bessek, one
true glorifier,
sitting,
living, ageing in the woods:
yes, it is
his natural habitat now
and it is talked about by strangers
holding chairs for applied sciences, dead or alive
hiding in outdoor outfits (in expensive ones)
taking pictures of bessek from a distance.
grace lies in living in tiny holes and caves,
in folds:
in a thousand folds!, they write.
AS IF!,
bessek exclaims—
rejecting every theory—high theory!—of folds, of folding,
of “THE FOLD”.
of “THE FOLD”.
in a world,
bessek says, pretending to be nothing but sleek
everyone’s worshiping nothing but folds.
but no one,
bessek knows, sees them for what they really are:
places of
dirt and dead skin and hair and fingernails
and all the inanimate rest.
if the
human race, bessek explains,
will ever leave our three inexpressible planets
nothing but
this debris will remain:
lingering
infinitely,
lingering
in stupidity.
instead of folds—be
it the fictitious academic cosmopolitan, be it the rural proletarian, sometimes
random kind—bessek glorifies nothing but the woods
for they
are one gigantic mess
existing in
complete disregard of theories
of folds.