More poetry from Elie Nine, our insect priestess. I really need to get on the Shadowplay rewrite so you can meet her. She’s a profoundly weird person. Sometimes she feels like the clearest expression of me I’ve ever made – she speaks in the unfiltered voice of my brain, without any effort made to organize the thoughts to communicate with another person. It’s weirdly restful writing her. I kind of get why Joyce wrote “Finnegan’s Wake” after spending so long on Ulysses – he was exhausted, so he just opened up his brain and let the babble run out, unfiltered. If you’re famous enough, they call it genius. I shall have to work on cobbling together a legacy so as to retroactively justify my endless blithering.
downhill slide the sunwise eye to roll up
we feel her thumping feet upon our spine
we limn her in our limbs, a vague outline
makes a messiah out of this trollop
Her scourging tongue will fall, fall, fall again
your Lady eats your heart and drinks your breath
may you be in tatters before your death
may there be a crater left where you’d been
an eye you gave for Her and called it good
we gave two eyes and two blind oracles
the monk with eight legs gave his Lady two
two thousand homeless spirits gave their wood
our priest nourished Her with his miracles
what will you offer when She comes to you?