There is a red-hot lava planet that’s Coruscant-leaning,
and with a thin silver lining, a rather disturbing place
to which the tale must be directed to, at this point of
the stream. The planet’s chief emotional force, source
of emotional growth and the centre of electro-magneto-
gravitational balance is the nibbling off the fears and
anxieties of cis and trans beings across the galactic
deeper field. The feeding in cis is easy, the planet’s
living off its inhabitants, while the proxy sucking off
is rather tricky, that’s done via rabbit holes, and
other gala-lactic tricksy cheats.
Planet Fear (a.k.a. Saliaris) was originally discovered
in 1789 by a French phallosopher-astronomer whose name
I quite forgot, while he was on a drinking trip to Moskva.
On this planet, the two cadets that we have come to
appreciate and like and even love but sometimes hate
are doing some experiments, listening in to the large globe’s
emotional field, a bit like doctors with a spectoscope
(I never know how to spell that). The giant rotational
orbit is listening back, tracing their cellular lives
to the nanometer.
The Don Quixote trope is there too, chiefly to disturb
them, so he goes and chat to them (which they find annoying).
He has a small squedgy ball which she bounces off
the volcano in the foreground. Mousier MortLock and his
sidekick Mephisto, meanwhile, are also playing scientists,
so they are trying to dig out the jewels of the anger runes
(ruins?) and carry them back to the laboratory, for
further analysis. The rubbing volcano’s not at all happy
about that, let me tell you. Planet Fear is rather pissed
off; ‘you’ve ruined me now’, it thinks.
The thinking planet does not like being mined one bit,
especially by these semi-human intrusions which appear
to feel little and think less. In retaliation, planet
Fear feeds off their fears and hungers, making them
more afraid and ever more hungry. So will they ever be able
to leave this planet or will they do an Artax right here?
Don Quixotette knows that bringing balance back to the
blithering blasted balloon of the bounce… I have run
out of b’s I am afraid; well I meant to say that Don
Quixotette knows that the score is high and the time
is little and the gods are angry and the Greeks stink
at making destiny user-friendly. So there is the inter
invention of the nemesis, a rather cheap device to make
sure that at the end, things are rather out of balance.
Anyway time is short so I will be brief; emotionally
disturbed planets are very difficult to cure. So my
friends, the younglings linger (the cadets and all else),
and the wicked thrive. What shall it be? The red
button or the waiting game? The Buddha gaya of all reli
gions shines in heaven, and meditation game is on;
the X watches still, and to the spirit-ally aware, the
gap is not to be filled. At least that’s a decent way
to start Chapter Four, goddamit.
Deep in the recesses of gaseous, empty space
echoing pulses of far-away life; stories fallen
into oblivion. On a remote dot in the universe,
a star system with multiple planets. On a not too
distant orb from that throbbing flare, a land
which is beautiful and full of memories.
The birth place of some characters, let
me just say. But where sky met ocean, this
land, this planet is now abandoned. Empty
shells in an emptier shell. Roaming across
the universe, the people of Ithaca carry
with them the images of that once happy
place. Perhaps, captain, X, or anybody
out there, you would care to grant them
a new home? What happened to this little
planetlet, and what happened to Borovoe
earth station? Why are we wandering,
fading, shining across thin layers of skin?
In a dream that came upon Ithacans,
all at once, a monkey king was travelling
the universe in search of lost scripture,
or was it a planet. The curtains rose,
and a turreted, meandering city was found
clambering all over a high hill, up higher
and higher, nearly a mountain now.
And rising with this kafkian-breathing
castle city, all the Ithacans found a home
overlooking an ancient valley, the sky
brooding with darker clouds, as black as
the angry deep field. If one leaves, one
carries on leaving, and never, ever arrives.
War! The theatre was filled with a
compassionate crowd, but the battle
was lost, and the city was swept away,
and the Ithacans woke all at once
from their Trojan dream.
But even now, as the illusion has
vanished in the mind, even now,
if you close your eyes, you can still
see the towers and the smoking hills,
and the burning land.
‘There must have been a mix-up
with the download’, thinks John C.
His ear is bursting with pain,
all parties on Titan end in usb
drinking, and dodgy downloads.
Not to mention the dodgy uploads,
though John C has hardly anything
else to dump into the solar system
wide web. From his window, he can
see a desolation of gases, and
long silences, as long as imaginable.
In the Zabriskie desert, John C uploads
his cloudy thoughts; reflections of the
sick thoughts of planets shimmer across
the cosmic cytoplasm. In a dark moon day,
sailing across an unfettered sky, a poem –
like an albatross flittering through the long
curtains. Energy, sinister and bending,
permeates the empty night and the bright
sun. Day after day, we sit and wonder,
when is THE CRUNCH going to come. This is
being stuck between the will to escape,
and the ability to accept. Acceptance and
escapism being the two torn tussore-silk
layers of a cocoon universe. The title
of a story popular with the marketeers
is ‘Escape to Planet Greed’. The common
origin of all the ways of the twisted is
the manipulative lie. If one prospers by
lying, one is a sickly bastard. Hence,
planets are ailing, and the White Plague
is on a rampage. ‘I have everything,’
cries the first marketeer, ‘and yet I
want, indeed I need more’. ‘I have
everything’, cries the second,’and yet
I am deeply unhappy.’
The X that can be told, is not the true X.
Nevertheless I am trying to describe it.
The nature of folly is to be a predator,
all else is just escaping judgement. At the
interchange between rainbow and fox, there
is a deep underground canyon; the X lives
there, unknown, unbroken, a fallen source
and water-falling in perpetuity. So nothing
is more manifest than the hidden. Fortune
Lobo can sit at leisure, waxing and waning
over his navel, and yet his journey never
started, and the NeverEnder never sailed
east, and the West has never seen a Monkey
King come larger or smaller, asking for a
sure cure for sick planets. The shape-shifting
space ship is sailing high and wide across
the galactic seas, and yet it has never seen
a sight more beautiful than the peace that
resides inside of you, dearReader. You may
observe the phases of the X, and record them
in a little white book, and we (John C and the
narrative brigade) may never know about it.
Hence the need for an end to these means.
While on Planet Fear, the cadets made a new
friend; so finally after years in training,
waiting to be short-listed for the not-so-clever
Borovoe Academy, Don Quixotette comes aboard.
More data analysis is needed, but she-he is
really and truly a tranny, and therefore a
true wise meter of both ends. She/He sits at
Desert Storm’s bed side, for the hapless cadet
has caught a bug on Planet Fear. The echoes
of past are catching up to haunt the NeverEnder,
and squid-like ink is covering all consciousness.
Rains on Titan regain intensity. An ocean of stars
gurgles from the deep of the night, the Pleiades
witness the spaceship’s prow sinking deeper into
blueish space. Blackened thoughts gather, and
Desert Storm is having an outlandish cuppa tea.
It is always three in the morning when times are
dark, and so the little white book you are writing
must occasionally be burnt, or else we all go bonkers.
The NeverEnder has come to a halt, stationed high
above a mortal planet, suffocating and in panic,
wondering what little creatures will descend upon
it. The valleys and the hills of the ecological
system vibrate with expectation, as the people of
the ship disembark and look around in wonder. It
is the time of the night, the suns are around the
corner. The mountains are climbing higher, while
Desert Storm looks at the light coming through
nocturnal clouds, blinking with stars and void.
The planet speaks!
‘Welcome, pilgrims. Will there ever be a morning?’
Amid the amazement of the NeverEnder crew, the air
vibrates with the voice of a precious stone, and
like an emerald, everthing glows green, and the sound
of a mysterious voice echoes in the steppes of the
imagination. It is time for looking inside.
‘I am a sick old planet, and my name is Xuanzang.
I have been looking in the direction of the Wing within
the Small Magellanic Cloud for far too long. I have
been waiting for you, my closest galactic neighbours.’
‘There is sickness in my planet core. In my youth,
I was a conscious, and mobile being, able to perambulate
like yourselves. With age, I have grown stationary.
I understand that your own planet Earth, my old
friend, is also sickly woven. If you wish to heal
this crooked uni-verse, you must travel westward
to the outer reaches of fantasy-driven space/time.
You must find a small iconic frog-bead, containing
the healing teachings which can liberate all beings.
‘I once travelled to this spiritual place myself,
but I learned next to nothing from the bead. It
radiated wisdom, and I had become quite convinced
that the temporary widsom it had bestowed upon me
was my own.
Alas, as I have come to realize in times of despair,
it was just echoes of energy in the empty space,
and once the master bead was hidden from me,
the blessing light waned until it completely
disappeared and I was left alone in the dark.’
‘Now this distant blessing is what keeps me stable,
but a crack in my planetary balance is deep, and
the rift in my spiritual mould is growing. The
rocky surface on which you are standing hides
a profound chasm which is expanding.
Once the crack will reach the surface I will be
destroyed. The same pathology affects Earth.
If you chose to, you can save all the sick
planets in this rigged, swamp-like uni-verse.’
So tell me, will you help? My disciple went
off in one of his stunts, and has not returned.
He is cheeky, and unruly, and silly. But I trust
him. His name is Gawain-Monkey. He will help you
in this spiritual quest to retrieve the lost frog-bead
of wisdom. You must first rescue him from the bind
in which he has fallen. He is being held prisoner
by ravenous demons on a nearby system.
Borovoe earthlings, believe me. There is such
a thing as order in this uni-verse. The is no
solution to g.o.d.’s algorithm, but there is
source of eternal light. I have seen it, briefly.’
The first to speak is the spaceship NeverEnder.
‘I am not going anywhere! I need repairs, I am
oil-hungry, and this isn’t really my fight. I
am a machine, and I don’t believe in ghost stories
of any kind. Your bead is an invention, at best.’
Desert Storm is moved to a certain extent. She
was wary, but curious. The old planet has spoken
wisely, and something is echoing in her mind.
Her gut feeling is to speak, and so she comes forth.
‘I don’t know if I believe, but I will go. I will
try to help you, strange planet. I want to see
the confines of all space and time, see if there
is a border, a sense to all this.’
Fortune Lobo is feeling heroic. ‘And I will go
with you,’ he adds, with a certain emphasis.
Everyone one else shrugs, and moves on to re-embark
upon the NeverEnder, who has become very moody.
Don Quixotette, in a typical show of character,
has deviously shapeshifted into a white rabbit,
and is quietly grazing away at the sick planet’s
remaining patches of grass. ‘Carrot-go’ is her
body language. But then again you can’t trust a
rabbit. Especially a hungry one, or a sexy one.
Exploring the vastness of space, the NeverEnder
and its crew leave on their middle-class journey
toward empty space maps, hidden treasures, and
more goodies. Cadets aboard begin their daily
ratio of dark matter. Clouds inside their mind
burst with you at the thought of a new leather bag.
The sick planet speaks again, with great difficulty.
‘I shall give you a craft to fly into the unknown.’
At that point multiple volcanoes on its surface
erupt in a flurry of cosmic directions about which
way to go.
‘That way, my kind earthlings. Find the Gawan-Monkey,
and bring balance to this bloated uni-verse.’ While
it speaks, basalt lava crawls near assembling a
gorgeous spaceship, not unlike the interstellar craft
that once trekked to the source of light. But that
was another time and space. ‘Here is your vehicle.
It is made of rare elements. I’ve dug down and deep
in my core to provide you with the best possible
ride, as light as a feather, and as hard as the ego.
Now, please leave and do try to catch that cosmic
Hubble train, moving outwards. Remember, you must
find the bead, but then again it may find you.
I really can’t tell you where it is, I have forgotten.’
‘It is like a frog at the bottom of a well hidden
in an inverted ocean away from a big bang galaxy,
who has become nebulous at dusk. A Pleiades shot
in the dark. Perhaps you will find it on the banks
of the Aragva. Its blue colour may show you peace.
Now I am sad, and my feeling is weightless. My
sadness is sweet. My core is burning still, though
its combustion may not claim to be made of love.
The infinite is near. Save your planet, save all
The Xuanzang planet groans, it cracks open
and divides in half. A last few pulpitating
pumps of heart-core energy, and then a rasp.
It is dead.
‘Greetings. So sad the passing of my creator.
But planets come and go. My name is Snowflake
Billow (I’ve just self-baptised). I am a merry
go round space ship and will take you to the
outer edges of space/time. Or do you want to go
to centre, the inner core of your plasticity?
Bear with me, I am programming myself, being
just born has its drawbacks. I fly, therefore
I am. My senses are all out! I feel so good,
being alive, well I am a machine, you know what
I mean. My problems are materialistic. Are you
materialistic people at all?’
The Rabbit (formerly Don Quixotette) speaks first:
This creature of space craft is from the world
below, it was born of the essence of Xuanzang,
it needs not surprise us.
So Desert Storm groans, Fortune Lobo weeps, into
the dangerous uni-verse they leap (so to speak).
‘So let me get this’ quotes a miffed John C.
They left earth cos it was broiling, they went
to a watery planet, they left and went to planet
Fear. Then they explored space a bit more and
stumbled upon another conscious planet which
gave them an impossible task. And now they are
on a spiritual quest. Is that right?’
‘Pretty much,’ Chubby is not interested in the
exploits of long dead people. ‘Would you quit
day-download-dreaming and help me with the dishes.
Give us a totally liberated sink, and will yield
you a cupful of nirvanic bliss.’ And so she pushes
the dishwashing liquid toward him. Gently, her
paw pushes for decisive argumentation.
Paralytic. Fly, like Ariel onto a dark planet
a mountain, one where the air is syrup glass
and pressure builds on. You may stay in doubt,
we shall not discuss the habits of the cadets.
Amble to and fro, the Rabbit munches
and meditates on the colour yellow.
Tip-toe, shark to mouth, they navigate deep waters,
sub-atomic shacks, colonial towers, forbidden
planets. They are out-casts. A storm of colour
is glowing in the distance, a star-set fandango.
Flutes and percussions in my head, if you wish.
Timid mediation, something is about to happen.
Desert Storm and Fortune Lobo, Rabbit and Vehicle
are alert to the Seasons of Now.
They landed on the planet of compassionate dragonflies,
hosting a wild-gaoler, an ugly and deformed she-monkey.
Lying, cheating, and stealing; she bought her ticket to
insanity. She has burgled the dragonflies, tinkered
with their good will, swept away with their emeralds,
dared eat an immortal peach.
The Immortals reside under-ground in caves beyond the
waterfall. The flies, their faces large with complex
eyes replete with Friedrich sunset brothers, are shaking
with fear and perplexed anger. Where is their compassion?
Now going about his business on the Old Kent Road,
Gawain is schizophrenic, the she-monkey resides in him.
He left his master plan(et) to escape toward harvesting
galaxies, wishing to retrieve wisdom and materialism.
However, he’s been delayed.
Caught read-handed, he left a darling buck dead, up in
the mountain toward the sky, and he’s been imprisoned
for poaching on the peaches, illegal hunting, peach-
formulating, eating cookies and other immoral echoes.
‘My mind, a rock’, my friend John C is frozen into
a terror. Night-mares follow his trails. Quantifying
his delay, his worry has taken him outside the tower
where he used to reside. Titan is hostile. Methane
breathes his fear. Wrapped, unagitated liquids about.
The dragonflies are friendly. They have Byronocular vision.
I love the fact that they sing to themselves while they
stew their dinner. Their soul dances without theatrical
preferences. They issue exam entries to all newcomers.
Into the desert the four riders come now, light of my eyes.
A mirage, way above the blue skies. Desert Storm trembles,
Rabbit Tranny is adamant. A slow kiss of God, this Arabesque
sun shine where the edge is narrow and the zenit is hot.
Fortune wolf desires freedom, lo – all kinds of warnings.
The monkey is hidden from sight, dreaming his life away.
A black box appears, the shape of a cube. They are lost
in confusion. The vehicle space-craft reads the papers
from yesterday, flicking the pages through its wings.
This desert is a lost place in time. The sky is high.
Ten million friendly dragonflies swarm in the distance,
a cloud of black judgement, and an easy conversation. So
far-away, and yet so close. The three riders plus the AI
are stuck under a torrential sun, and stare at the black box.
They are invited to enter. Could this be a dragonfly trick?
Logic and proportion are changed, inside the colourful
cube, a shower of rain. Desert Storm is alone in it.
The space is little, the mind expands. Cloud-bursting,
inside his motley soul (not for sharing) Monkey is
talking to Gawain, that is, talking to his other self.
Cloudy and overcast. Cloud-clawing, a vicious and dange-
-rous occupation. In the dragonfly prison, a place full
of wooden planks and ikea products, a legoland of lakes
and mild sensations, the passionate monkey person is
very upset. His cell is his melancholy enclosure, a
blue moment in time.
Like the rabbit, monkey’s not very sure about his
sex. Sometimes he feels very mad-world. The conversation
inside his head goes like this (Monkey-side says):
‘I wish to harvest galaxies. I wanted to explore the ubi-
verse. Now I am greedy.’ Gawain opens up the soul, and
lets the verse rip. ‘Big mind is slow, sweet and bitter.’
‘What am I doing in gaol?’
‘I went flying across the mountains to the cave beyond
the waterfall. I found refuge there.’
‘I must get out of jail, not matter what the cost.’
‘Say Cicciotta’ John C remarks ‘this monkey individual
is one hell of a troubled person. The cat whatevers him.
‘I want more life’. Chubby reads on the screen. ‘I can
relate to that’, goes the poetastric cat.
Fuck it. Roman numerals distract. John C
is up an running, the window of attention
short-circuits. Cats speak the truth, or
not at all. So Chubby once more points out:
‘Your memory download has become a memory
upload, I don’t know if you realize. You
are downloading your own memory, only it’s
been tampered with. Obviously, you don’t
know who did it.’ John C shrugs. ‘Recently
I have received a seed-mail from a dead
source. We used to be like this [vagina
fingers]. She’s sick to the core, much
like this Monkey character that, as it
now seems, I used to know. I feel sorry
for her, because she has lost her karmic
identity, and gone full blast vitriolic.’
Chubby purrs, and sits in his lap. ‘Let
the dead bury their dead.’ And that’s that.
Gawain-Monkey is sprung from jail, and
leaps around like a mad dog. He wants to
become a she, and settles for an ‘it’.
‘I am so in love with the universe’, it says
‘that I want to fuck it.’ Chubby snores.
‘Make more money, yo. There’s dough to
be made’. Fortune Lobo and Desert Storm
Stare at it in amazement. ‘Is this what
we risked our lives for [ the cherry-linger ]?’
The Dragonflies arrive in scores, and buzz
in, straight onto the conversation like
‘Shit, man’, goes dragonfly #1 ‘I have learnt
so much from Nil by mouth. I just want to cry.’
In the mean time, Gawain-Monkey is leaping
around like a mad elephant, poisoned by life.
‘Dude. I am totally into her. Holly the girl
from David Mitchell, she’s the real deal. In
case the other compassionate dragonflies ask
what shall we do about this wild bunch?’
Dragonfly #2 is hesitant. It looks in love,
and full of opinion, and full of sperm.
Gaway-Monkey is defiant. ‘Glargh. Fuck you!
I am free now, to purse my own dirty mindless
interests! Fuck the universe, and everyone
in it.’ Dragonfly #1 and #2 shake their heads.
‘That’s not a good start, eh?’, goes #1.
Desert Storm intervenes. ‘Kind dragonflies,
it is an honour to tread your planet, and
meet you in arthropod. We’d like to negotiate.’
#2 looks at #1 and squints (you know dragonfly
eyes). Desert Porcelain quotes her Sylvia Plath.
Fortune Lobo is looking on with increased
interest. He’s learning the ways of the magneto-
hesitancy. ‘I dare say we are pilgrims onto
this uni-verse, tracing the outer rims of the
galactose axis, looking for the truer truth.’
Desert Storm is in full bullshitting mode.
Fortune Lobo is starting to have a hard-on.
‘To quote my not dead friend, the old wise
woman Tierra Madre, we are here to solve
your problem. We’d like to shoplift your
trouble, and carry this Monkey with us.
#1 now looks at #3, who just landed, and
is looking like the ranking officer.
#3: ‘You are mistaken. There is no rank
amongst us. We are one.’ Fortune Lobo comes.
Desert Storm is digusted: ‘Do you mind?’
‘Sorry,’ the lad’s on fire ‘it’s just that
I am young, so full of energy.’ Desert
Storm scowls. ‘Now’s really not the time!’
‘Bonjour, je m’appelle Candide’, dragonfly #4
chips in. Dragonfly #5 decides it’s time to
settle the score. ‘Ok, let’s all take a deep
breath, and do a Wes Anderson flyover, shall we?’
‘I hate to interrupt,’ quotes the transexual
Rabbit, ‘but we are on a schedule to save the
uni-verse’. Desert Storm looks pleased.
Gawain-Monkey cracks the head of Dragonfly #5
with a clean axe-cut, and looks pleased with
itself. At this point the Billow vehicle
rescues the living lotus-blossom out of them,
and everything is nice and peachy. Except,
of course… the dragonflies are not happy.
They have to start a Herman Hesse flower-
celebration, looking toward the star of the
Planet where the wars have ended as an example.
Dragonfly #1 takes a deep breath and goes all
Panglossian about this. Dragonfly #2 accepts
the truth. Dragonfly #6 decides to chase
the vehicle, ridden by these idiots, and
possibly intern them all in Dragonfly planet’s
rottnestest prison cell.
Fortune Lobo wipes his cockerel, Desert Storm
looks away, at the galatic skies whizzing
past, Rabbit counts the number of stars, and
is doing a good job ‘three billion million,
six hundred million, thirty-two, and half and a
blip… does this one qualify?’ ‘It’s totally
a planet, say Gawain-Monkey, who has now settled
onto a more friendly mode ‘by and by, thanks
for springing me’. ‘Pleasure’, says the vehicle.
‘Call me Billow, I am the leader of this outfit.’
‘Hi! My name is Goofoh Soofoh Arsehallah, and
I’m splendid. Rabbit and I go waaay back. I
just happened to bump into your expedition
while looking for temporary gas formations
for the adornment and supersizification of my
big-ass wedding. Now, Rabbit dear, would you
remind me which one of you is the leader of this
rickety contrapunctual figurative enter-prize?’
Rabbit shifts in his (her) seat. Times abound,
and mistresses linger, and so do famously
poisonous friendships. John C gets up to get
himself a sandwich. Ticino bread, yum yum!
Chub gets cozy with the lap, and on top of that,
the electric storm outside chirrups and stirrups.
Rabbit was born out of moss, long before the
existence of a path, and a trajectory toward
the end. Along the road, Rabbit met Arsehallah,
joyful the day they sealed their awesomeness
deal while the sunset strips of Veal city skies
expanded, with a mega-galactic significance
into a global and permanent alliance between
a Jim Morrison incarnation and an increasingly
deranged Don Quixote contained in the body of
a rabbit, henceforth known as “the Rabbit”.
Why oh why do bad coins pop up? Rabbit scowls,
Desert Storm decides that it’s time for tea.
She offers the ritual like a medium-size opossum
tree, all velvety-green with touches of my-God
’tis-good-shit. Don’t drink opossum tea, kids…
unless you are going all the blistering way. Be
warned. Are you ready to be skullfucked by a
horde of invading barbarians all singing from
within you? Granted, you may find a glimpse of
oceanic boundlessness, or marvel on the magic
powders of Dover beach. But since we are, and
have been in tremendously advanced retreat, I
suggest you poppets of future high-sky, be
cool with your opossum tea. If you do an Aldous,
be reminded that there are consequences.
‘Consequences, schmonsequences!’, quotes
Arsehallah, given his infinite erudition
in late twentieth century video-piracy.
Speaking of monkeys, Gawain-Monkey is being
unusually quiet oh-shore-dwee. ‘What’s on
your mind?’ asks a very concerned Fortune
Lobo. ‘You’re all invited to my badass
cerebration, we are gathering all of
Swappingstan to honour the Gods (many
of them, innit).
May I remind all the clientele that my
views on reli-john are contained in a
book called “Space Epic Poem”, which may
be consulted for random specification.
Debookeries apart, the alegre brigade
enter the Swappingsteinish space since
you can’t really turn down an offer to
drink opossum tea, attack a few concepts
and so bloody on. ‘J’adore!’, quotes
Gawain-Monkey, suddenly exilarated at
meeting fellow thieves. At the landing
platform, Fortune Lobo is searched and
his assets are siezed (he had a diamond).
Tut tut! Up to no good are these young
cadets. Desert Storm is instead shipped
across toward a room where a group of
Some twenty-three randoms are preparing
to gangrene-rape her. Swifty, Rabbit
intervenes and Arsehallah pulls out his
tremendous bullshiviousness and talks
his way out yet another shit-a-la-creme.
So they reach the safer indoors of the ‘haves’,
in the mystical planet of Swappistan, where
most of the derelict population is in the
‘have-nots’ category. Wilkommen, and
remember, arbeit macht frei. So Fortune
Lobo is stationed onto Arsehallah’s best
friend’s gigantic lobster-bed within
the house of the Nazis. No, don’t think
skinheads, think of plump mater familias,
going on about the gorgeousness of super
literary prizes dished out to the absentee
golden boy son, while the uncle a la table
dissembulates on the wonders of making
monkey with expat nazional-fasciter, who
just happen to be hiding in Swappistan
for their money reserves in banking land
are infinite, and the opportunities for
enslaving the uni-verse are wunderbar.
Fortune Lobo listens, but his mind is
Elsewhere. He has fallen in Murakamian
colour. ‘Screw this.’ John C abandons
the memory upload-download and throws
himself in the Murakamian Well. Oh the
days of glorious past! Memory’s gone,
but the bass-guitar backbone of one’s
existence insists on harping back on
the basset-hounds of sound and sea.
The time is for a pause and a reflection.
Desert Storm is meditating on the painting
ovulating on the wall, a kind of Don Quixote
ascending from an angelical egg, while
the background is sort Yggdrasill stump,
merging with diahoerrea colours typical
of ancenstral artists, those that made
the womb the best place to get out of.
The last breath of vehicle, before it
is crushed into a single atom, is devoted
to the obliquity Goddess, an ancient
cult which focuses on the ambivalence
of non-committophobes. Desert Storm
sighs, she alone has a hunch that the
journey ahead is so terribly long,
and that many of us may not survive.