True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

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 –

sinking 
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