by Joseph Grant
I have seen Desscha in the light of the early morning dawn of the Temple of Diana, tending to the Oracle, offering atonement for her transgressions, tearfully fleeing as the first cinders burned by the fire of Herostratus. I have met Desscha outside the fallen city, where she swore she'd wait in the field, only to turn away from me, the pillar of her love to be taken with a grain of salt. I have loved Desscha in the cities of the dead from Caffa to Moscow, where before the Renaissance; we painted the town black and red. I have failed Desscha in the dying patriotic gasps of Cannae, Agincourt, Antietam, Wounded Knee, Somme, Anzio, Iraq & Vietnam, only to find there is no glory unto death, nor in dying young. I have lost Desscha through hubris, drunkenness, broken promises, outward fuckery and my empirical ways for I am man. I have since searched for Desscha, desire of my youth, veneration of my belief in all things loved, holy harlot to the land of the setting American son, only to find heaven has passed me by and she waits for me adrift in eternity, the horror, the horror of seeing her nevermore... never more.
Joseph Grant, whose full catalog is here, recently paid a visit to the White Horse Tavern.