written by Juliana Spahr but in debt to Cassandra Gillig
It’s a story we all know. She was right fair, noble body and of heart, and was rich of goods. And yet she lived near a provost, a provost of a low lineage, who was lecherous, avaricious, and a miscreant and paynim. His lowness ranged from rape to belittlement, and for to accomplish his evil desires fleshly, and to have riches, did do take her to be presented and brought tofore him, and began to behold her with a lecherous sight for she looked pretty when she smiled and she should smile more so he said. Then began a series of events to get her to consent to his will and to smile more. Some did do put her in a dark prison. Some did do a keg stand in her name. Others did her to be tormented in her breasts and paps, and commanded that her breasts and mammels should be drawn and cut off. Some read Mark Strand RIP to her. Some did do put her back in a dark prison with no food and no medicines. It is said that she went gladly. That she said your words be but wind, your promises be but rain, and your poems be as rivers that pass, and how well that all these things hurtle at the foundement of my courage, yet for that it shall not move. That she said Over felon and cruel tyrant, hast thou no shame to cut off that in a woman which thou didst suck in thy mother, and whereof thou wert nourished? But I have my paps whole in my soul, of which I nourish all my wits. And yet she healed and when the provost realized she was healed he made her, all naked, to be rolled upon burning brands. And it was then that the ground began to tremble from an earthquave and a part of a wall fell down. So the people came running unto the house of the provost, saying, in a great bruit, that the city was in a great peril for the torments and commanded that she should be remised in prison. And then he didn’t listen and so they then sacrificed a goat in the same of Satan and then of a police officer in the name of Anne Boyer. And then great many did do the putting on of a robber outfit, smashing window after window of the provost’s office, hopping in and out, delicately, grabbing what they could. Smoke bombs and roman candles filled the air. There were more kegstands. There was a long line. All for Anne. Others castrating, choosing at random. Some asked for volunteers, some volunteered. Many rigged some shit so they were connected to wires and flew around Peter Pan style, screeching. Many had a loaded gun, safety off, in their hand the entire time. I am supposed to shotgun a beer here and then tase David Buuck while Stephanie Young shaves every man that still has hair with a shitty bic razor, the dull one I used earlier in the day to shave my legs, underarms, the edges of my bush, especially the front lower bottom, next to my cunt hole which I try to keep trim for the same reasons that I try to smile more when I am around men and the provost. I am to do forced bloodletting of all the men here until they pass out and then make them drink the blood to revive. Then I am to say in the same of St Agatha fuck voting, fuck the idea of cameras on cops mattering. And in the name of Anne Boyer, all marriages and all couple forms. Gun control too. And that Ferguson hug photo. And so when Agatha comes out of the prison she will do join her hands, do hold them heavenward, and do say in praying: Stand on the bar, stomp your feet, start clapping / Got a real good feeling something bad about to happen / Drinks keep coming, throw my head back laughing / Wake up in the morning’ don’t know what happened / Whoa… Something bad / Whoa… Something bad. And after that for to prove that she has done prayed for the salvation of the country, there will yet come at the beginning of February, the year after her martyrdom, a great fire, coming from the mountain toward the city to burnt the earth and stones, it will be so fervent.
