A Song of Shit

Farasha Euker

This is how I recognize an authentic poet: by frequenting him, living a long time in the intimacy of his work, something changes in myself, not so much my inclinations or my tastes as my very blood, as if a subtle disease had been injected to alter its course, its density and nature. To live around a true poet is to feel your blood run thin, to dream a paradise of anemia, and to hear, in your veins, the rustle of tears.

Emil Cioran, “A Short History of Decay”
Shit,
It is all there is!
A human is nothing
more nor less than
a rotting, moving, dying, talking
pile of putrid excrement:
SHIT.
A fascist is a shit face
but come on,
a communist is the offspring
of shit, which begets shit.
Rolling around in pig dung
cannot make us dirty,
but can only free us from
the illusion that we are
cultured animals.
But the only culture we
have is of the bacterial sort.
All we are is self-conscious
shitting shits
that beget not and are not begotten,
since all there is, is shit,
and so you could say that
I am a scatologically inclined Spinozan;
a proponent of the unity of Shitzistence,
a pan-turdist,
who knows
that all things, including—especially—life
are unreal save for shit,
and shit is IT:
It is the semiotic signifier for
a life without meaning;
It is pure death sprung from
the illusion of life,
which fertilizes more life/illusion,
but it is just the expansion and contraction
of shit,
the be all and end all of all that is.
Shit is the
substance and accident,
macrocosm and microcosm,
one and nothingness,
nirvana and Brahma,
prayer and fucking,
and shitting.
And since shit is the only reality,
shit always shits itself.
Birth is nothing more than
a self-reflexive bowel movement
that penetrates itself
for the bowel and the bowl
are shit as well…
and you and I—no such thing really!—
live in this shit called Hell:
Heaven = shit
Earth = shit
Hell = shit
you = shit
me = shit
Dante = shit
green shit, brown shit, black shit, stinky shit—
All illusions!
Shit is the purely impure
undifferentiated Reality:
Shit.