NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / XLVII – L


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


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.


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


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.

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / XLIII – XLVI


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


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.”


“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”


“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.”

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / XLI – XLII


Sensual mon-stars of space, yonder;
colossal statues in the galazy, Zeus
resting on planet Knossos, his eye
lit with a strange desire. Starboard,

the slave-whalers carry their galley in
the war, shouting battle-cries in Tierra’s
ears; then she winces. Goddess-obsessed
Desert mutters prayers in the cosmic wind.


Ariadne thinks it’s really cool to study the
origin of the universe from fracto-fragments.
John C and his pal embark on a wuthering
ship, they join the glorious Spartan Navy.

“Join us! Demo-crazy! Just-jizz!
Boredom! Freakquality! It’s us, we’ve
come home! Let us have your soul!
The navy on the black uni-versal waves!”

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / XXXIX – XL


“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,


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!”

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / XXXI – XXXVII


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


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


“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.


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


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.


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


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.

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / XXIII – XXIX


Under the laws of the gaseous uni-verse in
motion, every star-slither and rocked-water,
all quintessential evil and scattered word
co-exist as heart-felt idiocies of ahead-days.

In compiling the shreds and shrapnels of
all that is left of the archive of Myth, Ariadne
picks fragments from the great dark uni
verse, floating in eternal oblivion; marbles


Odd ends of sentences, moisac pieces
give clues of an earlier, perhaps timeless
civilization, yet she struggles to reconstruct
a coherent language and customs from

hints of burial, cosmetic, ideological rituals
an archaelogist of space-travel, she finds
solace in mechanically testing the match
of hubris-laden stone and glass tesserae.


Truths are being tested aesthetically
against the glare of remote stars, so
bright at the scrutiny of a microscope.
Fractals accumulate in her methodical
mind, as she attempts to calm herself.

She is no longer alone, as two creatures
have popped into existence after she
started to self-medicate with stardust.
Voicemail is a devious lizard, eyes open.


His counterpart Elecro is a miniature
frog, always a bit dozy, sleepy-eyes.
The back of Elecro is always lit-up,
trillions of electronic messages are

being re-transmitted from his body,
while Voicemail accumulates words
that are lost in radio-space, and only
spits them out if you press his chest.


Ariadne seldom pays any attention
to them. She listens to melodies
lost in cytoplasmic space while
drawing connections in galatic,

mythical space. This moment
is shared by a note from a once
well-know artist, who learnt how
to communicate from beyond


space-time. Restlessly, Voicemail
is drawing patterns for embryonic
stem cell differentiation, folding
chromatin with tiny hands, as

candy for children of the future
to discover. Saturn looms heavy
in the sky above singular Titan,
where the Spartan has challenged


the once-gifted info-technician,
while the heart of the galaxy
grows triumphantly amoral.

Ariadne puts together two
asteroid bacterial colonies,
and suddenly, magical words
fall into place. A story. So