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Last night, precisely at the hour that the cucarachas in my house rose from their daylong slumber, I wrote a poem for you, Mother, celebrating my origin, when I slipped past your scaly loins and gave my first half-throttled scream. In spite of what others say, my skin was tender and the edges of your eggs, ragged and unforgiving. I cannot tell you how long it took me to unwind and find my tail. To see it quivering with new strife. I, your young Fliegengott, God of Flies, charged by you to bring war and darkness to all of life. An honest offering, when compared to the promises of the Bearded Fellow in the sky, whose plans you say I am tasked to disrupt. I, Lord of Rats, patron saint of the Long Tails of New York, Southern District, who pressure me with their Rule of Raw and the Triumph of Tooth during this Age of Lies. To whom I respond, Wouldn’t it be too bad if I asked you, my Mother, to drop down into the electric soot beneath Time Square and make lumpy digestive juices of them all. I have tried to tell them they are mistaking me for someone else. That it is not I whose squinty sun rises puffed and orange over Manhattan each morning, breathing in its own self-delighting smells. That we and they and the Old Man in the Sky are the only ones who stand between this bloated Faust and the sweet fifteen-year-old’s of our democracy. And so, Mother, I ask you to hold your snout and approach this high-rise, stale, bedpan stink and enter that chamber where humans purport to think, and swallow his dark pulp, make it your own, so that the status antequam can return to when it was mainly you and I and the Man in the Sky who determined the outcome of the struggle between good and evil, and not this amateur who would supplant us all. Therefore, let us ally ourselves with the Long Tails of the Southern District and, after you have supped, let them finish off what is left in the cup.

Much Love,

from Him who aims to please,

Your Devoted son,

Young Count Mephistopheles.

 

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(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 approaching forms.

 

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!

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