True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork
On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell
Achilles for the Capture
To capture language as travels through the depths of your skin to mine.
Shamelessly?? feeding off of it –
Learning about that for the very first time as it spread – thru to knuckles in all my joints, hands ears knees, the-love-triangle.
Occurred as a profoundly visionary disruption, and torment. And yet – it’d been there really, bastioned behind a wall of wonder & misfortune, percolating with resistance since, well – f$cking forever.
Suddenly emerging “from the ranks” – ruthless, Dracula like, only to seethe fumble and hunt – off the grand tumescences (hard-ons) of heavens rigors and rebuffs.
Its beauty brutal wondrous ruthless device-ive – spontaneously looking nakedly through the image – to meaning enchantment time. As old as the mythic itself – burning with love – outloud?? implacable & wild.
Engulfed indeed consumed by what have come to call Achilles Jar (nee Alladins Lamp). How language finds its hunger and adversary. Living off of other peoples beauty, fingers ears beautiful dicks – as poetic nocturne, spectre & pastiche.
The There & Not
There, just there – ambient & endogenous – as if touched by its beauty tragedy magic – cumulus & cunning, being and nothingness unconscionably intertwined, alchemies of love and death whistling through holes in the translucency of time –
Breaking out breaking out from behind the wonder wall, from deep asunder a forlorn ocean of terror beauty shame – above all else desire.
A madhouse of hypersexual meaning? enigmatic contradictory captivating demonic transcendent exhilarating disruptive traumatic riveting oppressive liberating forbidden bewildering hellish erratic very very disquieting – and furthermore: sublime.
Doubles & Reversals
To reverse a category into a liquid, as Jean Baudrillard might say, but then (as now) go further, and recapitulate, by way of boogers or poop –
A blizzard reversing the vulgar into play, like a four year old is apt to do, teasing language out of a love – a pure love – for transgression and dying from laughter.
The pure rush can still get perpetrating the language of love with nihilisms, whether it be just plain stinky or at the end of my rope, craven with horror –
Poe’s raven. Raptors purple black slick and feather, a rapturous diffusion of blood – my feeble unscrupulous double-timing blood –
Like being hit over the head by a hammer, by a trickster god – and having to fight off the stars, from that moment onward – its beauty rampant and yet devious –
A fool for reality??
To reach out from the raw caw-caw of struggle and loneliness for license beseeching with gestures as a way to reach for reality –
But then always plunging to my death, being mysteriously flooded over by your visionary prowess, unraveled by its seductions, in a revel of sanctimonious defiance that goes beyond beauty – to pain and death!
A vagary that is ravaging, untamable, mercilessly erotic, and rebuked by sorrows, deep as hell –
Sorrows inconsolable blood lovely – screaming up from the depths – how?! how criss cross these pirate planks of love?? without falling haven to a sanctuary of beautiful wildings – as they crash.
A pure dummy overrun by excitons raving to oblivion, pleading pleading “at risk of death!”