True Confessions of a Subliterate Dork
On the Aesthetics of Beauty and Hell
No less greedy and no less stupid. What an upstart. The levels of revery and sorcery that occur, if and when in the least bit encouraged –
Admission! Not just falling, but trawling: that line between truth, possibility and abandon.
Viscosities of hell beauty death and mystery – Potencies that are at a level of grandiose stupidity and desire – Potencies that devour with keen vigilant intensity. Sends everything reeling –
Right up to that moment of death, a repulsion, an intersection with fear, a pure blatancy that falls like a sacrificial debasement/castration (hello Freud) into virtuous night blindness!
Foot and Mouth
The body is in many ways still a young girl. And that girl is always in the throws of something. Blasphemous and wild. She is animal and hope, possibility and terror.
And the mind – takes it someplace else and then some place else and again some place else – until there is nothing left to squander!
The mind eats everything up, bad to the bone! reckoning always with love, & the wherewithal of this mad fervent incarnation, that is a pilgrimage through time –
Colette would find, having also suffered through the emptiness and blight of a holy sheltered lonely upbringing, that for her growing up, time itself was beauty and death, not just empty of anything true to do, but relegated to nonexistence, to disappear from being and sight –
Where life “rocked between the infamous and the sublime… where true life was always absent.”
Read my palm lady. Holy sheltered lonely and innocent: renders everything surreal, clenched up against a drama of untold trauma, where there in the emptiness there is nothing but hell and beauty, driven to an uneasy duration, to the willfulness of wild temptations, and brink after brink of predestiny. A falling into the hunger of loneliness, sex and doom – whose revelations are intensely migratory, a stew of nonexistence, lonely taut potions of love that are pure animal and death.
Every moment lost, to a depth of truth that is absent and forbidden. Thus, something plaintive and unearthly rises up, breaking open in its stead, I call it The Well of All Souls.
A well of devout limitlessness that does battle to the point of death again and again with what is nonexistence, a profoundly excruciating silence, a verbal non-admittance of your coming into being, a rejection of your life as being for any other purpose than silence, than purity and innocence.
Which is hell – silence and innocence is a category of nonexistence, that your body may not come into being in the mind of god as anything other than pure silence, a vestal empty of desire.
And childhood becomes in effect composed of every devaluation – as you are, since forever, since pre-destiny – a totality of nonbeing, and it is indeed pure hell.
Sorrow & Density nds more work
Distracted, resurrected, enslaved – by fervent waves of errancy, admissions that dog after spiritual frameworks thirsting for resemblance, convergence, synchronicity – to the ends of the earth.
One side where language flutters, mutters, scatters, ravages, rhymes and subverts and the other where death of the absolute organizes as a void defiant. Struck in between dirge and splurge, overweeningness and meaning, as a hopeless itch – in a bashful state of terror.
A rover for religiosity, extraphysical migrations, that inform the infirm, a territory staunch with smitten declaration, both wild and beautiful, to topple over the depth struck urn.
Sprung of a loveless childhood, as an essence of the infinite – restless, wretched, caged.
Wedged in among an impermeable infinite whose freedom is frantically born out of sorrow, that survival is sorrow – as a secret treasure instinctively enacted, solemnized, fore-ordained.
How distance enamors of an arousing tide, spiraling through a cycle of meanings that distend, occlude, provoke, battle, transgress, transmute, elope –
To arrive, as against a bleeding open sky, to chance against the futility of flesh – searching searching for an opening in The Eye – however being a stranger to love, except as death.
Everything wriggles with contradiction, wriggling to be free of being, slipping back back to the hopelessness of a tantamount precondition – as a magical child of horror.
And collapsing into another patch of hysteria, silliness as a twinge of ambiguity – Having lived only with sorrow as a confidante, as the divinity of death, life falls away from itself – again and again. Mysteriously implacable with a suffocating righteousness, that is atrocious, lumpen, steep, helpless, uncanny.
The angel of loneliness is by itself an unbearable medium – equivalent to a most mysterious apprehension, that only knows itself after having fallen back again into the prescience of sorrow – stricken again with its endlessness. A return to its familiar gall – the gall of grief – as its own familiar journey, parasite, deflation – damned repleteness.
That circle in the square – again, to flush on through, errantly outmaneuver – a wild sweet hunger of hell.
Magic incurs a pop that defects from the present tense. Which eventually always hits some kind of glass ceiling and crashes, in on me.
Last week it felt like a “pop,” that I have been caught up in magically for months, working this site up, suddenly crashed. And I sang a song of the sea, and mewled over yesterdays blues. And became a shipwreck again stealing loneliness, back to shore.
There is something in the titillations and travesty of magic that is a vulture, a death machine. However I still dream the dream, of being able to engage in magic and inspiration, which I know as angelic departure, without having some crazy crash devour my efforts like a cowardly lion sinking to its knees.
So I go as I always do after a crash, to the lengths of heaven as a reassurance, for there is stealth to my sorrow, asking after a Cult artistic Council, who themselves were burdened with bouts of “neurosthenia,” the same question I always ask – ever find a way around it?
They always answer the same. Robert Lowell is first – of course, says that after a certain point of departure – ultimately not possible. Kafka says, no, there is something unavoidable about the magic of inspiration, at some point one does crash into a wall of simple dull carnage. Pessoa, a king on this island, says disquietude is incumbent in any methodology that reaches for freedom.
Walking around yesterday I thought – not to worry. Once the pop, which when in ascendance is like beauty raised from hell, crashes – its not that magic becomes irretrievable – the question is whether you end up covered so hopelessly in sacrificial blood that you run about wailing at the gods, bloody murder screaming.
So I decide this time to test out a relatively new resource that I have hopefully now acquired. To think of the mortification side of magic, as a purity, that is as it has always been – religiously quixotic – and also as a pirate resurfacing from a heavy dunk in Cervantes prison trunk – Suddenly there flashes a strobe of Beckett’s riddling martyrology, as a pan handler of diverse logic yes, but its not like he got away.
And so I open a version of Pessoa’s Disquiet, thinking sometimes you just have to let yourself be drenched in the defiant beauty of pessimistic cadences that disavow importance of anything actual and concrete, to clear the magic from its heavy avowals, and instead rely for what you need at that moment on a simple destitution of dreams.
To empty the sorrow out of reasoning, and let passions stand for a moment out there on their own, beyond any sense of wilderness, or angelic departure, as sorrows coming home – and the magic that had suddenly crashed into a refrain of seemingly oily treachery, that though it is precious in its way, its still just a simple perfusion of your own need for complicity.
Madness for me is a go-to term for living “in the mist,” parenthetically under siege from “demon” wisps. It came about when pushing limits of allowance and imagination, unity cracked up, like a crystal ball.
My soul had crashed. Its “inhabitants” took on the code word: voices. I only knew of them when they got out. Voices – separate and many, each rose up & came rushing thru as a kind of pure dimension – of love or hate, like a volcano, one blew then another blew then another etc. BOOM boom boom. And afterwards terror. I had no anticipation they would accrue – didnt know they existed as separables.
The result was hysteria and yet: it was nothing, I was always left after “blows” with nothing. As a person I was paralyzed. Fascinated and in shock. Could not overcome the zeal, do anything “real.” Was effectively “on the run” in a torrent of uprising – whose goal was – death??
Seeking acquaintance from other artists – to just admit it, talk about it, be there – I tried and tried, again and again. And everytime, ultimately, it began a leap into Madness. The leap itself created an eternity of sorrow, where wars raged inside my soul over love beauty abandonment the gods death horror terror desire, etc., without facility for escape (or friendship).
The yearning to address it in reality haunted my every move, but would not come out from behind a wall of ceaseless abandon – where it had lived since birth. I remember being lost in wayward precious loops of beauty & horror, before talking. Dreams occurred way before words, a guggling slug floating in a wild liquid consolute of profound intensity.
It was forbidden. As a kid. There was NO talking about it. Anything beyond “presence” could not be talked about beyond our playacting, we all seemed to live under a great secret shroud of: no telling.
As a teenager, there was one elderly adult that I knew who kind of understood about it. That there was stuff burning in my soul surviving elsewhere & she lived next door. Turns out now that it was Wolf Blitzer’s mum – she’d been in a death camp in Germany. The Blitzers had a wonderful clumsy sweet dog named Dolly. Whose whole bum wagged along with her tail when she was happy to see me. There was no fence between our yards. I’d play with Dolly and somehow end up inside their house.
Around Mrs. Blitzer something always calmed me, about living in more places than one. Nothing was said that I can recall, it was like she just knew that I had lives beyond the present – whose dimensions nearly took precedence as a mode of survival.
There was this level of terror that I conceded to, to myself, when with her or something, and she created beauty around it. Around her – it didn’t feel like she was trying to shove me back into being all innocence again – and its liberation from ignorance sparkled, without being cheapened, by having to put up a false front – secretly a shut out wagered precious up against victimization slaughter anger love. She treated the fascination I had with imaginations stray (murderous, blasphemous) fodder as valid –
Twenty some odd years on. The forbidden was way more forbidden and wild as the cosmos. And suddenly its making every effort – blindsiding me – to come alive – to be allowed, to admit whole hog its restless dubious ponderous inextricable existence. But terror would take hold like a god defiant, or the fascination would go ranging out into edges of beauty and death that were despotic and hypnotic, reaching moments of the most severe unrestrained beauty. I began to call this The Jar.
Desperately (times that by 100) tried everything to “reach the other shore.” Dread spread to every corner to cross to cross to cross what I now call the Bridge of Sighs. And indeed, artists I got in touch with, were people who themselves experienced hell, knew “the realms” in some way, and tried to help me. But nothing would release me. In fact their ghostly association was somehow the point! They were very delicious food for my “demons.” Demons who shamelessly squandered it. Mutually, merciless. Like at a restaurant on the moon, I had to have what they’re having.
New sways new ways
Since the fall of the wall, I constantly fall again under the influence. Have to be careful because I know death will erupt. And still I pursue it – influence from other o-turs, french pronunciation for authors – has a larger inference inclusive of movies & musicians. And still I dream day after day one day to finally “cross.” Though I have little idea what that really means other than being bereft of the real, in conversation with others who “do this too?”
I have been watching Ken Burns’ JAZZ. Dead artists are not problematic. They are safe, they are the sweet spot. James Joyce throws wondrous boogers. Only the living create “the impossible.” Watching film on jazz, the artists as influence working on each other, reaching for places of bold new infusion simplicity experiment generosity scope, etc – using each other to find what I call the fault lines, where the notes mysteriously turn over, sublimate, volcano and recombination, through mutual “abandon” to the creation of beauty for the sake of itself, beauty is inscrutable.
Allowing that to occur – indeed racing after it, fills my soul with grumbling steerage, in the bilge – in the coop, slurping loudly blowing on their hot soup.
Death is a very very big word that came to include everything not “present.” For me it comes down thru language of French Philosophy from Rousseau (“the substitute”) onward, Sartre’s Nothingness, Deleuze’s the Crack etc. Its a gulf of nonexistence.
Le double, le trompeur – people who are alive – its alive, here but NOT here, are nothing ?? As they only exist as influence, as demons themselves feeding on my beautiful squalor. Leaving me trembling in ferocious peaks of lonely death, mumbling grumbling and stumbling in, lost tossed and frosting the cake –
Only to be destroyed again, my whole being overtaken by a ferocious long baby makes hood, slipping back into a stark terrified loneliness, a kind of primordial psychomancy – breathing death into life, beauty and tragedy – as god as tomb as magic as doom.
Le double is theatre, thats my new view. He from whom pirated it knows who he is. And theatre is a play on infinity – a play on the continuum (as you are still alive) never reaches: cut. Once I get hit by beauty, where the influence is BIG, le double never dies. It blows off manhole covers, drills loudly at beams, eats me defeats me – I know I know – it is not, it is death (Sartre’s nonexistence) but it never dies. When the goods are too good. Its live wire.
Always “out there somewhere” meddling with me.
Several issues deep already in this, but still there is much to be excavated–
Cervantes – thrown down a portcullis lowered ramp into the dungeon by The Inquisition – along with a trunk full of costume. And after a sudden terrifying scuffle with prisoners attempting to grab & steal everything out of his precious trunk – it begins.
He, Cervantes, finger in the air, shall put on a play for his captive audience of outcasts & thieves. So shall he take them, into the impossible dream –
Caught in a swoon of fiction unfurling stark and beautiful and wild – like a play writing itself inside the play that is a prisoner of love as a sacred-icity of meaning put to the test of purity, vulgarity, beauty, debauchery, death.
Almost like A Mad Bug, caught inside a light – as a ray of theatrical torrent passes through a body of darkness – its absorption of holy performance like a hologram in union with desire and tyranny, devout promise and treachery of belief –
A bug caught in the night, inside the sublime suggestible darkness of a Night Jar screwed on way too tight. The problema of a religious uprbringing. And YET modern, cast as a Cervantes cast away, and the trunk itself – the trunk itself! Every calendar costume of sexy Inquisitor. Horny, thorny, scorny, forlorn-y – medieval religious porny, punishment as an equivalence in excess with sex and death –
The Inquisitor (how the religious secretly love horror porn), as flog box in self denial, like skin in game mysteriously bound by the chasing after of its holy mysterious sacrifice –
The seminal inquisition’l – all desire for wisdom seems to swim up the draft of my nose like a buggery of semen. As noose & scavenger, as puritan & pilgrim, as dragster and drogue parachute, as nun & murderess, as sidewinder & holy man.
The strange crossdressing mephitic lust of a lush terrorizing sensitivity to potents of theatrical paradigm, as self-opposing Over-The-Fn-Top impossible conquests – for the distraught, the outcast, the prisoner of their schemes.
A loud ring rings out from a stage door that is a prop: at back of an empty sounding, dust covered stage. Picture a box sitting in front of a door. Both are props. There is a window over the door, a transom window that Open Sesame opens and shuts opens and shuts with squeaky vengeance. As threatening the buffeting of a haunting – annoyance and mistrust.
A voice, the first voice out of the box, comes from the gallery, a ruffian in a scruffy plaid flannel – southern by description – no idea who that is, probably related to Faulkner – yelling out while pretending to wave a magic wand: don’t be scared: Don’t be scared.
W.T.F. As the author suddenly admits: gosh. I love bodywear.
A friend, I learned from: last week. She calls a certain way of running from a a job offer, from the drudgery of work which a job would doubtless be – as being afflicted by Judgies.
Judgies get all frightened, that a thing, a gig – for cash, will take them somewhere they should otherwise not go. The fear being it is unfaithful –
Unfaithful to what?
Purity lures devout, and then demurs, for the schemes of over top faithful – at its thresholds of commencement, banging up against unwavering charms of theatre, of doings and goings for a life equal to its composition –
Not just of merit? and capability – but also somehow beyond threats of being stuck in a dead end gig, at prey to the prison again – of searing drudgery & dour repetition.
The Judgie proclaims – twould better opt instead to struggle on, quest –
Quests are nectar of self love who fear not meet their maker!? A danger always. Rather they to lust, dark and foreboding catches light where that brute lusts is in an excess of dodgy desire, yum yum truly. Lust after (dead bed fed read cred knock on lead) Creative Enterprising, dreams where the draft are composed of sloop mephitical warrants for the holy discharge of beauty and reckoning.
This for me is a very old topic – in relation to writing fiction.
Subtropicals arise like heat that brings on a downpour.
A subtropical that has been growl-grinning its teeth at me, along with imploring mephitic spume – for impossible ages. Collecting Badges??? Judgies festoon one must never pervert the cause of a true desire, must never not (Philosophy of No doubles the negative) accord with faith in pursuit of – its opulence.
Its about the faithful being after a proselytization of willing the bonneted dormer to forage beyond constraints – coming out of a French era (existentialism) that implores the supremacy of reality. I have huge fault line in sorcery turns La Rose, French – Emily walks out of garden only to get lost in its sorcery. To defy reality, in order to embrace its set truer cast, to choose not to be constrained by limits of reality while – the dogies implore after its metaphysical “existence” – gets swallowed by the action, of substitute awarenesses, mysteriously drenched in sublime rotting whitherhsoever though go, protocols. Caused a lot of devious confusion!
To NOT give in, to NOT narrow requirements of reality, but instead hear-on-in swipe with surgical sponginess a sopping off of blood – true blood – after roving feasts of desire, to craven after rays of pure fictional arbitrariness!
Fiction is by its existence unfaithful to reality. Its something else –
Huge. Ultimately perforcing argy bargy in the Jar (of the Inquisition) – a beast of a question: Do you believe in Character?
Unfortunately the answer always came back through the door slot at the back of the stage, Beckett as lionhearted, armed guard, flipping his hair back – can you imagine? He stands he waits, the letter, the secret scarlet letter, slips through – an admission of brute reckoning once all added up, the composite figure yields: no.
How can one write fiction if one doesn’t believe in character?
How can you take a job, if it is seen by the Judgies as not good enough not good enough for reality.
Purity, a religious fountainhead, jabbing mercilessly at a wannabe’s pride, undoes the doing, when possibility for grabbing of ring arrives, the purist freaks out, harumphs – and runs off in an opposing direction!
Fe Fi Fo Fum. Its painful. And in truth quite jarring. Judgies make monster dreamers, but are very lousy at through-put – Metaphysical problema emerges immediately, as the thing being all too real.
In writing, this dilemma left me sub-victim to an undercurrent of character disbelief, a kind of self-assassinating fraughtly blooming skullduggery (that on this lit crit level, like a hand out of the swamp, is perhaps kind of well, delish).
So one started to try different things.
Of course I tried to costume a couple of whodonutters up – as Becketts vaguely historyless clowns, as a way to push thru the Judgies on this bickering issue. And yuh it was fun being absurdist, off the wall with a couple of clowns on a musty, cranky stage and everybody dressed in brown. And no more than two chairs a door and a window. And perhaps a box. Yes la trunk comedia. From out of which secrets shall be passed, denied, mocked, mourned achingly –
But the real problem came w.r.t. dialog. Its a blessed fog. Epi de fleur falls like a rose and thorn aswoon into a blessed fog of fribble & tribulation. Dialog for me is all about fog and foghorns – sounds accumulating in the impudent distance – Wooooo waaaaa. Thats what I hear, then try and lilt, tilt in after it. Tempted to say its almost musical. What does that mean?
Viva la difference
Different people do different things. With dialog Beckett likes to summarize. Twain and Dickens – go all in for delightful repetitions – in general.
In Cave’s Rings of Saturn hearts swarm crushed and torrid, enslaved, mysterious, re-forming, ajar – into ugliness and beauty, beauties’ apocalypse sparring with death. Wait thats not about dialog!
Of course Beckett can layer it in too – later works, its like he is stuck in a jar with hardening bees wax and honey and blood that is memory, a sharp focus on meager belongings, and sniffing nobly at the shadows and contagions of quagmire & death. Which speaks to me for sure. But its not dialog – at all.
Beckett does fab dialog in early works – lets the descriptive tell most of the story, with a stark beautiful quip at the end of a run – to finish it off for good.
Genet does that too, yes he does, Genet does that too!! (The author suddenly realizes.) But for him its Darling and has a delicacy of touch that is astonishing good.
Rings of Saturn – get rung round in Comment C’est for sure like marbles in grave chunky belly jelly hell-y once bump kiss. No it doesnt. Yes it does. Jeepers creepers. Where dyou get those peepers. Rhymes I grew up with.
What to do now?
Needs musssss?? loosen the dead ringers out for a thirsty firsty – as a comedy of errors, just let the giddy and the gruesome folderal like scatter shot spew, without worrying about nobody else necessarily getting it! Or it lining up – with dialog good. And just go in after the gods & the goods – and see if the gods, like a chorus of mooners and mockers and taking stockers, begin to quip and ??? recruit??
Again and again to drive points home the humorists get playful, thwarty hearty foolish – almost as to lay a trap for themselves, of silliness to slip into it – the birthright of comedy. Its not espionage – its its its – cumulative.
Potents & Schisms
All I can do is let it run, descend into the subliterate like a migration. Let the churn mutter splutter and spew, afflicted by demons who arrive arise cavort descend. And so shall these afflictions be – what is and is not – what is happening to the carriers of these fevers that ape after its performance, opulence, horror itself even – as sanctuary.
Potents seem to lie behind a schism that is fanning and mining the dugout canoe that as coyote breadth is circling in after a whirlpool. For me, its always another layer in — where the fascination at the heart of its heirophany assembles – somehow.
Writing just runs into it and runs into and works itself into a restless chowder. And thats all it can do.
Ship of Fools
Prison ship, with Cervantes trunk, out there and its big and ugly and very wet – these days – and everything still dashes after rocks & breaches, flinches & filches.
Oh ruffian dormants growing into horror flows – to shamble out in Cervantes’ brightly colored prison spots and turn on the vent – full hose.
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!”
Poems are drag. Strains of beauty that go off in dark ferrets of mystery, lust for beauty famished with death, endless gorges of loopicity, of dust, must & fuss & lust, no wonder philosophy and science are obsessed with loops.
There was a golf course on way home from school as a teenager – as a teenager I loved getting lost, getting turned around a wrong way. Would sneak in anywhere just to smell the faraway, as new & strange, a potion both luxury & fetid, flat and sheer – directionless momentousness gave commute to relieving the heart of its wild raw penchant for pander & doom.
Doom was a beanstalk of killer candy, thrive and dormant that like sex, occurred as progeny, a tenacious bleak house of gloom. Death as a kind of porn scorn rattled after me, imagine being born down upon by a beast of sweeping mythic ravishment, running for furlough, and all there was is time. To die in the midst of this empty ladling gift of urgency, was a ceremony of love. Love having such an astonishing beautiful sacrificial luster caged in rock bottom orgasm – even as a child – it didnt make sense – between what was seen and what was felt and what was dealt.
Sentiment had such startling dualities, that smacked and cracked and furrowed up, against wildly thriving imago, whose sanctuary was treachery, systemic treachery – treachery was up against virtues, of the most religious sacrificial beauty, virtues were cast into a sea of sorrow, whose pre-existence spawned a numbing tantalus of horror, as a creature of history, horror and sex. Nothing necessarily happened, at all, it was as dull as a dish cloth. Save a divine sea map of riotous ruinous sacred looping cumulative marginalia, violent resplendence –
And love was the most impossible tyrant of all.
A simmering lurch whose dire destiny fell into spells of courage and vainglorious terror. The mystery of its torment – became my home.
I’d die and die and die, and death would travel, to die meant to escape life, whose cage was the grotesque limits of a heart lost to whirlwinds of impossible meaning.
Flat against chance, dragged a kind of nothingness at the bottom that exhaled from under a knit of anger, quizzically demurred by the throngs of longing for worlds that could not exist, for ecstasy – for something beautiful as hell – up against the sheer token repetition of a dull and sleepy grave.
But glory and beauty left me astonished, as above all else foraged a religious contrary of awakening philosophical longings, dangerous as all get out, a profound sorcery of revelation and death –
Grew up poetically in puritan realms that presume life is a boon of gloom. And that beauty resides at junctures with its naked treachery. T.S. Eliot. This from The Waste Land:
*Means empty and desolate the sea.
In pursuit of meaning – to find out what these treacheries reveal about beauty, something busts out beyond reason. Hopelessness falls into naked truth, is startled into a silence – an invocation that turns defiant, to confront this reversal – as a siege of holy horror.
The Cat, a demon (of love) that exists at edges of terror – always ready to leap. The Cat takes hold of my physiology.
The Leap, how a cat leaps – whether to get across to there, in a sudden panic of hope and beauty – or to run off – in a sudden silent screaming shriek of confusion fear sorrow dread, wild and exsanguinate with exquisitely daft notions of death.
Desperation is a wild animal minefield of demon beauty. I call it: that beauty and the beast thing.
Such a panic.
Quack & Noose
To break the chains of unyielding shrines whose beauty is beaming, I really really wanted to break the spell of a love that consumed me, and its burden of wild fears that constantly gang-planked my soul, jumping off the plank like a lemming indefatigable with death, burning with grace of contradiction –
To get over myself. To make time real again, by showing up.
That presence cracks a spell, and through admission, brings love down to earth. Not to kill it, but to let me exist again.
That was the “sane” thought. To push myself thru absurdly raging categories of fear – fears so unnamable, I knew they had to be religious, driven by mad hidden whammies of belief –
But for the 2nd time in my life, the Sacred Sublime defied all, did not crack the spell, but in his presence – a character I call Victor de Loveleye, his being around, and himself sleeping so close to that wretched divine dividing line between beauty and the beast, at least in my mind, hanging over the edge of meaning and willing to fall into the image – searching for destiny –
So bad, my hunger at the spigot of that delicacy, so treacherous, so up my nose and in the noose – that it was like being excommunicated to Glen Bolcain – from the famous poem Sweeney Astray, Sweeney is cursed and gets lost in Glen Bolcain, a defiant valley of madmen – in trees of Forced Solitude, wretched beautiful loneliness, fearless Silence, Discovery!
No matter what I did to crack the spell – the sublime defied it, defied presence, defied reason, defied time –
In league somewhere with love in the shallows of my heart was the death of purity & innocence – whose wildly beautiful magnifiers had fallen in love with brutal resistance, willfulness & defiance –
Hopelessness in hell is a thing of startling beauty, its like hitting bottom, it elevates death to a quantifier! as well as purifier.
And wariness – the loom of doom – dark webs of incalculable mischief – feed off of it, in a conspiracy – quack & noose with a deeply conspiring, might even say infinite capacity for love –
Poor little kitty – as the night wind mewls !?
A love that has no bounds. (Infinity in maths is not about limitlessness but about density? different infinities measure different densities, along a line as continuum – which has no beginning or end.)
A love, whose massively poignant wildly distrusting savagery gloamed in my heart as incorruptible, incorruptibility is a kind of reverence!
Thirsty for release, from plight, as a three-headed dog.
Paradise is a martyrs song. In eyes in hungry eyes, the hunter for a moment does not dare, not a breadth nor cough or sigh –
The murderer arises from a mirror of smoke.
And the Cat devours my heart, in an ecstasy at loose ends with death.
Transgressor must mock – in order to lessen inebriety of righteous throws. Voices, drunk with hope! whose righteousness (The Vanishing lives inside beauty surrounded by treachery) strikes back, as Foe –
Secretly muttering through disdain, disdain is a thief in a house of cards, a love that dare not speak its name – tumbling, out at the limits, gunning – backwards!! trying like hell to get around itself –
Sounds of silence deafen screaming in struggle with wild bouts of holy angst.
The voices are in a fight to death. Sickens to a brutal test beckoning backwards – Where death hears itself as a prisoner of sound. See Yeats’ Leda & The Swan.
Sleepy fairy forlorn, mourning the blasphemy and the scorn, seeing beauty in every distraught length, and storming banks of its brutal treachery for enuff just enuff “true” love to cross back –
Under the sea, mining stunning stabs of sorcerous intrigue. Jealousy for awareness, a hunger and sorrow exploding with thirst, clinging like madness –
And secretive – as a locket of hair imprisoned in the shape of a heart.
A bastard funk wild and grueling with riotous sweet contagions of ardor, sympathy, fascination with wile, arrogance, strength –
Abandon through? abandon through –
Came the cries of scurrilous ( pornographic ) angels in thrall to Atropos, lush stumbling throttles of death.
Dotting every bruise on a ripe perverse self-swallowing peach, as the divine map itself! with a little blood red flag for every wicked little death – where here belies destiny.
A body that turns religiously to mud when breaking taboo. Could not, the body could not follow through! Frightened despicably by a monstrous invocation of greed and desire.
Clotted agog curiously insidiously to an incantation of need & submission. Blown over by blow after blow of siren & cruces –
Running off to where raged & peaked indecision of a scandalous rupture, of a sublime unnameable nothingness – again and again.
A strange unhinging frailty, eclipsing tatters of a heart most unduly, as circled an orrery of beauty and contempt.
Stuffed to the breaking point with wicked fiendish inbred loops of sorrow and havoc. Mysteriously wrapping itself up for good – up up up inside scared sacred wounds, of a lowly mummy, locked in a battle of inscrutable stealth.
And yet – no matter what! still clingy, still clinging to desperadoes and harbingers of dishallow love, the voyage of awareness & desire, cognition and sensitivity – as its only “true” faith.
Glossings. Rays through twinkling dust. Actinism. Creating one’s own definitions for historical rhetorical devices. A sudden reflexive slew of description. Glossing: extrapolating and generalizing from (misleading as not) descriptions, one after another, the run rabid run, till grinding – to a to a to a – halt.
Curiosity Wired Up, in a rhyming rhythmic dump-a non-resisting the compulsion – chasmic, riffing after insalubrious charms, groping the exquisite lack & luster for bold burnt bone black – bubbling up through the dross.
Build up: a borderline safety net – from misery, oh mystery – calls for armor. Rally, perpetuate, till it breaks into spoof. Contempt like what – coral. Colors of orange mauve emerald blue – but ohh ho oh when the paint turns to mud. Thats when it really gets a-musing –
Currently having (in my painting) a mud period. Why so stubborn to squander colors into mud??
Unruly or Arrogant
How is it arrogance?? The accusation embraces its “master.” The squander bunny. To squander beauty – as what pops up are dumbfoundedly: delicate & profound configurations, riddled as chastening with sordid sweet happened stances of holy hell. Arrogance (as a suggestion even) bleeds like a bloodstained lark into visions exquisite with hell –
How many times can a person grace the colors of hell – the little bird says: as many as can smell. Dire magnificent religiously plowboy – elusive for sweet illicit treasury of – death, as an equivalent to – depth.
Is it arrogance that squanders. Or sorrow of a beauty too flirtatious mischievous irreverent insolent impetuous obstinate (and above all else) feckless – to be upheld. Not to understress the strange and lovable sanctimony under duress from thunderclaps of impossible desire.
Love escapes itself: stands in a hot spring mountain Mud Spot, painting face with dark blue black drippy mud, holding head back – till it dries into cracks – as the sun beats down –
Can’t break the spell. Sweet as hell.
Bring out the guns
Camo-wearing, green grey beige golden sand of sun, carbon-shielded, military get-up (impractical?!) shows up.
Comes to mind always: the cynicism and piousness of guns. As a scoff and snicker of dynamite beauty. Guns blowing lights out – to bust it all up. Death as zealotry godliness dissidence uprising. Wanton freedom, law-into-your-own-hands lawlessness –
Ehhhhheehehhhhehhhehhhh. Dance under the bullets of this nozzle’s nuzzling love. Rosebud.
Monsters suddenly colluding over lunch. Destruction as intimacy. Mutuality. Sitting under a canopy. Listening to the waterfall.
The Gift: to be drunk again, sweet boast & drivel everything everything. MMM. For a pynch cine-mastic, where grace woos forlorn, Wheezy the Night Watchman. Shuffling home. Minding the curb. Minding himself minding the curb. Walking after midnight slipping into sweet random waves of lyrical woozy awe fullness. Under presence and pressure of seamounts – sifting thru – lava? Cement under presence and pressure of lava – cracks. Does not melt.
After: The Pump House for a party of Pitchers. Rubbing elbows with future phds, science grad students – swill & gargle. Oh how Wheezy loves talking incrementals with the studious.
Meters calculated and analyzed via speed of light, to standardize close as one can get to a universal measurement of distance. Remembered reading something about it. Right –
Wheezy graced with the pleasantry in conference with Joyce’s Leopold Bloom, standing in front of mirror in the washroom, wiping hands after a couple two many, feeling the ocean sing: “it’s downright beautiful!”
Hell – no.
Ho could you ever, go – never is forever, snore pour bore (as in instrument you f*cks) Pee Boy love license car vehicle. Obsessing over beauty of moving instruments.
Sleepy weepy creepy, yah but oh the murderer – whose dreary sweet angelic presence is so powerful an ill-kept creature – oft as ever suddenly under weight of its horrible beauty: can’t breath can’t breath.
Stupidity, laziness, terror, freedom, contempt. The revelatory plasma of a wild things’ damnable mutuality, insidious perfidious nefarious etc. bent. Oh friends of the alpha privative Greek. Cassandra pileups beauty spools grand quarry murderous lorn stupid paranoid moonling misanthropic sweet child of god, flightless hit-and-run dropout, pigeon! sleep!
The backhand, a double edged waffler, painfully lecherous farce of wildly spinning choking sky pummeled holy cow tortuosity – tanking again – the worst!
The little bird screams: why are you tanking??
Ok ok cascading – in a biliously wild tantrum with death.
Where exactly Cal suddenly stops! and starts to shout? frank ferocious crazy, the roustabout – merciless sweet storming croak when its breaking out – A raging ruthless stupid crackling blindness –
Slam always slamming on breaks and like in a road rage movie skids into a death spiral car catches on fire from passing dragon wheelies spitting fire – whose beauty ups the ante up up up – so hot and fired – molten, for your breadth –
It’s all depth. You see. Supposed to be outward looking??? Barely survives. Pollution. Very dense.
Vermiculture had to be gotten had to be stolen had to be found had to bussed in had to be wielded borrowed abused – flanks of vocabularies for the foam, forming up around Enchantment & Death and The Angelic Departure.
As of course, for materia medica – rattlesnake roots. Argy bargy, rubups ag’in and ag’in and ag’in the vicious relentless dichotomies – plush! sheeny roof fiddling moles of logic, ohh philosophy – since almost a virgin.
How one loves philosophy, boys with meta-brains, everybody’s got their Beauty School – blowfish, crabmeat, plum sauce, savories – to combat contempt of torrid horrid religious gods, for freedom mine – from them old caviling originalist cranks!
Foils have got to have preferences. For whose your Jesus. Disconnect! hallelujah! from the desert possessive, slip right in next to the detachable radiolucent Buddha, singing a tisket a tasket you can’t own god, thats slavery!
Very very Nasty.
The Rebel got riled with sweet morbid swells – caught in a trap, slay sly crash, flying blind – its always bash – running from captivity of any kind, money money –
Money, you be the death of me, here? Ya – Doh: writing, its a greed surely, mining this liquid space for oscillatory floating vibratiles whilst picking pulverulent at feathers (of chance).