NeverEnder Space Epic Poem / Book II / Chapter III

Chapter III

I.

Eratosthenes is up, and Aristotle is down. Ahura
Mazda listens to Chubby’s love story. Her beloved
ancestor was called beta by his enemies. Aristotle
believed that the world was divided in Greeks and

barbarians, while the chief geographer’s belief is
that there is good and bad in every tribe. So Chubby
sets out to calculate the diameter of the ubi-verse
while listening to Ottorino Respighi mixed with

II.

Жар-птица. Perhaps I loved you, Athenian School.
Things fall. How? Finnegan, Adam, butter scraped
over too much bread, and of course… water. At the
interplay between night and day, across the river of

Hel, across the Abyss, over to you, Pato Donald. In
Hades, there is a gravitropism when Chubby falls
in the museyroom, all excited because it is the
place where ubiverse turns black hole. Well, not

III.

that mensch from the outside, but inside it’s got
“far other galaxies and other bacteria”. Chubby
knows that there is another place beside this
transient rainy (titanic) shadow-sand.

People roll purposeless. Cum, inside the paint
ings. Forever in action, there are heroines and
heroes from all ages who challenge the test of
hubris by defying the jokes and becoming im

IV.

mortal. All is portrayed doing something
sooper duper like sitting on the grass sipping
tea, or fighting the G-force or even smashing
a temple. The gallery is a place of the mind

and wave length. Paintings are glued to the wall
like heaven and hell. Noxious motions are ways
for that eternal leap. Pain Artists and Gods,

weavers of other worlds. Now open a window

VI.

on the past, the present, the immortal, the fuck
allure, and the archaic den of the human spirit.
Perseus (e.g.) is standing in grand embarassment
torn apart by pretty flowers. Fearless legs sore.

Heroic blue, he is the dude and the villain at the
same time. Fortune Lobo has come inside the
black hole himself, all comatose and merging with
Perseuswolf, preying on the listless soldiers,

VII.

waving the head of the Gorgon like a ghost in
pain, as if it was a memory card or one of those
work badges to wave around in the tube. Self
right, an artist of the soul. If (dearReader) you

dare fight your own putrified self, please find the
time to avert your face from the picture of your
insanity. This is the face that we show to other
people. Enemies are turned into stone in a strange

VIII.

strangulation of fear. A cross-fire of artistic
perspective and aggravation. Our weakest (and
strongest) enemy is the image of death. Courage
cost us our life. The rest is a muted entangle

ment of particles, writhing at the first hint of
eternal immobility. So blackhole vision of the
Temeraire is brutuality in approaching voices.
Yggdrasil tempered by the cool light of the night.

IX.

A pool of sunset in the ocean stream counterpoint
to white-crested billows, insinuating on the shores.
The moon is laugh-tearing the decaying sun. Ahura
Mazda, this is the end of the line. The ancient cons

truct is in ruin (due to bad debt). The new construct
seeks Antonio Gramsci’s memories in gaol. Inspired
motion, drawing from the eternal spiritual reservoir,
or the night’s tartly shadows. The orange steam states

X.

that a new order has taken place. Hope, symbolised
by a mild blue light, is compressed between two
worlds. This is the transition between the world
of waking and the world of dreams. Forgotten

dreams are watered down as the sun proceeds
in its funeral march, the city has swallowed it.
From the depth of the abyss, a white light
emerges, it is the reflection of the moon.

XI.

All is quiet in the world of surrender. Yet
the waves ripple and create quiet, Temeraire
is coming home. The dead soldier slithers.
Storm is gathering, the clouds are dense.

quartzgolden skull is uploaded memory for
the dead. The fits of Hel open up, the pitch is
broiling in the foreground. The light is still
pulsating, yet the body of painting sighs. A

XII.

yellowish skin is all that is left of heroism.
All for nothing, the flesh has fallen, and a bree
ze is putting a seal on it. The night of eternal
damnation is going to be long. Doctor, doctor,

doctor. Don’t save any one. I hate you.
Through these fountains of light I have
walked through dimensional gates, but now
just the door attendant. Firebird. The door is

XIII.

locked and don’t know what to do. If all of
this has a meaning, if someone has a key…
but right am torn by a whirlwind of images.
feel am different from the flames that sur

round. am burning alive yet do not feel pain.
can see the footsteps of an old vampire on the
beach. listen to the sound of footsteps of those
walking shadows who, like used to do, listen

XIV.

to the morning clarion holding a last
sceptre of silence. There are still people
trying to climb the earth, some get lost in the
cement pits that pave the streets. Hel is layer

ed with asphalt. Taken aback, find self trying
to rummage the memories, trying to find at
least one good reason to keep on living. have
left the land of stone, have left the bulrush

XV.

plagued city of marble. gave self completely
to a red rose who lied under the scorching sun.
It came back to life with blue petals. But right
then a dream. On a the deck of a ship life and

love been prophesied to be des’ Troyed. dream,
like others, beenfore telling the sunset to cum,
a tragedy so foretold, planned and then seen
again. room the women come and go .

XVI.

chapter one, one, segment one of the veil
nebula echoes with Don Giovanni being
sung. Rainbow-hued gas density shifts
and does not haunt her heart, Ariadne

cries. She knows that a discussion on
the sick thoughts of planets does nothing
for the ubi-verse. The Laconian school
docet. That’s a dying group of ideas.

XVII.

In Hades, in the black hole.

Δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληίαδες µέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, πάρα δ᾿ ἔρχετ ὤρα·
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω

The moon has set. And
the Pleiades. It is the middle
of the night. Time passes,
time passes. And I lie alone.

XVIII.

cross the waterfall, seminal
idea in the stars. Premonition
of myth. Kerberos meets us.

A sweet protocol. A fellow
ship of characters cannot
go through fire. Burn, mother.

XIX.

Only the bravest poissonages
can withstand the petrifying
gaze of the headless sphix.

Ariadne leads the merry band
of black hole pirates through
the mouth of Ὠκεανός, the

XX.

divine personification of the
sea, an enormous river
encircling the world

strictly speaking a Titan
son of Uranus and Gaia
picture in the museyroom

XXI.

the upper body of a muscle
man with a long beard and
horn-claws of a crab and

the lower body of a Typhon
serpent. Due to lack of gravity
they all fall off the edge of the

XXII.

world into the missing
Rabbit roadrunning with Z.
Desert Storm fallows.

her crop is a young budrose
and a novel showmind

Fortune Lobo carries
the apparition of faces in
a crowd.

The Grim is doublebill
in broken mirror im spiegel.

Limping SeanC, Ahura
Mazda and Chubby complete.

XXIII.

Hel assembles the potion from
under the ash tree. Heimdall
cannot see. Gawain and Monkey
friend, seek life at the origin

of the black hole, studying
the curvature of light. So
Rabbit’s gone missing.

XXIV.

The ego boundary is an open
window. So much fear and

anger.

XXV.

Sean C is settin’ up his computer,
wired into consciousness and memory,
which enables his terminal to log on
the ubi-verse mega galactic computadora

oploading electron microscopy
to the digital polymorphic frame;
his fooling idea is to rewrite the past.

XXVI.

Now Ariadne reclines her head,
she is very much like a cloud
and the sunset grows wider and
wider from nothingness to the

shape all space and time. Memories
laid to rest long ago come alive
lights are awakened to the east, the
whole ubi-verse hums and oscillates.

XXVII.

A cloud is like a flower, and time
comes to a stop (finally)
roses multiply, Ariadnes multiply.
the black hole is quiet, it is now.

from over the shore, the ebb flows
back, and the tide grows, Sea of Faith.

XXVIII.

This is a time in the past and the future
when (forgeddabout the egalitarian plateaux)
black hole lies bend all the possible dimensions.

At the same time, in a rewritten dimension,
the cursor blinks on Sean C’s black terminal
window, the shell of computer science’s disputes.

XXIX.

The flow is totally lost half way
if the dearReader cannot focus [ on it ]
what is it

log in for a head ache, log out for depression.
Sean C is setting up his computer, wired into
the ubiverse, memory and debateable data on
consciousness. Op-loading cellular activity to

XXX.

the digital polymorphic frame, he doesn’t
have a clue about what he is doing. He is
just messing around with his computer.
Still, very accidentally he found a code

(written in Etruscan) that enables his
colourful techno-painting program to
interact with his own cellular memory,
twisting and bending all that dioxyribo

XXXI

nucleic acid for download, exploration,
manipulation and absorption into the X.
It is highly debatable that there is a code.
That’s such an engineer thing to say. Any

way. This dioxyribonucleic acid (together
with all the interactoidome) is a mystified
code that supposedly was written by Poly
phemus (or was it his opponent), I forget

XXXII

his name. Ariadne spun it when she was
a spider (spider-weaving in Etruscan is
so much easier). There is no code, let’s
call it The Thing, in honour of Sean Carp

enter. Well The Thing is talked about in
the book ‘The Perennial Philosophy’. It
is perpetual (does that mean eternal?),
though it metamorphoses in an object-

XXXIII.

oriented manner as the ubi-verse evolves.
There is also another script (apparently
written by asynonymous, or was it Rifat)
which is the ubi-verse Pheistos disc. This

impermanent thing is protected (you wouldn’t
want to mess with God). Sean C doesn’t really
know what he is doing, but he lets his computer
take over and jerk off all those thoughts. There

XXXIV.

is a mental block setting (boundaries after
boundaries of imagined conventions) which
prevent half-humans like Sean C from access
ing the Pheistos code, which is ubi-versal and

grandiose. Once The Thing is understood
(i.e. why proteins are pretty and why RNA
dances and why DNA likes to metaphormose)
then the ubi-verse will open and Sean X

XXXV.

will get some cookie. There is a fractal setting
here in that the deeper Sean X looks at his own
code (the thing that we call The Thing) the more
he sees the code of the ubiverse. Everyday milli

ons of his cells apoptose and millions are created
in some controlled way through autophagy. Same
stuff happens with the ubiverse. Millions of stars
die and millions of supernovas are generated. So.

XXXVI.

The code for both The Thing and the Pheistos disc
is a function of time. The lowest level of code changes
the event handlers. The parameters that pass through
the event handlers change much like quantum physics.

This is the change that drives the morphosis or evolution
of the code both at the Sean X level and the ubiverse he
is (was) living in (before he fell into a black hole along
with almost all the other characters of this story). Now

XXXVII.

Sean X hacks into his own code and finds some left
over parameters from the past, coz some are corrupted
due to bad coding procedures (hence God invented the
Republicans). Sean X tries to correct the code but at

times his whole being crashes as the bad code is so
embedded into his being that the change has to be slow.
This is all so very bad aesthetics. Look dearReader, this
is very novel idea, it is not matrix and not tron. It is

XXXVIII.

actually how we and the universe maintain entropy.
There has to be a program in this and for our own
sanity maybe the created put a level of protection on
the code so you can only access or understand the

higher code once you understand your own code.
But the code keeps changing over time so if you
can use that concept and dig deep into your past
you can have some very novel idea here. Because

XXXIX.

in ten years time more genetic data will be avail
able but people will have no idea what it means.
Renunciation through knowledge. A novel algo
dance for the precise calculation of the maximal

information coefficient. We’d like to know every
thing, and we would like to manipulate everything.
Cicciotta disapproves. So does Ahura Mazda and
Artemis. Let the sleeping dogs lie, dirty sciensticks.

XL.

Inside the black hole, there is peace. Ab initio
molecular orbital theory. We’d like to orbit what
ever possible, and the characters are compressed
into gravitational desire, fear and anger, and all

the other demotions. Mainstream chemists have
now embraced computation. Potential energy
surfaces, torsion of angel, two minima of this
story. There is a plot of energy vs narrative torsion.

XLI.

That sucks. Cecco is screaming inside the mirror
inside the mirror inside the black hole inside the
story that is being re-written as Sean C has become
Sean X that is now recoding his own DNA and

making a mess of it while Cicciotta looks on
in amazement. Total electron density is a function
of coordinates and the number of poetics inside
a small volume which we call NeverEnder. That

XLII.

is absolute cheekiness. I thought the NeverEnder
was a space sheep, exploring the void, the power
of imagination fuels her. She is a she like the moon.
I don’t need to quote Walt Whitman to state that

(asynonymous) am tired of astronomy, and that
do declare that poetry is a beefier soup than Yin
Yang. The Laconian school is nearly dead. The
last bastion of iffy thought has been conquered

XLIII.

by the ravenousness of the Athenian school.
Scholars memorian and oblivian from all corners
of the ubi-verse gather to honour the casket of
Miyazakisan, and the incredible tide. If you don’t

get all the references (says Umberto Eco, famous
for his humility), it is because (he or I) respect
the reader so much that (he or I) half-expects him
or her to catch all the narrative breadcrums and

XLIV.

swallow. Gulp. There is so much to swallow in
this ubi-verse. So much shit is force-fed into our
half-human mouths. ‘Give us the shit, mangia,
mangia’. ‘Hark, fast by the window The rushing

winds go, To the ice-cumber’d gorges, The vast
seas of snow.’ I refuse to de-code the dioxyribose
Thing. Sorry. Sean X has his computer plug pulled
by Cicciotta. She is a Goddess of Egypt and Greece.

XLV.

Tragedy is a celebration of the Truth. It is not
a victory, but a resignation. “Not milder is the
general lot Because our spirits have forgot, In
action’s dizzying eddy whirl’d The something

that infects the world.” Shiva brings dissolution
to the black hole. So we are all going back to
God. So there is entropy, nothing is destroyed.
When remedy is exhausted, so is grief.

XLVI.

Sean X is looking for a MacGuffin, and
only finds empty air, the dramatic goal
cannot be more generic than this. Please
fill in this black with your problem: ___

(A bit more space if you need it: ____
______________________________).
Sorry, that is about it. The power of the
dramatist is in the ability of not standing

XLVII.

in the way of the problem. Whachyoogot?
In the black hole, we find lots of colour.
There, the aqua permanens, which in 16th
century alchemia stood for the quinta essentia.

Hence solutio is either chemical or problematic.
Pneuma is the water of philosophers, and so
we listen to Carl, whose animistic archetype
narrates of a volatile liquid, of disappearance

XLVIII.

and reappearance, and of “the soul that
becomes water”, the invisible pneuma of
Heraclitus. In the black hole, this principle
has become pluralized by being multiplica

ted. Here, the alchemy seeks to “free
the soul in chains”. So where did it
spring from, this creature of the abyss
that scatters the hope of dancing souls?

XLIX.

Then it feeds on their sloth, it foments
their fears. Over the blue sea, shining
with the ebullient eyes. It is veiled
with a hazy notion of brazen youth.

Breathing fire, we see her through the gauze
of the waters, brimming with anger, singing
ferocious chants. So it splits you in two.

L.

Silence on the inert blue, the wave always
rising on the table of the mediterranean.
the hole is open, and a still born child is

image in a mirror with a green mouth,
gurgling in breathlessness and stupor.
innocence at the mouth of hell, a vortex of

LI.

limblessness; on the ship whose prow is
embroidering the abyssal rocks, the sound of
a hissing voice. it is the lure of the chain, a
desire to explore the lower realm. Enchanting

in its mocking dance. Its folds and echoes
linger. Some bewitching spell for a
perennial nocturnal walk, celebrating
some kind of awakening stuck in the throat.

LII.

The prow of the ship rising from the blue
tells me from this particular side of the
black hole that ‘the unconscious can
no longer be treated as if it were causally

dependent on consciousness’ (hence
Sean X is spending pointless time trying
to hack the code of the code to get the
Code). Unconsciousness possesses

LIII.

qualities which are not under conscious
control. The rounded wholeness of the
mandala comes shining down on Ilford
Golders Green and Penge in the shape

of the NeverEnder, newly built in
cavorite, controlled by its own
intelligence, very eager to continue
exploring the ubi-verse and ignoring

LIV.

the slings and arrows of outrageous
waterways. Cosmic affinities. A
particle of the world soul (cosmos)
and hence a microcosm, a reflection

of the macrocosm (hence Sean X
is struggling with the fractal parameter)
Leibniz’s Monadology (not to be
confused with Mona-logoues) is

LV.

very much like this. Sunset over
Jung’s bright yellow. Destiny of
temptation. Switch over to tragedy,
and the long lost brain circuit

where the action potential collectively
describes the prow of the sunk ship
and falls behind the sun on the hori
zon. The Helios God is so miserable,

LVI.

so sad, so tired. From here to there
is a distance far too long, even as we
like to spin in and around this black
hole. The journey is the essence of

the chromoflower, which shall never
be revealed. In this moment of sorrow,
the swallows fly high and low in the
dramatic azure sky. The celestial folds

LVII.

are like wrinkles of old age. Darker,
redder dunes in the atmosphere.
Opaque, thick destiny is swarming.
Such mystery can only be hinted to,

if understood at all, but not known.
Hubris is upon us. My life is brief.
Two swallows fly parallel, east-bound.

LVIII.

the sun (like the ship) has sunk.
Cicciotta looks on, immobile. Half
way under the broiling waves the
star has collapsed onto the southern

sea. I can still see its white dwarf
status, and the black hole memory
of this sunset will be remembered
in a dream on ufos, and analysed

LIX.

by Doctor QuackSilver, Mr Hg,
and our old friend Carl. The purpose
of my trip is over. I am home,
bound.

LX.

I smell this air again, I
breathe.

LXI.

I am nobody, who
are you? are you
nobody too?

the sick rose has
flown away in the
crimson night.

LXII.

Sean X has deconstructed
his own code, and the cell
lies open like a chinese box.

inside, the cat is alive and
dead, and there is no end
to our suffering. For this

LXIII.

reason, Chubby is considering
a further rewrite, and a further
slip into the black hole, and
a further waterphilosophical

debate with Ahura Mazda
about the nature of division,
and why the Caterpillar is
always right. The electrons

LXIV.

have been counted. There
is little energy left. The code
of the Etruscans can only
be read in Volterra, and that

is a settlement far and away
on the planet Fear or was it
planet Carnuntum.

LXV.

Fortune Lobo exits the
black hole and meets Monkey;
the two are Andromeda-bound.

They are still searching for the
MacGuffin, that thing which
gives them the right to resist.

LXVI.

That is not to say that they
do not carry the talisman still.
They do. Their purpose in this
narrative has been preserved.

NeverEnder Space Epic Poem / Book II / Chapter II

Chapter II
I.

Effect, Franz Fanon. Causation, Edward Said.
Warning, a journey to the East swallows up
dreams, Baku-wise. What is Jerusalem?
Sri Krishna: “Who cares to seek for that

perfect freedom?” Einstein asserts that the
strongest and noblest driving force for
scientific enterprise is a cosmic religious
experience. But Fortune Lobo and Desert

II.

Storm have doubt. Ariadne (being a Goddess)
is in the league with Cicciotta-Chubby-Bastet.
They sit and watch, we play and weep. So,

While the vynil of the story is being scratched,
and new etchings are marring the past, which
is being re-written as a Sean C monologue, and
the NeverEnder is a ship which is travelling back

III.

wards, then the thread of the story (which is a
yellow ribbon) is being unravelled non-linearly
and duality is talked about in the form of a
conventional truth (worldly and Nagarjunesque)

and an ultimate truth (some of those Huxley
Island kites would do). A daily cup of maggots,
that is the nature of samsara. Yum yum! So
before you used to eat cockroaches, now you

IV.

have graduated to maggots. Monkey is eating
his breakfast on planet Pain, and he has a bad
tummy. Gawain is taking a break on the other
side, while the Ancient Mariner is taking que

stions. “So,” quotes the naive Fortune Lobo,
eager to understand “what is the Middle Way?
I have always wanted to know. Is it half way
between Pad Thai and Papaya Salad ?” Now

V.

Planet Poseidon coughs up the perfect storm,
and the youthful adventurer is catapulted half
way across the ubi-verse, as way to punish
him for his cheeky remarks. Pad Thai, indeed.

Doubt is a flat spot on a greasy lake, like a
small fisherman’s boat, floating by with nets
of Guilt, and fishing Fear. Entropy is the juice
which pumps the heart of Planet Pain, and

VI.

Gawain is mining its jewel-caves for more
amorous feeling, a bit like Montecristo (the
count, not the island). Entropy is the juice,
and I fear the other half of the equation may

be that tremendous heat that we all feel when
pressure is applied to the system (we may ass
ume that the system is a closed one, and that
your mother may decide further laws of ther-

VII.

-mother-dynamics. Cognitive Bee-hivioral Thera
Py. This, in mid-slump with Piezo2 and β-catenin.
Acute depletion redefines division of labour. Other
wise known as, sunset in the afternoon with biscuits.

Gawain has a mouse, like his father before him. But
“Somewhere, parently [..] the copyist must have fled
with his scroll.” The name of the mouse is DumbBill
Silly. “Cull me ere I wilt to thee!” Laughtears. β-cate

VIII.

nin mediates stress resilience (or else we let the bullies
bully us, and steal, and nibble, and feed off our blood).
The stronger mouse bullies the smaller mouse (or possi
bly, the less hungry). The ravenous mice are feeding, so

father sets out for his crusade againt all evil (what a more
on) by sticking the glue on the ground to capture the ene
mies. Pathological states are scattering across the ubi
verse like the well-known Cassiopeia dis-ease. Sudden

IX.

ly a gizillion (at least five) Moody’s Dicks (S’ i’ fosse
foco, arderei ‘l…), also known as scien’wist shmucks,
are swimming in the mercury sea of ab reductio, and
the bodies of the slain are burnt on the pyre. Mammals,

insinuations, forced allegiances to the murderers. Micro
RNA regulation up the ass, Mr Dicer. Fortune Lobo
(floating as the snow at the peaks, echoing as the sound
of the foothills, watchful as Heimdall, flying as the

X.

water of spring) resolves himself to catch the passing
boat of RightMindedness. There. So what are the forces
which hold protons and neutrons together in the nucleus?
What is the journey of the electron? We shall follow that.

When the field jiggles, it behaves like a particle. So nuc
lear forces command the will of Fortune Lobo, Steppen
Wolf of Scythia. Who commands the nuclear forces? It’s
turtles all the way down, apparently. But downstream

XI.

microRNA is commanded by the brain-less pseudo-thera
pist to vectorise the brain. How does the brain-less act on
the brain? Just wait and see. How will Fortune Lobo, while
spinning like the versus of an electron in the space between

particles, using the knife in part one of the story, preparing
himself for the fall… how will Fortune Lobo counter the
farces of canonical Wnt signalling coupled with the doctor’s
false oath? Now before we follow the electron, let it be known

XII.

that the Director of the Human Nation (Dux Ubi-Versal),
he that sees the gnat atop the pile of Jurassic dumping,
while sprawled across the ubi-verse, feeling poetic, he
lines up the ants, the mice, and the leading pine apples,

and declares the ten (mind you) tenets of Desired Behaviour.
But first, he enumerates the long-term benefits, then he asks
a few tough questions, and then he answers his tough questions
with a few tough answers. The White Plague has instructed

XIII.

him. But Fortune Lobo hears not, he is still spinning,
voiceless, in the unknown backyard of your mind, dear
Reader. But before we delve in the harmonics of
particle travelling, I should like to note that not all

scientists are born from the blood of Uranus when
he was castrated by Cronos. The child of the night,
with a broader portfolio than the Furies, operates as
a counter to the capricious Tyche. Now, I am not sure

XIV.

about Mr Tycho, but Fortuna does not come down
heavy on the man that declares that science and religion
are compatible. In reading the words of Mr Albert
Einstein, one is struck by the melody, the mellowness,

and the unshakeable empathy. A mind of thought and
beauty. Nemesis may have driven Narcissus mad,
Fortuna is still revered in Italy and in the shades. But
if there is no overweening pride, if there is no hubris, then

XV.

the mind is gentle like the relativity of simultaneity,
and the reference-body for the budding mind is like a
firefly in the night when the howling storm is far and
away, and Feynman’s path integral becomes certain.

Fortuna, you need not fret about the pebbles moved by
the wicked and the child-abusers, the Furies will have
them. Echoes in time, as Echo cannot love, and the
host of daffodils is dancing in the wind, not recollected.

XVI.

But as Matthew Arnold reminds us, the world in which
we are living defies death.
“In the pines the thrush is waking —
Lo, yon orient hill in flames :
Scores of true love knots are breaking
At divorce which it proclaims.
When the lamps are pal’d at morning,
Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand.
—Cold in that unlovely dawning,
Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand.”

XVII.

Scientists, pale maidens, the sirens of this age.
The orient hill is in flames with nanopores and
anti-gravity, and with delusions of monopoly. So
if science, liberty and peace are not the subject

of political debate, but relegated by doubtful
self-appointed chair-people of false compassion
to the vague notion of “poetry”, if the charity
workers are slaves of the marketeers, if the wo

XVIII.

men of science and the men of engineeering
are driven not by motion but by greed and ambi
valent ambition, then the understanding will
be nil, and the conquistadores will claim the

land, and the politicians will come with bare
hands to squeeze the juice of missiles, the forces
of the atoms unleashed at the whim of Cleopatra.
So after this disclaimer, I should like to discuss

XIX.

the path of particles, of cakes in caves, and
while we hide, waiting for the televised apo
calypso, we can test our hypotheses with the
Galileo method; let’s drop a plume and a rock

and see which particles fall on the other side of
Pinocchio. Disclaimer, disclaimer. More poetic!
So we wish the electron a merry Saturnian holy
day. Saturn is spinning while Titan is at rest. Lo

XX.

and behold. When Nemesis was turned into a wild
goose, the motion of all matter was first described
in terms of waves. The x-component of Nemesis’s
momentum is calculated with uncertainty Δhelen.

You cannot, at the same time, know its x-position
more accurately than Poseidon’s smelly bum. These
days, the God of the Sea is particularly polluted.

XXI.

“Is this the cycle of life story or the Ego boundary?
That’s tenderly. The moon talks to the universe, isn’t
it?” Kroo Pienkit hits the nail on the head. The study
of poetry’s recombination frequency is measured in

centimorgans. As previously stated, philosophically
we are completely wrong if we stick to the approxi
mate law, or the law of the conventional (buddhist)
truth. Nevertheless the sentence is passed on and

XXII.

the next generation of creatures observes the
particles jiggling and bouncing like jelly or
possibly pudding. At the level of the body of
liquid water, we have another source of vari

ation, the production of new alleles (which
are versions of a unit of knowledge) by mute
action. γνῶθι σεαυτόν. One of the first tasks
is to establish a correspondence between the

XXIII.

deoxyribonucleic acid and the map of knowl
edge. Gnostic and agnostic markers have ap
proximate distances calculated with electron
pointers, which contain the address of Apollo.

Particular combinations of andrewpaulmurphyc
narratives are termed nefas-rious and can allow
the restructuralization of the evolutionary history
of a popularized information set. Let us begin

XXIV

with a simplified picture of how memory is
organized. A typical machine has an array of
consecutively numbered or addressed mem
ory cells: Apollo, Apollo, Artemis, Artemis,

Artemis, Artemis. 110000. Over a large time
scale, business per usuals may shuffle the gnōscō
map of Here Comes Everybody. HCE, “an
imposing everybody he always indeed looked”

XXV

Information storage and transmission. One or
two angstroms will do. If an apple grows the
size of planet Earth, then the atoms of the big
apple are the size of the original little apple.

Information flows in cells, either as a 32-bit
float or a RNA interference machinery, with
a bit of Neo (or Don Juan), a pinch of Ahura
Madza and lots and lots of kinesthesis.“All

XXVI.

art is at once surface and symbol. Those who
go beneath the surface do so at their peril.” Sean
C has started a session of navel grazing in front
of the dark-pooled mirror on Planet Vashisht.

White, white… down. From the river of the past
comes a reflection of a story, the laughtears of
forgotten words. The Vashisht mirror throws up
images of delight and sorrow. Sean C listens.

XXVII.

Rain falls violently on every thing. Look, a
monastery, high up in the mountains, shrunk to
the size of Sean C’s mind set. The himmel-
laya are prostrating as tiny stones, much like a

chorus. Clouds burst like rotten eggs and the
jelly of heaven pours down. The gate of the
monk-place rises like an ogre. Giant statuary
shabbiness split between the perfect roof, the

XXVIII.

bulky wooden columns (tense like the nostrils
of a cheeky dragon) and the ruins of the night.
Beams are projected in mid-air like daggers.
So much chiaroscuro. Sean C marvels at the

crippled Aphrodite (vagina times), whose
beauty is enhanced by the concave parts.
The left side of the gate is griffin-paragon
in its full supermajestic slant. The opening

XXIX.

of phoenix wings against the Russian gloom.
In the middle of the gate, buttressed against a
colossal column, whose red-stained wood has
been ravaged by time and termites, a heavily

framed mirror looks on. There is a mirror in the
reflection of the mirror on Planet Vashisht. Sean
C is tripping. The Caivano glass is cracked,
venom’d with blackish veins. Silence enfolding.

XXX.

Deafening noise of falling snow. Roar roar roar.
Sunlight quickly vanishing behind the facing
mountain, engulfed by an army of massive snows.
The monastery sits on the east side of the valley,
perched on a platform of rock, cast between the
dark-hued slope, studded with huge sharp rocks,
and a wall of stone behind it, marking the impene
trability of the Earth. The sun rises from behind

XXXI.

the wall, touching the crests of the high mountains.
Opposite, west and north-west, burning their snowy
fingers, licking the sunsetty furnace red. A magenta
portal of the mountain deep, wide as a quadrangle.

In the middle of its inneryard there sleeps a temple
like a golden and shining gekko, a well-kept coil.
The high mountains form a narrow valley, frozen

XXXII.

in snow. North and south, a riverruns, bending way
through the marooned ice. One can witness the
advancing tread of icicles, a little tighter every day.
The cold, dry air is speechless, no warbling of birds.

The valley has halted in an echoing stillness, with
only the lone murmur of the river to emphasize the
silence. The reflection of the mirror is dark. There,

XXXIII.

the light is not thrown back. A black pond, in ripples.
Branches of trees murmur from it, though it casts no
image. Single drops echo in its mercury liquid glow,
and footsteps are heard. Sean C is mesmerized. The

shadow of a man flashes intermittently across the watery
wall of silence. Melancholy, a burning innuendo; the
figure emerges from the lizard shadows with an
expression of pain across the canvas. He comes and

XXXIV.

goes from the screen of the reflection, much like the vomit
of a Caravaggio picture. The dark waves in the mirror are
balanced by the late afternoon wintry light. There are no
leaves on trees, and yet Sean C hears the rustle of autumn.

In a brief enchanting second, light flicks in the mirror,
and Sean C is forced to witness the passing of a flock of
starlings in a pale blue sky, before the image of the Grim
homes in again. In an irony of pain, the Grim holds out

XXXV.

his hand. ‘I can’t get out,’ he says. “Becchin’,
amor!’. Sean C listens to the Grim. He is talking
to his non-angelified girl-friend. Then the lass
answers with humour: ‘Che vuo’, falso tradito?’.

Whaddayawant, that is. ‘Che mi perdoni’.
Forgive me. ‘Tu non ne se’ degno.’ Piss off.
The translation is liberal, ‘coz the Grim is heavy.
He used to be a poet of the throat, a clericus

XXXVI

vagans, and a goliardus (or goliard). After
many years of peregrinatio academica, he
is rather weary, especially as he has become
trapped in the mirror in the mirror (oh dear,

Mr Ende would have said “what a prison of
freedom”). On the subject, I advise reading
the Daily Spiegel (im spiegel). In this leit
motiv, there is a wanderer in the fog during

XXXVII.

a strange old winter, in the Ghetto of Venice.
So. Be moderate in sleep and wakefulness. The
sun does arise, and make happy the chlorophyll.
And hence on the electron transport pathway

we slide along with the ancient mariner (fabbro
like his son Thomas Stearn). Discontinuous lite
rary quantities measured by elementary quanta
of negative electricity (electrons). Poetry,

XXXVIII.

awakening, raindrops in the gravitational field
of Planet Freedom. Along with the many lost
and undead crawling across London Bridge,
together with Master Stetson, we find seekers

of Planet Carnuntum, people who remember
that pressure is proportional to density. The
job of the goliard physicist is to understand
why things want what they want. The Grim

XXXIX.

does not remember his true name, and lensing
gravitational, red shifts and expanding constants
all complicate his self appreciation. Sean C
talks to him through the mirror in the mirror.
“I believe in intuition and inspiration. When
the eclipse of 1919 happened, I was not in the
least surprised.” The Rashomon-Heisenberg

XL.

effect is a deity which is planted in thyself,
which has detached itself from the persuation
of sense, and has submitted itself to the gods,
and cares for mankind… the molecular motion

of the soul is like a hot gas (hence the hot-air
baloons), and in certain cases the heat can be
so enormous that it generates light in the form
of flames. For this reason, HCE (who we know

XLI.

as the Grim) is well worthy of any and all such
universalization… a bit like Fortune Lobo is an
unwanted Byronic hero with lots of reluctance,
and Desert Storm is a Sheherazade in the making.

Fortune Lobo is spinning in the semi-empty
space, his electron journey to Andromeda is
a bit of headache. A zero gravity sense of humour
is all we need. The NeverEnder, in a command

XLII.

performance, running strong since creation
(and destruction) is gossiping about all sorts
with Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman. The self
aware ship is filtering through an asteroid

field in the manner of chromatin immuno
precipitation. Desert Storm and Ariadne
are having tea on Uranus while being logged
on the Archive of Myth. Gawain and Monkey

XLIII.

are ju-dancing softly softly with brother Yermek,
founder of the Borovoe mountain trekking club.
The ju-dance is a physical property of humans,
these strange particles coming off the skin of the

odd-verse. Last year, they were in quatrains.
This year, sonnets or nonsensical coupling.
The connection between truth (as a gravitational
force) and all energy is a very weak interaction.

XLIV.

“The things which are external to my mind
have no relation at all to my mind.” Fortune
Lobo is spinning (much like a spider on a
mystical trip) very close to planet Carnuntum.

In the ju-dance, Gawain subject-weathers the
qi while Monkey spaces at very high speed.
Their movements are poetic, a bit like a muffin
(duly fought over in Earnest). From within the

XLV.

mirror in the mirror, the Grim discusses the
theory of shadows to the minutest detail,
putting Ahura Mazda and Chubby to sleep.
From over the short sea, mountains are rising

on Titan. Planet Pain is orbiting a flavonoid
star, and hormone signalling echoes are
discharged in the form of anger management.
On this very day of oscillations, when the light

XLVI.

is just for show, and the children of the Earth
are screaming on top of their lungs, counters
and geometeors are numerizing the algo-dances
all busy on this side of the galaxy. According

to the NeverEnder timing, all legends are
currently sleeping, and the white architecture
of mythilation is slowly unpeeled by the Grim.
“turns out, I am scribbler. I used to populate

XLVII.

narratives with words, so you could say that
I am a popularizer. I used to squeeze a friend,
but she went all oportet aqua on me. Her name
is Becchina, that much I can say. Kawaaaai.

I spent many a day in the shadows since then,
looking for Sapphic Wisdom. As I was walking
in the orange grove, I began to wonder what
secrets were hidden on the other side of the

XLVIII.

wall. I had often heard from the Tiger Tiger
that great beauty was to be found on the other
side. I went through the door and found
a desert. I closed my eyes and saw feelies.

In the wild, a rock and a piss, an old
friend was spinning a wheel, opening
and closing nematode holes for little
threads to fall in. Everything was so

XLIX.

interconnected. And so while skirting
around a hole, I fell in, and by St Louis,
there I was inside a painting, much
like a purple rose, St Matthew was

being slaughtered in a French Church,
on the other side of this page. While
stuck in crimson hue, I stumbled and
catapulted myself onto the screen of

L.

an ipad, hand-held by a Japanese comic
stripper, and so I came to the realization
of guilt. What are these narrative threads?
What is the relative amount of truth to

each little statement? This is why I am
now palely loitering from mirror to mirror.
I still think of the high mountain, and
the last time that I sang the song of

LI.

Becchina. My contemporaries might
know her by her nick name: Beccanassa.
In my time in the shadow I had much
sandwich to peruse the meaning of things.

The number of my issues may have
been complex, but I resigned myself
to live in a world of floats. Presently,
Mr Sean C (nice to meet you), I should

LIII.

like to elaborate on the following
subjects. The number 2, the behaviour
of an electron (sometimes a particle,
sometimes a wave) and the idea of

Romanticism. Let us start from the
latter. Romantic is that cavorite thing
which grows with thigmo, and then gravi
tropism. The painter of plate 2 summons

LIV.

up the courage to admit the existence of
uni-versal fear and sticks it in his art, a passion
worthy of Herostratus. Now Artemis is extremely
pissed off. Was there ever a planet Artemis?

Was it ever meant to be mis-en-Arte? That’s
a bad pun. Umberto Eco talks of unfinished
symphony. Kafka never finished a sentence.
‘That we must feign a bliss of doubtful future

LV.

date’. Kimmerians, living in the land beyond
the ocean stream (or on the scythian steppe)
are covered in mist and cloud, fog and dark
ness. There, the cloud somersault idea of

rom antic is quick-sand defined by the
legendary Odysseus, on his quest toward
home. That a Greek should define Rome…
is the ultimate joke of the Hades, a territory

LVI.

which we now must enter with caution
(there is a lot of traffic, a bit like Sathorn
road on a Freia’s day evening). This is
the Z80 CPU register which is available

to the misadventure befalling in the year
of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ, twelve
hundred and seven. Figure 2 (data not
shown) shows the 208 bits of read/write

LVII.

memory which are misused here. In this
study, we shall analyse the space between
cells, in the manner of biocommunication
capability, romantic emotion, soul or

in vitro leukocytes. Further more, we
shall elaborate on primary perception
in plant life. Lady betrayal says ‘more
meaningless impro-visions.’ Visions and

LVIII.

re-visions. At the gates of hell, some
French scientistics (Peak civilization
memorians) calculate the complete
knowledge of a quantum state, the

prediction of hullaballoney, a critiqual
step in quantum interfero-mechanics.
We’d like to split electrons in half or
we’d like to determine wavelengths

LIX.

with a knife. ‘I am from the government
and I am here to help’. Oh dear oh dear.
Itinerant electrons are being murdered,
the number 2 is so very square, and this

narrative is superconducted. But to the
matter. Hades. Lady Betrayal, Duchess
of the underworld goes by the name of
Hel (dweller under the tree). She’s got

LX.

balls. So to speak. The yoga of mysticism
is needed when crossing the river of hell
(somewhere between the ox-ford and the
camp-bridge). Devotion to the supreme

spirit. Prince Fortune Lobo has come to
rescue the antagonist (a certain dragon,
son of Troy). The spin has ceased, and
all the versi of all particles are pointed

LXI.

toward the exploration of malign destiny,
sought and found and defeated in the depths
of Hel. ‘How did you, still alive, come to
be in this murky darkness?’ Questions are

to be answered. Desert Storm has run out
of ink. In her plight-search for written word
she has dug out the curious feeling of
danger and of awk. Or was it awe. Cut it

LXII.

out. ‘There is more to life than this’, cries
out the infantile cadet, while her infantile
sister is digging deeper into depression
and anger. Planet Pain is unmeasured well

of justification and of regret. In this root,
the waters are divided, and the poetry has
run dry. Monkey has set out to find all the

LXIII.

other characters, now all confused and lost
in the expanding dimension of galactic Hades.
The dark energy may have been a blip, but
emotion-devotion is very real, and the judge

ment that each soul is calling upon itself
is so very real, it is almost artistic. Of the
number 2, electrons and more soul acoustics
we shall elaborate while journeying pod-palia

LXIV.

(a bad Russian translitteration of memories
from under-grown). The Olympian Gods
behave oh so capriciously, almost like the
biological signals of epi-mechanics (which

Sean C observes in the paintings described
by the Grim, who is currently thinking about
the best way to get out of the mirror in the
mirror). Recapitulation: all characters have

LXV.

collapsed in a state of coma inside a thing
much like a black hole which we writer-scientists
would like to call Hades (which stands for
Harmonics of Adenine Decency and Electrical

Speranza). The latter word means hope in a
now dead language, or language of the dead.
And this is why the Grim, suddenly oblivious
is now memorious of his true name: he comes

LXVI.

from somewhere across the water, and down
the valley of redoubtable Celtic sorceresses,
across the elephant mountains and on to the
maritime pine trees, the odour of cicadas, and

the ‘ramingo and esule in suol straniero…’
We now remember! Sean C understands, from
broken downloads that the Grim’s true name
is Cecco, and that he used to be a poet or at least

NeverEnder Space Epic Poem / Book II / Chapter I

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem

BOOK II

The Perennial Philosophy
Chapter One

I.

Gravity. Exocytosis. Be like the flow
of water. A vessel to build the gate of
history to cross the boundary of time.

For that, buy a ticket for the museyroom.
“mind your steps, koan-in. The three
muses at knossos; the griffin is tethered
to the column in the Great Eastern Hall.”

II.

Arjuna: “How shall Deva and Titan
know all the extent of your glory?”
Sri Krishna: “I am the Atman that
dwells in the heart of every mortal

creature.” Not to fight for gain or
loss. Now if the Maras come greedily
loping, the earth shall be my witness.“I
am the OM and the practice of mantra.”

III.

So here we are, at the entrance of the
Archive of Myth, along with Carl Jung,
Aristotle and Marlon Brando. It appears
that the child Woody Allen was wrong.

The universe is not expanding. New data
has come in, gravitational drag exerts the
light, and so the cosmos red-shifts gear.

IV.

Krishna, Krishna! What have you to say
on the matter? Sean C has built himself
a high-resolution telescope, and stationed
at his hermit-base on Planet Vashisht, he

pores over the cytoplasmic fractals.

V.

“I am afraid I can’t really report on anything
other than a ‘trifle difficult’, as a West Ham
supporter once put it. But, never the less,
riverrun, is the joy[ce]ful word. And so

“they all fell silent. O Queen of Carthage,
the sorrow that you bid me to bring to life
again is buried” at Amphipolis, and in the
shallow waters of the holy island of Delos,

VI.

where our Gods Apollo and Artemis were
born, a mischievious, ingenious joke that
Oðinn would never approve of. Huang-Po
argues for neither attachment to, nor

detachment from that R data.frame that
you have been tampering with, dearReader.

VII.

R being a meta-language, it is apt for us to
introduce our memory trip down binary lane,
so as to open the Archive of myth. In the ca
pital mud-city of the bastard race of the North
we shall visit the museyroom, downloadable

from the solar-system-wide-web (SSWW)
for parallel enjoyment on Titan, Europa,
Vashisht, Poseidon, Uranus, Fear, et cetera.

VIII.

“On the red shift of spectral lines through
interstellar space”, light quantum will change
its energy, and therefore its frequency. More

narrative oscillations. So, as previously stated,
the narrative is a trifle truffle, mostly due to
gravitational lensing, so excuse moi.

IX.

So let us set it right. At the rotational spiritual
gallery spinning on the OORT cloud, on this day
(calculated in relation to Neptune’s primary)
six hundred and forty thousand thirty six and

a bit since an arbitrarily chosen threshold,
Fortune Lobo landed (more aptly, watered)
on Poseidon’s water-ammonia ocean. That is,

X.

without being disintegrated. ‘Tis obvious ‘coz
he was wearing a gravitational suit. And a lot
of more clothing (there is no such thing as bad
weather, only bad clothing). Having said that,

the windy conditions on Poseidon are a tiny bit
adverse, to put it mildly, I don’t know about
superionic water or deep-down diamond oceans,
but there is a breeze at 2000 km/h. Nothing to

XI.

Put off a ship of the Griffinese (who are used to
changing weather conditions). FL found this ship
moored in solitude, and an old nostr’omo sailor,
memorying his days with Garibaldi, and his love

on the island of Victory (where diamonds are turned
into graphite), or even his journey into the heart
of darkness, along a snake of a river, down to the
still to the first immobile motor mount, the crossing

XII.

of the shadow-line. The old sailor, or (in Teesan-speak)
the ancient mariner, had eyes of sorrow (panda eyes)
and told strange tales of distant archaea colonies, and

further back into imaginary time, where p-branes are
created equal, and may or may not look like a torus.

XIII.

now on the ring-some aqua-face of planet Poseidon,
the ancient mariner stood (floated) and told tales of
Troy (what else), of the fall of Finnegan, of Christie’s
bad debt’s final balance, and “horror, the soul of the

[ Ligeia ] plot.” Now as the Archive of Myth is being
opened (excavated on planet what’s his name) by Dr
Gawain and Mr Monkey…

XIV.

… it becomes clear that Horror is the only apocalyptic
realm yet to be invaded by the White Plague. And yet,
it shall never be conquered. It is not in the nature of the
accountancy infection, whatever its tuberculotic
form, to be able to penetrate the Horror, and the
Moral Terror (ipse dixit, Mr Marlon). And old

XV.

story, written on the West Wind, reminds us of how
the mighty themselves might fall at the hands of the
spiritooal white plague and how only in Grecian Urn
immortality one may finally find rest:

“From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
with sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.”

XVI.

Arjuna: “Suppose a man has faith, but does not
struggle hard enough” […] “Is he not lost, as a
broken cloud is lost in the sky?”
Sri Krishna: “No, my son. That man is not lost.
No one who seeks the Brahman ever comes to
an evil end.”

XVII.

Siddharta under the tree, assaulted by the King
of Passions, touched the earth with his finger
(without sticking it into a jar of jam, that is).

The earth, the only witness of the heart, the
rotten heart on weeping clay. “For it is according
to nature, and nothing is evil which is according
to nature.” This is in Carnuntum.

XVIII.

“But”, interjects Fortune Lobo in a leap of faith,
the Carnuntum planet is so far away, how can I
ever reach the Pannonia galaxy and see it?

“Well, try tampering with black hole entropy”,
Sean C smart-asses in sub-speak, while sipping
cola somewhere on the side of the mountain.

XIX.

This narrative is concerned with memory.
Memory is that thing that, when you wait
long enough, it becomes legend, and then
myth. But Baku, dream-eater spirit,
please do not devour all of our hopes
and our myths. Please Baku-san only
eat our night-mares. The ancient dreams,

XX.

the spirit-formations and the mythical
stories, please do not touch. We call our
past time echoes dreams or myths
because we can’t bear to remember them.

at least half of the time, it is too painful.
and yet, the sorrow and the pain is there
for a reason, so why should one just forget
why should one just erase the past? The

XXI.

echoes call down the drain of history, and
so “draw down the vengeange of [planet]
Poseidon” (the ancient mariner speaks),
“for Cetus and Medusa, though sinless,

have been defeated. Following the tale
of the first whaleman (a certain Perseus),
a mirror-shield, gold-winged sandals, a
sword, and a helm to defeat visibility

XXII.

are here presented to you, Fortune Lobo.
Remember, gravity is a distortion of space-time.
Don’t forget to close your eyes before
you drink the quintessence and you listen
to the echoes of the dark energy.”

XXIII.

“It is unseen because it is colourless;
it is unheard because it is soundless,
when seeking to grasp it, it eludes one,
because it is incorporeal”, a bit like an

electron. “So down the Old Kent galaxy
highway, down to Planet Canterbury,
walking in pilgrimage along empty void

XXIV.

(’tis a bit chilly) using a void-craft (as
opposed to air-), leaving the old capital
of the mud, walking from the Abbey of
Cluny at Veremundsei (satellite of the

city), flying off in space toward Pocahontas
‘s final resting place (what bad luck)”, the
ancient mariner contines to tell his tale
about how he sailed from the mud-harbour

XXV.

past the Roman watch-tower destroyed
by a greedy Wapping developer (barbarians),
past the public bar owned by the artist of
light, and on toward the heart of darkness

deep into the cosmic jungle, where the
diamonds in the sky tell tales of the Congo
river, and the Pleiades listen (finally) to
Artemis’s bidding.

XXVI.

“I was a whaler, like Perseus before me,
and like David Mamet, whose wind-chill
factor has haunted my intergalactic treks.
Hence I heeded his advice, and I bought

myself a gun.” Fortune Lobo listens while
looking out into the full blast hailstone sho
wers which rain down with full speed
over the methane-hued cloud-sea thinge.

XXVII.

But condensation in his mind is mirrored
by the liquid rise of Poseidon’s angry emotions.
Back at the Labrys harbour, Desert Storm still
reflects on the inverted big cypresses, the

brown wood alabaster, and the architecture of
lambda. In the riton, the oil, the water, the
spice and other offerings for Gods who have
been sleeping for far too long.

XXVIII.

“From my grand father Marcus Antoninus”,
continues the ancient mariner, “I have learned
good morals and the government of my temper.
I was there at La Canea and Rettimo, and so

during the siege of Planet Candia (what a fight).
I fought alongside friends at Marathon, but
I ran at Lepanto and at Thermopylae (one
has just enough courage to fill an urn of ash).

XXIX.

So forgive me but my ashes are not kept in
a tray in the San Giovanni e Paolo cathedral
of the Veal city capital. My friend Marco Antonio
has not been so lucky.” Fortune Lobo wonders

about where all this is going. “Friend [dearReader]

XXX.

you call yourself a Wolf of Fortune, perhaps
even a SteppenWolf. Have you perchance
been raised on the steppes of Scythia?
Were you born at the gates of Ἀλεξάνδρεια

Ἐσχάτη ? Since you have been asking for
a mission, God (for your grins) gave you one.”
Fortune Lobo is unimpressed.

XXXI.

“Who is this God of whom you talk?”
The ancient mariner continues: “Your
mission is to find the outer reaches of this
uni-verse, to meet the lovely forms of

Andromeda (a galactic beauty), and to
carry the οὐροβόρος ὄφις talisman on
which one of the two snakes agrees to
the following statement: Tu, was du willst.

XXXII.

You need to carry that talisman past the
Ishtar gate, and move on well into the
unknown, past the ufos that have been
haunting Jung’s dream. You will need

to travel back across the Tartaros empti
ness, back toward Chaos (a rather large
primordial God), and then when you get

XXXIV.

there, ask Ginnunga a few tough questions.
For example, I would start with, will there
ever be another Herakles (or a morning)?
Will Ahura Mazda ever reconcile its daena
with that of Pallas Athena (in spite of Thaïs),

XXXV.

and perhaps by way of the Spartan IF. Others
abide the question. Thou art free. We ask and
ask… Fortune Lobo, hear me. I know you do
not understand what I am saying to you. But

beware, the east and the west of your mind
are divided by the word ‘guzastag’, and you

XXXVI.

shall need to bring them back together.
As you travel to explore the Greek End
and the Japanese Start of this ubi-verse;

that is thy mission, thy curse, thy blessing,
thy riddle of the sphinx.” Fortune Lobo
waits, waits; his mind travels back to the
ebb, the tremulous cadence slow, the

XXXV.

eternal note of sadness of the waves
blown back, before human voices wake
us. From the ebb of Neptune’s oceans
arises an oscillation of unknown source

“But the Buddha answered, what thou
bidd’st me keep is form which passes
but the free Truth stands; Get thee unto
thy darkness.”

XXXVI.

Mean while, Monkey is delving deeper
into the deep, the inverted Murakamian
well gave rise, on Uranus, to the cloud-murk
and the sky where emotion somersault

is so thick that painters across the galaxy
draw colour from it across space-time portals.

XXXVII.

Chubby is alone on Titan, wandering in the
zen garden steppes, sand dunes where the winds
blow in opposing directions, forming a kind
of momentary Japanese effect, making her
think of those Huygens probe painters of
Tokyo, whose depiction of the channels
and lakes of liquid ethane and methane
scattered across Titan’s surface convey

XXXXVIII.

(through the means of an immobile art)
the sense of Wildean switness and motion.
The dim roar of the mind is like a distant
note on the feline cat’s intellectual organ.

According to Chubby’s calculations,
the wind reverses twice during a Saturn
year. This is equal to about thirty Earth
years. When the sun crosses over the

XXXIX.

equator, the reversal causes a shift in the
atmosphere (and so the winds). The dunes
are shaped only during this brief time of
fast winds blowing from the Shelleyan West.

It is a bit lonely now on Titan, on the
shores of lake Distress, since Sean C
has permanently vacated the premises.

XL.

Chubby has a secret (or more than one).
She is one of the last remaining survivors
of the Laconian school (or Laconic). The
world, the ubi-verse have been taken by
storm by the alumni of the Athenian school,
but Laconia still has voice to put it bluntly.

XLI.

Pithy, they say. Raffaello Sanzio, painter
of the Apartment(s). Tiziano Vecellio,
painter of Dionysus and Ariadne, as well
as Artemis and Actaeon. These two among

many others are students of the school
of Pallas Athena. Chubby, the cat within
Reason has invited Ahura Mazda (fellow
feline) for drinking tea at her place on Titan.

XLII.

They will start with a chat about the ifs
and the buts, and then move on to
μολὼν λαβέ, and on to a full scale
debate of philosophy. Among the

topics of conversation, we have
Zarathustra holding the celestial
sphere, though Ahura Mazda has
feelings about that. The young man

XLIII.

Zoroaster saw the human condition
to be a struggle between the truth and
the lie. But Chubby listens, cat-facing
her guest. She is easily bored. “A little

nap would be rather nice.” Mr Ahura
is going on about the purpose of human
kind (sustain aša, or arta: the truth),
and Free Will. Fortune Lobo has a talis
man that agrees (in principle) with this
and with Ἡράκλειτος ὁ Ἐφέσιος, and

the concept that everything flows.

XLIV.

λόγος is the word.

XLV.

But Aristotle intellectualizes, the Stoics
decided to go all the way to Obi Wan,
with λόγος being like a force (not a farce).
The Lao Tze may talk about the qi (prana)
in the context of the Stoic πνεῦμα.

But Chubby is fast asleep now, the only
philosophy of hers is eat, sleep, and per
haps a little Dionysian Dithyrambs.
Don’t forget to shit, either. Or else.

XLVI.

I think that covers it.

XLVII

Nāgārjuna’s examination of motion
is hardly Newtonian, but then, as
Feynman put it through Gibbon:

“The Power of Instruction is seldom
of much efficacy except in those happy
dispositions where it is almost superfluous.”
And on, “Philosophically we are completely
wrong with the approximate law.” “But”,

XLVIII.

Chubby wakes up, opens one eye and says:
“for practical purposes, it is useful to be
wrong, and to send rockets in space or in
the salad dressing.”

Ahura Mazda and Chubby are thus engaged
in a philosophical wrestle.

XLIX.

“I should like to begin,” starts Chubby,
“mentioning that William Blake of Soho,
prophet of the time nearby, makes it quite
clear for us: the youthful Harlots curse,
the hapless Soldiers sigh, marks of weakness,
marks of woe.”

Ahura Mazda: “And you are completely wrong.”
“My son Cyrus, ancestor of my other son
Frederick Bulsara, Parsi of the Exodus, once
said: I returned to these sanctuaries on the
other side of the Tigris, the sanctuaries of
which had been in ruins for a long time, the
images which used to live therein..” Ahura Mazda
roars in order to make his point, and then the
prayer.

L.

“Radio blah blah. Or even better: Behulzebub
has a devil put aside for me…” Chubby retorts
tartly. “Bismillah: in the name of God, the
merciful, the compassionate…”
Ahura Mazda: “I am God.”
Chubby: “Though not omni potent, your potency
is at least debatable.”
Ahura Mazda: “The Parsis of Bombay agree…
evil is just an emanation of me, not my binary
opposite. Now, concerning Free Will…”

LI.

Chubby: “Let me stop you right there.
Since you mention Mahā-Ambā, or the
Etruscan Goddess Uni. And since we are
now living in the Uni-verse, in answer to
your claim of being a God, my good friend
Ahura Mazda, hear me out. My name is
Chubby, Cicciotta (in Italian), or Bastet,
or Bast, Goddess of the Egyptian Pantheon,
sister of Horus. The Greek know me as
Artemis, and my brother as Apollo. But
all of this is irrelevant. Because

तत् त्वम् असि

Thou art That

have a look back at the Chandogya Upanishad,
and remind yourself of that, kitty cat.

LII.

If you dare questioning the law of gravi
tation, Mr Ahura Mazda, please refer to
these words: Rex tremendae majestatis,
salva me. A sordid respect for Death,
the essential teaching of the awakening.

There is a kind of clog in the flow of
the uni-
verse. The qi does not flow freely, the
straight line of Newton is only valid
for a Galileian system of co-ordinates.

LIII.

But as Eistein said, Galileo was trapped
by thought together with Giordano Bruno
in a Tower which looks like the Red Queen
Hypothesis crossed with the Fisher King.

The infinite nature of the verse-uni is
twisted by the voice of madness, in an
alley, streams of voices howling in the
night, all the fears of dishuman kind.

LIV.

The body of Mozart has not been honoured,
the love songs from China have been
forgotten. The handsome Monkey King
has parted ways with Sir Gawain, the quest

has been put on hold. The Archive of Myth
can always be plundered by the greedy.
LV.

It is when the flowers of Qi have been
picked, when the relative powers of
beauty have been measured that the
voices of the deep come whispering

in one’s ear. Monkey is listening to the
Sadness Radio, tuning in with that region
of the soul which is uncharted. The time
less rooster is going cockydoodledoo.

LVI.

There is a word in the sky which is
not spoken, which is the reflection of
human thoughts projected onto myth.
that word is not utterable, its meaning

is lost in the collection of interchange
able dimensions which roll ball-wise in
the time-less dance of the algo-rhythm.

LVII.

There is much meaning which has been
untapped, territory of the Mind which
has not been explored. Fortune Lobo is
on a mission, and so is Monkey. Desert

Storm and Ariadne have their own mission.
Each character in this story has a path,
a soul chart to be drawn with colours
straight from El Greco, with a bit of doubt

LVIII.

from The Last Temptation, and other Cretan
myths. But I digress. Lord Byron guide this
poem, steering with the NeverEnder through
unchartered depths of the ether-less space,

and though energy can be related to mass and
velocity and light, the ether is somewhat a
paradox. The NeverEnder is sailing on the
ether, or rather the absence of it. The waves

LIX.

of non-ether may be designed by the God
of the Exodus, and may look like Dark
Energy. According to recent calculations,
there is a lot of Dark Energy around, and

some Dark Matter. On this note I would like
to elaborate a certain point. The NeverEnder
is made of paper and of ink, but it can sail
towards eternity. Dark Energy may revolve,

LX.

and the absence of ether may look like destiny.
Monkey is feeling the sadness tantrum, the
sanctity of his mission has been put into Q
and A. Monkey is here to answer your Qs.

Q number One. Why is the uni-verse only
expanding in doubt?

A number One (from Monkey). Doubt is
the thing that east of faith makes the wind.

Q number Too. Why is Monkey not related
to the Green Knight?

A number Too (from Gawain). The Green
Knight has lost his way. His ancestry there
to fore, has been re-formulated. His geno
type has been redesigned to fit the needs
of a very greedy narrative. The hungriest
of plots is what fuels the non-ether, and
therefore the waves which hit, photon-like,

the side of the NeverEnder, which is in
non-flight toward the non-end of the non-
universe.

LXI.

That’s a lot of whichs. But witches do not
exist. Only very needy Tigers of the Night,
which do not burn bright, only burn slowly,
like a fire which has not been staked (sorry

another which). This night we are honouring
the faithful departed, and also the unfaithful.

LXII.

They are very much the side of two squares.
A white squall of waves hits the side of the
NeverEnder, and the echoes of myth rever
berate across the galactose in space to vibrate

more energy toward Poseidon, and Fortune
Lobo, who is cross-legged on the bottom
of the diamond ocean floor, looking at the
Japanese Foxes’ Weddings. Ahura Mazda

LXIII.

is locked in a word-to-word wrestle with
Chubby, who is feeling all the weight of
the universe after Giordano Bruno’s post
ululation. The sadness of it all hits the clouds
which are burst by Monkey’s somersaults.

Tales of Ovid’s exile are ecchoed on the
darknening green by Dr Full-ton’s desire.
On the shores of lake Romantic, the treasure
of the Hittites and the Dacians’s mountains.

LXIV.

Secret paths to cavernous truths are being
tested, full many a gem lies in the diamond
ocean, where Fortune Lobo, soldier of
fortune, is gathering the forces of the storm.

There is no end to material suffering. How
ever, time must have a stop. “Thus did the
host sojourn at Zara all that winter (1202-
1203) in the face of the King of Hungary.

LXV.

And be it known to you that the hearts of
the people were not at peace, for the one
party used all the efforts to break up the
host, and the other to make it hold together.”

“Many of the lesser folk escaped in the
vessels of the merchants.” Sail to the port
of Moton in Romania, and meet the Doge
of Venice, or at least join the party headed

LXVI.

eastwards. Dreaming, the voices of the
deep. Whispers of non-vocal pain.
Fortune Lobo is a soldier not on a crux
ade, more like a fish in a pond, the

ocean of diamonds, though on a east
ward mission. Desert Storm and Ariadne
are soil-digging in the Archive of Myth.
Monkey and Gawain are mining two
different sides of Planet Pain, which
is an emanation of the Murakamian

Well.