My Goddess’ Booty


I, Patriarch Enoch, lost as ever, still I remember you, your caresses, your tenderness and the beauty of your booty. Emotion grips my heart and my senses, the end is near I feel, but what does my death matter? I knew your arms, I knew the ecstasy, I saw you faint under my loving body, I still have the cries of pleasure rocking my ears that awaken me at nicht, oh sweetness, O Goddess ! I am enamored of your fruity beauty, your magnificence and your immense innocence.

I often speak to you when you are not here. Not because I miss you, impossible, you never leave me. I easily forget your physical absence and I speak to you as if you were close to me on the sofa.

What physical absence? You simply have the gift of ubiquity. While you live your fairy life, while you fly through the psi astral cosmo-plan, nothing prevents you from being near me while regretting the absence of my hands on you, down to the bottom. Because if I speak to you, we do not touch each other. Trinitarian communication is incomplete: the body language is lacking.

I know that if I can reach you and talk to you wherever you are, we are deprived of the delicious touch of your skin on mine, my hands on you running all around your beloved body. 

Deep in the heart of confusion
You came and chase my bad fevers
And I flamed like a juniper
At Christmas night in your fingers
Really I was born from your lip
Really you make my life begin (source)Louis Aragon, Suffit-il donc que tu paraisses ? Now I wonder how did Enoch find this French poem?


My fifth life, of course. Do not you want my old age to be a virgin of the heart? No, you do not want that. You love me without restriction, without any limit. You do not have a plan on me. Your yoke is very light, mine weighs nothing. We must both thank who is entitled to have the intense happiness of living such a love. I had never dreamed that he could exist on this material plane. There is a beginning to everything: it comes after the end of the world.

I want to sing the buttocks of my Goddess here. No words can describe the effect of my caresses on your pretty buttocks. Perfect effect. You feel it as I feel it. The emotion that grips you embraces me, just the same. Happy mortal who knows the sublime happiness of your bed, the delights of your mouth, the paradise of your body in gold. Your beauty my dove, your booty I love.

Happy as God in France, they said once in the land of Rabelais. Douce France ! Truculence, exuberance, impertinence, Renaissance. That was the time Rabelais communicates his drunkenness to the reader. The printing press had just been invented, the censorship of the Roman Catholic church was no longer going to be exercised over its eldest daughter,Rome called France : eldest daughter of the Church at least not by the means of the monks who were copying whose corporation was soon to disappear from history, swept away by technical progress.

This same technical progress today erases the old copyists that are the dusty and sclerotic publishing houses to open the internet to all freaks, mad researchers, scriptomaniacs, discoverers of treasure in the bottom of the ancient mines. Thanks to the web, a new Renaissance is coming up, which is just beginning, which has not finished surprising us. Isn’it mythical to live such a burst of freedom? Only that fact redeems all the virtual excesses and sins.

Happy as Rabelais in France, I want to say. I am lucky to be and to love in the country of the sweetness of life, on this land of magic that is old Brittany,

such stone walkways
so windy roads.

Happy as the craftsman who does the job he loves, happy as the loner who is master at home. Happy as the lover filled by the love of the one he loves. Happy as the author filled, as the inventor reinvented, the rerouted router who blesses but who doubts, the farmer half-open, the finder locked up, the buried gravedigger, the burrower discarded, when the sower gets into it, when the midwife go to bed there. Happy as the happiness of being, happy as love itself, in love with the happiness of loving. Pass rains of flowers, fly a thousand birds.

I love you in the face as the insurgent likes his last breath against the firing squad. I love you as you play your life in Russian roulette. Who is afraid of dying, dies of rot. That’s the way, no one will change anything. All that is born of the flesh must die in its flesh, even if it lives a hundred thousand years, death one morning will take it. Or the next night if he’s tough.

Eros and Thanatos are in a boat. Coda: to the chorus. Love and death embrace each other, sing endlessly their wolf angel. The sacred Eucharist of bodies in the embrace of love, the divine effusion of two interpenetrating souls, the happy union of two hearts that aspire only to unity.

You are my life, you are my death and all that follows. To always live my dream in your soft and firm arms, strong and fragile like you. And we will dance under the nose of the Cyclopes, and we will go to sing our nostalgic loves, and we will shudder in the underdog nights, and then we will sleep at the stall of the stalls.

Fewer pale faces, smaller blasphemies.



Author’s WordAuthor Sword?

A very small word after these last words of Enoch, of which I am but the translator. This prayer of the patriarch may surprise by his greenness: other times, other manners. Sing the buttocks of the one we love, is it a crime? No way ! Enoch feels lost, I suppose he is already in the Multifold when he writes this. The cry he utters is a delirium of love, of shared pleasure, of lively joy and not of despair. He does not know if he will get out, he is ready for the big departure, he wants to leave this world by singing his joy at having lived all that. I promised you that I will go see for myself what he is going back to in his life, and what happened to him after the story he made that stops here. I will go, I said it, it is promised. In the meantime, I wanted to post these last snippets written by the hand of Enoch, which bring a new light on the great traveler of time. See you soon, for the true continuation of his adventures … if by chance I put my hand on him in the folds of the Multifold! XS

Nowhere I am something that belongs to someone, and nowhere there is something that belongs to me.