True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Come fly (off) with me

Bat Cape

Admitting madness in real time as descriptive of a reckoning with nature of truth. Being so pained, angry, turned around by my childhood, that madness served as a goal!

That the wonder-walled-in child in me, believed that madness was a goal sincere to my understanding – to my coming to an understanding somehow, of a heart as constant bait, and the devour-some rapture that flooded all borders. Since very young.

Potents bidden and yet hidden beside the misery and mysteries of a seesawing pious faithlessness. Seemed to have felt no grounding in faith. Faith was that tissue full of lies, and every judgement that surrounded it, riotous & suffocating. It made me angry and on a level of almost pious tyranny – gruesomely rebellious.

Dreaminess in pursuit of apposition (the deposition of successive layers) of truth, results in conjures magical, desperate, so unforgiving – in terms of hyperextensions, there is a stunning bottomlessness & rigidity to its loot.

Madness was a cynics brave guffaw against my frustrations with convention, running towards (for cash, for application) and yet always running against – Conventional on the outside, wild at the core.

A black sheep, with streaming bows, stuck in place and yet on the run, always wandering off. A soldiers boredom like a watchman forcing himself to be alert meanwhile mooning & moaning over a drunken sorrowing riveting intercourse with the dire convex-like limitations of reality. 

I dreamt like somebody drinking a supersized slurpy – anytime anywhere, through windows of both notion and desire, faith, faithlessness and death. Idles that hung about me super-essentially, as underside of a hopeless myopic glacier – its belly plunged vastly hideously copiously prodigiously ferociously endlessly between sex, death and salvation.

Never an end in site. Death was never The End. Death was where everybody got larded, stewed as milk of my resurrection, succumbing both to morbidity & elements of joyous rebirth.

A grand expository mythic of death began to quiver as froth impatiently at my want of lips, contentious, devout, and yet implacable. If someone didn’t ride angels of the cross in some way, I couldn’t forever stay there. It got so bad – I wouldn’t even try.

The third eye and the mystic triangle – head heart cunt. Warmed my body, over ancient fires – churned through them, like penny dreadfuls tergiversating with love and death.

Or like charting Aesop’s Fables – except, its a wily ravaged-over ghost town, fraught with magic & crumbling succeedingly into virtuous ruins.

Throb after throb, torch after torch – as work or love came and went, routine after subroutine, ritual and rife, an underground resistance fighting against the impasses of reality, swinging by the ropes – chop chop – of love hope life.