All Hail the Old Gods, for it is They who
set aflame the hearts unfeeling;
It is They who wrench the body through
with searing Life instead of Death, which
the White God brings shrouded as a
gift in shimmering golden ribbons;
Drink not from the well of the White God for
its nourishment is False; He is the father
of eternal servitude and wasted blood;
For He provides Death and calls it Life; and
in Death rejoice his loyal followers who even
in Life are cold as stone in the ground; chained
forever in the Tomb of the Slain;
Partake not from the body nor the blood of
the White God; For they who partake of Him
must be then cleansed of deadly venin
which sets outright to erode the Mind and
isolate the Spirit;
They who partake of Him are damned to dwell
within the Sepulchre of Servitude Eternal:
For He the White God casts them into chains
and seals closed the book of their Fate;
Their cold blood becomes Him and their eyes
cease to see the light of the Morning nor
the Fires of Truth; their soul is condemned and
chained to Fear, who masquerades as Salvation.
Heed not the word of the White God, for it is Fear’s
Glory to the Old Gods for it is They who
burn the high white altar in reverence to
Life; it is They who keep alight the Fires of
Truth; it is They who are unafraid of Fear;
it is They who laugh at Fear and stamp it out.
A bus ride in Spain is just a bus ride. It’s not one of those hard throttling things barely keeping tires to the tracks through some muggy snake-infested jungle. You’re not fearing for your life every second. You know how the other worries tend to slip away when you’re afraid for your life? I find that soothing. Let’s do more of that.
Because a bus ride in Spain rolls from prim little pueblo to industrial complex-lookin little pueblo past little dump camp to same little pueblo again — and you’re panicked because you must have missed your stop and stayed on the bus all the way through its route but then you realize oh, no,
these towns are just one and the same.
The same baked brown and mucusy white like sins of the internal body smeared out on burning pavement. The whole place is a goddamn effigy in creamy neutrals, you can taste the virgin blood in the air but you musn’t speak of it. The grizzled little brown man that hangs out in the park speaks of it, y con ese no se habla.
Vaya, España: so much sun like a torch up my asshole. Searing. Such brutal and determined gazing: the blunt-eyed glare of a true and thorough Spaniard. The look of the town might once have been lovely but the dictator snuck in and graffitied the place with his budget cuts. you know what they say, no peace beneath the pomegranates.
Spain is the place the tourists come to hack off their jeans and undo their shirts another button. Spain is the last place you will ever be late. Spain is the sun when you really don’t want it though the natives are all walking round in scarves and jackets. Spain is dry sugar cane stock and agave and olive trees. The raw olives bleed red like cherries. Do not eat raw.
then the city oranges — at best those are naranjas pa’zumo, at worst they’re solid blocks of dry rancid sour mesh, thickly diseased. we no eat that. learned the hard way, as children and outsiders do.
rather eat the prickly pears. the kakis (a ripe kaki is like a swollen alien breast, savor the meat.) got lots o’ juniper, you like gin? well let’s make some. that’s why I’m here, anyway. a proper guiri is always wasted, and just look at me wasting away.