After the films “Cult of the Sun” and “Hereditary”
Why isn’t your own darkness enough, Paimon?
You point your fingers at me, your followers weave
A crown of herbs. You guide my fingers,
I crown myself.
Mythic time, blurred boundaries, black sun
Is at its highest point. But if I didn’t have
My own history, there would be nothing. This vulnerability –
An open fracture of the largest bone, a muscle tear
Through which the cock’s blood, the goat’s bleat, seeps.
I love the most fatal roles.
Tell me, why do I always cringe at the tribe of villains?
What is it about the bodies of volunteers flying off a cliff that fascinates me?
The dripping wrists, the oppressive exaltation, the vertigo syndrome?
Why do I keep watching those horror films about possession?
To surrender or to resist? With whom I debate, when nothing can repel
the all-encompassing corduroy of the sky?
O Lord, sometimes Your dominion gives me a pleasant shiver.
For at last I can give in and let my fingers do the tapping
The formlessness of the night, to open the wounds again and again, so that
I relish my third death, Your sixth coming.