Fight. Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.
Palpitating, alive – still. Down in the pendulum
the entanglement of particle and wave, where
the duality is boson-glued, and anger is speeding
down the universal rabbit golf course. Per
turbation of Neptune and Saturn, is where Titan
comes in. In the Murakamian well, once the cat
is gone, and the lady is also gone, the biologi
cal quanta are at once light and darkness
Objects existing onto two places at once.
In the grid, existence is frequency-hopped.
The chirp modulation is rf-oscillated
the spectrum of the chirp corpse is where
John C comes in, all digitalized and shit
and so he moves to fourier-transform the
hell out of every living and non-living
moment and mode of vibration. The great
exo-comets, the exons and the meteror
showers, they all come into the gigantic
analougue cytoplasm where they are con
verted into single apparition comets, and
their vintages are fully formed, so that
anger boards the NeverEnder, and the potential
is attempting the realization, once again.
Dead brides. The Zen teaching of Huang Po
and some such adapter trimming are the
food of today’s digitalized enter-prize.
We’re all mad here. But it’s ok. The
Heisenberg-Rashomon effect indetermines
what’s what and what’s not. Or really,
we can’t really measure the Jabberwock.
“We don’t see these weird states because
they collapse whenever we try to measure
them”. Hence the Jabber-wacky.
What is time? The ever-rolling grin
is behind me, John C is in wonder
land. Nothing puzzles me further.
Stop retreating, scorpion! The
verdict of the wise is that birds
are mocking, duality in the X
is phatomable. Full many a swan
is white, the summer is ever
ending, and the lovers squeak
and quibble. What have we learnt?
Desert Storm is starting to know
and Fortune Lobo is exploring the
ubi-verse. The Gawain-Monkey is
lost in a sea of bullshiviousness
it’s ok. keep going forward on
the relativity ladder, and the
pelt and bog and pendulum will
suddenly make sense.
the theory survives the test
hardly innocent. never make
a sound. vulnerable karma is
not for me, my friend. lesson
learnt well, not? One cannot
curve space without time as
well. Time has a shape. Is
it one-directional? Or does
it just appear to be so?
Gilles, the friend from Canada
sold his house for a dream.
the safety of the murakamian
well is not reached easily
it is safer not to write, not
to share. Bubble up, forbidden
memories or some else will ride
you. The replicant sheep, the
android goats, the robot, the
worker learns his lesson well.
Or not. Duck, you sucker. The
Mocking Bird or the Potter the
Rotter, or the Picture of Dorian
pendulum under the laburnum tree.
Just write. At this point it
does not matter anymore. John,
John. Or was it Sean? Juan and
John. No baptisms here, but Salome
indeed does cut across the cheese.
The Neutral Kimura Theory and the Select
ionist Haldanism, as well as the Great
Crested Grebeism, and the final epigenomic
solution, are all the ingredients to the
soup which John C is cooking. The grid
may be small now, but there is room
for aggressive Joker-clerical expansion.
Chubby the cat is reading the book
which I am writing, as I go along.
Down in the pit, the inquisitive mind
is alone with Carl Jung Syncronicity,
a little bit of plum pudding and the
flow and its power. That’s all we need,
Now, induced synchronicity, low in the
pit-grid, is what John C is osculating.
His digitalized oneiric human form is
opinion-changing, charged and dynamic
and also oscillatory, and dual.
The grid as a Maxwell field, a power
ful wave-to-particle reticulum, endo-less
plasmatic-less, but all the shebang way
to the speed of light. Mr Biological
Kammener’s seriality is what Cicciotta
the cat is having for pudding (obviously
while reading the book that I am writing).
Long velocity, short position.
The Rashomon-Heisenberg effect is dual
enough for breakfast. John C’s last
stand before cooking the charge of
gnostic neutrinos mixed with boson-glue
and all the byronostromical complaints
you might voice, DearReader.
A rose by another stench would sunflare
as sweet. Grave electro-magnetic mistakes
gravitational fingers upyoursing the moon
doubts and fears, all the arsenal of the
grid warfare. Wander-land is the earth
(and Titan) outside the Murakamian Well.
Digitalized John C finds it very diffi
cult to focus on mind-not-matter.
“and then it jumped on me”, quotes the
inner Cheshire Cat. Beata Giovinezza.
‘Gee. All this grid-talk is un-bear-able.’
Gawain says this. While Monkey is having
a wank. ‘But the string of synchronicities…’
is the unfinished arguments put forward
by gentle Desert Storm. The latter, while
having a test drive
on Titan, found the
lost forgotten disks of time-space travel
describing the trip of eleven-years from
now, down the golf field, all the way up
the himmel-laya to meet the lamas and camels
and the numerous children of the maha country.
Fortune lobo, instead, now warrior-like,
exits downstage toward BruceLee Planet,
full of water and fire, all unfettered
and shit, though still doubt-wary, he’s
a peachy lucky Ulysses on a day trip.
Or a year. Or you-know-what. The un-bear
able heaviness of youth-stars.
‘I got the message, bellezza’, is what
the upcoming warrior blabbers while fight
ing his own personal war with the ubi-
verse divisive asynchronism.
But then Gawain asunders Monkey
the latter continues to pillage
and rape the planets and platelets
he joyrides the figures and the figura
tive speeches of all georgian fabulousness
all the desires of romantic amour-rouseness.
all the concentrical fractals fractured.
‘Love-making is what we chiefly need,
Chubby’, John C de-oscillates just to
pee out of the web-grid-Max-Well-flow-
‘Asynchronous pissing, is all you need’
Chubby is increasingly weary, replicantly
petulant. ‘To the point of being redundant
you need to rhein-in your heterogeneity,
for fuckety fuck’s sake.
But John C is determined, impersonating
the empty non-existent white Calvino Knight
and perhaps also the happy-go-lucky Bramante
‘I was very sick, dear Cat.
The first being on the flow-grid is to be
formed as “poenas in the snowstorm”.
You like that?’
‘Yeah’, Cicciotta says. ‘A little to the
Handsome Monkey not yet King, out of cave
and into doomsday. Saturn’s rings-counting.
Uranus above Kandahar, Ladakh over Cassiopea.
Double-agent monkey head, constellation by
proxy. Evaporating peaks on Monkey Head Nebula.
Down at the library, the ghost-in-mind
all being being busted. Something strange,
in this galaxy. Who is being called?
Monkey is not afraid. The first being on
the Max-Well-Web is a spider at the centre
of the grid. Still, observant. Waiting for
the blade runner unit orange eggs to hatch.
Spider-Monkey is very hairy, spawned by the
sickly woven mind of Sean C, down the pit,
out of your real horizon, what a double-star.
the rain on the web is interspaced with empty
ness. from orion, a new star is growing.
cappella is golden-hued. artemis was not
pleased with either orion or with the ursa
major. luckily for us, there is more than
satellite to charge up the shingle. On
Titan, Sean C is slowly building the
digital girth. the sick thoughts of plate
lets are spinning, after all, 15 centuries
have past since the last argument about
the missing prophet and the interpretation
of the words has gone semantically berserk.
Decelerating, Uranus’s genitials gave birth
to Aphrodite. Sky being what it is, there
is little evidence of anything other than
the eternal cum.
Gaia and Uranus, also, of course, produced
the satellite creatures on which Sean C lives,
and among which there is a certain Cronos,
the castrator, friend to man, not to woman.
But to the matter, the Titanic task at hand,
on the saturnine globe, encircled by Maxwell
and Huygens gaps, is the description of the
molecular cloud, the interstellar gas, and
the brain games now serving on this week’s
satellite dish. Once again, as at the start
of the molecular pathway, Mozart’s notes are
resounding across the westward hubble bobbles.
The magic spells of Shakespeare touch upon
winter’s discontent, linger on the house of
York, and move on to distilled honey-dews,
while the plague is raging outside, we may
cozy up and huddle and cuddle, and tea-drink
(of course, potion-less, opossum-less).
As at the start, in medias res, of this
never-ending story, Ariadne is sitting,
listening to music, while thinking about
the deep field, the majestical fires fretted
with golden glues and some music resounds.
rain pours down the soul-drain, oscar wilde
voices raise from reading gaol, dorian gray
imaging brings about more vernacular, and
on the grid, the second being is in the pro
cess of gestation. Water, ammonia and methane
are what we need from Uranus and Neptune.
Ariadne is leading the NeverEnder toward these
blue planets, the gravitational pull is pretty
intense. The crew of the NeverEnder is jubilant.
The summer triangle is now sinking very low in
to the west, and at the gray havens, all the
talk is about which direction to take toward the
lands ever blest. Linguistically, though, we
might say that we lack advancement, and lack the
skill to steer the mightly NeverEnder toward safe
shores. The thing is, one must admit at some
point, is that the milky way is way too short
a day trip (pun intended) for just about any
kafka-reading, intensity-riding heterogeneous
Sean C, or Monkey cub, or even angry ape. So,
Ariadne leads the way, and the NeverEnder follows.
November is home to Perseus and Cassiopea.
The sky is clear, and the night is deep.
So many things to say, and so little time.
Cronos! You’re such a biatch. More to the
purpose, there once was a girl, John C.
Shit! The second being on the grid’s gotta
have a vagina? Please, please, please no!
A persian high, a hebrew exhalted, a turkic
shadow across the Borovoe mother land.
Mother to Persia, sun of the east, and
westward-honed. But of course, John C
lost the tracks, and of course the hills
are high, and the lions and the tigers
and all the lynxes of this world are
populating the dark forest. so, then.
And so it happens, Ariadne, Uranus-bound,
is in tune with her sexuality. Her love,
perhaps only love is the sword, and also
perhaps there is something more. The
other being, the third, on the grid,
is the infinite vastuosity of cloud
space; so while we are on the cloud,
we may have a look at the ubi-versal
criterion of divine distinction. So
here there is all the material for spi
ritual congestion, and all the rest
of it. On Neptune, the wave-particle
reader of the NeverEnder is going ball
hooney. Cappella looks perfectly white
to the naked eye. Star-gazing, comet-gazing
God-willing. There is so much to see.
In this incarnation, Monkey-Gawain has
a duty to star-gaze, cytoplasm-riddle
and rob all the words of their mendacity.
Weeks of attention, days of discovery.
Paul said it, we’ll all be fine! Now
if Paul said it, then lah-dee-dah. But
there is always a head-butt. So one then
needs to find something to collide with.
the NeverEnder is manned for interstellar
exploration. Monkey-Gawain is womanned
for interstellar copulation, and the rest
of the spiri-tooual crude is too power
hungry to be even considered.
Odd, quite obviously. The bottom edge
of discourse lacks mobility. The Never
Ender is not equipped for fighting. The
god-mobile is everywhere, and the tech
nological dis-ease is rising, and the
voices of poison-deep are multiple.
so Sean C considers his options. In
the grid, the spider web is growing.
Wait, linger, let the enemy nibble.
In the ubi-verse, granted there is much
to tron about, and much to discuss about
the character-descriptions, but all the
Desert Storms of this world, the Tierra
Madres, the Fortune Lobos, the Flexas,
the Ariadnes, the Sean Cs, and all the
other characters of this story cannot
even begin to phatom the relentless
wheel of the engine, sinking deep
into the flesh of my spirit. Oh
dearReader, have mercy, I lack advance
ment. Tame, I am not. There is much
to tell, but no words can describe
the narrative threads coming loose,
the ubi-versal explosions on the shores
of orion, and all the rest of the
stories all happening at once in the
oceanus of great belief and dis-belief.
Sir, I lack advancement. Here is to the
matter, every thing is very much like a
camel or a cloud, depending on how you
look at it. The rains of Londinium tran
scend the rains on Titan. The methane
is drinkable, the Murakamian third, forth
wall come down.
So Ali and Nino, or Ninah and Aliya. The
forth being on the grid is the eternal
force of duality, the chaos-eros theorem.
God’s algorithm has impeding priorities.
Following the flow of the mind-matter
is one synchronous bitch. Meditation,
not copulation, the wise men said. Though
some Dyonisian elysiacs also discuss
the nature of love, and the mystic
Capacity of third and forth wall crumbling.
Begin at the beginning. The grid.
Spider (web), exhalted-one, cloud, duality.
What shall it be?
Oscillations and greater fragmentations.
Unity and discourse. NeverEnder journey-ing.
I, no longer I. There once was a book, writ
ten in the age of space travel, when humans
were discussing Laputa, and other missions.
‘Island’, it was. The mystical writer led
charge on the notion of literature-science
on the virtues of ecological sustained society,
of peace, and tolerance, and acceptance of
Now, destiny is where the NeverEnder comes
in. Unexplored territory, the mystic mountain
a bright cross in the Carina Nebula. The
top of it, an archer’s hand. Could it be
the spirit of Artemis, reaching all the way
in the vast star-forming foaming regions of
the way-galaxy, hungry for milk, breast
feeding from the ubi-versal galactic tit?
But the Milky way and Andromeda are headed
for a colossal head-butt. In about four
billion years we shall meet the unfractured
voice of God. A single elliptical galaxy
will be formed in about 6 billion years.
We shall all pay dearly for Cassiopea’s
arrogance and hubris. That figures. Pin
it down to one beautiful and vain lady.
So, the Carl Jung permitting, Perseus
will find his Pegasus. Allow access to
spiritual energy, and access the realm
of the Gods on mount Olympus. But not yet.
The shaman mount, the water, the solar
myth, the siren-charger. The spring, the
well, the thunder and the lightning.
Pegasus, born from okeanos, well of the
cilicians, and from the distance of this
one very humble murakamian well, it is
one computer simulation away. Once
Andromeda will come crashing through,
the lights will come on, and the storm
will have more than one poena, and the
light of the gaseous vertebrate will
Crash of the Titans, well.
From the simulation on Titan’s night
the desire for future is almost as
hungry as for the desire for Pegasus
riding. Look out onto the night sky.
Andromeda may be so far away, but
Perseus-Monkey may just have to wait
long enough for a head-on collision.
In the depth of night fall,
when time is bounty, and scarce
is the horror, where the dead souls
rise and talk, the living creatures
sleep, the trees wave and tremble.
Willows calmly weep,
Ash-trees hide sulking uber-squirrels,
foxes, in families, come out foraging.
the beauty of the serene city,
surrounded by walls of sadness.
during this long, protected hour
before the sun again spins toward
the head of our life, in the shadows
all souls can find solitude and rest.
on the horizons of the ocean,
the last remnants of sea life
in the deep well, the fountain of
former lives, please go to sleep.
I am sure this conversation already
happened. The fragile path, the smell
of the night. The White Plague on the
rampage, the moonlit mountains re-mind
The chorus from within the volcano,
the long procession of amends, the
delicate hands of the night’s shades.
Clutched by the still of the night,
all sorrow moves toward the love of you.
Brief candles cast in the ocean-sky.
Pontus and Uranus in the dark cloak of
night. On this day and night of all souls
the prayers and thoughts linger, galaxies
drum and beetles crawl, the wind is rising,
the breath of the eternal in full sweep.
Per aspera, ad astra. Tradunt.
Hence the nocturnal majestical roof
is fretted with hundred thousand, a hundred
million souls, all dancing and pulsing
well until the dawn churns out another spin.
On the NeverEnder’s road, the bells are
ringing, well within the echo of MayFair’s
lovely streets. The tower in darkness is mute,
the twinkle and sprinkle of water and of light
descends onto former lovers, and onto the land.
Earth is still living, the giant trees of the
green park are witnessing a still echo of astro
logical clouded dream.
There, the heart of the writer is fooled,
folly is the love of You. Crimson path ahead,
the absolute solitude at the centre of the
grid, even eternal distances, boundless time
feels so narrow.
The crescent moon, the dolphin call,
there the heart is beating, calling, calling
calling at the equinox of stillness.
Multiple voices on all souls night, all
clustering in the alhambra. the pearls
in the emerald darkness, bonfires dot the
pulsating himmel, lying stretched like a poem.
God-mobile declares the invasion of Titan.
Sudden bombardment takes Sean C unawares
It hurts to be set free. Never follow him,
it seems. Soft lies, being destroyed.
We tried to love, and hence the End approaches.
So swordplay swishes on the whale’s way,
Shield shuck fighters with ships play
With sheer shoregunners ashore.
Sea-paths, seacliffs and the shingled shore
Are the place of the dead for ever more.
Sea-faring ships shell the land
With flames striking sea and sand
On the shores of Titan showdown comes
With sheepshank fighters and the world’s done.
From foamy-necked floaters come waders on shoals
They swim to shallows to crawl ashore.
Welding their souls with marshes, mires and dunes
They cry their war-cry, finely attuned.
But the weaponed men are gunned down shoring
Bullets pelt them down boring
Cracking bones and head, soaring.
Sea-stormed, limb-naked, swung
Men are on awaiting sheer cliffs flung.
Sherrying off under shells,
Shilly-shallying as gunfire shills
Shrill shrieks and shright shrieks,
Shill blasts blunder shifting men
Shilpit are now the swifter men,
For a shim of life remains,
As the world-candle shimmers.
The shock of death on a shoestring,
Waders are shot, the shots sting.
The sheen of the sun glistens,
And the quiet beach listens.
Groaning men in shiver:
Is the shed of the river.
Ships in swirls, swishing, sink.
Silence comes in a wave’s blink.
Walk-on part in the war, all the
way. Bermondsey, Borovoe and Titan
all under under V2 bombardment.
All the way, in the 21st century,
Baghdad and Kobane are being sieged.
What have found? The same old mistakes.
the old adage, the night is darkest…
The wind may rise and fall again,
we are like leaves… you know.
So on his death-bed, Mr Mescaline
wrote about Shakespeare and Religion,
a new voyage is due for the NeverEnder.
Planet Compton may soon see the blue-red
prow of the NeverEnder rise up the Ascalot
road. The process of spider-weaving may
be long, and of course the lady of the
castle may still have a little issue
with freedom. So then, in the Murakamian
well, all needs to be digitalized carefully.
So therefore, we come now to the publishing
of the archive. Sean C escapes down the hatch
with Chubby onto the safe(r) location of
planet Vashisht. There, he regroups and plans
the strategy for the NeverEnder, since after
all, Monkey and Ariane are under his command.
The Auryn has been traced all the way to
Ariane’s command. Monkey is a loose cannon,
and the brigade may or may not come along.
The NeverEnder is now stationed on Planet
Fear, where some Byron-Wildean cannons are
being fitted. Also, other guns. Shelleyan
missiles, Shakespearean mines, Miltonian
guilt-riders. Even an Huxleyian Reason blazer
is being fitted in this last, desperate
attempt for self-defence.
But the last, perhaps unreasoned fit
is the subtle particle gun shooting
tiny picogold fragments into the source
dna code. the bullets, perhaps made of
an ancient mould, smithereen-like.
The alloy is made of several compounds
which we may or may not care to enumerate.
In the mean time, a very very mean time,
Mr Cronos is scheming and whining
all the more reason to hide Uranus’s balls.
Which brings us to Ariadne, which having
foraged at Uranus moved the self-aware
ship toward Planet Fear to reflect on
the nature of Shiva, and the reason for
all the war-drumming in the ubi-verse.
In a pause between slices of war, and the
echo of silence, all the insignificance
of anger. So back to the source of civi
lization. And that’s not a certain Syd.
Let us say that, the north gate of Babylon
was built in honour of Ishgat, and she was
one mean lady. Let us also say that, if
one decides to go ballistic, one may start
to build Palazzo Ducale with quantum gravity.
Roasted cashew nuts on Arolithos, Crete.
The moon is a disk seen from the reflection
of the earth. On another planet, the reflection
of the moon of Titan is one of relative war.
In the journal of Astrophysics, it was recent
ly reported that Helios (the titan) was very
very cross. The statues at Rhodes has collapsed,
the thieves and the raiders got to it (usual
God-mobile people, and the like).
for this reason, the argument on Planet
Vashisht is the following. A) can one
stick everything into a dark mirror B)
can one read from the dark mirror C) can
space/time be bent/transcended/essentially
can we travel through time from one of those
wormholes or dark mirrors and stuff.
In answer to A) we get the NeverEnder (the
poem, that is, and one work of (c)art is
never abandoned, only unfinished). Follow
ing B) yes one can, but one can’t understand
shit (hence Teesan can only understand if
Sean C starts to hum subtitles. on the subject
let us be clear. No fucking subtitles).
In answer to C) yes of course, yo. That is
the whole point of this sheenanigan. the point
is, ladies and roughmen, that all of the
ball honey (and all of it) happens at once in
some M-theory Mystical Revelation (collapsed
gravitational pull) and the super and little
stringlets of this shmuck can be best described
by the following statement: follow the dark
horse, read the story in the dark mirror. chew
bubblegum and kick butt. Now that was cheap…