By Steve Dinneen Were you to stumble upon the works of Mike Kelley in, say, an abandoned warehouse rather than the galleries of the Tate Modern, you would fear for your safety, if not your sanity. Strolling through works collected from the late 1970s up until Kelley’s suicide in 2012 is like happening upon the headquarters of some esoteric cult, full of strange, geometric sketches and menacing slogans, all pregnant with meaning but built on a foundation of absurdity. He was obsessed with the seething, discordant horniness that lurks beneath the innocent facade of adolescence, scratching throug…