Let It Be a Blood Ape on the Prowl…
This antic text was passed to me by a friend, Laila. One evening, in an alleyway in Kentish Town, behind the restaurant she was then working at, next to the large kitchen bin, she came across a ram’s skull, with involute horns, which was swagged with fruit and vegetable peelings, and looked, in Laila’s words, ‘like some pagan fetish.’ Threaded through the empty orbits was a strip of paper, like a length of tickertape, on which, in a tiny meticulous hand, was written what seems an evocation of sorts, which I present here. Of all the texts I’ve found or been given, it is perhaps the one that disturbs me most.
Soundtrack: Cursillistas, ‘Drone (Groan)’
Let it be a blood ape on the prowl and a stooping screech owl, let it have a tapir’s snout, a hagfish’s grisly gape, a fox’s mealy muzzle, a goat’s breath and grizzled beard, a sea devil’s lure, a vulture’s ruff and tonsure, a platypus’s venomous spur, a lobster’s claw, a badger’s paw, give it a toad’s throat sac, an armadillo’s plated back, the mandibles of a stag beetle, a turkey’s snood, carbuncle, and wattle, a hog’s bristles and wild eye, the bottle-green sheen of a blowfly, and flesh soft, pallid like a grub’s, give it a warthog’s tusks, a narwhal’s braided horn, and the tottering gait of a foal newborn, let it have a rat’s tail, a man o’ war’s scourges, a goat’s lustful urges, a cock like a ram’s, a weasel’s sneer, an echidna’s spines, let it whine like a hyena, whoop like a gibbon, yowl like a mandrake, growl like a bear, let it live in air, in water, on land, and let it wait in the dark to gnaw out his pineal gland.