THE HOLY BIBLE VOLUME 2, VERSE 4
"TODAY, MY GOOD BITCH, IS THE DAY WE ERADICATE THE MIDDLE DISTANCE ONCE & FOR ALL."—Eleanor Eli Moss
Discordia does not, it turns out, hate everything. Every other week, we share a piece of work from an artist who's earned our respect and affection.
There is art that moves us, and there is art that moves with us. This is Fellow Travellers.
THE HOLY BIBLE VOLUME 2, VERSE 4
LIKE A ROGUE FLOOD WE RUN YOU OUT OF TOWN WITH OBNOXIOUS INSISTENCE, WIELDING OUR HUNGER LIKE RIFLES IN THE HANDS OF GOD, SPARKS ALONG THE SHORE OF OUR RAGE, WET JUNK POURING FROM THE WORRYING SLIT OF THE INGLORIOUS END OF ALL THINGS IN A SHOW OF SUPPORT FOR THE GET-DOWN STAY-DOWN, THE BOTHERING, THE YES-I-AM, THE SUDDEN RUINATION OF A VERY FINE SUIT AS WE BEAT THE JAZZ OUT OF THE BOARD OF INVESTORS IN A SUBTLE LEAD-UP TO A GOOD OLD-FASHIONED SITDOWN, IN WHICH WE CRADLE THEIR FACES ONE-BY-ONE & TEACH THEM THE MEANING OF REDUNDANCY, BECAUSE TODAY, MY GOOD BITCH, IS THE DAY WE ERADICATE THE MIDDLE DISTANCE ONCE & FOR ALL, HAVING COVETED A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP FOR FAR, FAR TOO LONG, BUT AFTER THE SOFT, LINGERING SUCK ON THE NECTAR OF OUR ESTEEMED DELIRIUM, IN THE HARSH BASTARD LIGHT OF THE GODDAMN WORKDAY MIXED WITH THE DENTED RADIANCE DRIBBLING WETLY OUT OF THE INGLORIOUS END OF ALL THINGS, WE ARE FINALLY ABLE TO SEE FOR OURSELVES THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FLAWED & WRONG, & IT’S JUST FUCKING SITTING THERE, BURIED UNDERNEATH THE BURNT-OUT HUSKS OF ALL THE VERSIONS OF OURSELVES WE LEFT BEHIND OVER YEARS & YEARS, A CURSED & NECESSARY BREADCRUMB TRAIL THAT REGULARLY WALKS ITSELF OUT OF THE LAKE & INTO OUR BEDS TO TENDERLY SLIT THE THROAT OF THE VERY CONCEPT OF OUR OWN SELF-IMAGE, & EVEN AFTER ALL OF THIS WAITING THE MOMENT DOESN’T FIT QUITE RIGHT, THE ANGLE IS OFF, THE DAY IS BENT, WE’RE ALL JUST SO DAMN TIRED FROM DRAGGING AROUND THE INGLORIOUS END OF ALL THINGS, RIDDLED WITH THE GAPING WOUNDS OF ALL OUR GOODBYES & ENDURING THE CURSE OF COLD FEET, & YOU DON’T HAVE TO LIKE IT BUT THIS IS WHAT PEAK PERFORMANCE LOOKS LIKE HONEY BUN, WE MADE IT, THIS IS THE MOTHERFUCKING FUTURE & IT SUCKS TO BE ALIVE, BUT WE ARE ALIVE, WE BELIEVERS IN THE INFINITE NOTHING OF ALL POSSIBILITIES, WE WHO ARE SWADDLED IN PITIFUL MUSCLE & BLOOD, HOPING FOR JUST ENOUGH LOVE TO MAKE IT THROUGH THE WINTER, THE REDDISH PULSATING INSISTENCE OF OUR HEARTS’ DIVINE BULLSHIT ECHOING OUT ALONG THE STRAITS IN AIRBORNE PACKAGES OF CAVERNOUS INSIGHT INTO THE SUBCUTANEOUS TRUTH ETCHED INTO THE PARCHMENT OF EACH & EVERY ONE OF US BY ALL THE MORBID SHENANIGANS SPONSORED BY THE INGLORIOUS END OF ALL THINGS, IN BETWEEN ALL OUR ATTEMPTS TO DISTRACT OURSELVES FROM THE SIBILANT FACT THAT ONE PERSON’S VERY GOOD MORNING IS ANOTHER PERSON’S ACCIDENTAL DEATH, EVEN WHILE WE WERE JUST SAYING, HAVING HAD OUR DAILY CRISIS, HOW NICE THIS ALL IS, THIS SILENCE AFTER THE FACT, IF ONLY IN A RELATIVE SENSE, IF ONLY WHILE THE BLOOD’S STILL WARM, FAMILIAR, & SO ON, & IT REALLY IS NICE, WHICH, THINKING ABOUT IT NOW, IN THE POST-POST-CRISIS MALAISE, IS FUCKED, BUT, WELL.
ELEANOR ELI MOSS writes poetry. They’ve got a Substack and a forthcoming book. That’s it, really. You can figure the rest out as we go.
The cover of the forthcoming book in question is below.
Interested in being a Fellow Traveller? Email your poetry, prose, visual art, etc. to discordia.sucks@gmail.com. We pay (not much), and pieces are collected a few times a year in a small print edition.
Fellow Travellers “Eyes” banner adapted from Opal Louis Nations’ “An Eyeball Alphabet” (1980).
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