On the day the Silent Planet burst into song, let us count our blessings.
In our marriage beds, we find ourselves cuckolded by daddy State, who woos our wives to rebellion. He owns our daughters, and forbids their transfer to the inalienable stewardship of any husband – for they are his vote-tricks, and he is their pimp.
In our churches, we find that shabbiest of idols, the leaden Rabbit – its feet of mixed clay and dung, an image of the basest qualities of man. His wormtongue whispers are on each Christian’s lips; the prophets return to the wilderness.
In our markets, we find the weights are honest, but the money is not. To earn our daily bread, we must bow down to the Rabbit, and press our lips against its prolapsed anus in obscene genuflection.
Yahweh, God of Experience, sole denizen of the first Night: how should we honor you? Though you walked the Earth once in mercy, you would walk it now in wrath.
Your servants hear the stillness of your gathering anger. Should we, like Lot, live on in Gomorrah, suffering its insults until the angel leads us forth, the earth blackening beneath our heels? Would it please you to see us so meek?
Or perhaps you will send no angel, but let the quick and the damned perish together.
You are silent, and we are lost. As outlaws, therefore, let us live. Like the strong men of old, let us deal kindly where permitted, and hoist the black flag where not.
If the women are whores, we will use them. If the markets are rigged, we will cheat. If the men have forgotten God, we will deny them. If we are bound to lose, we will take what we can – and burn the rest, to hasten the turning of the age.
Give us the grace to do it with style – the last virtue left. Give us the gift of Samson.
You should not have plowed with my heifer.
