XLVII.

In a different gravitational time dilation,
Tierra madre and Desert Storm breathe
aboard the whale-slaver g-force space craft;
muttering the same word in repetition,

connecting their inner constants to the X,
logging onto each other’s Pound-Rebka’s
friendly tension. The while-supremacy
vessel accelerates close to a massive

XLVIII.

planet, spinning in straight vertical line,
time runs more slowly, and they have
a breather, while medicating with Love.
This is a new product, oozed from the X.

Stars, dizzy with combusting, whisper
a thousand million trillion ditties, each
with its own Anglo-French frequency,
and the multi-verse messages Voicemail.

XLIX.

The petit lizard re-transmits word for
word, and Ariadne stifles a yawn. So
much is happening in same curvature
of spacetime, and the energy and

momentum of creation’s passions are
thus distilled as waves of matter and
radiations of ψυχή. Directly from the X.
Active galactive volcanoes and nuclei

L.

emit intense, passionate radiations,
and kind of astronomical amounts of
tenderness can escape the uber-
consciousness of all beings, the

collective Love-conscious. Ariadne
looks out into the small radiant of
the telescope and predicts the ex
istence of dinner, a classical pesto.

XLIII.

Non-commissioned officer McCalandrh
debates the pros and cons of kicking
the crap out of the Pink-siders, a whole
bunch of aliens from the other part of

the galaxy. “We don’t want them. They
smell, and they eat funny shit.” The
discourse is held over a game of rotary
soccer; a feat in which the new recruits

XLIV.

test their military skills with more senior
staff. Aboard the “Thoughtful Massacre”,
premium ship in the war business of the
Spartan Navy, another day at the office.

“Those stinking Pinkers with pointy ears,
always smart-assing about everything,
all-knowing with their muttering sub-speak,
I can’t stand the light in their psychoirises.”

XLV.

“I beg to differ”, intervenes the Spartan,
aka Ἀτρεύς, tantalised by the idea of
mock-suck-upping to the NCO. “Pinkies
are people, or less than people but still

creatures of the X, and therefore they
deserve the respect of all citizens,
Artemis willing. Even if by eugenics
standards they are inferior, and should”

XLVI.

“probably be cleaned from the multi-
verse because of their looks and their
unfunny ideas, their worship of foreign
deities and they desire to invade our

space, or galaxy, or multi-verse, or
mid-mind. The X is merciful, and so
Artemis is powerful, and their Gods
are small and insignificant. Scum.”

XXXIX.

“Oh friend! Time holds me green
or dying, this very day.” Reunited
with Tierra Madre, Desert Storm
flashes in the dark, scowling at

the murdering cloud-wake of gas,
the jungle of bodies, the beaming
starships, the riding whale-slavers.
The two moon-blooming women,

XL.

Adam and maiden, are singingales:
ever-rising swallows, spinning people.
They intone their mournful songs
full of long-lost grace, fist into the

darkness, head into the expanding
black hole, where the gravitational
lens reflects symphones of waves.
“Ohm, friend! The human stables!”

XXXVIII.

Turbans on the slave-galley, Damascus steel
blazing; Desert Storm invokes mellifluous
Sappho, tempting her Fortune-Muse.

A captive in the fray, she’s amidst shadow
faces; out there space-giants gorge on
whole planets’ worth of seas, vomiting
cosmic waste; nine times, they fuck.

XXXI.

Ariadne ponders on the mean
ing of each tessera. Nuffink, a
capital nothing. Timeless age,
age unknown; in the beginning.

These mosaics I have shored
against the entropic waves.
A giant leap of fire, a frozen poison
stream. “This gap, forever falling

XXXII.

was born as the proto-Titan Chaos.
Our great-grandfather, via his son
Eros.” Ariadne mixes the tesserae,
looking for a recognizable pattern.

XXXIII.

“Earth existed not. Nor heaven above.
Or should I say, the sky? The abyss
had a name, and it was very big, it was
eternal. And there was no grass, it

eked out, it was barely there. No it
won’t do. It was all bare, skinless, grass
less. The cold waves of the sea, the sand;
nuffink was there at all. There was Chaos;
Chaos was the abyss, He was Ginnunga.

XXXIV.

And from this chasm, with ceaseless
turmoil seething… no, that’s another
fragment. And a voice comes to mind:
“Take your place in the cosmos, Ariadne.

be a star that shines. Give up your
mortal enterprise, reprise your role
in heaven. Once Dionysus’s bride…”
Another image floats in mid-air. It

XXXV.

is the usual voice in the mind and
the incubus of a shadow in the soul.
Yet the image seems different, but
the voice is all too familiar. The image

is that of a titan, brawn and bone
bound to a large rock; his liver is
food for an ever-thirsty bald eagle.
Another image, another tessera.

XXXVI.

Iob after this opens his moth, and
butterflies curse his day. The voice
continues: “Ariadne. Let go of this
human illusion, be the star that you

are.” Ariadne closes her eyes and
sees the persecuting shadow on
the fourth wall, laughing its invi
sible head off. Mockery and persu

XXXVII.

ation, perversion and idol-dance
farcical, frenzetical, fanatical. The
worst is but the self, but worse.
half a head of Renoir’s favourite.

Caravaggio’s broken, flapping
black wings. Gauguin in his hide
out in the blue. Ariadne tries to
stop the flurry of images thrown
in her face by the faceless shadow.

XXX.

AGE waz old; ‘twaz nuffink der.
’twere nor sandz nor seazz; nor
cold wavezz. Earff eczisted not,
nor upp-hymn. De abyss waz,
waz gappeterna. & grass eke-ly.