AE Reiff – prose


Eating ISusan

There is a highway right round earth that divides the ley lines north and south. It is the McDowell Gateway where a hundred pieces of Isis poison the world. Our tale tells how one night THE neighborhoods SOUTh began EATING  ISUSAN.

Susan is not just a problem requiring solution. Our questions deal less with her than the road to her, the plight and aspirations of our day. We propose following this cow to her sister cows to engage the problem of our times. Many distinguished betters had their Susans.

My search for Susan led to the memorial volumes kept by all abattoirs of her acquaintance, memoirs of a growing body of material where the great religion of Susan believes that flesh is wiser than mind. Susan who flowed like milk would be pleased to be without impediment of mind. She comes out of a trance relieved to be trotting home with gladness. Where she is when she’s in the trance who knows. That’s Susa.  She has a perfect relation with devotion and symbol of good mindlessness.

Susan and the religious character of this pastoral distinction can be understood only in light of nature, life and spiritual temper. What went on in the back yard may be regarded with disapproval but not surprise. Driven to pasture, doomed by nature and circumstance to strange excess and useless struggle, the books of the affairs of Susan are a memorial, for Susan had the impatience of a duck, the sensitivity of a cat and the nerves of Europe, Asia and America. Or properly speaking, Lady Ottoline, Lady Cynthia and Horrible Dorothy. For Susan was a natural if not inevitable result of the nerves and discontent of these extraordinary refugees. Her origin in nature would find a suitable place to develop among the coal pits where mostly night miners, those primitive Methodists, know the Unknowable on Tuesday nights, who have forgotten all their bones. There was only the one thing to do and they did it. They invented a private religion which always stands or feels like it stands naked for the fire to go through, rather an awful feeling, rushing from the Beyond with the Unknown and with the Infinite which in more suitable times might make us novelists. In this vast shimmering impulse of Susan which waves onwards towards the end, we, like rain drops falling back again into the sea, fall back into the shimmering, a theory of relation, mindlessness and blood, the primitive that believes in the unseen hosts. She doesn’t even know me, gloated knowledge. She doesn’t know I am a gentleman on two feet.

Why should a man even try to know a symbolical cow? Why should he have approached her in levity with religious awe, feelings more appropriate to High Mass? And why should this adoring company of readers assist so solemnly at her services.

The modern world, dead and corrupt before it died in vain for earthquake and revolution.

“The creatures outside looked from cow to man, and from man to cow, and from cow to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”

This  deep pleasure and profounder fusion were discovered in the polarity of mindlessness that ailed the world symbol of the good. Belief in the blood and FLesh, the milk wiser than both. a creature of emotion answers to the fribbling intervention of the smell of science mind free like the teats of a cow. Futurist, symbolist, nihilist the first great step in undoing. Ursula and countess Ladybird with their sermons on cogwheels,

the horse and its reluctant beast rider, the mare to face the railway crossing, cows, cats, fishes in mystical contemplation of the blossom.

Ursula, the teat,
Frieda beyond deep
Gudrun chaos of the world.
Nothing is so deep as the way to the four centers of the squeamish.

Tender and unknowable the process of the lumbar ganglion, the sacral and the cervical, the hypogastric and their eightfold polarities.

As far as the relation between Turk and his paramour, witnesses reported in memoirs of battles between those lovers around whose heads and feet cups and saucers, demoed objects flew. Mirrors, fountain pens loved each other that much, to perfect the Oedipus couple. He was Sigmund the perfect Wagnerite, she was a Polish governess who might have been said to polarize his wishes. It was a strange conjunctivo to admit this mental chummy. Her favorite month was May. Bold polarities among pantheists and vitalists, transcendentalists winging their giddy flights to the dark core of the sun were not just taking sunbaths, but under pine trees librating her soul what neither the neglect of vegetables, of carrots and squash, new Wordsworth sitting on his cold grey stone in the vernal wood would assemble on platters. The daisies in Plato were a matter this positive. Cups of peppermint in pots, dark promiscuous novel pairs, horses and cows of the very female sort had a soothing effect on them. When they sit with their heads in their sides milking they are solaced. As said, as Susan milked they gazed into her eyes. This prepared for the tragedy in every cow who has been both comedy and milk along the sylvan way. Anthropologists engage in her worship.

Cows of peace and plenty.
Cows and pines, drum and dance,
If Susan had gone to her nest among the trees that night,
she could wander with Miss Lucy to the moon.

 Susan might wander in the moon or as some cows will jump it, but the meaning of her confluence would escape all but the adept in sleep. Cow and moon and their almost unspeakable connection are known with the wisdom of the east handed down from that pineal daughter of the Chaldee who sees Susan plain in her loony light with Atlantis moonings. Not just for the mindless and the primitive for the Orient express this discontent with the here and now.

Susan like a goat or a cow in Swedenborg where the yogi was an early name for cow. These syntheses of the German, O Altitudo, were emotions starved by Darwin in his cities and factories, but Susan had been nude before the Flood. Those happy befallen Atlanteans  privileged to exhume her even after the passing egenerate.

The Egyptian Cow, the Hindu cow, the Aztec adepts of Hermes and Herakleitos, Mahatmas Blavatsky, who discover the secrets in their New York lodges, open the gates of the anima, Isis depending. Annie Butler Yeats said as much and Sinnett, friends of the Society where they read the works permitted to smell the spectral incense and hear the astral bells. These bridge the Birkeland gap between myth and symbol and land. Keys to the same cow the fallen angel overturned with convenient symbol and the early poems of mystery were written to this dictation. He had his tail in his mouth from Bolivia to Moscow who believed in metempsycowis, not the first hard experience of these disclosures. Sands of excitement plume the initiate. Concerns that control Houdini, better known as John Kunda, speak of a cow so occult that though it can not be understood until the fourth initiation is universally explored as the female principle of nature. The melodious cow horns veil symbol by cow. The cow like the moon would be impossible to suppose without the star that Mme unveiled, that most occidental bird of the Arab tree complaining that the turtle of our Phoenix was a cow.

But cows don’t eat at night.

Shall we dream of equal love for men, women, flower, cow? and their symbolic breasts who made the world safe for cow worship? My quest of Susan through the depths of animism and mindlessness, though puzzling and unprofitable questions confound the bovolatrous man who could not welcome those explorations of the limits of thought. For when the imagination has failed its alchemy and the absurd raw material remains raw and absurd, the meaning and value of the work seem foolish in devotion to the actual cow. The world as bad as the confessor allows, broken under, tore from the roots that clutch, closing barren leaves, the plight of sensitive men becomes worse.

Bergson and Nietzsche fled with the reasonable men of the cows, calling to Wagner and his congregants against the round of a barbarous. The deep of Wagner called to the deep of the perfect Wagnerite social and economic orders to find a cow, not merely the cow of the flesh, nor merely the lost cow of youth, but the image of a strong and wise cow of the mind’s life. I repeat, there is no reason to quarrel with them about cows. These Birkelands are completely realized in their course between the rock of dogma and the mysticism of cow.

The great Fred Nietz thought us all happy cows whose rivulets dance our wayward rounds in beauty born of murmuring sound. Cow poets and chicken fat. That cute little donkey a mule or a poet? Believe it not we could answer this. Do you wonder why they looked for fire when Susan drove up in their midst and waved? Were they proud that Mercury had crossed both angles of the county lane. Fire is the spark extinguished by sky in cold air. To get the distance right, a nautical mile being 1852 meters, being a mean of 1852.3m in a sea mile, about 1,861 meters at the poles and 1,843 meters at the Equator, this  geographical mile must equal one minute arc of longitude along the Equator: 1855.4 m for the International (1924) Spheroid,[5] or 1855.325 m for the WGS 84 ellipsoid, a telegraphic mile rounded to the length of a minute of arc on the Equator. A data mile is 6,000 feet as approximation, which numbers attached keep appearing.

Cow speech, goat thought reverts that tongue prospecting spades and boots. To say there is some ethic prime directive of electrosmog, something like phantasia -inversion, or as said about Silent Weapons for Quiet Wars- “found in an IBM copier at a surplus sale,” suspiciously dovetailing the lost Borges years,” that “shoots situations, instead of bullets,” well, as the thinking moon came nearer to SueQ, it gave text to language rays and universals. What about goats? What about chickens? What about asses? What about pyramids? Project “Silent Talk” detects the word-specific neurals before speech to see if patterns generalize. Once an ass would speak, it will not stop. Chickens also churn their stripes. Wide Eyed– Persistent Stares of drone use mosaic video and auto-track pattern-of-life data from cellphone cameras inside the footage area, chronograph movements and forensic rewinds of footage catch the Gorgon Google Stare.

But I leave this primitive plumbing for you spiritual creatures who see something beyond. Marie Antoinette with her milk pails croons. It was in Phoenix we met Susan who ate pumpkins to so much success. Susan among the dances. Susan upon the berm, Susan’s face more than dimples, fore the timeless, symbolic breast of great ages. Look reverent you triple life-sized interstates in Mack truck boyos. Here I am with a cow and this grass. What better to enjoy lucidity. Susan a creature of wood cow Crete. Whether  in Cambridge or Iceland or dead, the cow will always be there.



AE Reiff has taken the first degree in surfactant hydrocarbon remediation. He twice escaped PopTart nomination and investigates leftists at EncouragementsForSuch


About gobbet

gobbet is a literary magazine dedicated to publishing the very best experimental poetry and prose. Intellectual perversity and explorations of dark themes are positively encouraged. We are only interested in work that is progressively experimental. We want to see risks, and we want to see them pay. No previously published work. Prose should not be longer than 1000 words. There are always exceptions. Send 3-5 poems. Include a short bio. Send submissions to Work will be published every 5-10 days. We also intend to publish anthologies of selected work published in gobbet. We will do our best to reply promptly. Most submissions will receive a decision within a month.
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