Of Merdia 7 - 11

Sadoo Diaper continues with Cloa Denum's

gripping scatomystical saga and liturgy, Of Merdia.

7.            I begin by testing my ability to control and soil.  I refuse the controls of my body and my mother, who emerge in my toddling mind as horrible allies, in secret league, with their own private language they share in silence and refuse to teach me, less from cruelty and more from their hard knowledge, gained through millennia of observation, that I am incapable of learning it.  Merdia's language is mine to learn, the language of angels and excrement.

8.            Through the beneficence of Merdia, I build small graceful statues instead of napping.  I line them on the parapets of my crib.  They harden in the heat and wreak their defiance at my mother's turgid assault.  The statues are destroyed, the war seems lost; but I have gained knowledge that is worth a thousand losses … I have learned how to rouse my mother's passion.

9.            I join the watery gangs of global children, floating efficient brown boats on our waves of freedom.  Though the Yellow Duck that Squeaks may initially appear to dominate the seas, it soon is clear that the small brigade of rafts, canoes and flotsam are clever: they surround the Fowl, their crafty tactics bring that duckie down.  It is wrought by standards in gross and metal tombs; we unthanked gangs create our toys from our natural exuberance.  This is why the Plastic Monster cannot win.

10.         I never lose the thrill of taking a dump.  It is an act of worship, a cry of triumph.  It unites savagery and inspiration.  It precedes God, civilization, art.  It precedes and predicts them, it’s their necessary womb.

11.         When I have the good fortune of using an outhouse, particularly the crude kind where the pit is shallow, open to the air and light and thus my eyes, I peer through the dark triangle formed by the rugged seat and my naked thighs and watch my creation piling, forming, steaming, rising¾live and virile and lovely.  I see the immediate gratitude of bugs, many of whom seem designed solely for this, who fight gloriously for a small patch on which to pitch the hungry tent of their body.  I see gods and masterpieces in the fresh sweet reek; these are the nutrients the bugs and I desire.  I rise from my proud production and know my goddess lives.