NeverEnder Space Epic Poem / Book II / Chapter VI / XXXVI-XXXVII


In the cave of the king of the mountain,
salmon and trout, sucked-up insalubrious
skies, sleek with vertigo. Here, the infant is
John C, mould and offshoot of a giant nail.

A cruel old wall keeps lamenting the bitter
cold times, and calling back the broom to
do its duty. Rosarito, Rosarito! Shut the
door! The vampire is sleeping now, but


he may wake up. Sunset, such carelessness.
Daub a cloud, smell blood, then fear spreads
flicking between the flute and the drum.
Death is inviable, but you are not allowed

this privilege. Suffering does not exist,
step after step, the dim roar of London,
the witch-hunting and the struggle. You
have been stabbed, sweet haemorrhaging.

NeverEnder Space Epic Poem / Book II / Chapter VI / XXXIV- XXXV


Dull, phantom rains of summer, particles
of the past come bombarding our single cat
living off the short electrons between the bow
and the arrow, when the hounds take down

the prey, and the boy is transformed into a
staccato. Boccherini’s castanets. a wolf stalks
its fourth movement, antlers of violoncello.


John C is both alive and dead, while the
notes of the song slide, with a gentle
touch of paw, Cicciotta reconstructs
the sonata, describing the early days of

the classical friend whose death was not
inevitable. So. It is morning on the guitar
mountains, blue incidental skies cough up
a cloud or two. Death to the unjust Gods.

NeverEnder Space Epic Poem / Book II / Chapter VI / XXIX-XXXIII.


It’s been a while since she last saw the
uni-verse. Stuck within a well-drained
page, poetical fear at the bottom of the
disconnected murakamian well. There,

the once-adored goddess of Cat-dom,
Egyptian and Greek, once known as
Artemis’s wishful thinking, Cicciotta
has retreated to a very small space in


the tower that was once of John C, of
computer bits, odds and trends, and
dark terminal screens where typos
are the sole philosophical solutions

to existential problems. Decimated
narratives, hard-up characters, boxed
up resolves. She’s been working on an
oblivian contraption which may or may


not work. A beautiful arabesque design,
self-scribbling which revolves and sucks
the seconds up, draining the ticking of
time. Slowly, her art reverses the pace

of existence, headed backwards toward
the golden age that once never existed,
when Sappho sang, when Ahura Mazda
was much loved through out the East.


We live in time, but sometimes our minds
stop, or our feelings ache, or our soul is
out of sync, and we drift toward non-exi
stent monuments, or we look back with

nostalgia to the epic, the forgotten, the better
never-known side-stories, and we dare to
imagine how would it all have been, when
this building, this rose, this uneven song


was not so shaded and torn, but resplendent
and true. All the architecture of poetry and
pictorial art, all the polyphonic madrigals
and the broken tambourines – all driven to

the chained sea, all lamenting the chug-chug
of tormented green fuses.