Suddenly, the earth shakes with deep
intensely-fragranced methane fire gases.
The sharp, prolonged fart of Zeus lying
prostrate, angrily reaches the city of apple
And in the misty dungeons asphyxia soars
carrying all the voices of buried hardship.
The adventurers see further visions, and
all the while from the cracked chasm…
… a lava place rises like vomit in the throat,
then a momentary pause, then another
earthly flatulation, Apollo gives us his
thoughts, and from the sea beyond the
Never-ending steppe, venereal waves
carry the semen of the Gods. So, a long
retreat, then a hurricane hurls unto the
Castle, propelling on a tsunami of bodies.
In the dungeons, the illusion-confounded
adventurers are teleported from the end
of the steppe or the underground memories
under the city of apples to the island of
The Castle, on to the cradle of civilisation
now contested by two warring factions.
Zeus lets out one last, lingering poisonous
ripple-wet fart, and then sleep comes over.
The White Plague has us in thrall:
Back at the Castle, war is raging.
The pilgrim is safely back from
venomous enlightenment, now
He lives the life of a civilian, inside
the city under siege, bound by karma,
Defeated every day by the urges of
Body and Soul of his and other fools.
The White Plague rages, turning
Soft bodies into vampires, eyes
greedy with a need for more gold,
aglow in an ever-darkening world
Our eyes turning to ember screens,
Waving shame like feathers, riding
false waves of pretend immortality;
pneumatic, sore, with a deathly urge.
The beggar-witch mutteringly curses
outside the dungeons of a tremoring
calf-mountain, she is conjuring up
an illusion. The four travellers are
each facing some question and each
is finding a gate, an answer. Here, the
door-shut, door-open labyris harbour
quest, and ten Minos-herding flashes.
In these tunnels I have found reminders
Of my own inadequate guilt. I am half a
man, I am not a boy, not yet a child.
I am the egg that holds the key, and
I wish that you’d forgive me, pity. For
my sins are all powerful, and they haunt
me, and in these tunnels I see visions
of what could have been. My love for Her:
Dream-eater is ever-growing. I see: she is
is herself ever-growing ever lustshameful,
a monster of her own accord, and my own
monstrousity I can no longer keep inside.
No longer can I keep the secret of my half
ghoulish werewolf nature; I wish to devour
the flesh of my kin, and my love shall be
the end of friendship, of our brotherhood.
In these tunnels I see everything
I am the all-powerful storm in the desert,
My body is multiple womanly rain-forests,
I record every single moment of my rain-bow
existence in the annals of history.
I am an immortal, that is my yogin boast.
My beauty is legendary, my soul is all
colourful, and you shall be in awe.
In the abyss I have seen the image
of father, and of mother. I never think
of her. She was not around when my body
was anointed, and my soul was forged.
I carry around these little people in
my pocket, and they are servants to my
purpose, which is to find myself, to
grow to ever-size to finally be a giant.
In these tunnels there is all-nothing
My magick sees through the witch dim
crafts, and my own wizardry is all-seeing
I know the sticks and tribulations ahead.
I shall not fall for all this delusional mess,
You beggar-bitch, you are meddling with
The wrong sort. I am Bee-Stinger, and
You shall fear me. I know stitch from fraud.
I know the fabric with which the fair gods
Have created all lofty clouds. I have seen
the roots of the abyss and I am unafraid.
My sister is hungry from temporal freedom,
But I am made of sterner meddle. All this
Is as much an illusion as you and me,
Little witch, and your rotten fruit shall not
Redeem me, for I have seen into the fire.
In these tunnels I have found nothing
But the same siren-songs sluicing softly,
Oozing out of my ears, my own adventures
A curse impossible to live up to, a chain.
I am Marco Querini: a liar. A prescriber of
intoxicants, a smuggler of broken dreams.
I have travelled far and wide to escape
The shadow of my father, his judgement.
My boast is that I have killed my best friend,
I have feasted in his blood, triumphed over
His clay’d over body, mastering its poison,
Surrounded by powerful allies, now exiled.
I claim my vengeance in these dungeons,
I can see it as clear as day, looking down
The parapet of my Venetian high mansion,
In the alley below, the corpse of my enemy.