True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

The Dip Switches

V2.3

Minds a buzz. Though not a blur. Where ramble as a gambler for locks of hair, the sediment to push to a glisten.

There is a profound rallying press-iveness that takes me over, that comes upon me.

As nodes suddenly turned way way up – slip more sly these days than defiantly but also crazy wary – into switches, coming to call: the dip switches .

Coming to my attention, via grapple with graphic metaphor, that the Royal Wee Wee thinks of art (and la philosophe) as horse and wing and taunt and truant and restive and meandering, overripe with grief, daft and tryst with misbelief, where pager hounds of glory – who are both defectors and deflectors – whatever that means – sync what used to be a constant wave of glorious death as function of mystery, everywhere a flower.

For comes a line in the sand – where ventures a kick, that is for delivery and for compliance(!?), kicks after the impossible thing – like one being chased by artificial intelligence that is conspirational, raft fun, driven against the ghost, sometimes deadly – but yet always in its way wildly toothsome . And the Cinderella shopping for shoes-can’t-afford in a far away gated mall, sings Its Possible Things. I yell at the telly in the toilet – your frgn balmy.

Alas, winds itself up – diddle and squat to a May Day, as a battle against lovely and profound misfortune – Which always always at some point becomes a laughing heart hysterical Birdy (thwartland dove) – throwing itself against the wall, the wing goes Mirabella wig.

(Used to call Master letters after puritan post-er, sweet and nutty Emily – She got letters back. I just get a sock in the nose, every time. What lately call Puppy Love, always taking a bite out of each other. Deadly or snotty its always hotty.)

But still it does not stop. Riding rail as enthrall against my death, against the ringing in my ears calling for attention – acknowledge, with all seriousness, it’s a loopy get.

But, What?

Suddenly yet another foul mouthed washer women, who loves to laugh calls out: Whose on top?

Top?? What does that mean –

Dark Avenger straightens tie: Going after it.

What is it? A yearning to be able to find again, somehow – voice buried in my past, that drank itself into present tense – tending after it s own exception, proverbially out loud.

A voice that got overrun, decapitated really when filter fell – and the turret went more than a little skitz.

Language broke up with me, and sank into something foul and crazy restless, decomposing into a silence of harrowing grief, like every color depleting into black as called on the computer, all light out of it – 000000 – purely traumatic.

Necessarily came a very hard climb back up, but then, soon as catch can, it wends and then it bends and then it bluffs – its way – breadth by careful breadth, back up to the Rocky High, where revelation unhinges from its post, and its history performs as a sacred place, to the mountain and all –

What preys (so hungry for sanity) on that silence, that lays between then and now, where light overspreads so bright and bare it takes over everything.

And is also, now as never quite before – alarmingly festive!

Acquaintance

It appears am lately also after something call Sams Club – cudgel in palm walking back and forth the hanging bridge like Nemo the sacred king watching cursedly over his turf for any arriving with news of death.

Nothing goes on there that isnt fully absorbed into seeing moo-through to every bottom lump and screw, till other guards arrive better than never, like Godot’s Beckett – symbol of that which is both passionate and dispassionate, and at same time mourning both.

I have not Beckett’s intellect, erudition, capability for friendship. Was not allowed to let it all hang out, where I come from, nyet – but still we took to the rocks, to hurl myself over instead, so its a trick – riding up against the violent narrows of my heart –

There where rivers of the fallen escape to – that never fails to promise all forms of raven-esque trickery – as evasion from dire religious regulatory of symptomatic torture. Truly went looking everywhere for anywhere that tried reckon with midgut viscera, of its haunting peremptory thirst.

One result being – threw myself into The Tub, philosophy in suicidal circles is called The Tub, whose urge to “reason” will do everything can to turn the demonic into partners in crime of living.

Brain F8ckng

Flush up against belittling surge of angry gods, in all variety and manner of mighty, in a gravely voice, executing the poor thing being put to death as its her destiny – after being so bastard born.

How else get up in the morning, how else push through – to that monster who – as a product of chance – incessantly eats. Ears and wings and bugs and things.

(Nobody will. Thats the truth.)

Anything with wings slays me. Wings sing through air for nothing there but untold destiny. Old as the fates, as natural law. Inspires a tantrum of lost souls – night after night fuzzy and bright, sleepless and leery – picking crow.

Finding the freedom to live there, to cough up the characters – is what it is, and confess such Milly on a muff is balmy dreadful stuff, forcing its way through the sully of disdain, as everything beneath curb and dub, breaks into stories that turn to mud –

And comes the Hail Mary – for hungry demons – in fact (rather than fiction) are searching for comfort. But as stuck, living in a mirror of hopeless refuge, so much that the earth moves against itself, automatically! Co-conspires for hapless beauty whilst athwart a slippery grovel of death. Having, it seems, been raised, above all else – to a morbid steam (in Tub you see) filled to a frightful sleuth.

Falling flowers kamikaze

Yeah, goodbye folks – comes that kill spill, screaming help, let me out! just for a bit –

Whence one wants so bad to push oneself up and over the Humpty Dumpty. Where the High Road is terribly beautiful, indeed surreptitious (and down by law, can turn in a snap – pragmatically speaking – all-fire martyrific).

Metaphor rides gambit from graft to bluff, however the treasure is buried – maps leading everywhere.

Pinned to points of delirium, to a hair line slug, round Cape Hope all zigzag. Praying for rain, that is NOT cats and dogs? An improbable change if ever there was one.