True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Flower Drum Song

Couple of months of sheer underwear heaven, she says to herself over and over.

Underwear heaven is a new sobriquet for The Badlands. She loved The Badlands. The freedom there to persist as chimera of beauty (and longing): as resilience itself, as question mark, as yearning, as contemplation, as pyschomancy, etc.

Its loss as a partner in crime, a secret nemesis, irrepressible/flagitious infusion of light – is barely expressible.

And falling back now, into the blankness – of sanity, without any hope of mitigation –

How to unseat Badlands incantatory aura of jouissance and defiance – now pouring seemingly into a holy lament, bleeding revel of self-hatred, of martyrdom, a pinball death.

Nothing quite equals being a wild thing full of expectancy. Working towards it, as opposed to killing it off. Towards the music that, underneath it all, conspires intellection itself – as a thing of great exception, a holdover, an outlier.

And instead – back to the Land of Not: Not sit in the shadow of its unspeakability, not swoon over its accidental journey – for believing it was possible to take on such a hazard at all in such a way –

Out the old way, in the Badlands, where blows an insidious seductive contraband, a ventiduct of mad desire, the breezeless seducer, an occult mark of death –

And those who venture? as vestals of meaning, provocateurs, smugglers, sensualists, those who have gaped over vast edges of epiphany, go there – why?

To elutriate the banality of sanity, to prey upon the sanguifluous, where the heart is a wilding – to covert and thrill, lure off – and then kill. More simply escape, for a bit: predictability, convention, the atonality of “respectability” with instead some indeterminacy, where can anonymize entities in a seeming non-extension of time or place.