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As luck would have it, FREE artists anticipate the work of liberation, and the rebel Dado is already on the job. He unpicks the formolized corpses of your Great and Good ancestors of the courts of Europe in that Ancien Régime which perished in the first Revolution. Watch out, for through them, he attacks the carcasses of the current ORDER, not yet dead and scampering about like headless, beakless ducks […]
In this book, Dado could just as well have introduced some bell-pulls pulled from Télé 7 Jours, Tribune, Libé or Charlie Hebdo – all newspapers for whom you play the phoenix or headman to those who vent moral outrage against whomever is unlike you, and especially against whoever disagrees with you on problems like everyday subordination or witch-hunting Muslims, and against all those who reject the “End of History”. Your reason toes the line, intoning an insane litany. When it comes to it, having noted the immoderate language of your judgments, we are impressed, not by your pompous and hackneyed arguments, but by how blind and fearful you have become confronted by the NEW DICTATORSHIP whose servile apologists you are. […]
Across the centuries, meticulously, Dado performs his autopsy on your rigor mortis.
Painstakingly, he loosens the masks in which your inkhorn, hagiographical acolytes dress up your immortality.
Our eyes are drawn to the exposed, drooping breasts of a queen who has spawned a line of still-born kings. Observe the murderous dugs from which cherubim suck their venom. They burst, one to one side, one to the other, albeit most regally, and, following in her weeds, she succeeds each of them. Her short cape mimics the wings of the vampire she is, staining her country and the streets of Paris on St. Bartholomew’s Day with blood.
Her daughter, Queen Margot, she of the searing menstruations, then Mary Tudor, dubbed Bloody Mary after her thirst for hemoglobin.
Ignatius of Loyola, Superior-General of the Society of Jesus, the Company whose tutors were so fond of corporal punishment and a firm smack.
Willem Van Oranje.
St. Vincent de Paul, galley chaplains, and Queen Margot. It was surely the flighty ways of this fine dame that inspired him to set up his charitable Company of (fallen) Daughters.
Pastor Melanchthon, we had forgotten about your titanic erection during the elevation of the host. Now I recall how you would lean your Bible on this natural lectern before launching into a sermon. And, as you listed the temptations that all good people should resist, you’d ogle some swelling breast or sweeping hip, or the detail of a beauty spot near the ear of some married lady ready at your bidding to assuage the spewing devil ’twixt your thighs.
And His Holiness Leo X, Pope and superfluously enormous cock, well-nigh obsessive for that great CASTRATOR of books you were. Via your overlordship of the dominating European religion, our mind passes to your distant successor, the Roman Pope from the Tyrol and Hitlerite veteran who has abandoned the responsibility of dragooning the WHITE church to the one-time Francoists of OPUS DEI.
Burst corpse with your guts in the air, beneath the veneer of your frigid, graying looks we just make out your boney heads craving powers that escape you in your tomb. Sometimes we glimpse a talon. Waving, begging.
— My piggy-bank, my kitty… my cashbox.
Short-limbed dwarfs and stocky, heavy-papped females, you are the phantoms and inevitable abyss of the coming chaos of ORDER, that of bygone days and the spit and image of our daily lives.
Does the word “dog” bark? a poet in the maquis once wondered. And doesn’t tripe (when not bubbling away à la mode de Caen) pollute the blank page with scatological stench? The tripe of your Commanders dribbles down the gangrened paunches lanced by Dado’s scalpel.
His brush draws out your viscera, yellow and green.
A murky hue of angst-ridden bile.
Marseille, March 8, 2008
Translated from French by D. Radzinowicz