the TINKLE REPORT
Bolting breezes they occur they occur out of the ponderous sea soaring blue, leaving me tender, symptomatic, rattled, and being born down upon by species of all these lovely, ferocious, leery-eyed prohibitions. Pronouncing enemy, pronouncing their categorical imposition.
Weird and torrid is The crazy Jar – Achilles Jar – like hearts and spears – where The Cat who exists at ledges of terror, takes me over, with a wild near incomprehensible hold on my physiology. Sets me off – arun with beauty and desperation. And the worse I want the worse it gets! Madness, you might say, intervenes.
Bow & strings of shaman trouveurs – How not oppose these storming crude rueful methods and remain true (to process?!) and yet not despise me for loving you for it ?!
Quack & Noose
To go in after mutations of wonder & hate, weaving fire, is a theatrical reckoning with desire. And love outs my heart to dare against the charge – only to break it? To break the chains of unyielding shrines whose beauty is beaming, the sacred sublime is theme in death with purity & innocence whose heightening magnifiers swallow me alive zoom zoom. And wariness (the loom of doom), the dark webs of mischief – whose heightening strains, are as ever in a conspiracy, are in quack & noose with a deeply conspiring (what religionists might call) infinite capacity for love as the night wind mewls ??
A love that has no bounds. (Infinity in maths is not about limitlessness but about density? different infinities measure different densities, along a line as continuum – which has no beginning or end.) Love, whose poignant distrusting savagery gloams and reveres thirsty like a three-headed dog at whirly pearly gates of paradises songs in eyes in hungry eyes, the hunter hunter for a moment does not dare, not a breadth nor cough or sigh –
Murderer. The murderer arises from a mirror of smoke and raising a pointed finger, in question, asks my Lares, gods of a heavily cluttered but vacuumed studio, as am it seems – in a clearing now, get it while you can clears my throat. Hey hey – there’s a 4th dog in the back, hell oh, over on right, u who. Oh lovely ones I want I want, how have it, both – though The Cat devours my heart, in an ecstasy at loose ends with death. And though a mongrel (notice the chain of red).
Still must confide, hope does not die. How weird is that! Vicious transgressor must mock – fact – as childplay ashes to ashes in order to lessen the inebriety of righteous throws, voices drunk with hope whose righteousness strikes back, as foes – secretly muttering through mothers disdain though it be Far Cry from what I want to say. Fact – its spontaneous, about-face. Its a love dare not speak its name – its backwards, the worse it is the worse it gets. Sounds of silence deafen screaming in struggle with wild bouts of holy angst. The voices are in a fight to death. Sickens to a brutal test beckoning backwards blunder wonder death subrighteous lonely lovely death. Where death hears itself as a prisoner of sound. See Yeats’ Leda & The Swan.
Sleepy fairy forlorn mourning scorn born again storm the fire? Mmmm. Lullaby leaguer more likely to get lost in swoon and stumble drunk into pit to smell nights burning tires with bloody mean but lovely mutants. I have a beach house mutant who is lethal, lovely villain, in own weird way beauty’s space creature in Men in Black #1, can regrow head. Mutant is provocative loony and perpetually destitute, has a lot of power here. Power as in how vanity battles with ocean sounds, raising fist to lonely night, until finally sees wicked as contrite – dissolves the call of blood into wound, sniggers & waves at naughty haughty restless plights, throws kisses at the moon.
Round & Round
Borrowed some essences searching for online clarity from The Vampire’s Wife. Not just fashion there’s poetry on her site. The Real Stuff.
A gorge poetic side to her slamming brand, thats beauty gothic & lush. I know of no other fashion site quite like it.
Big cross directional pull for me cause I work in fashion but live with a heart as Art, flush full of transients & trepidations like one of Botticelli’s love slaves, tunnelling incessantly for beauty beyond Micky fn Mouse.
Issues can be seen as quite simple. Grave but basic and essential. Continuity and safety, saftey is a large concern of mine.
Perilous fell into my life at 3. Dreaming leverages and vengeance of a swelling floating island – lets just call: Hell, where sex allured on visceral levels –
At little more than a toddler – orgasm meant escape, meant death, rushing in at risk of death in pursuit of freedom. Death sought freedom out as flash and blur of Curses began already to simmer and demur –
Purity. Teeth of PURITY. Resurrected sacred dances of death. Something always reached after the transgressive, in swirls of desire born beyond time, lanky druidic quintessence of dreamings equivalences, with death as a filter!
A cleansing agent for brute primitive lovely escapology, in seminal sexual implosions of tyranny and doom, and setting up house! of beauty misery tyranny often wild with distrust, by 11 for sure –
The Sylvia. The Emily. Ohh and Heloise. Having Risked Everything, their soldierly perfumes rim running categories that bathe and bake in breeches of ruin and eternity, as delicate torrid gloomy numina filled my heart with aching blindness.
Death as desire and redemption, a medieval lust – Genetian, lush drippy medieval spectaculars, forbidden swirls filled to a risky business – by the age of 7.
God Help Me. A riotous hungry nubie lodestar dimension filled the sky with reckoning destitute blooms – every day more and more wildly transgressive, emerging from shrieks in my heart where pent-ups of elements swooned –
Frustrations harrowing flames, tied up in shame, stark subsuming larks of a deeply seductive invasive mysogyny –
Religion at its most basic instincts I knew of as slave to the gods, forfeiture & enemy, its roots lushed out in possessionary battles – ah but for an enemy to cross “families” and dream your heart.
Romeo, as a desire to exceed permissions – for the love of beauty & movement. And more – to destroy contempt of self! to crash it all apart – risking everything for release from the bland posh desert of beauty & need. Childhood was nothing, a prison supposedly innocent of danger & truth, a cage of time. Imagination filled the emptiness autodidactically with mutants, cavalry, beautiful horrors – unconstrained by desire.
All magic, my Sanity became convinced – creates on other side of desire – a Walking Target, a Sacrificial Weakness for Tragedy.
Oh lovely floating burbler who fell through the cracks of Hell – thank god for Philosophy!
Am approaching “character” as Capitalized Nouns.
Y’all Turn Me.
Apologize. Confess. Sacre coeur! over relish here for peepee kaka humor-slash-signage, oo-la-la.
Penile humor helps me laugh at myself – over sublime “weight” of terror, “going live” here with working excerpts from my horror-does-not-forsake-beauty books.
Pee boy. P for precious plowing holy poly through sanctums crash cupid, wild and lonely for its depths –
Apologize, must apologize! language sticks at me, flutters & gutters through, in purlieus of fascination, that are fraught with religious embellishment.
Mythomatic violence – I fell under a casting of enchantments, sniffing after Burroughs and MacGowan rocked my world, took me over, monster & roperipe & spinning spinning – startling kerfuffles awakened from depths of lurking dormant architecture that would captivate & sabotage, astonish enrapture terrorize mortify mystify inveigle transfigure seduce.
Confess weakness for Irish voices, French poets & philosophers, Emily Dickinson’s endings – she slips off from poetic line on the image and eclipses it, sinking in after depths. Also Pound’s cracking liberty bell, Nietzsche’s discussion on religion – and its blowing up then: swamp insidious perverse/religious delicious in wild man philosopher Georges Bataille’s head.
Thank. Thank. MUST THANK (beyond measure) Shane MacGowan, Nick Cave (without whose foisted guidance probably would not have regained footing), and ghost of William Burroughs, sincerely apologize to all for having to put up with me during The Crazy Years. Monsters came home to roost, blasted by a fury of Fears.
Without their medicine, have to wonder whether ever would-a could-a wagered species everything to rover over the borderlines with Achilles Jar – cum bats, like a holy lovely feud with hair of angels, heap-a steep-a deep-a with Procrustes – in the rack?
Books on site are all works in progress. If you are interested in, for whatever reason (like publishing – ), see link on comments page for Book Interest.
Beauty, la belle, cracked up into a collapsing litany of fire and desire, Joyce speaking angry French somehow always in background like shoots and ladders going down down down to the beachhead for a wire – Trickster’s sooty pale eyes luminating the rent, wretched stupid cupids diz knees – digging out from “source” labors of hell.
Looty Poe lute-y is your beauty. Tak tak tak – many thanks.
John Ashbery – ♥ your postcard collages.
Still have tons of it – boxes of files & photos from Creem Magazine’s last gasp. The dream of doing a collected book, called The Creem Chronicles, died for me as victim of a roaring quavery sadness – sanctimonious and eruptive.
Crates of it still stuck in brothers basement settling for less – bit smelly – but basically in tact.
Would again and again push for a book – of uncompromising Piss Boy beauty – when wild gestures began to accumulate.
Suddenly I’d get lost, out at edges of righteousness and meaning, and would descend into petulance –
Quizzically, at depths of religious beauty – what purifies also terrorizes. P Boy Purity? Well that’s a Monster Cookie – clandestine monster in heavens larder who with angels screaming, would hit a breach!
Poetry had let loose a monster whose mystery was self devouring.
Had to teach myself how to find “lines” – which is what I do now – use drawing to help define edges with specific purpose, as a matter of surface and in a community where search-for-beauty is meaning.
Must apologize to: Dorothy Sherman, Louis Ginnelly, Jimmy of Jimmy’s Corner, Russell Galen, James Fitzgerald, Thomas J. McCormack, Hank Bordowitz, Marvin Jarret, Marsh, Christgau, Bangs, Altman, Arnold, and everybody else at Creem.
Who, What shd I do (w/ it) – ?
Tinkle Report though a spoof – is subderiv! (ahold with homage to – ) Patti Smith’s great gnash-ville hollar: PISS FACTORY.
Alackaday – what what what to do with 20+ crates of files from the original Creem?