Meditation Excrementiele by Askold Skalsky

I fall into a bullshit meditation on a rainy Friday afternoon, absolute bullshit, holistic bullshit, bullshit metaphysic and totality. Yea, it’s all bullshit, omni grand and polymorphous shit. But from what position am I saying that? The witness place? Or from a lesser one? If from a lesser, my statement’s force and forceps is the same as the assertion that all’s beautiful, desirable, forever, after all—esthetic bullshit, alveolar, fractal meta-bull. It has stained my heels and made me batshit crazy, a part of its domain, bullshitting itself, bullshitting the angel wings of my idealismic gear. The bullshit has hit the cosmic fan at last, and Lo! it has scattered and dispersed itself into fine particles of bullshit mini-worlds, a biomass of thin particulate ordure hurtling through the unresisting voids of space, reduced to its brown microdots of taurian dreck, like buckshot cack, pellets of hell that will spare no one, no unsullied pretty face or pristine skin, mouse shit and squirrel shit, and every small intestine’s minute feculence freed from its peristaltic grunt. A macrosplat and bungaplop of sweet immaculate turdomass from heaven’s fundament of nether stars. You must have a lot of energy to write about shit, a lot of inspiration, someone once told me. And mine is flagging like a diarrhetic shitophobe’s, even after an exquisite three-course dinner, enjoyed for a small goatshit fortune in the mahoganied walls and chandelier-draped crystal starlight of some palace merdifique. It is the dung an sich on which time and space have draped themselves and all the ten thousand things of the floating world, turning in its toilet bowl, the bottom line of irreducible profundabutt. Even a God’s-eye view is Bullshit (I capitalize it in a last vestige of hallowed shitlessness), as an unconditional a priori manifest, a categorical shitoid truth at its excremental heights. I hereby consign it all to the Land of Shit in the absolute manifestation of unhesitating certainty. Only by such means will ye know that ye are wandering in coprophilic fields of asphodelian darkness, shit-eating Sisyphi pushing their fecoliths up the large intestine. That’s why Persephone could not return to dungy-land for good. That’s the meaning of the myth. She ate shit.

Originally from Ukraine, Askold Skalsky currently resides in Hagerstown, Maryland and has had poems in over 300 magazines and online journals in the USA as well as in literary publications in Canada, England, Ireland, mainland Europe, Australia and Bangladesh. A first collection, The Ponies of Chuang Tzu, was published in 2011 by Horizon Tracts in New York City.