Obsession, disquiet. Dancing logbook
of the future: waves, patterns, verses…
Desert Storm drenched in blood, memories
of the rainforest. Wandering in the deep
dark forest, St Eustach had a vision: The
Sublime. Fingers on the bio-mechanical
trigger. Some unknown creator, a first true
motor set it all up. We now have a slightly
different multi-verse. An ongoing spectacle.
From the fire-coated blue aeternum, echoes
the roar of the stars. John C’s perspective is
that everything is music. His vibrations roll
back into jazz, and he is reborn in electro-
magnetic fashion. This is a moral dimension.
There is a fight against Evil. Save the Archive
of Myth. Plant a red spruce seedling. Here.
Fra Angelico painted it all before: we are already
sunk. A chorus of petty individuals, cue after cue.
The host needs to be saved, it has infected its
victims, Penge, Ilford and Golders Green. Fiend
hid in a data cloud. Paolo Uccello’s John C is
poised to slay the tame dragon, holding a pencil:
advertisement after advertisement, he will return
to Oz (the grubby coffee shop) to regroup. Now,
Georgina, will you please put a muzzle on that
beast? He could bite someone. This little puppy
wouldn’t hurt anyone. Enter Lightbringer, the
toothless, harmless dragon, on a redemptive
mission. He has been sent to this realm by the
big G to understand the nature of Evil, and to
make amends. Lightbringer has been a bad boy.
Cicciotta’s light touch argues with the future,
a host somewhat more discerning than Ahura
Mazda, and more unforgiving. All those little
changes, those mistakes to be taken care of.
The multiverse. It’s all happening, but for all
practical purposes, we live in a Pac-man world.
Big G, ‘elp us believe. Along the Grange Road.
John C has been given a second chance. The
book is being re-written, and each sentence
will be taken to the doctor, or shredded, and
then sold to you: door to door, sucker to sucker.
Cicciotta travels in time, fast forwards it. At
the end of it, far off into the future, she looks
at the slow moving creatures of the sunset era.
The gold-coated lizard, symbol of good and evil
fop of East and West came from the great deep;
perhaps it is not a deranged dragon, an angry Kaiju,
In fact, he tended sheep on Helicon, and pursued
things unattempted. He led the way for the upright
and the pure. But that was long ago. He opposed
the plan of Big G. Hence he was hurled, face up
all combustion down, headlong to this parking lot.
Now John C is ordering junk food in this new old
drive-in life. Cicciotta is in the future, in a cherry
orchard, flushing toilets. Lightbringer is drinking a
chocolate smoothie, eyes like a Toyota Prado.
John C walks up, unafraid. “What’s up, dog? This
is the new me. Is that the old you? My name’s Johnny.
I am reborn. You look like hell.” The dragon: “Moi,
je suis Luci-fer. Je parle pas Anglais tres bien. I used
to be an angel. Now I am a serpent. I have been sent
down to this parking lot planet to make amends. The
world’s a deeply fucked-up app. I am single, by the
way. The chrom’o’john – greatest invention of all time.”
John C is brushing his teeth. He moved in with
“Lighty” (as he likes to be called), the dragon with
stomach ache. Today is May 8, 1984. This is Nagoya.
Suddenly, the toilet is bubbling up. Night has fallen.
Dragon says: “The white plague is only starting up,
that beautiful friend of ours, so gentle, perished with
the autumn flowers.” The radio is tuned to a discuss
ion of the nature of poetic fire. “Consumption is a
fitting climax”, argues Dr Poe, PhD. John comments
from the bathroom: “Fuck that”. Dragon flips belly
up on the bed and says “Tell you what, this muslin
disease is going to kill us all, Johnny.” He picks up
a dragon scale and puts it in his mouth. Johnny
comes over, drying his hair. “What do you care,
you are a dragon, an angel, et cetera. You can
say fuck you to this world of conventions.”
Lighty begs to differ. “Unfortunately not, while
I am here I am subject the same laws and regula
tions. I have been cast out by the Big Land Lord,
and all because I did not pay up my rent in time.
Johnny, the toilet is bubbling up again, and it is
talking to us!”
Cut to interview day, i.e. first day at a shitty job.
Location: Nagoya. Time: sometime in 1984.
Interviewer and boss: Mr Zero, the merciless.
He begins at the beginning, then goes on until
the end. “Cold calling, it is called. We need
sales people. You are low-grade scum of the
earth, immigrants who come to steal our jobs.
You’re the bottom of society, you sell words
for a living. Big G in heaven knows, you shall
deliver or perish. You may be amateurish, you
may be performing to a sub-standard level, but
until you reach your sales quota, you are dead
fish. Today’s your first and last day. You need
to work so that you can survive, better you can
be reborn again, tomorrow, else the toilet will
gurgle up and you minnows will be floating like
shit after breakfast explosions. This is the office,
I am your boss. Any questions? Good. Get your
fucking asses to shit gold, and deliver it to me.
You have twelve ‘ours to sell this pile of crap,
this novel called “NeverEnder, a Space Epic
Poem” to the zero-brainers of this world. Start
from near-dead salary-men, they need something
for their diahoerrea. Go! Are you still here?