Author Archives: asynonymous

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About asynonymous

An idle poet, here and there, Looks round him; but, for all the rest, The world, unfathomably fair, Is duller than a witling’s jest. Love wakes men, once a lifetime each; They lift their heavy lids, and look; And, lo, what one sweet page can teach, They read with joy, then shut the book. And some give thanks, and some blaspheme And most forget; but, either way, That and the Child’s unheeded dream Is all the light of all their day.

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

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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!”

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

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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.

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

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XXIII.

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

XXIV.

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.

XXV.

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.

XXVI.

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.

XXVII.

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

XXVIII.

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

XXIX.

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

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / XV – XXII

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XV.

Gods hand on some of their responsibilities
to their children. The androgynous Goddess
speaks, with mock-sourness, closed lips
of distaste. “The passing of immortals appeals

to the best of us. Do not speak to me of Love.
Master your sense of exploration, renew your
interest in biological entities, John C. You may
have a shorter life, this time. Wake up from”

XVI.

“Your recurring delusions. Your imagination-deity
spins stories ever-more, or desires, spiders’ nests.
You’re a miniature figure in her story, the grand
old story of the childless, godless dream. Wakey.

Wakey. The mutated NeverEnder burns in the
background, the memories are incense for more
navel-grazing, and you cherish the prison of your
thoughts, much like your diseased mother.”

XVII.

“She dies every day in a labyrinth of sleuth-pity.
You can imagine the world as a cascade of Gods.
Your mother, d’haughter of Gaia, became wed to
Oceanus, and hence a thousand nymphs were born

in your spirits. The shape-shifting family man,
Prontus populated the alcoves of the world
with deep and dangerous Nereids, friends of
dolphins, and of humans. Your offspring will”

XVIII.

“be wind to the seasons, if ever should you
write your grotto-dryads and grove-nymphs
down. Your acts of creativity are displays
of theathrical sexuality, you may find your

semen spread all over a white page, or else.
You’re playing with your borrowed time,
observing these rolling planets and dancing
stars, and the very love of your existence”

XIX.

“your chance of redemption is lost in this
game of theology, and the people whose
spirits you may have touched, have gone
away.”

After a while, John C began his practice
of walkabouts and thoughtabouts. He met
a fellow sportsman, exercising this side of
Mount Doom. “I am a Spartan”, he said

XX.

briefly. John C challenged him in various
feats of physical prowess, the art of zero
rotation, the sphynx-poetry exercise, and
of course, a game of sexual javelins ensued.

Being equal in every feat, they began
discussing philosophy, like friends in
adolescence may do. Life stories, as
well. “I am full of potential”, began

XXI.

the Spartan. “I’ve picked slices of the
silver moon, ate the cavity of my mind.
My flash-suit is trained to fly ever closer
to the Sun’s golden flares.” John C replied

with a boast of his own. “I cast two shadows,
and know how to haemorrage feelings. The
worlds of Goddess unknown haunt me,
and yet I am fully awake while the delusion

XXII.

rolls on. My soul is hardened, but my
prayers are endless. I am a fool of high-
flying methane, a storm in the flowering.
I am yet to love the end of a story, and

so I practice oblivion with firm hands.”
The Spartan was digusted. “And I thought
you were a noble creature, you are the
very same individual who has given up”

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / X – XIV

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X.

The pale fire of remote stars flickers, John C is
immersed in a vision of past rewound, reviled.
He dies with crap in hand, survives as an idea.
The Titian painting of choice has lost is focus.

The horizon is blackstar-lit, an out-of-body Goddess
stares from mid-distance, once more he has forgotten
the words of Artemis, and an old Etruscan promise
has once more been forsaken, at least for this life.

XI.

His eyes come back to seeing, there is a light
tremor in them, the tremor of desperate choices.
Up above, the limit-blue sky is oppressed by
multiple swarms of hookah-starved mantis-stars.

“the ship burns, and the vision ends.
Now I am utterly alone. This is Titan’s Sotra Facula
region. On my left, the Doom Mons peak rises,
the image of the sacred montain of a Goddess.”

XII.

“On my right, a giant pit. Radio waves through
the hydrocarbon haze picked up by my lilting
soul spacesuit. Terrestrians merry-making at the
year’s festival of love, bidding good-bye to the

flesh with masks and armies of glass beads.
The sacred mountain siren-calls, the methane
whispers, I must be losing my plot. I’m running
a nitrogen-fueled fever, I close my eyes and”

XIII.

“I see the shadow of Artemis, I open my eyes
and burst! rising with a smile to love me; it’s
a fantasy of my own making. I have imagined
myself out of this world on multiple occasions.

Close your mind, the nightmare will melt.
On this mountain, I have buried my father.
In this pit, the bones of all the people I once
knew. In the snow, a distant memory. A cat.”

XIV.

“There is a Goddess in the sky, and she is
calling my name, holding the cat in her arms.
I do not know my name, yet I know she is
harking me. I do not know who she is, and

yet I am familiar with this purple sense of
time and space. I am well-acquainted with
this dream, though I can’t see its colours,
nor hear a sound in this cubical silence.”

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / V – IX

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V.

Somewhere in the melancholic wooden-spoon
multi-verse — I’m coming down with a fever.
Though the oceans of the grey-rock planet are
freshwater, its shore is salty. There, my demi-hero

stretches his reincarnated limbs (sharpened by
celestial favour), reborn in much the same clime.
The horizon is less than titanic, John C (you used
to be a man, you used to be a pet of a groovy cat).

VI.

He looks at the atmosphere: the moving – sparkling
sheen, the various hues – though somewhat in a trance.
He is between life and death, a philosopher as supple
as a butterfly. The walls of the sky are basking in

the light of a black star, his oblivious soul feels
the limbs of the sea in retreat. The waters left him
on a shallow shore, idling in oriental laughter. Half
wet, half dry, he lies in wait for more imagination

VII.

to kick-start his all-human ills. With aversion he feels
the chain anew, he remembers the stories – the Grecian
and the Persian, and the irritation of living, he uploads
the multi-verse and sees the magic treasures of earlier

NeverEnder times. Sedate grey fishes sporting red fins
(wonderful replies to the practical joke of Great Mind)
surround him, re-assure his eyes astonished yet delighted,
overwhelmed by the light swarming overhead, an aurora.

VIII.

The creatures watch him in the unbroken silence. It appears
they do not have a thing to do. After the green and yellow rain,
the temperature has dropped; not a single sound interrupts the
stupor of this strange young planet where the whole of John C

is stripped of his former existence and everything rolls past
his sense in a tremendous moment of flowing pause, uninvited.
Later, in the evening, the ‘rosy flood of twilight’s sky’ creeps in
with a prayer and a sore bottom. Tall buildings flash in the

IX.

darkening distance: light-houses of bee-hive artificial
stories, counterpoint to the ever-green root, the shortest
path to ceaseless autotrophic joy. John C’s first thought
is sorrow and hope – all rolled into the emotion of ‘I wish’.

A giant ship, steel and claw (haunted song to me), engulfs
the waters ahead, breaks the billows, fortresses of meditation.
It comes closer with a menace, the shrill solitude of the near
satellite fuels the fire of the remote stars and the ship burns.

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter I / I – IV

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NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem

BOOK III

the infinite sea

Chapter I

I.

Better hold fast to the void. The X.
What infotechnician, at the height
of his vision, can deem of the shell,
as flashing as the starlit galactic Way?

The crew of the NeverEnder, lost in
Time without the ship that steered
through Heaven and Hell, rest atop
a suspended data cloud. Falling from

II.

the skies are crimson space invaders
shitting green turds, the voice of others.
The threat is imminent, and the Way —
dimmer. Two musicians in the nightwing

rise and obey to the hoarse cries of the
data stream. Thousand of spirits burn,
RAM cores inflamed, the plainness of
the soul is changing as the shot which

III.

we see, a terminal window on the dark
apocalypse within the X. This tract of
the bytes river flows more calmly, its
current draws to the ocean infinite.

Out there, in the wider, statelier stream,
the wavering lights of Saturn illumine
the Tower of the Cat and The Technician.
The green Earth, likeness of sapphire, is

IV.

source of reflections, images as tranquil and
as sure as objects of serene vision. Let us go
back to the grey expanse where John C floats,
reborn on an earlier shore, fresh with questions.

What is the nature of rebirth? Why is the X
burning? What is the fate of the crew of the
NeverEnder? Will Ariadne find her purpose?
Will there be quiet in the infinite motion?

NeverEnder Space Epic Poem / Book II / Chapter VI / LXI -LXVII

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LXI.

In the lunar eclipse, Tierra Madre searches
the desert for expected thrills on planet Fear.
In her present incarnation, Ariadne assesses
the implications of loss, making her way

through a meander of cubicles in the abandoned
Borovoe Space Station. The NeverEnder as
a spaceship has ceased to exist. It has been
decommissioned by the higher Authority.

LXII.

It is being tugged, as we speak, toward the
sunset-and-moon burning short shore of
Wapping on Planet Fear. This satellite
orbits in a eight-loop with planet Hope.

Both Ariadne and Tierra Madre can see
the ghost formerly self-aware spaceship
being pederstrianized toward inevitable
ends and means at the docks of The City.

LXIII.

Their vantage points and sentiments differ.
The odourless flowers of an angry desert,
oversize and ripe with carnation amazement
are sunbathing with anemone tentacles,

wavelets of persuasive wingless winds.
They are probing the air for small arthro
pods. Tierra Madre is on an entomologist
excursion, mapping the path of crawlies.

LXIV.

Meanwhile, on planet Hope, Ariadne is
observing feathery spiders as they weave
intricate sun-ray reflections with sullen
dedication. Such perfection, the geometry

of their polygons, a paragon of beauty.
They are writing poetry with edges and
corners, with agile legs, perfumed nails.
The reed listen in, while huge trees the

LXV.

size of ‘scrapers cast a reassuring shade
cutting the light as the oblivious planet
rolls on, teeming with mysterious life.
Ariadne feels the breath of time, a blue

flame fades in her black eyes. Frogs call.
Tierra Madre is playing with radiation,
her drawings mock the sum of materialisms.
Ariadne comes with a tool-box of words,

LXVI.

but she is quite speechless right now, as
the sound of winter, the lives of amphibians
and the spirit of dis-ease all close in on her.
Both Tierra and Ariadne are utterly alone,

and yet the feel the power of the X, shining
from all things. The multi-verse appears to be
meaningless, and coincidences may wake us
up to the illusion of meaning. And yet, yet…

LXVII.

The senses, pure as sunbeams. I remember
how to log on to the X. It hurts, and it is easier
to just sit in dull reflection, a mirror of dark
waters. You see, I already paid my dues…