True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Kissing the Wall

Chew chew charlie is reading signs again. Took two weeks for chew chew to chow chow chow page after page reduced to shred.

Chew chew finally freaked out friday. Started seeing things again. Things so beautiful, looking down a rabbit hole – she wanted in –

Things seen as curing the (ham) fin, squaring the lower jaw, invaluables – poised but in sync, with lifes brutal allures – sensitive to spirit of truth.

But something always catches a-rift reap deep at smugglers notch of migratory intrusions/delusions whose laughter hinges woo and turn, woo and turn – slalom and delicate, curiously runed to old stunning delicate usurpations, feral and sublime, recombinations and avalanches, hallucinatory and divine.

And even though she knows it to a fault. Its pleasant rediscovery is so sympathetic, sweet and grand, immersive as bubbles washing out to the sea are free are free.

Yet lonely and confiscated, as a clubhouse condemned to alarms of reveille –

Suddenly all turns very cloudy but also bright very bright. Contrast so high, everything she wonders or worries about – becomes indistinguishable.

And signs show up – as aspects like curiously aligned assigned planets traveling through corridors – columnized with shining armor, the zeal of its emptiness inside, to fill with provenance, thoughts of divine service, but that also bears rings like a circus, in movies circuses are rampant with horror, beauty is a birth defect.

Repetitions – let go let grow as though its painful sticky impudent prudence could work, could be real – the focal becomes tied to sacred lengths, that blur into a magic that harbors on the tragic, an alternative massively wired to non-being – full of miracle grow, yet pensive and always vaguely disastrous.

Get in so much trouble because of what Vincent did. She knows its a Vincent thing. 

Illusory relationships whose incentivizing to the breach circles sensitivities as image is to love, love letters ripple with ferociously doomed transparency. But there’s a silence inside that hides and seeks between manic and horror, sodden with fissure, faction and would-be torture.

Worst of all are the clowns, sniggering as though on an odyssey, starry rolling clips, burr & fish, flirt and buoy beyond sheer indecencies of wonder and horror –

When lovely sad-faced Kafka shows up dipping his hat – like an olive branch (that chews off its own foot). She knows she is cooked. There is a beautiful winged bug in his bonnet. Colorful locust, truth be disowned, she kisses him for it.

Invaluables become so very naughty wind washed in cryptic assistance that she turns into a bird in a tree whose heart is wounded with ecstasy.

Speaking with Cal and Nash with calming voices in the “quiet” room.

“It’s pastiche that proves your destruction, every time.” Cal says.

“When pastiche shows up the darkness is glowing.” They all nod.

And so she sinks, sinks into her hands, suddenly stark beyond recognition, the lonely tableaux discomfited by visions racing wild & hungry with bullring ambitions, and yet born warm and muzzy out of rabbit hole hunger –

A body, the body, of a lowly puppet, drowned with its mouth hung open, defects unmasked –

Though its bright eyes are somehow smirking, as sinks into the everlasting.

Where costs are suddenly at a loss, beauty torn from the ridicules of time goes horse and radish, rigor reaches a growling point – needs must swiftly suture and bandage – Vincents incicurability – with pastiche.

Hungers wrangled like graft for freedom and rightness – plunder into comic relief.