True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

A Gape of the Jaw

WHAT is reasonable to stealth and Beauty enchants as fulcrum of nostalgia and desire, the heart wags with outsized virtue and hunger, after spitting distances – just beyond what is possible to define –

Falling into Les Impossibles is a Liars lovely impotence, wretched blessed Imps rage and fury over The Likes of me, with profound iconostasis, beauty and horror as baptism tunneling after open-cut lucidity, irrupt with devout mischief, accost with divine elements, of holy rolly moly – devotion, I call the Gaseous Clay, migrating for sacred killings of criminals like in the old  days, Gods Blood on a Stick (is a stick? oo lala), destitution, the finales the marplots unholy down your Pants Pee Boy sacrifice.

L’impossible is charged with fallen relics of the sacred, being a notion of profound lonely bizerk giganticide, of yet having been born out of the Romance of the Rose noble reckoning and the Beauty’s larceny, a heart ferocious, pricey is noble defiance glaring down at The Tomb –

When “spiked” with transparency Like This writing feels as if its keeling (wondrously) out of control awash with a mystical horror, and yet how the Graft seeks its Stolen Maps, Treasure Maps, Dante again – exponentially the layers the levers the Mope Heads – as terror dances in a drainage of the Bank of Hope dangling for the Let Go, the Nothingness, that blooms into raining epiphany.

And the Mud which flies – lost to love – nostalgia de la bou – 

La Bou, boo who? has for moi to do with the potency of its impotence – when love occurs as a mysterious curse – exorbitant, ungovernable, violent – raising the stakes – higher and higher –

Nonbeing is something some of us must learn how to fucking deal with – its beckoning having such a tyrannical resolve, since small very small – the heart digging where buried, where mysteriously buried across the eons of Beauty, death & loneliness –

The body of hunger born at night of the Harold Child a blessed confetti, so wretched a tool for love – any and every love, All Hands on his deck – its prehistory laced in crash and burn turns against Parents fighting through a confrontation of insincere deaths.

Deathbed statuaries are a roust burdensome reliquary to the copious of horror of Little Girl time – just time just time Nothing but the Nonbeing and Time, a sorry angry you’ll hate it when I am Dead relic to growing up in a darkness of the “void” – La Bou, a spider where shadow is haven, is birth right, is light enforced & divorced from clinging pow-wows vows of adamantine virtue.