True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Funnel Cloud – recently started, topics only outlined. Kind of still a mess


Glossings. Rays through twinkling dust. Actinism. Creating one’s own definitions for historical rhetorical devices. A sudden reflexive slew of description. Glossing: extrapolating and generalizing from (misleading as not) descriptions, one after another, the run rabid run, till grinding – to a to a to a – halt.

Curiosity Wired Up, in a rhyming rhythmic dump-a non-resisting the compulsion – chasmic, riffing after insalubrious charms, groping the exquisite lack & luster for bold burnt bone black – bubbling up through the dross.

Build up: a borderline safety net – from misery, oh mystery – calls for armor. Rally, perpetuate, till it breaks into spoof. Contempt like what – coral. Colors of orange mauve emerald blue – but ohh ho oh when the paint turns to mud. Thats when it really gets a-musing –

Currently having (in my painting) a mud period. Why so stubborn to squander colors into mud??

Unruly or Arrogant

How is it arrogance?? The accusation embraces its “master.” The squander bunny. To squander beauty – as what pops up are dumbfoundedly: delicate & profound configurations, riddled as chastening with sordid sweet happened stances of holy hell. Arrogance (as a suggestion even) bleeds like a bloodstained lark into visions exquisite with hell –

How many times can a person grace the colors of hell – the little bird says: as many as can smell. Dire magnificent religiously plowboy – elusive for sweet illicit treasury of  – death, as an equivalent to – depth.

Is it arrogance that squanders. Or sorrow of a beauty too flirtatious mischievous irreverent insolent impetuous obstinate (and above all else) feckless – to be upheld. Not to understress the strange and lovable sanctimony under duress from thunderclaps of impossible desire.

Love escapes itself: stands in a hot spring mountain Mud Spot, painting face with dark blue black drippy mud, holding head back – till it dries into cracks – as the sun beats down – 

Can’t break the spell. Sweet as hell.

Bring out the guns

Camo-wearing, green grey beige golden sand of sun, carbon-shielded, military get-up (impractical?!) shows up.

Comes to mind always: the cynicism and piousness of guns. As a scoff and snicker of dynamite beauty. Guns blowing lights out – to bust it all up. Death as zealotry godliness dissidence uprising. Wanton freedom, law-into-your-own-hands lawlessness – 

Ehhhhheehehhhhehhhehhhh. Dance under the bullets of this nozzle’s nuzzling love. Rosebud.

Monsters suddenly colluding over lunch. Destruction as intimacy. Mutuality. Sitting under a canopy. Listening to the waterfall. 


The Gift: to be drunk again, sweet boast & drivel everything everything. MMM. For a pynch cine-mastic, where grace woos forlorn, Wheezy the Night Watchman. Shuffling home. Minding the curb. Minding himself minding the curb. Walking after midnight slipping into sweet random waves of lyrical woozy awe fullness. Under presence and pressure of seamounts – sifting thru – lava? Cement under presence and pressure of lava – cracks. Does not melt.

After: The Pump House for a party of Pitchers. Rubbing elbows with future phds, science grad students – swill & gargle. Oh how Wheezy loves talking incrementals with the studious.

Meters calculated and analyzed via speed of light, to standardize close as one can get to a universal measurement of distance. Remembered reading something about it. Right

Wheezy graced with the pleasantry in conference with Joyce’s Leopold Bloom, standing in front of mirror in the washroom, wiping hands after a couple two many, feeling the ocean sing: “it’s downright beautiful!”

Hell – no.

Ho could you ever, go – never is forever, snore pour bore (as in instrument you f*cks) Pee Boy love license car vehicle. Obsessing over beauty of moving instruments.

Sleepy weepy creepy, yah but oh the murderer – whose dreary sweet angelic presence is so powerful an ill-kept creature – oft as ever suddenly under weight of its horrible beauty: can’t breath can’t breath.

Stupidity, laziness, terror, freedom, contempt. The revelatory plasma of a wild things’ damnable mutuality, insidious perfidious nefarious etc. bent. Oh friends of the alpha privative Greek. Cassandra pileups beauty spools grand quarry murderous lorn stupid paranoid moonling misanthropic sweet child of god, flightless hit-and-run dropout, pigeon! sleep! 

The backhand, a double edged waffler, painfully lecherous farce of wildly spinning choking sky pummeled holy cow tortuosity – tanking again – the worst!

The little bird screams: why are you tanking??

Ok ok cascading – in a biliously wild tantrum with death.

Funnel cloud

Where exactly Cal suddenly stops! and starts to shout? frank ferocious crazy, the roustabout – merciless sweet storming croak when its breaking out – A raging ruthless stupid crackling blindness –

Slam always slamming on breaks and like in a road rage movie skids into a death spiral car catches on fire from passing dragon wheelies spitting fire – whose beauty ups the ante up up up – so hot and fired – molten, for your breadth

It’s all depth. You see. Supposed to be outward looking??? Barely survives. Pollution. Very dense.

Vermiculture had to be gotten had to be stolen had to be found had to bussed in had to be wielded borrowed abused – flanks of vocabularies for the foam, forming up around Enchantment & Death and The Angelic Departure.

As of course, for materia medica – rattlesnake roots. Argy bargy, rubups ag’in and ag’in and ag’in the vicious relentless dichotomies – plush! sheeny roof fiddling moles of logic, ohh philosophy – since almost a virgin. 

How one loves philosophy, boys with meta-brains, everybody’s got their Beauty School – blowfish, crabmeat, plum sauce, savories – to combat contempt of torrid horrid religious gods, for freedom mine – from them old caviling originalist cranks!

Foils have got to have preferences. For whose your Jesus. Disconnect! hallelujah! from the desert possessive, slip right in next to the detachable radiolucent Buddha, singing a tisket a tasket you can’t own god, thats slavery!

Very very Nasty.


The Rebel got riled with sweet morbid swells – caught in a trap, slay sly crash, flying blind – its always bash – running from captivity of any kind, money money –

Money, you be the death of me, here? Ya – Doh: writing, its a greed surely, mining this liquid space for oscillatory floating vibratiles whilst picking pulverulent at feathers (of chance).