lives and works of bessek: die falte / the fold

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”.
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.