Get Thee Behind

To live and to adapt is what we do. The distempered took our feeling of safety in one fell swoop — so quickly that we didn’t know it immediately, but it was inexorable. It’s the dirty work of death. It’s the daily work of having been born. It pains me.

And yet:

Abortifacients in thaumaturgical liturgy —
What is this skulks toward me from Tartary?

You become a devil when you claim in jussive voice: get behind thee, satan.

House hoist hoise the hoisin sauce, motherfuckers! I’m here to tear your hearts out and eat your tongues… I’m here to speak the truth here to speak the syllogistic logic of samizdat… balalaikas tinkle in high registers — no, I don’t like it up here. Bring it here where I rub myself with stuffed grape leaves that leave oily streaks across my body — I bid thee absolution and a rough ablation of the layers of your skin as you scour the scourge that Is mankind that lives within you. Don’t ask what a stook is if you’re able to look it up yourself.

Please leave me alone. Please leave me. Please leave this country, this continent, this hemisphere… please leave this earth.

“Every author portrays himself in his works, even if it be against his will.”
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe