Only for the medieval monk is jouissance equivalent to his habit: a fantasy dirty ditty about the phallacy of institutional religion (I am thinking Of Archbishop John Charles McQuaid, having just read Ordinary Saints by Niamh Ní Mhaoilcoin (2025) London, Manilla Press – blog on that coming soon)
It clung to me that habit of sackcloth
And ashes into ashes made crusty
Around the staff that crumbled like a moth
Burning in the flame it wanted. Musty
Perfume that once was sweet in smell and taste
On tip of tongue, now rank into dusty
Corners slinked and then folded into paste
Arising, stiffly limping. Do I
Feel only sad tired joy now; Do I
Renounce this habit: should it ever come to fit,
Ill befalls monk's unseen joy under a habit!
Having worn out the anticlerical tropes, let’s cleanse ourselves in naked joy with whom you want not whom you must be with!
With love
Steve
Steve_Bamlett_blog 