NeverEnder Space Epic Poem / Book I / Chapter V

Chapter 5


light perpetually ultra, passencore
tumult of sparkles, humanoid crowd
fireworks for wedding poisons and vows
an indoctrinated mafioso and an astonished

face. Fortune Lobo can’t believe his
luck as he is tripping onto opossum tea
while being logged on to the X. Death
by future, memory of the day of wrath


g.o.d.’s algorithm is merciless, testing
the resolve of a faultering cadet. The
planet of Swappistan is closing in around
him. On the second day of his sojourn,
he met the most peaceful sight in all

the uni-verse. fallen into Murakamian
colour, he has. Before the throne of
love he has laid down his emotions. The
ugly head of resurrected doubt stares


at him from a deeper, wider, more
judgemental ubi-verse. The object of
his adoration is a non-object. A myst
ical mirage has befuddled his reason,
clouded his mind, addled his drugs.

the thin air around the rarefied
temple, painted in colossal red, spectre
of a pool of water, overlooked by
an eagle. Time, which must have stopped


calls him back from the grave of idealists
the violins and the thiolins pull him
back toward reality (John C knows that
there is no salvation from alzheimer)

he wishes to find more of himself in
the vessel of unknown circumstances,
while spinning high on opossumite, the
young cadet paints dreams with scarlet


the throb quality of his sexual focus
points toward the girl who said she’d
swing by. All else has stopped, the party
continues upstairs, the cerebrative

union of Arsehallah and his migrainfriend.
Fortune Wolf, sheepish in devotion, frees
a sigh in search of more call of the wild.
he begs the algorithm for another escape.


All virtue and all sin on Swappistan is
tightly regimented, so all lovers must
die of thirst, or become alcoholics. Hence,
Arsehallah has found peace between mast

urbation and little-water drinking, tucked
away, all his dark thoughts simmer inside
a smothered soul, a rag of a beast. Desert
Storm has gone missing, probably in search


of Swappistan’s highest peak. A wisteria
of feeling descends upon the west-ward
brigade, everything they believe is wrapped
in doubt, for a moment they whisper love

to each other’s ears. Rabbit does the atom
justice, all that’s left of Billow-vehicle.
Holding it up like a mirror, Rabbit
compares the atom to the force of the


star. The sun, now far and away, yet
growing so strong as to swallow the
tail of earth and menace the system
with one wistful gulp. the day of tears

has come. the uncontainable solar
plexus has eaten up cake and corona
John C and the cat are saved; a sinister
warning to their future status on Titan.


John C is aware of a growing disease,
which is eating away at his mental state.
Chubby the cat is witnessing the withering
of his intellect. Free from judgement, yet

memory comes and goes, and the upload-down
load continues, so long as the finger can
click, and the mind can blank out for a sec.
The ipse opossum trickery can be accused


but the truth is that John C’s meta dynamics
and due to dysregulation of his chromatin,
the TET-hungry enzymatic climax chews on his
stability, while the weather does the rest.

Salome, the migrainfriend whom we’d like to
adore, is just around the corner, ready to
spring forth with maternal caninity. Ready
to fold, is Fortune Wolf, while Desert Storm


on the peak of the country, idle and free
looks down at the fly-infected horizon,
and delicious memories of future past are
settled like an earthwake on the now

so that her magical beret on her head
points skyward, the green sky reflects
her metaphysical state, so ornamental,
and yet so sublime. She knows that in order


to discover more she needs to sit atop
all trouble and look inside, while the cat
languishes in her heart, and the wave of
feeling comes close to being an intrusion

but it is actually a wall, something to
be circumvented. spring the wall, young
Desert Storm, for the love of God! you
have a chance to take jack butler yeats

from the collar and splash through
all those painted limits, let the water
colour of artistic illusion be the
lightning rod that it is, and transcend

all boundary toward another dimension,
far from Swappistan and Borovoe, altogether
another world with far other shadows.
We’d like to have another interview, so


Let us approach our unwanted heroes. Desert
Storm, dear, let me ask you a question:
why suddenly so autumnal? The fall on
Gawain-Monkey’s head is a master-stroke.

Guilt hangs like a canterville painting
stabbed through the chest and behind the
screen, and all other emotion is hidden
from sight because the Monkey is crying


inside, while dining on buffetteries
at the air-station while gizillion
swappistanis cerebrate the union of
sloth with wealth, and the smoke is

thick, and the cream of sex is buttery,
gunfights are in order, and the slaves
in the kitchen labour away, because they
should be grateful, we are told. They


are lesser beings, Arsehallah assures,
theretofore outside the mansion, the
villas and the folkloristic arrangements
child slaves offer wuthering roses to

strangers in stages of paedophilia,
while the kindest of prophets, his
mother beside him, offers a paraphenalia
of justification. Such is the life on the


alien planet. Yet would you not say,
it somewhat resembles the rattles
and battles of the solar stumble,
the terrestrial tinge where all is

fine as long as it is swept under the
carpet-table-bed-destiny-famine. So,
Fortune Lobo in love, Desert Storm in
incantation, Rabbit in food depression


Vehicle cursed and crushed into a green
atom, while the rider, Gawain-Monkey
remembering another life of his, decides
that it would be time to look for a

beheaded friend, and scrambles for the
attention of his companions, though
apathy has had the better of them, and
the teachings-in-a-bead lie scattered


all throughout the uni-verse. Since all
is silent, the dead planet Zhuangzang
echoes his woes from behind the subatomic
grave, and the ripples of cosmic feuds

spread like bouncing lights off the recoiling
surfaces of multiple planetoids and stars,
everything in the ubi-verse stare at us,
with biting intensity and shattering rhythm.


In the Jurassic era, poetry was written on
polished stones, rudimentary lichen sketches
traced aesthetics onto algal relationships.
The NeverEnder has long sailed past Titan.

Chubby wishes to remember the valiant dead,
friends of other times, and Marvell-ous places.
Gawain-Monkey unleashed monomania, starring
across the dim-witted uni-verse. Scattered,
unfriendly, all the thoughts of unity are


Left behind. Long ago, there was friend in
need. Gawain’s mentor recruited him through
an Argentinian mussel. The Green Knight, a
headless chicken with amphibian desire had

landed from across the Colombian water on
to the shores of planet MineEnd, where Gawain
had shipwrecked on his way to the outer borders
of the ubiquitous uni-verse, and chocolate mixes.


The Green Knight had long been split into two
halves. A head without a heart, and a body
without a mind. The endless battle between the
two had raged since day one of decapitation.

John C is downloading his own memory from
the hub of gits and of bloody course, tis been
tampered with. Rashomon effect, all over the
squeaking ball, a dreamer must learn how to chew.


Long before being sent on Titan by the authority,
John C had applied for a supplementary dreamer
post at the Borovoe Academy. The commander in chief
of the institution decided to let the cat out

of the bag, and allow Gawain Monkey to take place
amongst the serendipitous sublimes who ruled the
Boccherini choices and steered the NeverEnder
well clear of lethargy and morular decisions.


The Green knight offered monumental relief to
Gawain Monkey, inviting him into his rose garden
and sharing manna-dew over the derriere of queen
flowery-arse the secondette.

Now the flowery-butt girl did not first announce
derelection and woeful eye-to-give, but as the
summer peaked on the Borovoe steppe, the bogs let
out the final fart, and the swine reality came


forth. The melody of the summer is always the
delight of the birdies, and the sound of water.
Gawain Monkey was but a teenee weenee liberatus,
seeking counsel in the great and glorious Green
knight, master of cloud summer-sault, and holder

of the twice-beat golden key to secret riches.
The sky was clear, the moon was dark during the
day, zombic clouds hovered over moonstruck trees.
The multiple incarnations of loves over the golf
course streamed out of the woods onto the lawn.


Gawain-Monkey was assaulted by an army of dead
lovers, and mister hob-knob, Green Knight of Caledonia
Hibernia and the needle’s silver coin led the
charge onto the dark summer wintry air. Streams

of lovely kisses came showering from all over
Borovoe, and the grandeur of the event was remarked
in the local papers. “Zombie army assaults Monkey”.
The delights of juvenalia. Another moment, and


We might have remembered, en passent, that Monkey
was orphaned out of a rock, shat onto the mountain
top, stumbled across the abyss, streaked a momentary
bliss, drunk the honey-dew of knowledge, past the

cave of watershed, onto many adventures which we
may or may not venture to discuss, and crashed on
to the gate of Dr Green Knight, esteemed coll-ague.


In autumn, all the mussels came ashore, and the steppe
was bathed in cold nippy dusty sledge-hammer snow.
Adagio for Tron, and its legacy.

It seems that Dr Green Knight did not envisage
fighting for the users after all. His moustache
was wet, and his feet were webbed.

He came into being onto a desert planet, while
a hermit was pissing from on high.


Dr Green Knight has lost his way. In the
shades of fall, the stellar decadence
those ripe moments of novembral cadence
when all comets shower and crumble

and the meaning of existence shatters
because perception is stabbed by hallo
weenish pretensions.

At that time, when the cycles of one
planet reflect the string cycles of
multiple white guelfi comedies


That’s the time in which we are speak
ing now, you and me, dearReader. There
is much to be said. Of the NeverEnder,
its spectangular destiny unspoken, we
shall not pass.

Of the detriment of clonal cats, and
of distinguished memory loss routines,
of that, we shall say a little.

In the digital frontier, where the
decline of roman and etruscan mollusks
is catalysed by aspera-astra oscillations

there on the tronic grid, there we shall
meet to discuss on whether or not you have
a clu of what the hell I am talking about.


joke. caught ya. I was being serious.
On the byronic shore of a Greek island,
we may discuss of juan and haydee, or
whatever her name was.

the point being, should John C retrieve
his memory or not. And here is where you
can get to cast your vote, dearReader.
Let’s make this a democratic process. or


not. In the Murakamian well, John C
switches on the discoursive waters.
he then starts to home in onto the lagoon
of solitary confinement. the blue colours

remind him of his long lost pond.
the bog where he grew up near Borovoe.
the advancing retreat of shizo-frenzy
is capitalizing on his doubt.


On the other hand, the immortal anger
of Gawain-Monkey needs to be looked at
more in particular. On the distant fireball
planet, the one too close to the star

to be particularly habitable, there Mr
Gawain-Monkey decided to take his holiday
after a short training with Green Knight.


Other teachers were available, but Green
Knight was convincing, and his sirenic voice
was very imposing. Gawain was lost in the woods,
in search of a missing jigsaw, and Monkey was
riding the horses to sexual hec-stasey.

Now, I am not going to sleep. And I would
like a little attention. Are you busy, super


Going back to the adventurers, Gawain-Monkey
is being tortured by remni-sce, and looks out
at the impending globe of fire that is grinning
with ominous fortitude at the merry brigade.

Rabbit is holding the atom-vehicle spirit,
in digitalized attention toward meditation,
but only realizing half a medallion and a pig.


Fortune Lobo has his eyes fixed on the green gases
the swine-blue hues of delirious joy, the time
of peace of senses, the space of empty glasses.

as they travel throughout the galazies, the platelets
whirl and buzz like cosmetic cosmi, and the stars
look like fortnum and mason china-aware.

The uni-verse is throbbing with elegance and
anger, and the rightful space is the vanaglorious
ego, where the void ends, and the time begins.


In the well, John C is indulging in sexual thoughts.
Then, the waters rise, and the realization that
time is short or eternal make it difficult to sieze
the night. The clonal cat has finally come to the
realization that its ancestor was murdered.

Cicciotta was murdered by a jealous bitch.
Dogs will be gods, though, so it seems.

Chubby, rest in peace.


Dr Green Knight escaped the uni-verse to hide
in mountain and into very schemious wife, producing
two off-springs. From hence, all patience holds.

John C stirs the pot of his insidious St Theresa
ex-stasy, and the desire to come together with
his own falsitude and his depreviousness.

Krishna, the old fellow, seems to have come
down the galactic staff to remind Gawain-Monkey
that the indulgitude on this battle is not accept


able at all. Dr Green Knight is coming to the party.
It seems that they are travelling on voidy space
and that the Desert Storm girl is driving. Oh woe
is me! The physicists in the hall, please raise

your hand at the idea of Desert Storm driving.
Scream! She’s just a peach, though please do not
eat. East is east. They are travelling fast on the
galactose belt, the vomit of former godditudes.


And so finally we come to the start of the story.
Artemis, Goddess of the hunt, bless this narrative
with your archery and your anger.

Apollo, God of the poesy, bless this story
with the waters of your wasted love.

Eros may be chaotic, or some son-in-law
but all of scheming eternity cannot prevent
us from hailing other voices from out there.


Out here. In the beginning, when ‘Ar var alda’,
then skopun heimsins, and so behold the cow.

There was a gap, and what an abyss.

Fire on one hand, poison-ice on the other.
And then the trickle. Fuckety fuck.


Krishna, Krishna!
I see the mantis talking to itself,
and such omens of evil!

How can this obliviousness be real?
Well, Krishna might say. It is obvious.

But not to me! What is this hologram?
Why does dance-zheimer catch up avec moi?
Why does Job have no job these days?
Why the anger and the fall?
Why death, and the end of hope?
Why did that friend of yours die on you?


Krishna, Krishna!
As I stand on the plain of kurukshetra,
I see no voice in the mirror, no silence in
the void.

I see no end to suffering. The NeverEnder
may cycle and blasts its way around the spring,
all the way to the interwoven string, but
theory or practice, all seems to fail us.


“You and I, Arjuna,
Have lived many lives.
I remember them all:
You do not remember.

I am the birthless, the deathless
Lord of all that breathes
I seem to be born:
It is only seeming,
Only my body.
I am still master
Of my mind.

When goodness grows weak,
When evil increases,
I make myself a body.

In every age I come back
To deliver the holy,
To destroy the sin of the sinner,
To establish righteousness.

He who knows the nature
Of my task and my holy birth
Is not reborn
When he leaves this body:
He comes to me.

Flying from fear,
From lust and anger,
He hides in me
His refuge, his safety:
Burnt clean in the blaze of my being,
In me many find home.

Whatever wish humans bring me in worship,
That wish I grant them.
Whatever path humans travel
Is my path:
No matter where they walk
It leads to me.”


Suddenly the brigade is at the end
of the uni-verse. The frog-bead has been
retrieved. All one needed to do is to go
to Swappinstan and avoid falling in lust.

And yet, there is more. There is a lot more.
What is the NeverEnder about, and where is
it headed?

The teachings of the swapped thru-true-truths
may have been revealed, but the incarnation
of John C in Gawain-Monkey is not yet through.


It is time now to enter the grid. From the
Murakamian well, John C carefully selects
the memories and the characters of this story
to digitalize and to punch through the

oscillations and the fragmentations of
this obnubilating story. The karmic load
is such that the void empties the space
and the opening is for all the bodies to


fall through like the stateroom scene
of Groucho’s night at the opera.


So bear with us, dearReader. If you can
extend your patience a little longer,
you might see a thread in this tale of