NeverEnder Space Epic Poem – Book III – Chapter III: XI – XVII.


In the play – onwards towards mushrooms and pills.
Enter Mnemnosyne. M “If I were to be born again,
I would be a private investigator. I think Tokyo
would do. But as it stands, I am the Goddess of

memory, Perseus. I have come to remind you of
what truly happened. Do you remember what you
did when you first met the Gorgon? I don’t take
sides. But it would be desirable for you to get”


“your facts straight. I am so tired of fact-checking
all the liars and tricksters of this world. How many
lies did you tell to get by? Surely you have forgotten.
I am here, I can remind you of all the half-truths,

the full lies, the screaming-your-pants-off type hubris,
and the mostly true but badly spun, Arachnidous lies.
If you are not disgusted with yourself, you will be
after I am done with you. Perseus, do you remember?


P “I honestly don’t remember. True, I have spun a few
stories. But surely, I think everyone does. We all
tell a few tall tales in order to survive. Don’t you?
Doesn’t memory have a conscience? I am so tired of this

life, you have no idea. Athena wants one thing, Zeus
wants another. My mother came out of her coffin in the
ocean to nag me all my life. Gorgon has certain expectations,
the other women in my life have others. Have you considered”


That it may be a little hard to please Andromeda? She’s
all high and mighty with her princess thing, and she still
has not gotten over the thing that I have slipped into bed
with Medusa. I mean, it’s been so many years since we

fucked. Honestly. And ok, I do still love her. So what
am I supposed to tell her? That I don’t love the Gorgon?
Honestly, I don’t know what is true or false any longer.
So memory, now, indeed. Do tell all about the Truth. I am”


“Ready.” M “But in this version of the myth, you’re just
a puppet thrown around by bullies. Or are you? The innocent
hero-child? You’ve got some nerve. I have daughters, you
know. And some of them are infatuated with you. You! The

little shit thinks he can get away with anything! Not under
my watch, you’re not! I am so angry with you, I can’t even
speak. I can’t articulate a sentence. I am here to remind
you of your sins. You went to the Gorgon with full intention”


“to kill, that is one thing. You never did fall in love with
her, you half-hearted moron. You’ve just been biding your
time for lack of spine. You could not bring yourself to slay
her because you are a coward, not anything else. You know this.”

P “Where’s your evidence? And by the way, your daughters like
me because I have lovely sandals, because I am a hero. I have
a great ride. Granted, not as good a Bellerophon. For some
reason people mix us up. I’ve always preferred flying by myself”


“I am not ashamed of my deeds. I have a pretty reflection, any
Pre-Raphaelite will tell you. I am brave, I am honest. I have
fought my way up, like everyone else – despite all odds. I wasn’t
born into a love nest. My life has been suffering and blood

spilling. Have mercy on me, Mnemosyne. Goddamit, your name is
hard to pronounce. I think I might go out with Erato one of these
days. She’s got a cute ass. I am not so very interested in her
lyrics, but she does seem to have a voice. So rare, these days.”


NeverEnder Space Epic Poem – Book III – Chapter III: I – X


D “The question of who or what your father is,  is
utterly irrelevant. You are my son, that’s all
you need to know. I’ve worked hard to make you
a man, the right man. Come now, then – let it be.”

P “Am I the son the Zeus? Is this true? I feel it
in my heat. Tell me. Don’t lie to me. Not again.”
D “What a question. Are you asking for Truth and
Beauty? Are you the son of Zeus? What nonsense.”


D “If you insist. I will tell you the truth. Then
don’t come whining to me with feelings of discomfort.
You asked for it… so here is the true truth: it was
a shower of gold that took me in my sleep, and

delivered a dream. I was happy to be ravished so,
I did not notice a thing. I woke up and I was pregnant
with you. Your father has always had a thing for
metamorphosis. He is the God of Gods. Enough.”


“This is really demeaning – Perseus. At your age,
asking awkward questions. Bring me the head of
this ugly she-monster that you were meant to kill
a long time ago. She seduced Poiseidon and got

what was coming. Be quick about it. That is the
price for what you asked me. I have worked hard
to get you to where you are. You were supposed to
be a hero. This is the end of this conversation.”


Exit Danae. P “Now I am confused. I love to kill.
It is my skill. I am known around the world for
it. By she is my love. My mother is such a hag.
I must consult with my newly acquired father. He

will know what to do. He is God.” Enter Zeus.
Z “After so long, we are reunited again, my son.
What is your name again? Fetch me a glass, we
can drink to this. But I must rest. Chasing


pussy is exhausting. I love a good vagina.
But it never learns. You must be one of my
bastards. Which one was your mother? I am
tired. Where’s my water? I don’t see much

of me in you. Stand upright. Come here.
Don’t stoop. Do you love chariot-races?
What wouldn’t I give for one of those new
Helios chariots. Their sun is so bright and


shiny. My lightning bolts would look good
on one. So, tell me, which thunder model
do you prefer?” P “I am really not sure”
Z “You’re not my son, then. You spent far

too much time with women, I guess. What
do you believe in? Feminism and all that
crap? Goddamit. When am I ever going to
have a son? There’s nothing in you of me.”


Z “You’re a puppet in her lascivious dreams.
Where are you from? Did you come from the
mountains or the sea? Do you have memory of
anything? Don’t you see that you are lost?”

P “I am not lost, nor am I found. You can
answer some of your questions yourself. Am
I your son or not? Can you give me a straight
answer? I cannot search for truth any longer.”


Z “So you think you came from Zeus’s mighty
cock? What have you got to prove it? One look
at you, and I understand you’re a zero, not
a hero. You have been trained in unworthy

skills. You don’t have that spunk, proper of
a God. Be gone, now. You are nothing but a
freak. I love you not. You are not my son.
I refused to endorse any cum left-overs. Ah!”


So Cicciotta intervenes, because it is slightly
embarassing to have so many Griffinese ships
streaming out of the black hole, and to the
sound of Philip Glass, there must be a Dalai

Lama talking about mani or money somewhere.
Tierra Madre has gone to sleep. In her dream,
Desert Storm and the Spartan have started
copulating. Let me draw a picture. This is


What we call a exor-narcissistic cosmic fuck.
The Spartan attacks, Desert Storm recoils.
“Thou unravished bride of quietness…”
The Spartan says  (with the coolness of a

warrior on the shore of a long-lost time)
he says: “I shall be cumming all over this
black hole. I do as Spartans do. I win battles.
Come and get some. Come and get our weapons.”

NeverEnder Space Epic Poem – Book III – Chapter II: LXI – LXVI


M “I cannot drink this water, though. I loiter
on the steps and pray.” K “Mother, in your
honour, this epic has been written in byte code.”
O ” As we tether toward the event horizon, un

certainty is greater. Hesperos calls us to dinner.
E “Strange parallelisms, the cult of Chtlhu – what
happens next? ‘What mad pursuit? What struggle to
escape?’ ” Exeunt the lot of ’em – Enter golden Danae


Perseus sits brooding under the light of a tree bulb,
whose roots clutch the corpse of a sculptor, on
a verdant slope of Mount Maenalus, in Arcadia.
D “The mountains yonder call you to great deeds,

my darling son. You were born to slay evil serpent
girls, make them your trophies – ride towards the
moon, deliver a killing blow to the ugliness in the
oceans, show the white whale its tomb and be king.”


“And so, why are you here? Paralyzed under a tree?
Unable to fulfill your destiny? You are my son, not
some beggar in the street. What pretty whore has
swallowed your balls, now, darling son? Speak, now.”

P “Mother. I must confess. Many years have passed.
I did not kill Medusa. I loved her since, for what
she is.” M “Nonsense. Look at all the signs of high
history. The paintings, the tales about you. You are”


“the hero that delivered us from Athena’s monster.
Have you failed to perform your duty? Have you
challenged your destiny? No-one would commit such
hubris. Come now, tell me the truth. My diary

does not lie. And in the diary, I wrote here –
look – that you did slay the dragon – beg pardon –
the Gorgon. You bagged the head in the wallet and
boom! You’ve been bandying it about ever since.”


“Are you drunk? Or stoned? Now speak or I will be
cross. And then you shall have to cut my head to
shut me up. What nonsense, you are saying. I can’t
believe my ears. You are the hero, the son of Danae.”

P “Mother. Who is my father? Tell me truly, I have
lost hope, I am confused. I have dreams. I am so
angry, and yet I do not know the reason. I think I
am mad. You once told me that my father was a God.”


“And then you said that I did not have a father. And
then, another time, you said that – that fish-monger
that you slept with for a few years was my father.
This troubles me. It has something to do with my

identity. I think I do not know who I am anymore.
And I realized that I cannot love a woman because
I do not have a core, or a heart, or a soul, or an
identity. Curse you, mother, for lying to me. Now…”

NeverEnder Space Epic Poem – Book III – Chapter II: LI- LX


G “Until you solve the question of your birth – Perseus –
you shall be incapable of loving. ” exits the Gorgon
P (alone) “Accursed am I, and no sense of humour. How
Greek of me. Who are we? Are we clones of our ancestors?

My consciousness is a liar, my unconscious a freak. White
clouds buffering thoughts unknown, fast disappearing. I
will be a cloud, then. What we call a demi-god is only half a lie.
Half and half, committed to nothing. I refuse to be led on


By my mother’s lies. I have no father. Not man, not god, not
any other liar. I shall confront her. I can’t confront her.
I am a fat whale on land, I can’t navigate this desert.”
There is too much grief inside this shell-shocked imagination.

But now Chubby shifts in her imaginary seat in the black
hole auditorium. She is worried and angry. Being pulled
from history and thrown in a black hole is most unpleasant.
She thinks about it. Since the uncertainty principle does not


allow the values of both the field and the rate of change
to be exact, space is never empty. It has a rate of minimum
energy, called the vacuum subject to quantum jitters, with
particles and fields quivering in and out of existence.

Chubby feels jitterish, her mind is in a vacuum. Can
consciousness exist in a black hole? It is confusing to be
so close to John C. He and she and the play are both dead
and alive. Desert Storm feels an itch, the Spartan is asleep.


He snores, like the thunder of a thousand Persian soldiers
advancing on the pass of Thermopylae. Vacuum fluctuations
in John C’s mind. All of this is strangely familiar. “Dammit,
This black hole is giving me a headache”, Chubby thinks aloud.

“How long do we have to be in suspension? This reminds me of
the Murakamian well. I’ve waited for ages down that clogged
drain.” John C knows what he is talking about. “My computer
was destroyed but the memory cells are still floating in the


solar-system wide web. Too many downloads floating around.
So many sick thoughts of planets these days. And it’s all up
in the air. This black hole Murakamian well experience is
different though, it is a collective mindfuck, a tour de

force in the collective deadconscious. Some effort must be
put in following a plot thread.” “There is no freaking plot”,
intervenes Monkey, still suffering from separation grief
from Gawain and from a purpose of living. “Life is a series


of random events. Space-time is not flat, and I refuse to
sanction any art that pretends to follow a pre-ordained
structure. Mr Mamet can eat straw for all I care. It’s
an amoral thing to do. Not enough Becketts and Joyces.

Aristotle stopped the trade so long ago, I am still sea
sick. And structure is very much a purpose second term,
before you get sacked for lack of popularity. Mr Yeats’s
expressionism, two paintings after meals, says the doctor.


The play continues, if you please. “ὥστ᾽ ἔγωγε, καθάπερ οἱ
ποιηταί, δέομαι ἀρχόμενος τῆς διηγήσεως Μούσας τε καὶ Μνημοσύνην
ἐπικαλεῖσθαι.” Enter Mnemosyne, daughter of Uranus and Gaia,
Memory’s personification, mother of the nine Muses. Surprise.

She was taken by none other than her nephew Zeus. And so she
speaks. M “Zeus loves, Zeus talks, Zeus walks. And then he
forgets. But I do not. Daughters, stop prancing around.
I seek revenge: I may have drank from the wrong fountain.


You are goddesses, you give the Arts their rightful place
in the multi-verse. Kalliope, you are the brightest, inspire
me to epic journeys on the far side of model-dependent realism.
Ourania, show me the way among the burning gases and the waves,

the plasmas and the gravity of it all. Fixed luminous light in
my mind’s eye is not enough to stop this grief. Erato, let your
words dance, let my spirits be soothed by your loveliness. This
fountain, the hoof’s delay. Pegasus once stood here and kicked.”

NeverEnder Space Epic Poem – Book III – Chapter II: XLVI- L


Desert Storm reads, Ariadne digs, archives and dreams;
John C explores, Fortune Lobo ponders, Cicciotta
Copies. Monkey makes busybees-ness. Tierra Madre
Wants to enjoy herself, but ends up doing nothing.

The Spartan wants to beat someone up, and jerks
Off in the meantime. So much steam. The black
Hole lulls them into a gentle sleep, gently rocking
Away, unaware of time futurepastpresent. Rari


Nantes in gurgite vasto. In the black hole, everything
Is simultaneously true, and they get to face their 
Fears, dark thoughts and dead ends. Hell is one's
Everyday. Samsara on the toilet, on the way to work.

An illusion like any other, the black hole spins them
Into consciousness-motion, where reality is one 
Day on the planet Solaris. Tierra madre, ship-wrecked
On the shores of Lybia, faces the issue of abandonment.


Can that truly be separared from betrayal? Desert Storm
Wants to be loved, retraces her childhood on a board
Of chess. "If I castle, I might build a fence against the
Mighty multiverse." They witness a play, spouted by the

Black hole, trickster that he is. Look: a mischievious spell.
G "It was not meant that we should voyage this far, Perseus."
P "The lies of history have not captured us, my love. In the
Underworld we have met and we have fallen for each other."


G "Instead of turning you to stone, I have spared you my wrath,
You are not like the other men." P "Gorgon, you have conquered
My heart, I surrendered to your wisdom. It is true that your
Appearance wants in perfection, so to speak. Yet as we age

The serpent skin moults, and my hero's grin falters. I want
To devote myself to you, and yet we are unhappy in this
Underworld." G "As you well know, Perseus, you are no hero.
Killing people, lying and receiving undeserved gifts from


The Gods is not a hero's feat. And the question of your
Birth is still up for debate. I do not love you for what you are.
I love you for what you could be. The better part of you
Has spared me, even if you had come to my home to

Slay me. You have loved and betrayed a thousand maids.
Athena is my witness. Today, 'tis true, you want my heart, 
Tomorrow you might want my head. Now until the light
Comes back to this underworld, I shall not trust you."

NeverEnder Book III Chapter II: XXXIV – XLV


At night the galaxy is loudest. Privy to its 
Secrets, Cicciotta has come to planet Vashisht.
Unfinished business, the spirituality rabbit 
Chase. Too bad many researchers abandon ship.

The mirror is dark. Great research is never over. 
Dig deep into the folds of 
Time, Gravity, Electro-magnetism; the coordinates 
May change, but do the laws change also?


Once, I found a mini blackhole in the cupboard. 
It was 7 o'clock. I fell from the chair. 
Finnegan and Watt helped me up.
Legacy, dreamt Ariadne; guilt bricks.

River petals; evolution: angular and tragic.
Dreams are amalgamations of everything.
In euclidean space time, long range
interactions between this and that flare up


With potency inverse of square of distance.
Standing at the seashore of spirituality,
The drift of the atoms lurks toward the event 
horizon. The laws of right and honey.

Everything could end at any moment. Time
out. My ancestor awakes. He was a prick. 
Hesse and Jung, double dose; will cure
You of family. Monkey was born into pain.


"My heart is an anvil to sorrow" quotes 
Monkey in Ariadnes dream. "Generosity
Youth Leisure. Eloquent intelligent patient.
Overcomes mighty adversaries. My CV."

In no way does monkeys ego mingle. I swear on 
Rust'haveli's word. (Cicciotta copies the 
Dream word for word). Love is purely
Platonic. You, ravisher of my reason! Desert.


In a desert I grew to Gullivers proportions.
The multiverse is plagued with Yahoos and
Ariadne just dreams, Cicciotta just copies,
John C wanders, just. The sound of the souls

Is deafening. Could we tune in some Endymion,
some thing of beauty? This poem sucks. It is
Inane. It dillydallies, it stares at you. Monkey
just suffers. Night grows darker, and stars hide.


It began when Desert Storm, turned historian, 
found a mini black hole in the City of Griffin, 
amidst the echoes of SM di Castello. The monks

had long gone. Not so the history. All
Stories untold, uncorrupted, came forth in
A Hawking memoranda. On planet Vashisht,
Noted Cicciotta amanuensis, everything had


Changed. It had changed for it to grow, else
We're not really living. Consciousness can be
collective, a loud stream in the valley.
My mind, dearReader, is a tiny bell

oscillating in the wind. The last time 
Cicciotta copied, Desert Storm read, and all 
The other characters of this story were in
Alignment, the stars were close, and I had


Much love. But then, I still have much love. 
Consciousness is in layers, peel away at the
Surface and the skin will come off. Another
Layer, and then another. There is a certain

Melancholy in the act of peeling, a certain
Sense of loss of identity, gain of function.
Human life, a meaningless conglomerate of
Memory fragments? Almost all of our life


Is passed in a more or less unconscious state
Waking up from the constant dream, on
Occasions mountains rise in the distance,
Roads and purposes clear up. Successive

States of unconsciousness. Deep space reads
The one sweet page that is us, then shuts the
Book. Information-echoing probes move on.
Planets spin frozen, so Desert Storm reads. 


If time progresses, axes tilt. Suns set and 
rise again. The wheel is spun once more. It was
Then that Tariel wept and loved. The higher
Space called him, the emptiness above.

Heaven called. The abode of I dunno wot.
But then there was a gravitational, narrative
Collapse. In a great exercise of blackhole
Dustbusting, all characters, matter, juice


Of story-telling - everything comes now
Round to pounce away, midsummer-like,
in a giant singularity (make sure your black 
holes are big). "So good-night, with lullaby."

Thus, amidst great fanfare we witness
Reversibility in time. Theseus and Hyppolita
Are yet to marry. Perseus is yet to perform
The sexist act; that is the power of drama.


"Lies!" cries the philistine in you! "LIES!"
But, dearReader, in this neck of the multiverse
everything is possible. Granted that symmetry and time
Reversal give us space, given the gravity

Of the situation, let us line up the characters
each with his or her toil, anon comes clarity.
Guarding alertness, Shantideva roĺls the drums,
The elephant of the mind comes bumbling forth.