The steppes of Kopet Dagh, the requiem for a derelict goat’s ninth ghost, twin sisters calling out kin with thrown bones reading both in backaways for now. Here we enter the wheelhouse of Saint Sebaceous, where a broth of wormwood sits in a bucket of silent pine and the maps are all made of steam. “This world is a formal lie elicited by the crooked birds of the taller grasses, I am thirsty! Think, brother, we are rolling.” From where the mountains saddle the sky to the puddles of loess and tectonic revisions of the valley there are a host of ways to fuck it all up, and Saint Sebaceous has eaten them all. Wind squalls shadow the gorge into a parable of isolation until bottoming at the foothills where the marrow of the river runs clear. Come nightfall chicken fires shitkicker into the unassailable mnemonics of the Nicaean Stomp as the desert hyenas prowl just outside the stone circles in a shakedown at the outskirts of the light. Saint Sebaceous reaches for a pomegranate with half a kestrel and a claw, he scores the fruit tossing the arils onto the dirt floor then sets about deciphering the seeds, cataloguing the visions and tumbledown djinns that rise up like feather grass from the albino sands, that run a spun break for the beyonding, at the terminus of the Silk Road, lost in a tell.
Jeffrey Little | How Wheat Thinks Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)