True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork

On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell

Traces of Byron

Something falls back against “the line” straight and hard and without escape. The dream stops breathing – desires freeze – into – what? passive compliance?

No ?

Must admit: a galloping beautiful insanity for “crossing the line,” a reek batty-eyed willfulness, cagey, bullshit defiance.

On the run is it then, again – losing time! losing time! 


Sketchy, oh my scoring druggies how they interpose hope with this fearless addiction – Sorrowly wanders off, ferociously aghast as fevers plunder, spiraling for change – with sudden sunny conviction!

Where hope & casualty get lost, fall suddenly flat – fall into the big tidal empty. Hopelessness pleading: empty the resistance, defy the excess, scorn the lovely lorn torn theatrical worm – Meanwhile sirens pang and ping and fling and flam, at any for instance –


Emptiness benumb the bastard tide ? stunning maverick emotion for a wicked “alliance.” 

Perforce “wake up” what dreary lurks beyond these pornographic lusts ? of miracle & death, where love – boots and loots, transcends the compliant, resurrects –

Flee, weary tide, flow back beneath the monster locust seed, so Kafka’s brutal blasphemous little insect can crawl out from under its busywork welfarism – ?