Abecedarian: The Qua of Qui

Allow me to tell you—as of the who—a liturgy of finely grained righteousness cleansed, folded and articulated:

Bestial birth canals and unguents squeezed from bodies now desiccated—

Concupiscent casuistry led us to our troubles

Delineated in these lines (I found) in the margins of thee Apocrypha.

Energumens came into a world of pain, possession and black hole nothingness.

Fecund and feculent they were legion, and what you are not is

god and neither am i (a purveyor of distilled sin in pearl dust & gin)—

Humanity’s dark mirror.

“Instant Karma is gonna get you…”

Jaundiced and juiced we know

Knowledge is nothing. We have proven as much. We are eyeless—

Lenticular madness refracted; and as blind as those who drank four ounces of white wine and horse dung

Macerated into a tincture for the masses to imbibe.

Neoteric quaffs that did not quench our thirst left us bleached, and in search

Of the man who described literature as a “tissue of citations” its contexts and referents unknowable—“a

Palimpsest of the putative self”—a scratch-off ticket past attenuated the ego(s)—Id every moment of the day.

Quincunxes. I placed on your eyes for a faster journey to nowhere.

Rampikes speared on the roads—a jagged landscape without human trace.

Starlings darkened the sky and twisted about in their darkling ablutions.

Take thy clyster pipe and syringe and find a willing official orifice proficient in state sponsored press releases—

Unction administered—and nailed up to the door jambs of a recessed congress raising money for a defunct president.

Vacillate no more for we are refluxing on our American original sin—

Wandering through the Death Museum where we whisper colloquies to lives wasted in a

Xeriscaped land of ochres and sand—a land so prickly that we found nothing but portents, penitents, and penury

Yoked to a future as arid and bleak as our past.

Zoonotic and novel apocalypses are the only viable options as we ease into these closing minutes …

(or we’ll burn it all down ourselves)

“The earthly octopi are throbbing
And so very many of us have become our own gravediggers”

— Guillaume Apollinaire / “Ocean Earth”