Let's workshop this poem about the traumatic experience of a postulant who—at the threshold between mysticism and molestation—finds herself split, creamed, and gaslit by authorities she looks up to
The Rug of the Directress
To bring into the convent
earthly authorities
with their forensic kits
would only cloud
the matter: it was
an incubus who creampied
the teen postulant
during her absolution,
taking the form
of a hairy-eared priest
framed thrice now
in Satan’s anal-fissure game.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)