until they tear off all my shoulders, re-sent;
The herald came and tuned his instrument;
the Presbyterian of the church
embezzled on the schismatic Convocation
But be not silent
With no great voice praying, of no great compass
for your help, father
awake, sleepers, of the witch soil
Broadening at cloud were bigger than
the spirit who follows my fate
as if it were the fate of an avenger,
my head on a stump, the only given possibility.
Standing between you and the emptiness
boiling down a dense pitch
either the asylum or the sword remains
I was a shibboleth crying, I, frozen
in nails, I was a thorn whispering
on Christ’s head,
I was nail piercing my father’s bone
I was dirty and unworthy
I didn’t think a hundred Jordanians could
wash my dirt smarter of its ash crosses
And parchment is written just so
for we’ve signed this deceit
I thought everyone else better nicer, more powerful
act as if lethal thieves in Noah’ submarine’s vicious lions tamed
should it matter who they are?
cut off their heads mid-flight and their heads
will be a beautiful flower bouquets
that will adorn my dying flowerpot
Do what devil touches and keep his secret
so vanquished be, let it be – ugly evil and corrupt
withdraw thee from the nevermore abyss’ footprints
locked up Reaper, demons scream,
the slobbering spirits of darkness,
and I am sticking my tongue out
through the keyhole
and stick the tip of said tongue
through an old well-crafted jail lock,
so let the bastard lick it off, bite it.
But neither the bandits, nor the ever-present scum,
that crafty thief in the night, sleepwalker,
liar with a crippled child in his arms,
nor the killer tricked me, nor awaited for me,
but indeed the yurodivi, did it first, a
nd then the church flowers of evil.
Behold the god of intellect,
confide in this blind life among the askance
through all of their trickery, cheating of existence,
metamorphosis of directed betrayal, and even bloodshed.
oh how I hated myself god
oh how I hated myself
my third asking of the forgiveness’ bans
and perceiving smiles around wept thereat.
these three fingers were circling, circling around
from bridge to bridge…. vain laments
these three fingers, Father!
Then said they unto him, Say now Shibboleth: and he said Sibboleth: for he could not frame to pronounce it right. Then they took him, and slew him at the passages of Jordan: and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites forty and two thousand.
— Judges 12:5–6 KJV