Order of the Fly

 

A platoon of non-pulchritudinous bombasts anchor an invisible frame in vain hopes that Persephone gonna fall into their snare…..goons, whose beaming, seamy, farcical faces & plastic facades ripple like the clammy flesh of a Humboldt squid during a light show. They hooked on stupid……they booked on banal…..on brutal…..on terminal overdrive. 

Hubris be they mantra. Hyperbole punctuate they coarse, testy commando communication…..porcine grunts & piglet squeals be they speech. They congregate on the moon cycles to double down skyclad in a darkened thicket, making libations & salutations to the horned ram headed god of bestiality & besmirching…..crushing psilocybin shrooms underfoot & stirring they potent precious concoctions with blood & Bordeaux for a biennale on Beltane.

This be no Stonehenge……no…..not a nod to the glorious rites of spring, but a pact with # 15 of the tarot deck….the wolf pack…..an inverted entente with him downstairs. Dante’s Dis in the Inferno’s frozen lake. As the rowdy, reeling participants gorge on bloody  morsels & dainty rosy delectables, blithely unaware of they inevitable karmic descent for favours proffered in extasis
drogas, Comus makes an historic entrance to the Masonic fray.

Gossamers of photosynthetic greenery dangle from every pulsating orifice of the glistening bodies, writhing & ejaculating in dripping fecund embraces. Ooohhhh! Milton be rolling over in his grave……FR! The head spin doctor seize an unsuspecting poule…..a clucking hen, to dispatch it to its’ fate as blood sacrifice……to cement the deal.

With speedy resolve, they sever the poule’s head from its’ quivering body. Spin Doc drains its’ blood into a silver chalice……stirs in more funghi poud & the remaining Bordeaux to sweeten the oblation. The coven members each partake of the communal cup, under bespoke inverted crucifixes & pentacles dangling from tree boughs in honour of the Green man & his accomplices…..Or Baron Samedi himself….in all his thrusting orgiastic fury.

When the ordeal be done & Comus be gone, placated snoring peasants be splayed out like dead fish & overfed puppies under the drowsy heat of the noonday sun…..spreading they limbs akimbo like drunken farmers in a burlesque Brueghelian  landscape, for all they iniquities to be seen, in the glaring unflattering lux of day.

COPYRIGHT          ROBIN  RADEK             2025.