True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Sorrow of God

Sorrow & Density nds more work

Distracted, resurrected, enslaved – by fervent waves of errancy, admissions that dog after spiritual frameworks thirsting for resemblance, convergence, synchronicity – to the ends of the earth.

One side where language flutters, mutters, scatters, ravages, rhymes and subverts and the other where death of the absolute organizes as a void defiant. Struck in between dirge and splurge, overweeningness and meaning, as a hopeless itch – in a bashful state of terror.

A rover for religiosity, extraphysical migrations, that inform the infirm, a territory staunch with smitten declaration, both wild and beautiful, to topple over the depth struck urn.

Sprung of a loveless childhood, as an essence of the infinite – restless, wretched, caged.

Wedged in among an impermeable infinite whose freedom is frantically born out of sorrow, that survival is sorrow – as a secret treasure instinctively enacted, solemnized, fore-ordained.

How distance enamors of an arousing tide, spiraling through a cycle of meanings that distend, occlude, provoke, battle, transgress, transmute, elope – 

To arrive, as against a bleeding open sky, to chance against the futility of flesh – searching searching for an opening in The Eye – however being a stranger to love, except as death.

Everything wriggles with contradiction, wriggling to be free of being, slipping back back to the hopelessness of a tantamount precondition – as a magical child of horror.

And collapsing into another patch of hysteria, silliness as a twinge of ambiguity – Having lived only with sorrow as a confidante, as the divinity of death, life falls away from itself – again and again. Mysteriously implacable with a suffocating righteousness, that is atrocious, lumpen, steep, helpless, uncanny.

The angel of loneliness is by itself an unbearable medium – equivalent to a most mysterious apprehension, that only knows itself after having fallen back again into the prescience of sorrow – stricken again with its endlessness. A return to its familiar gall – the gall of grief – as its own familiar journey, parasite, deflation – damned repleteness.

That circle in the square –  again, to flush on through, errantly outmaneuver – a wild sweet hunger of hell.