In want of bravery — aspects of desire, inextricably tucked in the brain, even devoutly engrained, often launch into indirection, as an ambit of pastiche.
As if somehow to distance the threading visions from a wild fear of addressing itself as legitimate. Fear and loathing would seem to force abrupt steps where desire is found in gaps of wild urgency, as if to become consumed by taking the step — however might amount to a fatal plunge —
Attaching a ludicrous slant to a “step up to bat,” recategorizes as something akin to farcical acrobatics.
Do this methinks with syllablizing, to get in on the sensitive, seemingly precarious, or taboo. Push beyond thorny or even fraught, by breaking down approach into sounds that capture the question, yet manifest indirection at the same time.
Indirection it turns out, offers a surprising readiness into the taboo, what lies underneath bears open questions of contempt or beauty or love — a leakage of what have come to call the subliterates —
But going from intimating whimsy or ludicrousness — to being all out frisky with a kind of interrogative dubiousness? Has admittedly turned into a beloved winding minding way around the questioning at hand, which reveals subsurfaces of the sublime unexpectedly through indirection — a method “we” believe “stolen” from Joyce.
What feels like the grace of a shimmering heart, willing itself beyond the concealed or forbidden, on one level or indeed many, subsists as attendants of desire — flirting with both exemption and contempt.
Thousand cuts — just notes still
Contempt is so brittle and confusing, a confused brooding child of horror, yet its stamina arises from a potent, resilient steaming temptation of lovely lies, what philosophy calls (esp. with respect to media): the bubbles of doubles –
Contempt is a cry out of darkness, a merciless resilience & inextricability with wagering seductions with what folds for a life.
Contempt couples with innocence as if to free fate – from the ambiguity of boredom.
Bogged down to a plasticity of boredom, boredom is a horror of emptiness and repetition whose heart is born & adorned in wilderness of desire, a theater of longing, innocence falls in love with the murderous qualities of contempt, seduced there by throngs – of rage, anger, self-hate.
Love – as a condition of contempt? crossroads of devotion, thundering blundering plundering along, mustered, galvanized by wispy blistering hidden howls of contempt – wild seditious sorrows bellyaching insubordination, whose prayers really do care, really do want to be saved saved saved from its lovely miserable corruption –
Beyond victimization, sanctimony or praise.
Fears that are wild & wretchedly possessed by love turn turn turn into a crushing destiny, the miracle of a thousand cuts.
Licking bottom, again and again, raises loss to the bittersweet ecstasy of heaven with sacrificial irrepressibility.
Trauma as epic, warrior, martyr, antihero – repetition as death, death as finality, finality as acceptance, acceptance as inescapable, inescapability of love, of death – as conquering worm, must repeat must repeat in order to learn –
Validity as of yet – bounded hounded by the whipping boy – existentialism skips to the loo, ranting, cloying! rubbing the lamp – how do you do.