Satanas-Aestheticus: The Dragon-Scaled Scribe
“the poets rebelled and wrote it with a small ‘g’. but no one heard. and so the poets rebelled and wrote it with no ‘g’ at all. in the beginning od created the heavens and the earth. now the people heard. and they wrote it with a large ‘O’.”—Michael O'Donoghue
Poetry, if truth can abscond from form, is a compendium of bestiary like delegations of the soothsayer for none, fraught with evil intention. Satanas Aestheticus, as suggested by the late great Benjamin Decasseres, affirmed plain as milk for the audience of nil the true intention of the poet. Milton spelled it out for us. Baudelaire, Poe, Emerson, Shelley, Verlaine, Davidson, etc, they laid bare the teeming louse raping the grey matter of the select few. These are the gods in our hands, venerated and yet ostracized by the public who suicided them. The classics lay forth the understanding of the profession of the outlier and yet still to this day ‘poetry’ is a hate-crimed term used to bolster up tourists and demean the definition to such as an overpaid cartographer. Everyone so desperately wants art explained to them because they were prematurely yet rightfully so cut off from that somnambulistic oil of aereola’s offering. I feel a malicious imp weighing on my shoulders, growing heavier with each breath; so be it. Abusus non tollit usum. Philistia must fall.
The lengthy search for an anodyne unknown to man has slowly morphed itself into a sordid acceptance of embracing symptoms over disease. Ungrateful hosts of society dare have the gall to determine the worth of individuals so blasphemous in their inclusionary incendiaries of acceptance that to scoff at such unworthy gatekeepers would be flattery in and of itself. The dragon-scaled scribe contends god’s existence, however swarthy, by their vengefulness. For if either of them truly do exist, to each creator their image is most certainly painted with hues of tenebrous pigments. All beauty is nymphic at a distance for the poetaster, distance being the telltale fortitude of the rubbernecker. The preservation of beauty lies in its ephemerality, a tact fleshen vestibule grown fat against the blade. Personage as a shadow, ever pervasive in its tautness, dripping sacrificial wax down the geometric tree stumps. Ashtrays wherever eyes wander, mommy dearest-ing the wound, seeking eucharistic wonton salvation amongst the neophytic. Art thou able to orgasm in proximity to a uniform? If the answer contends contemplation, your dayjob rules the night. Leave the horrid amalgamation of extending one’s own decadence to those whose skin itself is the game at hand.
Through pursed lips and locked jaw, the world flops belly up, gurgling its slatternly sputum, heretically bucolic bird dog, aching for a portraiture worthy of gilded enclosure. Herein lies the poet’s condition. The alphabet is not free real estate nor has it ever been. Gabriel staunchly requires the self soothing scar to adorn the foreheads of those who deny their own entrance, let alone masquerade gumption as a personal affront to Atticistic monasteries squatting themselves a blue check mark in the inexcusable fleshen varicose veins on display for underground Maldororites. In this age of Guyotat mimicry, Lishian perverse laziness, Hannah knockoff drivel, biblical recipe redaction, Baudrillard rollercoaster cop-outs, I am a Theophile. A true worshipper of Aphrodite. A backhand meated vestibule lurking in the sewer grates of such a post-post- modernist hell which frames my abscessed veins taut as the separation of sky and salted sea.
“Anesthetized again!” yelps the troubadour of accessible art. Are we as a conglomerate of wishy washy swayable consumers expected to bareback the swathe of simplistic forefronts of existence in such a hellish alabaster reduced to plastics? This unctuous assertion of snide lotion for the masses to “get comfy” has no place in the annals of art. I renounce all intention of accessibility over true blue expression for the sake of unburdening a soul of it’s poetic caveat. Vegetative states cum laude seek to discredit the humility of suffering’s awareness in regards to Satan. Who’s microwavable modernity do I have to ethically protest in defence of Promethean transcription? The current publishing houses concern themselves fraught with the zodiacal man. I suggest strychnine to the masses for reeducation of what it truly means to damn oneself with the investment in such a fatalistic endeavor as poetry. Death to all designers feigning advancement of art and beauty. When the lobby is strewn with human excrement from overexposure to the innards of the individual we, the self chosen, shall contract you to swiftly zig-zag a pretty picture through the backdoor. Until then, stay seated and quiet.
Glass bespeckles the rhino sky with grave allotments for purchase, yet still branded cattle curse those eschewed of silence. Voyeuristic pedestals perch St. Peter something silly. The sky is most certainly blue, yes, thank you. Clearly Shakespeare could be summed up neatly enough to permeate prime time, but in doing so the loss of elusory beatitudes coruscates wonton indifference to style. Well fuck me with a thesaurus huh? Shall I purchase plastic surgery for my tumors? Please, do enlighten me as to the appropriate definition of beauty since explanation is the guiding force these days. Lets get downright platonic with it so as to advance the sales of lubricant.
I consider the non-canonical history of the beast of light colloquially termed ‘Beauty’ to be a war; then again what self respecting poet does not consider every god given refraction of light a war? Chess-like in its parties, there are only two sects of criminals whose work I burdeon myself with and those are the crimes of passion versus crimes against humanity. The first being all artists and the latter the toe-tippers, if you will, of creation. Both criminals in their own right but only one is worthy of respect; for the only crime against humanity which has any lengthy toll in every civilization is the trampling upon the utmost sacred of humanity’s progress. That being what is solely our ability to recognize and then become the true keepers of beauty, rationing it out to the philistines for sustination by the bite. Why else do you think they charge to view the purdy pictures in a gallery? As an staunch individualist who holds on high the absolute sacrosanct ideology of art, the only true warmth I have every found in this life is the heat emanating off forlorn brethren throughout poiesis, that is in its succinct definition being ‘to create,’ in the most modern extrapolation of the written word, the painted canvas, the scorched screen, the earthen clay made animate, etc, which calls to arms the outlier of the age the artist suffers through, therein transmuting fleshen holes made beautiful for consumption by all.
Historically speaking, all enemies proceed us in a chosen dogmatic style. To every artist a hill to die upon, each school being the culmination of disgust with their predecessors. A grand theory, for “parents just don't understand.” The battlefront of the written word’s efforts have superseded each in a prolonged timely respect a la attrition warfare spanning back to the first guttural yelp which spurned our curse of speech. Time is of the essence in this apocalyptic age we all suffer through and we must not only reclaim floral vehemence but build new Babel's for prose poste-haste. Simpleton entertainment is abound these days, if you care for supplication by way of easily digested, motherly masticated art for free vomit to gnash around in toothless mouths may I recommend internet and much of it.
If I may be permitted a pedestal for fifteen seconds to expound upon in crude speech the current movement whitewashing literature in the digital age, let it be known that I have absolutely zero investment in this world. I am of no party, my livelihood does not depend upon the cruel universe of the written word. I have dangerously pigeon-holed myself within an industry already built upon the slave labor of its own workforce; therein allowing me to speak freely with no recompense as I have no hope of ever permeating the circle-jerk to save face. The self serving ephemerality of the massive churning out of diaristic concise thoughts for the page, easily digestible for the consumers raised by screens only perpetuates its own homunculus agenda. Quick serotonin for those too lazy to invest in actual autodidaction, scared off by our ancient’s investment in painterly longevity. Clickbait has wormed its way beyond the intention of selling an agenda, we now are all intellectual victims of zero effort. Sparknotes reigns high, language has become its own ouroboros growing fatter with filth, subsidizing any weight gained with pseudo waste meant to assuage our hunger. How long do we have left before the sustenance dries up with its prose, before simulacra coats the grey matter completely smooth?
Names serve no purpose for targets, to every victim a plethora of weaponry rife for the picking. Yet in regards to such dereliction of language as art, let us all wax freely as we see fit to ascribe the blame as each individual can recognize. How familiar the storyline goes, everyone seems to be “just following orders,” the clear shot trend most promising to capitulate them to more likes in hopes of a larger audience of overgrown children. The underlying issue with a carcinoma is that it spreads feverishly if not doused in its onslaught. We’ve metastasized ourselves too late in the game, dereliction promenades itself unchecked, there is no solution besides reinvestment in a mindset completely nonexistent today. I offer no solution, same as Virgil, but still, there must exist a noise to the flushing of the toilet, otherwise how would we know the waste has entered the larger sewage system we employ. Let us all step up post-haste and study if we insist on contributing more garbage to this decaying rock we trounce upon, for there lies within all coal the potential for mineralistic salvation.
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