FacebookTwitterGoogle+RedditEmail

Samson Agonistes (Confession of a Terrorist/Martyr)

“But what more oft in Nations grown corrupt, And by their vices brought to servitude, Than to love Bondage more than Liberty; Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty…”

Milton, Samson Agonistes

“She’s so cool, wanna see her tonight… She’s so cool, wanna see her tonight…”

The Damned, Damned, Damned, Damned

Mother visited me in my cell not long after the Philistines, having nabbed me, The Warrior, sacked my town.

“Of all the shiksas in Hebron, you have to s shtup a narc with “government agent” scratched all over her painted face?”

“But I knew that ma! I was using her, to, to get to the ‘inside.'”

“Hah! Inside of who?”

“Mom!”

“I died the day you married a Goy!” Mothers can be so cruel and unforgiving. Also, right. I had no idea Delilah was working for The Man. Not like my first Philistine bride, who I married for the Wedding Banquet. Big Bash. Wasted the guests and servants, then ambled into town to finish their kin. And finally, my betrothed, after I “consummated” the marriage.

What was The Man gonna do, kill me? Him and whose army? I’d already destroyed so damn many.

“Tell me a secret,” whispered Delilah one night when I could see her (though not through her, an ability which would have helped my cause immensely).

“I don’t wanna.”

“You don’t love me.”

“Lemme sleep on it. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“Get out! Get out and don’t come back until you’re ready to talk.”

She was hot, sizzling, like oil upon an altar. Sure there were maidens “as fair” from my own people. But you read Genesis: forbidden fruit, etc. So one night I whispered in her ear while we were fucking. She hadn’t even asked me that evening – cause for suspicion. Perhaps that was her plan.

I woke up next morning bald as an egg. Not even strength enough to break the cords they bound me with much less kill the goons who proceeded to hang me upside down and scorch my eyes with molten bronze. No excuses. She didn’t even get me drunk – I don’t drink wine. All brawn and no brains? Stupid? Or just tired and in love? Really in love. Even warrior/saviors, go soft and human and squishy inside, on occasion. That’s when The Man gets you.

Delilah light of my life, before you cut my hair off and your goons put out my eyes, I was your Hercules your dreadful circumcised…

Back in the day I crushed their legions with a bone. Back in the day. Had I a sword upon me I’d have skinned them like the lion I tore apart with my infant fingers – how old was I when I smote that rough beast, five, six? On a level field I was unbeatable. On a level field. I wasn’t born for this, to be led before them by a slave-boy for their thrills; to be worked like a slave and beaten like a slave and laughed at like a clown and then dismissed to sleep on stones like an old blind beggar fool!

I can’t on. I must go on. The Man is not all seeing and all powerful: his henchmen miss the obvious things. The little things such as: the almost imperceptible growth of my hair. In by inch day by day, in every way, I grow stronger.

“Oh Lord, what long-haired Nazarite will next You call to sacrifice himself upon the alter of The Man of Play Doh and his Silly Putty gods “in defense” of the folks back home?”

DON’T BOTHER ME. I’M BUSY.

“Honestly. Who’s next? Your own first born?”

THOU SPEAKEST VAIN WORDS UNTO THE LORD. BUT, IT’S AN IDEA…

She visited me in my cell. Before the festival of Dagon and the games – had I but eyes to see I could have beaten their best youths… Olfactory rush of perfume and her natural scent a burst of pheromones they knocked me for a loop…

“Dare you come to me in my misery, oh whore?”

“Just business, Sammy. You know I always loved you,” her voice was like a hand caressing me. Then indeed, she caressed me with her hand.

“Business. What did they pay you for my ruin?”

“Not money. Blood. These are my people.”

“Your people who make servants of mine.”

“And when you were on top? Who were the servants then?”

She reached under my tunic –

“I…why do you…”

— and ran her fingers through my hair – “It grows…”

“What – the hair…”

“That too-”

She squeezed –

“Why do you come to me?”

Harder.

“To ‘level the playing field.'”

“The –

“Tomorrow they will parade you, a trophy, before the games -”

“Uh-”

“Blind, tired under the burning sun…you will beg to rest against the pillars of the Great Statue of Dagon…”

“Buh-

“Yes. I will be there too. No more business. You and I. Together.”

“Together.”

“The end.”

I came in her hand. She rubbed my gray Jewish spunk on her bronze Philistine breast. Nothing more was spoken when she left.

They came for me in the morning. The slave boy whose lot in life it was to lead me, reluctant dog that he was, took my hand, wiped snot on my shoulder. Drums, trumpets, roar of the drunken crowd. Happy to have tamed the Hebrew beast. Fat and drunk with wine and music. Powerful. Safe. What right have the philistines to drink and eat and celebrate their games while Israel starves, the men of Judea bent under fat masters? Our women abused by worshippers of Dagon serpent fish-god or whatever reeking of sex he’s so damned ugly at least Yahweh has the decency to keep himself unseen…

“Boy! Lead me to the pillars of Dagon. I would like to rest…”

He sighed and spat upon my feet. Apparently, I’d waken him, this brat born to serve as I was born to… kill? defend? I pressed a palm against each cold stone pillar and prayed.

“C’mon, Yahweh. After all I’ve done for you and our ‘People.'”

WHAT HAST THOU DONE FOR ME LATELY?

“Well, look at me. I’m all messed up. Blind.”

I GAVEST THOU TWO HEADS. IS IT MY FAULT THOU THINKEST WITH THE ONE BENEATH THY TUNIC?

“Just one more job. For old times’ sake.”

WHOSE ‘OLD TIMES?’ MINE, OR THAT STRUMPET’S IN THE STANDS?

“She’s your creation, Almighty, All-seeing, All-knowing Lord. If You created such a whore, was it not for a reason? To tempt me? To get me here, now, in a stadium packed with idol-worshippers, that I might smite them?”

AND THE WOMAN.

And myself.

ABOVE THE PILLARS IS THE STATUE OF DAGON.

“So I’m told.”

I AM A JEALOUS GOD. I HATETH DAGON’S FISHY GUTS. TAKEST OUT DAGON AND THE REST WILL FOLLOW…

“Read you, Lord. Roger and out.”

Flaccid Philistines and glitter wives. Roar of faces. Trumpets. Drums. You’re out there Delilah I can smell you though my eyes are black holes my living senses burn like 10,000 Samson-blinding suns…

So, I leaned against the pillars that supported the Great Statue of Dagon (as well as the rest of the stadium) and with a shake of my suddenly very long, very thick and very curly black hair, I huffed and I puffed and I pushed the house down.

ADAM ENGEL lives and works in NYC. He can be reached at asengel@attglobal.net.

More articles by:

Adam Engel is editor of bluddlefilth.org. Submit your soul to bluddlefilth@yahoo.com. Human units, both foreign and domestic, are encouraged to send text, video, graphic, and audio art(ifacts), so long as they’re bluddlefilthy and from The Depths.

November 19, 2018
David Rosen
Amazon Deal: New York Taxpayers Fund World Biggest Sex-Toy Retailer
Sheldon Richman
Art of the Smear: the Israel Lobby Busted
Chad Hanson
Why Trump is Wrong About the California Wildfires
Dean Baker
Will Progressives Ever Think About How We Structure Markets, Instead of Accepting them as Given?
Robert Fisk
We Remember the Great War, While Palestinians Live It
Dave Lindorff
Pelosi’s Deceptive Plan: Blocking any Tax Rise Could Rule Out Medicare-for-All and Bolstering Social Security
Rick Baum
What Can We Expect From the Democrat “Alternative” Given Their Record in California?
Thomas Scott Tucker
Trump, World War I and the Lessons of Poetry
John W. Whitehead
Red Flag Gun Laws
Newton Finn
On Earth, as in Heaven: the Utopianism of Edward Bellamy
Robert Fantina
Shithole Countries: Made in the USA
René Voss
Have Your Say about Ranching in Our Point Reyes National Seashore
Weekend Edition
November 16, 2018
Friday - Sunday
Jonah Raskin
A California Jew in a Time of Anti-Semitism
Andrew Levine
Whither the Melting Pot?
Joshua Frank
Climate Change and Wildfires: The New Western Travesty
Nick Pemberton
The Revolution’s Here, Please Excuse Me While I Laugh
T.J. Coles
Israel Cannot Use Violent Self-Defense While Occupying Gaza
Rob Urie
Nuclear Weapons are a Nightmare Made in America
Paul Street
Barack von Obamenburg, Herr Donald, and Big Capitalist Hypocrisy: On How Fascism Happens
Jeffrey St. Clair
Roaming Charges: Fire is Sweeping Our Very Streets Today
Aidan O'Brien
Ireland’s New President, Other European Fools and the Abyss 
Pete Dolack
“Winners” in Amazon Sweepstakes Sure to be the Losers
Richard Eskow
Amazon, Go Home! Billions for Working People, But Not One Cent For Tribute
Ramzy Baroud
In Breach of Human Rights, Netanyahu Supports the Death Penalty against Palestinians
Brian Terrell
Ending the War in Yemen- Congressional Resolution is Not Enough!
John Laforge
Woolsey Fire Burns Toxic Santa Susana Reactor Site
Ralph Nader
The War Over Words: Republicans Easily Defeat the Democrats
M. G. Piety
Reading Plato in the Time of the Oligarchs
Rafael Correa
Ecuador’s Soft Coup and Political Persecution
Brian Cloughley
Aid Projects Can Work, But Not “Head-Smacking Stupid Ones”
David Swanson
A Tale of Two Marines
Robert Fantina
Democrats and the Mid-Term Elections
Joseph Flatley
The Fascist Creep: How Conspiracy Theories and an Unhinged President Created an Anti-Semitic Terrorist
Joseph Natoli
Twitter: Fast Track to the Id
William Hawes
Baselines for Activism: Brecht’s Stance, the New Science, and Planting Seeds
Bob Wing
Toward Racial Justice and a Third Reconstruction
Ron Jacobs
Hunter S. Thompson: Chronicling the Republic’s Fall
Oscar Gonzalez
Stan Lee and a Barrio Kid
Jack Rasmus
Election 2018 and the Unraveling of America
Sam Pizzigati
The Democrats Won Big, But Will They Go Bold?
Yves Engler
Canada and Saudi Arabia: Friends or Enemies?
Cesar Chelala
Can El Paso be a Model for Healing?
Mike Ferner
The Tragically Misnamed Paris Peace Conference
Barry Lando
Trump’s Enablers: Appalling Parallels
Ariel Dorfman
The Boy Who Taught Me About War and Peace
FacebookTwitterGoogle+RedditEmail