True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

The Dip Switches


Minds a buzz. Though not a blur. Where ramble as a gambler for locks of hair, the sediment to push to a glisten.

There is a profound rallying press-iveness that takes me over, that comes upon me.

As nodes suddenly turned way way up – slip more sly these days than defiantly but also crazy wary – into switches, coming to call: the dip switches .

Coming to my attention, via grapple with graphic metaphor, that the Royal Wee Wee thinks of art (and la philosophe) as horse and wing and taunt and truant and restive and meandering, overripe with grief, daft and tryst with misbelief, where pager hounds of glory – who are both defectors and deflectors – whatever that means – sync what used to be a constant wave of glorious death as function of mystery, everywhere a flower.

For comes a line in the sand – where ventures a kick, that is for delivery and for compliance(!?), kicks after the impossible thing – like one being chased by artificial intelligence that is conspirational, raft fun, driven against the ghost, sometimes deadly – but yet always in its way wildly toothsome . And the Cinderella shopping for shoes-can’t-afford in a far away gated mall, sings Its Possible Things. I yell at the telly in the toilet – your frgn balmy.

Alas, winds itself up – diddle and squat to a May Day, as a battle against lovely and profound misfortune – Which always always at some point becomes a laughing heart hysterical Birdy (thwartland dove) – throwing itself against the wall, the wing goes Mirabella wig.

(Used to call Master letters after puritan post-er, sweet and nutty Emily – She got letters back. I just get a sock in the nose, every time. What lately call Puppy Love, always taking a bite out of each other. Deadly or snotty its always hotty.)

But still it does not stop. Riding rail as enthrall against my death, against the ringing in my ears calling for attention – acknowledge, with all seriousness, it’s a loopy get.

But, What?

Suddenly yet another foul mouthed washer women, who loves to laugh calls out: Whose on top?

Top?? What does that mean –

Dark Avenger straightens tie: Going after it.

What is it? A yearning to be able to find again, somehow – voice buried in my past, that drank itself into present tense – tending after it s own exception, proverbially out loud.

A voice that got overrun, decapitated really when filter fell – and the turret went more than a little skitz.

Language broke up with me, and sank into something foul and crazy restless, decomposing into a silence of harrowing grief, like every color depleting into black as called on the computer, all light out of it – 000000 – purely traumatic.

Necessarily came a very hard climb back up, but then, soon as catch can, it wends and then it bends and then it bluffs – its way – breadth by careful breadth, back up to the Rocky High, where revelation unhinges from its post, and its history performs as a sacred place, to the mountain and all –

What preys (so hungry for sanity) on that silence, that lays between then and now, where light overspreads so bright and bare it takes over everything.

And is also, now as never quite before – alarmingly festive!


It appears am lately also after something call Sams Club – cudgel in palm walking back and forth the hanging bridge like Nemo the sacred king watching cursedly over his turf for any arriving with news of death.

Nothing goes on there that isnt fully absorbed into seeing moo-through to every bottom lump and screw, till other guards arrive better than never, like Godot’s Beckett – symbol of that which is both passionate and dispassionate, and at same time mourning both.

I have not Beckett’s intellect, erudition, capability for friendship. Was not allowed to let it all hang out, where I come from, nyet – but still we took to the rocks, to hurl myself over instead, so its a trick – riding up against the violent narrows of my heart –

There where rivers of the fallen escape to – that never fails to promise all forms of raven-esque trickery – as evasion from dire religious regulatory of symptomatic torture. Truly went looking everywhere for anywhere that tried reckon with midgut viscera, of its haunting peremptory thirst.

One result being – threw myself into The Tub, philosophy in suicidal circles is called The Tub, whose urge to “reason” will do everything can to turn the demonic into partners in crime of living.

Brain F8ckng

Flush up against belittling surge of angry gods, in all variety and manner of mighty, in a gravely voice, executing the poor thing being put to death as its her destiny – after being so bastard born.

How else get up in the morning, how else push through – to that monster who – as a product of chance – incessantly eats. Ears and wings and bugs and things.

(Nobody will. Thats the truth.)

Anything with wings slays me. Wings sing through air for nothing there but untold destiny. Old as the fates, as natural law. Inspires a tantrum of lost souls – night after night fuzzy and bright, sleepless and leery – picking crow.

Finding the freedom to live there, to cough up the characters – is what it is, and confess such Milly on a muff is balmy dreadful stuff, forcing its way through the sully of disdain, as everything beneath curb and dub, breaks into stories that turn to mud –

And comes the Hail Mary – for hungry demons – in fact (rather than fiction) are searching for comfort. But as stuck, living in a mirror of hopeless refuge, so much that the earth moves against itself, automatically! Co-conspires for hapless beauty whilst athwart a slippery grovel of death. Having, it seems, been raised, above all else – to a morbid steam (in Tub you see) filled to a frightful sleuth.

Falling flowers kamikaze

Yeah, goodbye folks – comes that kill spill, screaming help, let me out! just for a bit –

Whence one wants so bad to push oneself up and over the Humpty Dumpty. Where the High Road is terribly beautiful, indeed surreptitious (and down by law, can turn in a snap – pragmatically speaking – all-fire martyrific).

Metaphor rides gambit from graft to bluff, however the treasure is buried – maps leading everywhere.

Pinned to points of delirium, to a hair line slug, round Cape Hope all zigzag. Praying for rain, that is NOT cats and dogs? An improbable change if ever there was one.

Climax and The Horizon

Recently tumbled into a rather wild patch of image-getting, that has left me stunned. These things are never planned! Hopefully didnt upset anyone too much. Just beginning to work through its “logic” now.

Too trespass at high levels of jouissance, I have come to understand, pretty much out of necessity, that it is theatrical in nature. Its kind of like peeing on your own grave. One becomes consumed by gesture, and enthralled by the very nature of gesture itself.

And when hauled off in a sudden blitz – there is always an element, at some point or another, of going in for the kill. And there is always something of yourself thats being strung up – or strung out, as the case may be. A kind of climax, springs loose. 

Am always left – astonished(!) by what I get up to, going in after the goods, tendentiously after having been swept up again in a projectionary enthrall, suddenly after weeks of sly infectious exploration – the image goes holy Vincent. Very nearly like sex, it subconsciously begins to take on a crazy life force all its own.

But what underlies its exposure, its need to expose itself (deniable or not), ultimately – I think of as a particular kind of pursuit for freedom. Freedom that is its own willingness to persist, to go in on it – however it touches on the shadowy, or the absurd, or the harebrained – all of which are taboo.

Alas, another deep strain, straight out of my deadly dreary childhood. If any one were to call me a total jerk off at this moment, I’d definitely have to say – for sure.

But that really is just the TIP (over) of the iceberg. At that moment when focus becomes preempted by wild enthusiasms, strained by the cloak and dagger of its own compulsionism, suddenly it all sinks, like teeth (as my dear dead friend Cal might say), into a sudden wave of traducianism.

(Though end of day, for many – its not whether or not you traduce – but whether or not you get caught doing it.)

For myself, as an artist who variously lurks out in media as a mist – one needs must strive, of course, to keep such beautiful sidetracks in their own lane.

Letter from Lucy

Dear Dread Captain Roberts:

Lucy has nothing to do with publication, it bores her. All she lives for is this, to slip out from behind the waves of curses (I am subject to) – its truly a battle for her existence.

Lucy fears will get turned back into horse meat quite soon, of some wild new dice (I never could see coming). Vulcan Gods love to lower the boom – knives double-edged, and sharp.

But for the transverse flutes, arising, off water – ping and poing as hammer – unrestrained hits the sweet spots, truly for me it is candor.

Lucy is a hot spot on holy moon – where sockeye ride against the falls, make that river run. My beautiful fiction, a kind of feral kernel (stole from Zizek, they call trauma kernel) where love & death flickers, runs me to ground –

And (just like that) one day stole me away, my whole life really – sunk into thievery! Ultimately forced me into method acting! as only way out of bastard hell.

Every once in a while now feel young flung gun of ancient player leaning back on arms – head up – mouth open to JCs drip – legs over edge –

all the absurdities! 

heart goes out 
to feed the sinews 
nourish the afternoons

when allowed 
to cross

MMMMM to pick it off, from mouth of sea – treasure!

And in another stolen moment, velvet gowned – as any one of Shakespeare’s cunning beauties, tumbling into a mix-it-up. Lucy loves only where she works.

Fiction, that of being part of a troupe, of wayward-reaching experimentalist/s, who just as naughty nail-for-it, & fundamentally find what get to – not for its wickedness per se, but for love of trove – as thrilling today as from the first.

Love Lucy

To be and not

A bloom of negative love ?? love destroys me poetry toils and soils one can get lost in waves of destruction as a blessed feat of thwart beauty, angst is a hoarder, in order to have it – at all ?? withhold as a behavior seeking to control it ??

Why cant defeat the runaway ?? yes yes its a dreamers paradise. but to say that – isnt enuff. barely touches on the beauty in negation that I got caught up with as proof of adhering after purity searching for a unity of truth – when all hell breaks lose and falls top and bottom into hells covered ditch with death and lust.

Reading book on Robert Lowells going nuts. having another wing with him-mmmmm, as I have had before. hes land ho gutteral hungry. poetry clings to whalers stinking sinking linking ships rampage bold and hungry with every clarity equivalence. his poetry and manics had a violently mysterious interrelationship for him. he worked best in just that region it appears before searching wilderness overtook his leaky sanity. girl delinquent says: dont suffer As Much methinks from manly manics – as a girls veiled hysteria – but that is untrue with the religious stuff – 

Decision: to seek after knowledge of depth of senses that comes up through planks of theatrical thinking, which has as must an element of the Playful, this – the serious one says, rather than going only the lonely where beauty and horror, drips up gloating head scarf blind with mourning, purity is fatal –

Sartre went thru the unity thing – had manics too (especially towards the end), was speed freak. Lowell went through raging rigorous purity thing for sure, me did those too, and also the girl-be-damned a hungry lobster is a wretched forlorn hungry fool.

Thirsty Critters

Fashion thing. I must have la belle, beauty. She coexists as a monster of wonder and darkness.

Horror tears her apart as a demon with wings. La Belle is a mechanism for creating fundamental relationship with honor and death? 

When beauty is lost in the dysentery, beauty hiding out in bottom lands, hell is a place of descent. Both kinds. Dissent and descent.

All you gotta do – is equate with poo. The dysentery – blood, mucus, feces – and it becomes ironical. Its a beautiful trick.

Or. Urkingdom: conceptual ‘superkingdom’ lying at the root of divergence between primitive organisms and bacteria.

Hells dish ha ha ha.

It comes through beauty, it has to come through La Belle. Hot house ether 1) spraying orchids, 2) curling fingers, v+1297865 based on filemtime stamp.

Windchime. Puts me into the most lovely panic. Curling fingers. Saying – brakes are off? Careful, taking it carefully. 

In a box Haute looks up with puppy eyes with hands around legs. He shot me down. She sniffs. The sheriff shot me down. Ended up dead bird in box. Margaret, who is my painter, she is drawing little birds little birds. 

Red rose hose, bullet rang through – and up my nostril, a swarm, parody of seekers – Treachery and terror very real. Horror lived in a siv between wild beauty and faceless panic. At that edge where real meets beauty overhead – so intently, erupting in waves of greed, flammivomous with terror –

Age old war interceding, up in arms over the meaning of love, and death?

Somebody else is coming in, who who r u – calm down cousin oh oh ok, Haute just using theatre as a way. To wp-ksses.

Whoooo – behind the door in the looo – Nothing you can do. Dreaming Yaddo. Fear not like it was in Cal’s day.