Furthermore, it is in my strong interest to note that this book is an Endcommunean work of art and it is dedicated first and foremost to Isidor Ducasse, the Comte the Lautreamont. This work is basically my futile attempt to create an own Maldoror, for it is the crowning achievement of all poètes maudits, and I follow the spirit of Maldoror in its tracks. I will never be able to wash away that filthy sludge my hands got caught in turning those malodorous pages of human grime and evil… and as you can see, reader, I worship him well. And thank you for the angst, Lautreamont; well-deserved, yes, and well-given! By it, I am cursed forever…

       Letter to Myself

what does it take for you to finally, finally, finally

even notice the spiritual civil war that is raging on

inside all and every single human soul?

and would not that be such an artwork,

so destructive, so beautiful, so hopeful,

just we recognized its buzzing and burning below

the thresholds of routine, tedium and dullness?

a length of days you shall not acquire;

a fortitude of spirit, but an ideal in your heart;

nerve, guts, gallantry... spectres haunting your house!

the gaze of a hero you have not,

but on your back, burning, as you turn from challenges! 

you shall be led to an abyss of fire

   and you shall be contained therein

      until but coal and shame remain there down.

     like a maid brings cloth to the river

     you brought the golden mystery

     to a creek of waste and pollution

     as to let it rinse, wash therein!

           but what soiled holy silk

           can be cleansed with filth-water?

   encased into the stone of history you are

   as an immortal pig amongst men:

         immortal, yes, but what pork

         does not rot sour in infinity?

small children are used and abused on a daily basis, but what person could possibly do such a heinous deed? how could someone gather the pathos to rape and torment someone for the gluttonous sake of pleasure... a twisted and gross and vile human being if any!

how is it that some men are immune

          to the joyous mirth of infants?

how is it that some men break the law of flesh,

   lusting primally, failing with the discipline of the body?

 it seems they cannot muster the agency

 required to delimit themselves from themselves

      as agents of primeval masculinity.

their soul failed and their beasts took over.

         a poison-dart aimed at every hero.

               never succumb.

           

                keep God close.