True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Throwing the Board

My Turn

Guess it was my turn to throw the board. My turn for Fury to erupt.

Mantra from The East, repeats and repeats, its nothing its nothing, thats its all in my head – composed to the addle of beautiful minds.

I dont think other people accountable, as if at the controls, for shit I do when out in Badlands suddenly “peaking” on chop suey cide.

I have tons of names for spaces that are symptomatic, Out the Old Way, Glen Bolcain from Sweeney Astray, Dante’s Map, Cervantes Trunk.

And now I have another to add. The Badlands, finally – Wild Westies. Whatever can get away with – should try, voice from BL with initials HD just sighed with a relief full of sardonic pleasure. Its pleasure (at my strife) makes me moan!

This morning, woke up vaguely in a dream hugging George Kastanza. Character from Seinfeld show (comedy show based “on nothing”) who always fucked up, again and again thinking it was all over he was gone.

But then somehow George was considered useful (usually based on some outrageous excuse George had invented) and he’d get promoted. Of course the bosses were making decision based on their own flights of holy ingenuity more outrageous than his. Dare to ask: What is more maniacal Ego or Id. Thats fighting language.

So Morning After: Fury morphs into Trickster, who dust proclaims its nothing.

Goes on to add: nothing sheeplike about vermiculate Minds tracing webworms, shooting marbles for best bounce, deploying fanlights, etc.

Its occultness not so much about getting caught, as it being part of stash, deadly, semiprecious, possessing yet bereft, exceeding neutralization, mathematically without point and yet has indefinite magnitude.

Feeling giddy as a bank robber this morning, who having managed to get away with it (what it is remains perilous), will spend rest of time not behind bars, remedying freedom.