LVII.

At sea. Desert Storm and Tierra Madre
have lost sight of planets, platelets and
tubes, archives of uni-verses, and swallows
in flight. The sea of emptiness, the space.

Aboard the whaler-slaver galley, bound
as slaves, toiling as row-inmates, sweating
and cursing; whispering and looking.
Unending plant life rolls as light-liquid ocean,

LVIII.

the deep dark wood of the unconscious.
The uncouscous. A distant blue planet, solid
in a green waste of light-liquid ocean space.
Ocean of wisdom, miniature sage, Jungian thing.

Bottom dwelling, filtered stars, salt winds,
aluminium constellations, alloy-inordinate
fondness. The two ex-cadets, golden pommes
that grow on trees; their strong, shape-shifting

LIX.

love is here. Cat people, identity-subtracted,
they are only slaves of time and space; now
only looking, witnesses of the infinite.
Suffering is justification enough, you see.

Beyond their reach, on the far-flung rocks
of Titan, the chemical roads of alcoholism
lead a time-bound Ariadne to crossing paths
(or paws) with Chubby, the once Egyptian Bastet.

LX.

Swept by surface tremors, the basement bar
is hidden, torn, wild, alone. Three locals,
one outsider. Salt protection in your drink,
captain. Chubby sits majest-like, cat-fully.

Sunshine erupts from beyond the cave, it is
the last day of summer on another planet,
at another latitude, at another longitude.
The fury of the elements is sand and stone.

LXI.

Chubby begins to talk – Ariadne is half-drunk.
“Archaic man, science man, adventurers. The
mind, great ocean. Friend, share the unshareable.
What’s your expedition beyond consciousness?

You do sit there as if in a stupor. Somewhere
beyond the cold, your prow sank into the abyss.
The space-ocean led you somewhere, not nowhere.
Summoned by exi-stance, you are. Yearning for”

LXII.

“inexistence. You do look, m’darling, in a sort
of vexed form, as if you were distressed. Be
cheerful, human. This overparticular anger is
no more real than the blasting winds outside.

Griffinese ships come and go. I know you.
You once were swept away by Dionysus.”
“My primal state”, blurts out Ariadne. “I
am a Goddness turned mortal. Much like you.”

LXIII.

She throws up. “The unconscious”, Cicciotta
continues, “is much of a liquid state. We are
surrounded by it. I used to live with a man who
switched on a Murakamian Well every day. What

a drag!” Ariadne sits back at the bar, her
head drooping, her mouth drooling. “I am mortal”,
she says. “It never dawned on me that I would die.
That I would age! That is absolutely riddickulous.”

LXVI.

“The mind, that ocean… SUCH BULLSHIT”, Ariadne
is collapsing. Chubby intervenes, sipping her tuna-
flavoured soda. “The multi-verse is big and wide,
or narrow and deep. Well, well, well. Ariadne, I

see you are in a bit of pickle. You think you have
lost your purpose, and yet we are immersed in a sea
of collective unconscious, and your death, mine…
this ageing monster that eats all, the illusion of…”