Some Eastern European doom wine. From the black terroir of Mitteleuropa. From some old-growth European forest somewhere.
A terroir that keeps memory of fatality. Deep doom. Darkness falling on darkness.
Pure pathos. A fundamental mood in a glass. European doom, right? In liquid form. As the blackest of black wines.
This is radioactive wine – cancer in a glass.
(Toasting) To cancer.
Maybe this will make us immune from cancer.
Maybe it’ll give us cancer.
Is there anything good about cancer?
Black wine from former communist soil. From what lay behind the former iron curtain. The wine of tyrants and apparatchicks and concrete high rises and shortages and queues. The old communism, quite different from the coming communism …
Drink to hate. Drink to feed the hate. Drink to let the hate leap up. Black flames, from the black soil.
All the world’s poison has seeped into this terroir.
You’ve heard of the water table? This is wine from the poison table. There are whole rivers of poison down there, flowing through the darkness.
The terror of dark suffering. Where so much blood has been split. Communism and fascism and despotism. Globalism now.
It smells like sulphur.
Corpse wine – that’s what it tastes like: corpses.
Gnostic soil. Buried-alive soil.
A draught of the oldest Europe. Some curse from the earth.
The horror in the ground. Not Lazarus resurrected, but Lazarus rotting, and deep underground.
Why did Cicero want to make us drink these things? Why did she leave these bottles to us?
To remind us not to trust the world. Not to trust the earth, and any terroir of the earth. You do not belong here: that’s what Cicero wanted to tell us.
Nothing lives in the soil of this terroir. No earthworms. No slugs. No burrowing moles. No millipedes. No bacteria, even. Algae, or whatever. Nothing grows in the cursed earth.
Nothing ever hibernated in the soil of this terroir. Any animal that built its burrow down there would be screaming with horror. Any plant would wither immediately. There’s just poison, incubating in the darkness.
The earth of this terroir has a fever. The earth is sick. The earth’s chest is rising and falling. The earth’s febrile. Sweating.
The terroirs of Alexy German and Bela Tarr. The thick deep darkness.
This wine’s turned. It’s zombie wine. It’s undead. Like a zombie turns.
Libate the camps with black wine, then see what happens.
What’s supposed to happen?
Work in Progress 