(Take a meditation pose)
Excuse me,
You’ve caught me at the hour of my meditation,
the moment my mantra and I meet each other
halfway.
Diese schwankenden Gestalten
These swaying forms that approach me.
I am not authorized to tell you her name.
Except that it sounds like
Eritis sicut Deus,
scientes bonum et malum,
but it rises up like a whisper
from my inner Snore,
also known as my Mother
Die Schlange—The Serpent, which is just one of her forms
It’s from Her I have my name:
Fliegengott, (bat at my head) God of Flies,
Verderber, Corrupter,
Lügner, Liar, Mentiroso, Menteur
Herr der Ratten, (pick up feet) Lord of Rats
(Smile! Hold up forefinger!) Do not be frightened,
my young silphs and squawks.
What you’ve heard so far is little more than spiddle-spuddle,
Demented slag,
A bit of limping, farting hibble-hobble.
Better to fix on my Spanish heels and purple tights,
my ruffled frock,
the yellowed teeth,
my pinkish lids,
around my waist the gleaming sash of slipple-sklock.
But can you see her now?
This time she stands a full quarter of her length and flicks her bifurcated Zunge (point to tongue), and softly thistles,
“You are part of the Kraft, the power, that pursues evil, but produces good. You are the Spirit that negates the world. Nice going, snakelette!”
To keep her here, I hum my pantra, “Eres sicut Dea,
sciens bonum et malum.
But mostly malum, since no one knows more about coitus more ferarum, congress with animals, than you, Tlacuáche-Pache, Oppossom bitch.”
(Raise forefinger again, as if teaching)
Hissing, she contin-you-z her guidan-sez.
“Because all that emerges,” she thims,
“Must go to dust.
And therefore, would’nt it be better if nothing came into existence?”
“My boy,” she swines, “everything you call
Sin, destruction, Evil—
All this is my nest primeval. My status antequam,
the way it was before.
The bedding,
the best slave-softened cotton,
ante bellum and Boll-weevil.”
How I love her, my Mother Constrictor, who sang to me when I had no height and couldn’t sleep!
Coiling around me, and pulling tight:
(sing with rasping sound) “Sluffle, sluffle, little peep,
if you do not wake in the morning,
still, your soul will keep.
Blood and feathers, forever weep.
Close you eyes, my darling, and become the seep.”
A plumpy tale to digest, you’ve got to think!
(nod your head like an idiot)
Have you guessed my name, for Him who can not be named?
From all of these?
Well, it is I, of course!
His Eminence, the redoubtable, slack-socked Count Mephistopheles!
At your service!