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Exclusive: An Interview with the Marquis de Sade

Image courtesy of Marden Nolasco.
Image courtesy of Marden Nolasco.

My hair is wet and dripping with the Sky’s seed. The window shows no picture of this world; its images are distorted by his refringent milk.

Balaustines grew pink on the tomb of the Wanted-Wonted Law. What freedom, unusual and undesired beneath the baptismal font, will rise up, and what peace is sustainable?

Father Sky has raped Mother Earth; it is true, once they loved. But on that day when she bore his hideous child, Purusha – that birth robbed her of the life-affirming spirit. And Purusha tore up his mother and forced on her a hundred heavy sorrows, which smoke with offerings to the Father.

And that golden bird, the thumping heart of Sky, reaches down and digs up the seed; but it is planted again. So Sky lies with Earth, sowing new scions of woe; and Earth weeps, and breathes: ἀποθανεῖν θέλω.

They say that besides those born in pairs, there is a seventh born alone. For de Sade is the very image we have dreamt of and his long locks flow like flame; truly, he says he has crafted a paradigm to illustrate all he sees. Who looked on this symbol and saw all the world around it?

Those who are female tell me they are male; those who are male tell me they are female. I know they are neither, and both; thus have we heard from the ancient sages who explained this truth to us.

Two birds sit sideways – one is burnt black with his dazzling fire, the other is white and glows with darkness all around. They perch on opposite spokes on the nine-spoked wheel with three naves, which are called Creation, Persistence, Destruction.

Who placed these birds, who fed them? Who carved their wheel and planned its nine spokes? Who crafted the great chariot which rolls impossibly onwards on one wheel, whither and whence?

Black Bird tries to burn the whole one-wheeled chariot with his torrents of orange-eyed flame and feathered sparks, for he loathes the wheel on which he spins. White Bird tries to flood the whole one-wheeled chariot with deep-sea streams and a caustic tide, for she loathes the wheel on which she spins. Their dialogue is at once destructive and nurturing; we fester in their fostering.

If I had wished to paint one of these embracing birds shot down with a hunter’s arrow, the hymn would be sung. Still the footprints of a forbidden pentameter are inscribed in these verses; but this shloka is a double amputee. Seven feet ballad themselves upon themselves, as the seven footsteps funereally stride across my mind.

Like a diamond necklace mined and crafted under a heavy hand, I wrought my own model. Father Sky is both vain and self-loathing, for he gazes every day in a salty mirror, but he destroyed my model with the fire of his heart.

I have one-hundred-and-twenty in my workhouse, hacking away at the principles of rebirth.