an alley I began somewhere on the dark side of this planet falling up &

bunches of black power cables wrapped and penetrated the moss and black puddles reflecting me

I am thick and somewhere the rain fell in a dying desert, tall buildings with their powers stripped

and she was them in their silent mud beds and she was there in the there that wasn’t

and the rain grey sky like a ceiling of safety from the outside world and the heat and the sun &

magical life sprang up from the dead dry tyranny and was not there but here with you and me

and it fell on the inside too, and was there in the before falling out of a black hole making space

Back into the white me she went and she was there in the falling into bed

keyboard and movies you watch trying to forget the sky and dying before she awoke

passing away to somewhere else, she was in the fall of the broken lovely exasperated moon