To sift and ripple after its mad obscurities, embellishing the resurrection of its surveil in the cosmic forlorn
Cant Shut Down
Been picking apart latest section on novel, that I am presently working on - all night long on insta. Part of the hunger is just that, works like a mud bath over a hot spring. Where monkey can begin to pull things out of my ear that are indefensible? No, but they are thought of as banditry, because of how it came about.
Mischiefs vaguely pretend it has anything to do with anything else?
To pretend vaguely is to admit it presents a looseness that has a type of candor, that has no way to survive without it, its entries and exits are shattered are crippled without leniency — the only way to get around its furies, its apocalyptic fury especially — is to sift and ripple after its mad obscurities, embellishing the resurrection of its surveil in the cosmic forlorn.
None of is taken as proverb, none of it trusts any conviction that arises in the language as pure proverb. Absurd travels past it too quickly and in a way turns around searching for beauty that can sustain itself in reverse - lunges defiantly. But the absurd also then gets turned back on, by circling the verb. As an expression of containment under duress? No — of how there are no exceptions in every exception. Because between “this and that” is uncertainty, as a principle! reliant only on experiment and repetition.
The willful wandering around in a spanning of stock dualities, all the way back to oedipus, matricide and patricides — Reverses and doubles, that pitch leash unravel stroke etc, as it is the stigma of the tragic, and with equal fervency, plunders the latents for splendor, while seeking to pull off in novel a mostly ugly book in a crash of trash, that still keeps seeking to make — of itself — new forms of beauty — out of old forms, forms that are a belly of a whale born out of something willful and flooding the ear and disquiet, forlorn, rained down on by repetitions, trecherously overgrown, and seemingly impossible to cut a clean path through.
A modern wilderness flooding with repetition that is a sickness unto death kinda - a psycho religious whirlpool, rising up in the throat, forlorn swirls of crazy valor and the misery of death, bubbling tirelessly through distensions of dimentia that survive as cursed with a need for beauty, that by its need, is absurd, rigged, damned, and yet irresistable too, precious and latent.
Novel eeks and seeks to be riddled with it, remains intoxicated indecently with rhyme, where defrays into depths of the mythic, as a kind of ageless squalor, a deep need, a devout surrender, hopeless in so many ways but also charged with mission charged with keeping the sky turning, however leads everywhere and nowhere in the dark, as tries to find traces of things from anywhere in it that hang themselves on beauty, tangle in the wind a love for species of beauty, however tainted or stretched thin, and irregardless of any alternative.