Sunday, August 14, 2011

A Barf in Church

Once there was a Maenad, clever and dull at the same time, walking barefoot along the road, singing her little songs to herself, dancing tiny jigs, chasing fireflies when it got dark.

By and by along the long road, she passed a beautiful temple being built, to Aphrodite, perhaps, with strong pillars being erected and rose gardens planted. Sometimes, a knight came by, a Templar perhaps, in black armor battered. He sat with her on the temple steps and watched her, her dirty feet cavorting, her jiggly form and face saucy, her green eyes flashing. He told her stories and secrets, fascinating her, making her listen and wriggle and lust.

All around, the temple, slowly, continued to be built. And the stories and the eyes of the Templar were fine, beyond any she had yet heard or seen.

But one night, being oftentimes a foolish, greedy, impatient, and oblivious girl, she became hungry, and went out back of the temple and began digging in the dirt, for milk, or honey, or pecans, or whatever the earth, however uninterested in her rantings, would give.

Disregarding the temple and the Templar, she dug and dug with her thyrsus stick, on and on, and by and by she found a slightly glittering lump in the sand, something her eyes, her wanting belly and wanton heart, deemed nutritious.

Though this lump she’d found was not hers, she took it, turned it over in the hazy light of the moon and her own silly mind, put it in her mouth and bit down. It hurt the maenad’s teeth, being a pebble, and not food, and not something she should consume. Trying to cough it out, she, instead, swallowed it.

Anything that shouldn’t be eaten must soon be passed from the body, and she did, ralphing it upon the temple floor at the unfortunate Templar’s feet.

Being a kind and compassionate Templar, he expressed his sorrow at what she had done, ignoring the stink of sick that wafted and curled nauseatingly between them. Being who he was, he stroked her hair and comforted her, and though thoughts of ravishing her exposed neck with his teeth might have arisen, he did not act upon them.

Still, the emesis’ ugly stink spread throughout the temple. The dust of building settled. The songs of worship fell silent.

In the quiet, she stopped and considered. It became clear to the clever yet dull maenad that stories and secrets can better nourish one’s soul than pebbles. She had been digging when instead, she should’ve been singing to the universe, or bantering with the Templar, and remembered that there are places made specially to disgorge the contents of one’s innards, and the middle of a temple isn’t one of them.

So the maenad, with bucket and mop, returns to the temple. The mess has been washed away, but she continues to polish the floor, trying to lull her delirious soul into patience. In the meantime, she thinks on stories, and secrets, and smiles.


Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme. -- LeBon, Rhodes, Taylors

1 comment:

Wigwam Jones said...

The technicolor yawn of mystery.

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