True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Oblivion Mining

Working on. Finding oneself inside Oblivion – as a reckoning, I call it Oblivion Mining, occurs as a kind of freedom groping with its own restlessness, tragic distance between true and truth, resoluteness, irreverence, love, destiny.

Where beauty is aroused by gesture, gesture that lets itself be drawn in – lets itself fall anew (in a way disappear) into the wild –

Wild like Yayoi Kusama’s never finished Obliteration Room of dots of color – but as seering imbrocata of desire.

When its appreciated as a focal, aware of its thickness as a kind of sickness, as infirmly affirming lengths one is willing to go to – in order to arrive survive – risk death.


Sky, slips off into the big dip as a security detail goes bunker, goes blanket for finitudes – in whose beauty lay treasures of depth, illicit clarities, freedom reaching for a drink –

As has suddenly thrown a fly back in the ointment, and has come up against The Gap. Road runner up at edge. Looking down. Looking up. Knowing eyes grow slit with unprotected mischief.

“The Trick” says wicked sounds, of silence “is to let The One who is chasing fall into The Bizarre as if, but to watch, its attempt embrace the impossible.”

And comes the infernal challenge – the fly-and-die – arms open and the bunny jumps, goes in after – catching feet to hang on hang bloody on – as genie is always a thief – and in flap of wind, sing-along: fly.

Oh Joy

A tragic mysterious love for the art of plunder – seems a strange beautiful legacy of magical proportions, doubtless Alice’s hideaway, a stowaway midst storms of banal disbelief, something suddenly comes about, like a ship, and slips out beyond “the pale” – Steals away only to find itself raiding the void, mining oblivion, for jouissance, for preternatural joy –

Persists merely as a miracle, as splendor of time, there is nothing else to it but the blow torch of destiny, like blooms along a ditch rustling in a breeze thru weeds that wild flower –

Catch as catch can fly – mining the swell of who do nuts, that are terror and phenomenal, as harbingers of ecstasy – desire so powerful it merges with a tricksters mass luster of contempt.


There is gêner from gehenner « soumettre à la torture », a thing so sticky, so stick-it-to-itness, that is torture in love. That is love or nothingness, as sacred cross –

And its scaffolding old as silence and honor!

Usurped by fear and desire – those two being holy interchangeable at times, love becomes overdetermined, its meaning a flood of wretched windfall –

Likewise is party to piety – devout interceptions at the grace of a collision that goes suddenly Sky, and doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know how to stop it, as explodes with unmitigable virtue – that seem only found in labors of hell.

Too Far

When beauty goes too far and without any belief in tomorrow – doesn’t know what is – voluptuous is a mystery that unhinges, a sweet delirium so hungry it reeks with the stirring impossibility of its own torments.

And bunny – I love to call it bunny, becomes truly shocking, and there is that half-to, that must now reckon with itself, as it feels like madness. As once a day comes what may pangs of horror. Horror overwashes – whether political or otherwise, suddenly more and more.

Time comes where its by the hour. Like Bataille’s robber being executed, roped to a planted stick and everybody in village who has had honor desecrated (regardless what that desecration is) is a knife and takes a stab. The thousand cuts. And on face of victim, beauty wans a smile that belays of the wicked generosities of death – that Sky has dreamt of – with resurrectional splendor – since first discovered at age 7. Its craftiness emerging from trials bearing down on a heart thrilled with the intensities of religious infamy.

Sky. Is peopled by unvanquishables, all round all around – fairy goes beauty and beast, fairy goes horror, but there is no godmother – only wizards, savages, scientists and sweet hearts, who all take turns saving her saving her watching her burn, and one grows into the other, ad infinatum.

Tales that listered as plow disquieted the strangerness of time and whose channeling seductions into the infinites, beeping like orbs, that burn in the hand, and the native knows yes of course this could be disturbing.


Triggers seem to occur in moments where love has turned to passion and likewise blinding with guilt, begins to confuse beauty with death, confuse horror with beauty, colors of love become shackled to secrecy, as explode backwards forwards, self stabbing, surreal –

Its skin the snake time – Skin cast off as resurrection of faith, faith eating itself alive along with the remorse, distrust, shame – can turn down any many bunny hole suddenly ferocious and biting –

And still yet wondrous and hole, and still yet sublime, and still its entrance-ment, a wilding bright hopeless resurrection-ary renunciation of unmitigable deaths. It being by its own sheer persistence its own renunciation as well.

As always there comes a wee wicked smile, a twice born chortle of laughter, a cough that overwhelms the throat, where Poo Poo Pretty is flirtatious killer and obnoxious has suddenly become bottomless with depth – Loves you to Death!

Magic Fountain

The magic fountain, at center, a hand me downs, of exoteric states, a fountain gone off its hoses, indulging in terms relevance the colors of death, too.

Breathless and host, in some way always drowning in The Invisible, one that is wily, un-adapting, flirtatious – moves around the logements of love and death from every angle.

Till crawls back up, always as if onto a raft – A Bond having wrestled in underwater depths Monster Beauty of machinations aghast, vital, vast, hand to breast, breathing breathing –

Gazing on your back – connecting night time dots yellow and green, then wakes in morning sun, parched with hiccups.

Hilarity can be subvicious.

Tactically deceptive.

Sky tokes on yokes and stumble bunny descrambles and with love (and death) strikes a pose, laying enladeled back on an old log Quaker cannon, to squint with overbrightness at the sun, after civil war is finally finally finally – done.

As when digging away as if its Maths, as if going in on Constants, and Mr John Nash shows up in corner like Chaplin sweeping the end of his shoes that got covered in dung. And you both look down, smile as if to trigger a new wave.

And inform the academic forum it can perhaps be measured adequately by symbolic logic as long as you leave out any actual numbers.

And again there is laughter.