True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell


Topic, stole straight off / reading Zizek’s Sublime. Page 63, Verso Edition.

Obsessive the Dodger, Artful in its exchange of Masks, came searching for Beauty and True in abstract ruth, as if compelled by the hunger of magic. Avowing might do almost anything to avoid the fucking mundane.

Hysteric, a revolutionary misbegotten – was kissed, besotted with triumph of errors, wildly falling into horror / terror/ of revelation, as desire explodes against the unforgiving real, with valiant sorrow, lust and rage.

These two did not talk to each other! at all. Shocked at every turn of the retrogressive. Back and forth did they rent and pull, in waves of fascination, horror, beauty – swelling, rebelling, dispelling. Disruptive, orgiastic, most compelling!

Again and again the Hysteric lost it, in a kind of wildly fickle, awe-struck deprivation, impoverished from the real meanwhile breaking apart with bloodlust and zeal.

As time, fell through –

The really great surprise every time being the arrival of an unpassable space – dangling in suspense, a pious daft deserter sprang up between the two, all atremble. Made me fucking helpless.

Not just shame, oh the shame, but a hapless inscrutable Muzzy showing up in my place, shaking and overcome with the abyss, with a collapse of time, falling through – as the cipher struggled, dazed and trembling, emptied of familiarity with the present, livid, morbid, petrified – yet standing right there religiously trying like hell to hang on.

The disappearance of Present Tense. The silence screaming so loud with being at a loss, nonbeing overtaking being – being being at a loss so great it could not concede anything, could not evaluate, could not employ.

Outside of time, lost in place while “everybody else” is screeching your dying your dying. Flash frozen with heartbreak, obstinance, ruthlessness – a blasphemy of situational death.

Whose memories feed like a snake sidewinding through the desert with misbegotten relish.

Everything the Obsessive coveted, for O to grind its wares into Salt. The imbalance, a great exchange of gift, of graft, of mysterious information – its indulgence – torrid haunting compelling repetitive – All to the nth degree to the very bottom, O decrees, every little drop of your beauty Blood can squeeze –

Out of the cake for frosting, eh Lethal Siv – 

All that abrupts for treasure, for a song – theatre’s ruthless inescapable throng climbing up my leg stung to hell with magic.

The image revives and revives and revives again, shimmers with incantation and death. O takes and takes till it breaks again. Another tragic marvel! The error, not righted, is pain of death. 

And yet, how sweet this hunger rose at first, so intriguing, uncanny, a simulacrum, concomitant, unforgettable, restless, resistless, the awakening embodiment of the sublime – as an essence of spirit, of somebody else’s knowing.

Then comes the thunder – adoration is thunder, shockingly hungry – for  what?

A good mime!