Chapter IV

I.

Fortune Lobo and Monkey are
travelling to the ubi-verse’s end;
they have forgotten their purpose
in search of a MacGuffin, but still

holding the talisman, just in case.
Monkey is particularly upset, he
spends his nights in panic. The wall
is painted with fiendish shadows.

II.

They have escaped Hades (the
black hole) without any second
act resolution, and their period
of struggle has been truncated.

In short, they have copped out.
Gawain has been obliterated in
the hole, along with many other
characters. The NeverEnder ship

III.

drifts. Its caravel credentials have
been put into question. Unconscious
ly, Monkey and Fortune Lobo have
set out to heal a raging imbalance.

the very purpose of neverending
poetry is to find a cure for the sick
thoughts of planets, but existing treat
ments only brought very transient

IV.

peace. Out of the abyss, a large
ship has sailed out from the depth
of the mediterranean. Its shape has
turned into a blue whale. It has

swallowed Fortune Lobo and
Monkey in a big gulp. In the belly
of the beast, they are playing cards,
gambling for mere compulsion.

V.

Sean X has tried to log on to the X,
he has hacked his own Thing, the
code that determines his identity.
In trying to modify it, he keeps

making mistakes. The rewrite is
a very slow process. You can’t
just hack a DNA sequence to
pieces or stick gold teeth into

VI.

it, or chew its methylation, or
compress its chromatin, or expand
its transcriptome. In short, the
technical review of this process is

the following: we don’t know
shit. The Pheistos disc is not
legible, the secrets are locked to
us, and Sean X still tries so hard

VII.

to unlock the Raven and the
pendulum. He is quite mad.
He hacks, he minces, he ambles
he lisps, he gambles. That’s it!

So the characters of this impro
vision are kept in the black hole
for a while, stewing like good
meat. What happened to the

VIII.

others, by the way? Fortune Lobo
is having stomach cramps. Monkey
is spending his money on TV ads.
They have forgotten their identity.

This is because Sean X is messing
with his own code; this echoes into
the ubi-versal archetype, creating new
fallacies: memories are modified.

IX.

In this way, some monsters are
created. Sean X is attempting to
transform himself into a Grendel
morph in order to slay the dragon.

He thinks that the X is a dragon.
Cicciotta can see that he is having
hallucinations. Of course, she slipped
out of the black hole. She is Beauty.

X.

Even if the blue whale is vegetarian,
Fortune Lobo and Monkey are slowly
being digested. They happen to be in
the ocean of strawberriness on planet

Poseidon. The view is very peachy:
stars and a wonderful balcony panorama
on Saturn and Titan. Cicciotta is looking
for the soap in order to wash Sean X.

XI.

He is driving himself mad, working
until late at (Saturnian) night, trying
to hack the codes. In the meantime,
there is a falling cadet. She has found

some bread floating in the black hole,
and so she decided to free fall (let us
ignore all we know about gravity).
Finally, there are showers on Titan.

XII.

These showers are composed of falling
cats and falling slices of bread buttered
with strawberry jam. That’s Cicciotta’s
notion of gravity. We have come to

the treatise of antigravitatory cats in
application of Murphy’s law. Spinning
forever, like the evolution of the interact
ome of DNA and all its attached sarabande.

XIII.

Thus, since there is a cat-toast equilibrium
point, we’d like to speculate that there is a
Pheistos disc / The Thing equilibrium point.
May I remind all remaining passengers that

when I say (write) Pheistos disc I mean to
say the code of the universe, meaning the
code that codifies the order of God or some
such. And when I say (write) The Thing

XIV.

I mean to say the whole complex biology
of DNA and its attached proteins, including
histones and the epigenetic modifications,
in sum all the stuff that codes for the genome

and its expression as a phenotype. Cicciotta
is so bored. So much biology in one page
makes the doctor go away and come back
with a bad stomach (like Fortune Lobo).

XV.

I tell you who has a bad tummy now.
The whale! Imagine being a vegetarian
and having swallowed two whole monkeys
(primates) complete with space suit and

helmet, and perhaps even some books
because Fortune Lobo does not go any
where without his copy of the Gita.
Where the whale actually is, remains

XVI.

to be established. dearReader, have you
got any suggestions? It was last seen in
an ocean on Poseidon. But, as a dutiful
reader might suggest, they are all in

John C’s memory, somehow lost to the
present and the past, especially as it
is being rewritten. The dearReader is
tired. We are going to be tired now.

XVII.

The past is the past, the future is not
told. Is that so. Yet for all the possible
spins of the multiverse narrative, we
are but slaves of death and fear, and

our little lives are rounded with a
wirelessness and a desire to cable.
Gawain fell into the hole, and all the
inverted fears came to surface, as an

XVIII.

assault. He lost faith in himself, and
woke up in the middle ages, on Earth.
No better time, the spiritual path for
to find. The mirror in the mirror may

be broken, but Cecco is still living,
breathing, and he also finds himself
back where he started, having a
choice of Guelfo or Ghibellino.

XIX.

Cecco and Gawain are united in their
quest for a token of civilization, which
a magical voice in their head tells them
to seek. Increased knowledge of the

unconscious brings a deeper experience
of life and greater consciousness. They
have arguments about what it is, this
thing called unconscious. Cecco usually

XX.

swears and fumes, while Gawain plays
it cool. He takes the moral high ground,
since he belongs to the bastard race of
the north. John C is still battling the

dance-zheimer disease, and his attempts
to hack his own code are increasingly
frustrated. He has slept little for a long
time. And you know what happens when

XXI.

you don’t sleep for long. Fuck-ups happen.
He keeps deleting the wrong strings, and
chopping off the wrong methyl ends, and
he keeps trimming the causality parameter

with the wrong scissors. ‘Art is no longer
the province of the artist, it is the domain
of the entrepreneur.’ His delirium is worrying
Chubby, who has brought him back to

XXII.

Titan after he went on crazy adventures
around the multi-verse, and he nearly got
himself killed. On planet Vashisht she found
him tripping on loneliness, convinced of

finding true shanti shanti shanti in the high
mountains, in the frozen lakes in winter,
luckily the local monkeys pissed in the right
direction, and pointed him to her, and so she

XXIII.

saved him from himself. He’s back to him
self. That is, he is back feeling low self worth,
he deluded himself of being Sean C or even
Sean X, but all this re-write left him codeless

and the epistasis of his being has suffered
greatly, he does not rest, he thinks only of
genomic-engineering himself to solve g.o.d.’s
algorithm, or answer the riddle of the sphinx

XXIV.

or even find a cure for the sick thoughts of
planets. But Monkey always said it, and John C
is struggling to admit it to himself, there is
no cure, as a matter of fact. Planets are sick,

and their bodies are brittle like glass beads.
Chubby is completely non-committal on the
issue. The Borovoe download has collapsed
onto a molten drive, and all data are now gas.

XXV.

John C insists on sniffing the download-upload
in search of the characters that made him laugh
tear, and all the rest. The molasses of the mid
life crisis are the period of the latent dream.

All the fantastical fire in the firmament, the
liquid luscious waves and the blue thought,
nothing can heal the mind that is raging and
painful. John C is hacking the code, he now

XXVI.

just deletes, and edits, and memorizes the
wrong sequences. Chubby picks up the pieces.
In the stomach of the whale, Fortune Lobo
and Monkey are playing poker. They are

oblivious to everything except the gambling
and the fun. They have switched on the telly,
and they listen to K-pop. What a lovely tune!
Please cut my veins vertically not horizontally.

XXVII.

Ariadne is steering the NeverEnder in an
asteroid field of faithlessness, and there is
such a hopeless vibrational energy there,
that all the members of the crew are freezing

with fear, and with despair. Officer Flexa
herself is losing hope. A vein of creativity
has burst inside her mind, and she now sees
all the cosmic beauty as echoes of suffering.

XXVIII.

Desert Storm and Tierra Madre, holding hands,
are looking at the falling stars of the ubi-verse
as the hurricane of materialism rages and the
blood of the prophets soaks the ether, and all

the midicloreans are bursting with entertainment,
the final selling out of all the myths, the reli-john
and all DorianGray imaging serving the cause
of the volcanic marketeers and the whoreshippers

XXIX.

of god-mobile. Unexpectedly, in a moment of
weakness, all the X’s energy flow momentum
has been wiped out, and the whale has stricken
the NeverEnder’s joy. Hyperconnectedness

means that information devours beauty, and
art is transformed into entertainment, and
entertainment is the instrument of repression.
Repression, in turn, eats the souls of humans.

XXX.

Voices of the ether. Cecco and Gawain are
listening to the voices. The latter, like visions,
are autonomous manifestations of the senses
caused by the activity of the unconscious.

Isn’t that ironic. The voices are telling them
to find the unconscious. A bit like two snakes
biting each other’s tail. Psyche, or Eros, accord
ing to a theory that Ahura Madza has been

XXXI.

trying to refute, are the only true forces of
anti-gravity. Eros being the son of Chaos, and
Psyche being a weightless deceiver (or deceived)
we are to recognize that our trouble is deep.

It is the time in the night when the whale
is snoring (do whales snore? That’d be fun).
If they do sleep like humans, they should
snore. Anyway. At this time, on Poseidon

XXXII.

the echo of the ancient mariner’s voice
wakes the soul of Fortune Lobo from his
slumber. Unfortunately, Monkey has been
listening to the advertisement campaign

of the mischevious marketeers for far too
long, he (she) now feels a kind of attraction
for the dark (dork) side. Monkey swears to
serve the profiteers, and become a profiteer

XXXIII.

himself (herself). Monkey sold out. ‘We all
do everyday, might as well be on the winning
team…’ But Fortune Lobo is resolute, and
he wishes to set it right (the world out of joint).

Unfortunately, Monkey stands in his way.
They start fighting in the stomach of the whale,
stumbling on a Pinocchio leg (ah, that was so
cheap). They both have magical powers.

XXXIV.

The ancient mariner’s spell gives Fortune
Lobo the power to shapeshift, but Monkey
was born with that gift. So the first thing he
transforms himself (herself) in, is a wolf.

Fortune Lobo is taken aback. He is like:
‘Wait a minute, that is me! I am supposed
to be the wolf from Scythia!! He took my
mojo.’ Monkey grins, he is picturing the

XXXV.

mayhem, and all the wonders of the MON(K)EY
he’s gonna make. Mon(k)ey, Monk-key, M’honey.
Our precious. We wants it, we needs it. First
thing, we needs a connection. Like a rabdomous

fire, they seek wirelessness as if it were water.
Russell Brand would say, ‘Monkey’s one of them’.
Yes, indeedy. ooh, I have an office at Canary
Wolf… gnam gnam gnam. GnamGnam style…

XXXVI.

Fortune Lobo is not such a great guy, he is just
a lad, and he is very confused. He likes pussy
a bit too much (I don’t mean cats and I do admit
that is a sexist statement, kill me). Anyway. He

does what he can, even from page three of a
certain tabloid. Fortune Lobo shapeshifts into
a sexist macho (you can picture it in your head,
what is the shape of a sexist macho, do tell).

XXXVII.

Suddenly, Monkey is scared. Then he recovers,
and he starts planning a way to make a buck out
of the sexism. For example, we coulds hooks him
this way or that way… by God, today I saw a

VietcomBank, I thought I read Vientcong Bank.
What is the world coming to. Fortune Lobo is
getting distracted, it must be all that testosterone
pumping up and down his Power and Glory.

Chapter III

I.

Eratosthenes is up, and Aristotle is down. Ahura
Mazda listens to Chubby’s love story. Her beloved
ancestor was called beta by his enemies. Aristotle
believed that the world was divided in Greeks and

barbarians, while the chief geographer’s belief is
that there is good and bad in every tribe. So Chubby
sets out to calculate the diameter of the ubi-verse
while listening to Ottorino Respighi mixed with

II.

Жар-птица. Perhaps I loved you, Athenian School.
Things fall. How? Finnegan, Adam, butter scraped
over too much bread, and of course… water. At the
interplay between night and day, across the river of

Hel, across the Abyss, over to you, Pato Donald. In
Hades, there is a gravitropism when Chubby falls
in the museyroom, all excited because it is the
place where ubiverse turns black hole. Well, not

III.

that mensch from the outside, but inside it’s got
“far other galaxies and other bacteria”. Chubby
knows that there is another place beside this
transient rainy (titanic) shadow-sand.

People roll purposeless. Cum, inside the paint
ings. Forever in action, there are heroines and
heroes from all ages who challenge the test of
hubris by defying the jokes and becoming im

IV.

mortal. All is portrayed doing something
sooper duper like sitting on the grass sipping
tea, or fighting the G-force or even smashing
a temple. The gallery is a place of the mind

and wave length. Paintings are glued to the wall
like heaven and hell. Noxious motions are ways
for that eternal leap. Pain Artists and Gods,

weavers of other worlds. Now open a window

VI.

on the past, the present, the immortal, the fuck
allure, and the archaic den of the human spirit.
Perseus (e.g.) is standing in grand embarassment
torn apart by pretty flowers. Fearless legs sore.

Heroic blue, he is the dude and the villain at the
same time. Fortune Lobo has come inside the
black hole himself, all comatose and merging with
Perseuswolf, preying on the listless soldiers,

VII.

waving the head of the Gorgon like a ghost in
pain, as if it was a memory card or one of those
work badges to wave around in the tube. Self
right, an artist of the soul. If (dearReader) you

dare fight your own putrified self, please find the
time to avert your face from the picture of your
insanity. This is the face that we show to other
people. Enemies are turned into stone in a strange

VIII.

strangulation of fear. A cross-fire of artistic
perspective and aggravation. Our weakest (and
strongest) enemy is the image of death. Courage
cost us our life. The rest is a muted entangle

ment of particles, writhing at the first hint of
eternal immobility. So blackhole vision of the
Temeraire is brutuality in approaching voices.
Yggdrasil tempered by the cool light of the night.

IX.

A pool of sunset in the ocean stream counterpoint
to white-crested billows, insinuating on the shores.
The moon is laugh-tearing the decaying sun. Ahura
Mazda, this is the end of the line. The ancient cons

truct is in ruin (due to bad debt). The new construct
seeks Antonio Gramsci’s memories in gaol. Inspired
motion, drawing from the eternal spiritual reservoir,
or the night’s tartly shadows. The orange steam states

X.

that a new order has taken place. Hope, symbolised
by a mild blue light, is compressed between two
worlds. This is the transition between the world
of waking and the world of dreams. Forgotten

dreams are watered down as the sun proceeds
in its funeral march, the city has swallowed it.
From the depth of the abyss, a white light
emerges, it is the reflection of the moon.

XI.

All is quiet in the world of surrender. Yet
the waves ripple and create quiet, Temeraire
is coming home. The dead soldier slithers.
Storm is gathering, the clouds are dense.

quartzgolden skull is uploaded memory for
the dead. The fits of Hel open up, the pitch is
broiling in the foreground. The light is still
pulsating, yet the body of painting sighs. A

XII.

yellowish skin is all that is left of heroism.
All for nothing, the flesh has fallen, and a bree
ze is putting a seal on it. The night of eternal
damnation is going to be long. Doctor, doctor,

doctor. Don’t save any one. I hate you.
Through these fountains of light I have
walked through dimensional gates, but now
just the door attendant. Firebird. The door is

XIII.

locked and don’t know what to do. If all of
this has a meaning, if someone has a key…
but right am torn by a whirlwind of images.
feel am different from the flames that sur

round. am burning alive yet do not feel pain.
can see the footsteps of an old vampire on the
beach. listen to the sound of footsteps of those
walking shadows who, like used to do, listen

XIV.

to the morning clarion holding a last
sceptre of silence. There are still people
trying to climb the earth, some get lost in the
cement pits that pave the streets. Hel is layer

ed with asphalt. Taken aback, find self trying
to rummage the memories, trying to find at
least one good reason to keep on living. have
left the land of stone, have left the bulrush

XV.

plagued city of marble. gave self completely
to a red rose who lied under the scorching sun.
It came back to life with blue petals. But right
then a dream. On a the deck of a ship life and

love been prophesied to be des’ Troyed. dream,
like others, beenfore telling the sunset to cum,
a tragedy so foretold, planned and then seen
again. room the women come and go .

XVI.

chapter one, one, segment one of the veil
nebula echoes with Don Giovanni being
sung. Rainbow-hued gas density shifts
and does not haunt her heart, Ariadne

cries. She knows that a discussion on
the sick thoughts of planets does nothing
for the ubi-verse. The Laconian school
docet. That’s a dying group of ideas.

XVII.

In Hades, in the black hole.

Δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληίαδες µέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, πάρα δ᾿ ἔρχετ ὤρα·
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω

The moon has set. And
the Pleiades. It is the middle
of the night. Time passes,
time passes. And I lie alone.

XVIII.

cross the waterfall, seminal
idea in the stars. Premonition
of myth. Kerberos meets us.

A sweet protocol. A fellow
ship of characters cannot
go through fire. Burn, mother.

XIX.

Only the bravest poissonages
can withstand the petrifying
gaze of the headless sphix.

Ariadne leads the merry band
of black hole pirates through
the mouth of Ὠκεανός, the

XX.

divine personification of the
sea, an enormous river
encircling the world

strictly speaking a Titan
son of Uranus and Gaia
picture in the museyroom

XXI.

the upper body of a muscle
man with a long beard and
horn-claws of a crab and

the lower body of a Typhon
serpent. Due to lack of gravity
they all fall off the edge of the

XXII.

world into the missing
Rabbit roadrunning with Z.
Desert Storm fallows.

her crop is a young budrose
and a novel showmind

Fortune Lobo carries
the apparition of faces in
a crowd.

The Grim is doublebill
in broken mirror im spiegel.

Limping SeanC, Ahura
Mazda and Chubby complete.

XXIII.

Hel assembles the potion from
under the ash tree. Heimdall
cannot see. Gawain and Monkey
friend, seek life at the origin

of the black hole, studying
the curvature of light. So
Rabbit’s gone missing.

XXIV.

The ego boundary is an open
window. So much fear and

anger.

XXV.

Sean C is settin’ up his computer,
wired into consciousness and memory,
which enables his terminal to log on
the ubi-verse mega galactic computadora

oploading electron microscopy
to the digital polymorphic frame;
his fooling idea is to rewrite the past.

XXVI.

Now Ariadne reclines her head,
she is very much like a cloud
and the sunset grows wider and
wider from nothingness to the

shape all space and time. Memories
laid to rest long ago come alive
lights are awakened to the east, the
whole ubi-verse hums and oscillates.

XXVII.

A cloud is like a flower, and time
comes to a stop (finally)
roses multiply, Ariadnes multiply.
the black hole is quiet, it is now.

from over the shore, the ebb flows
back, and the tide grows, Sea of Faith.

XXVIII.

This is a time in the past and the future
when (forgeddabout the egalitarian plateaux)
black hole lies bend all the possible dimensions.

At the same time, in a rewritten dimension,
the cursor blinks on Sean C’s black terminal
window, the shell of computer science’s disputes.

XXIX.

The flow is totally lost half way
if the dearReader cannot focus [ on it ]
what is it

log in for a head ache, log out for depression.
Sean C is setting up his computer, wired into
the ubiverse, memory and debateable data on
consciousness. Op-loading cellular activity to

XXX.

the digital polymorphic frame, he doesn’t
have a clue about what he is doing. He is
just messing around with his computer.
Still, very accidentally he found a code

(written in Etruscan) that enables his
colourful techno-painting program to
interact with his own cellular memory,
twisting and bending all that dioxyribo

XXXI

nucleic acid for download, exploration,
manipulation and absorption into the X.
It is highly debatable that there is a code.
That’s such an engineer thing to say. Any

way. This dioxyribonucleic acid (together
with all the interactoidome) is a mystified
code that supposedly was written by Poly
phemus (or was it his opponent), I forget

XXXII

his name. Ariadne spun it when she was
a spider (spider-weaving in Etruscan is
so much easier). There is no code, let’s
call it The Thing, in honour of Sean Carp

enter. Well The Thing is talked about in
the book ‘The Perennial Philosophy’. It
is perpetual (does that mean eternal?),
though it metamorphoses in an object-

XXXIII.

oriented manner as the ubi-verse evolves.
There is also another script (apparently
written by asynonymous, or was it Rifat)
which is the ubi-verse Pheistos disc. This

impermanent thing is protected (you wouldn’t
want to mess with God). Sean C doesn’t really
know what he is doing, but he lets his computer
take over and jerk off all those thoughts. There

XXXIV.

is a mental block setting (boundaries after
boundaries of imagined conventions) which
prevent half-humans like Sean C from access
ing the Pheistos code, which is ubi-versal and

grandiose. Once The Thing is understood
(i.e. why proteins are pretty and why RNA
dances and why DNA likes to metaphormose)
then the ubi-verse will open and Sean X

XXXV.

will get some cookie. There is a fractal setting
here in that the deeper Sean X looks at his own
code (the thing that we call The Thing) the more
he sees the code of the ubiverse. Everyday milli

ons of his cells apoptose and millions are created
in some controlled way through autophagy. Same
stuff happens with the ubiverse. Millions of stars
die and millions of supernovas are generated. So.

XXXVI.

The code for both The Thing and the Pheistos disc
is a function of time. The lowest level of code changes
the event handlers. The parameters that pass through
the event handlers change much like quantum physics.

This is the change that drives the morphosis or evolution
of the code both at the Sean X level and the ubiverse he
is (was) living in (before he fell into a black hole along
with almost all the other characters of this story). Now

XXXVII.

Sean X hacks into his own code and finds some left
over parameters from the past, coz some are corrupted
due to bad coding procedures (hence God invented the
Republicans). Sean X tries to correct the code but at

times his whole being crashes as the bad code is so
embedded into his being that the change has to be slow.
This is all so very bad aesthetics. Look dearReader, this
is very novel idea, it is not matrix and not tron. It is

XXXVIII.

actually how we and the universe maintain entropy.
There has to be a program in this and for our own
sanity maybe the created put a level of protection on
the code so you can only access or understand the

higher code once you understand your own code.
But the code keeps changing over time so if you
can use that concept and dig deep into your past
you can have some very novel idea here. Because

XXXIX.

in ten years time more genetic data will be avail
able but people will have no idea what it means.
Renunciation through knowledge. A novel algo
dance for the precise calculation of the maximal

information coefficient. We’d like to know every
thing, and we would like to manipulate everything.
Cicciotta disapproves. So does Ahura Mazda and
Artemis. Let the sleeping dogs lie, dirty sciensticks.

XL.

Inside the black hole, there is peace. Ab initio
molecular orbital theory. We’d like to orbit what
ever possible, and the characters are compressed
into gravitational desire, fear and anger, and all

the other demotions. Mainstream chemists have
now embraced computation. Potential energy
surfaces, torsion of angel, two minima of this
story. There is a plot of energy vs narrative torsion.

XLI.

That sucks. Cecco is screaming inside the mirror
inside the mirror inside the black hole inside the
story that is being re-written as Sean C has become
Sean X that is now recoding his own DNA and

making a mess of it while Cicciotta looks on
in amazement. Total electron density is a function
of coordinates and the number of poetics inside
a small volume which we call NeverEnder. That

XLII.

is absolute cheekiness. I thought the NeverEnder
was a space sheep, exploring the void, the power
of imagination fuels her. She is a she like the moon.
I don’t need to quote Walt Whitman to state that

(asynonymous) am tired of astronomy, and that
do declare that poetry is a beefier soup than Yin
Yang. The Laconian school is nearly dead. The
last bastion of iffy thought has been conquered

XLIII.

by the ravenousness of the Athenian school.
Scholars memorian and oblivian from all corners
of the ubi-verse gather to honour the casket of
Miyazakisan, and the incredible tide. If you don’t

get all the references (says Umberto Eco, famous
for his humility), it is because (he or I) respect
the reader so much that (he or I) half-expects him
or her to catch all the narrative breadcrums and

XLIV.

swallow. Gulp. There is so much to swallow in
this ubi-verse. So much shit is force-fed into our
half-human mouths. ‘Give us the shit, mangia,
mangia’. ‘Hark, fast by the window The rushing

winds go, To the ice-cumber’d gorges, The vast
seas of snow.’ I refuse to de-code the dioxyribose
Thing. Sorry. Sean X has his computer plug pulled
by Cicciotta. She is a Goddess of Egypt and Greece.

XLV.

Tragedy is a celebration of the Truth. It is not
a victory, but a resignation. “Not milder is the
general lot Because our spirits have forgot, In
action’s dizzying eddy whirl’d The something

that infects the world.” Shiva brings dissolution
to the black hole. So we are all going back to
God. So there is entropy, nothing is destroyed.
When remedy is exhausted, so is grief.

XLVI.

Sean X is looking for a MacGuffin, and
only finds empty air, the dramatic goal
cannot be more generic than this. Please
fill in this black with your problem: ___

(A bit more space if you need it: ____
______________________________).
Sorry, that is about it. The power of the
dramatist is in the ability of not standing

XLVII.

in the way of the problem. Whachyoogot?
In the black hole, we find lots of colour.
There, the aqua permanens, which in 16th
century alchemia stood for the quinta essentia.

Hence solutio is either chemical or problematic.
Pneuma is the water of philosophers, and so
we listen to Carl, whose animistic archetype
narrates of a volatile liquid, of disappearance

XLVIII.

and reappearance, and of “the soul that
becomes water”, the invisible pneuma of
Heraclitus. In the black hole, this principle
has become pluralized by being multiplica

ted. Here, the alchemy seeks to “free
the soul in chains”. So where did it
spring from, this creature of the abyss
that scatters the hope of dancing souls?

XLIX.

Then it feeds on their sloth, it foments
their fears. Over the blue sea, shining
with the ebullient eyes. It is veiled
with a hazy notion of brazen youth.

Breathing fire, we see her through the gauze
of the waters, brimming with anger, singing
ferocious chants. So it splits you in two.

L.

Silence on the inert blue, the wave always
rising on the table of the mediterranean.
the hole is open, and a still born child is

image in a mirror with a green mouth,
gurgling in breathlessness and stupor.
innocence at the mouth of hell, a vortex of

LI.

limblessness; on the ship whose prow is
embroidering the abyssal rocks, the sound of
a hissing voice. it is the lure of the chain, a
desire to explore the lower realm. Enchanting

in its mocking dance. Its folds and echoes
linger. Some bewitching spell for a
perennial nocturnal walk, celebrating
some kind of awakening stuck in the throat.

LII.

The prow of the ship rising from the blue
tells me from this particular side of the
black hole that ‘the unconscious can
no longer be treated as if it were causally

dependent on consciousness’ (hence
Sean X is spending pointless time trying
to hack the code of the code to get the
Code). Unconsciousness possesses

LIII.

qualities which are not under conscious
control. The rounded wholeness of the
mandala comes shining down on Ilford
Golders Green and Penge in the shape

of the NeverEnder, newly built in
cavorite, controlled by its own
intelligence, very eager to continue
exploring the ubi-verse and ignoring

LIV.

the slings and arrows of outrageous
waterways. Cosmic affinities. A
particle of the world soul (cosmos)
and hence a microcosm, a reflection

of the macrocosm (hence Sean X
is struggling with the fractal parameter)
Leibniz’s Monadology (not to be
confused with Mona-logoues) is

LV.

very much like this. Sunset over
Jung’s bright yellow. Destiny of
temptation. Switch over to tragedy,
and the long lost brain circuit

where the action potential collectively
describes the prow of the sunk ship
and falls behind the sun on the hori
zon. The Helios God is so miserable,

LVI.

so sad, so tired. From here to there
is a distance far too long, even as we
like to spin in and around this black
hole. The journey is the essence of

the chromoflower, which shall never
be revealed. In this moment of sorrow,
the swallows fly high and low in the
dramatic azure sky. The celestial folds

LVII.

are like wrinkles of old age. Darker,
redder dunes in the atmosphere.
Opaque, thick destiny is swarming.
Such mystery can only be hinted to,

if understood at all, but not known.
Hubris is upon us. My life is brief.
Two swallows fly parallel, east-bound.

LVIII.

the sun (like the ship) has sunk.
Cicciotta looks on, immobile. Half
way under the broiling waves the
star has collapsed onto the southern

sea. I can still see its white dwarf
status, and the black hole memory
of this sunset will be remembered
in a dream on ufos, and analysed

LIX.

by Doctor QuackSilver, Mr Hg,
and our old friend Carl. The purpose
of my trip is over. I am home,
bound.

LX.

I smell this air again, I
breathe.

LXI.

I am nobody, who
are you? are you
nobody too?

the sick rose has
flown away in the
crimson night.

LXII.

Sean X has deconstructed
his own code, and the cell
lies open like a chinese box.

inside, the cat is alive and
dead, and there is no end
to our suffering. For this

LXIII.

reason, Chubby is considering
a further rewrite, and a further
slip into the black hole, and
a further waterphilosophical

debate with Ahura Mazda
about the nature of division,
and why the Caterpillar is
always right. The electrons

LXIV.

have been counted. There
is little energy left. The code
of the Etruscans can only
be read in Volterra, and that

is a settlement far and away
on the planet Fear or was it
planet Carnuntum.

LXV.

Fortune Lobo exits the
black hole and meets Monkey;
the two are Andromeda-bound.

They are still searching for the
MacGuffin, that thing which
gives them the right to resist.

LXVI.

That is not to say that they
do not carry the talisman still.
They do. Their purpose in this
narrative has been preserved.

Chapter II
I.

Effect, Franz Fanon. Causation, Edward Said.
Warning, a journey to the East swallows up
dreams, Baku-wise. What is Jerusalem?
Sri Krishna: “Who cares to seek for that

perfect freedom?” Einstein asserts that the
strongest and noblest driving force for
scientific enterprise is a cosmic religious
experience. But Fortune Lobo and Desert

II.

Storm have doubt. Ariadne (being a Goddess)
is in the league with Cicciotta-Chubby-Bastet.
They sit and watch, we play and weep. So,

While the vynil of the story is being scratched,
and new etchings are marring the past, which
is being re-written as a Sean C monologue, and
the NeverEnder is a ship which is travelling back

III.

wards, then the thread of the story (which is a
yellow ribbon) is being unravelled non-linearly
and duality is talked about in the form of a
conventional truth (worldly and Nagarjunesque)

and an ultimate truth (some of those Huxley
Island kites would do). A daily cup of maggots,
that is the nature of samsara. Yum yum! So
before you used to eat cockroaches, now you

IV.

have graduated to maggots. Monkey is eating
his breakfast on planet Pain, and he has a bad
tummy. Gawain is taking a break on the other
side, while the Ancient Mariner is taking que

stions. “So,” quotes the naive Fortune Lobo,
eager to understand “what is the Middle Way?
I have always wanted to know. Is it half way
between Pad Thai and Papaya Salad ?” Now

V.

Planet Poseidon coughs up the perfect storm,
and the youthful adventurer is catapulted half
way across the ubi-verse, as way to punish
him for his cheeky remarks. Pad Thai, indeed.

Doubt is a flat spot on a greasy lake, like a
small fisherman’s boat, floating by with nets
of Guilt, and fishing Fear. Entropy is the juice
which pumps the heart of Planet Pain, and

VI.

Gawain is mining its jewel-caves for more
amorous feeling, a bit like Montecristo (the
count, not the island). Entropy is the juice,
and I fear the other half of the equation may

be that tremendous heat that we all feel when
pressure is applied to the system (we may ass
ume that the system is a closed one, and that
your mother may decide further laws of ther-

VII.

-mother-dynamics. Cognitive Bee-hivioral Thera
Py. This, in mid-slump with Piezo2 and β-catenin.
Acute depletion redefines division of labour. Other
wise known as, sunset in the afternoon with biscuits.

Gawain has a mouse, like his father before him. But
“Somewhere, parently [..] the copyist must have fled
with his scroll.” The name of the mouse is DumbBill
Silly. “Cull me ere I wilt to thee!” Laughtears. β-cate

VIII.

nin mediates stress resilience (or else we let the bullies
bully us, and steal, and nibble, and feed off our blood).
The stronger mouse bullies the smaller mouse (or possi
bly, the less hungry). The ravenous mice are feeding, so

father sets out for his crusade againt all evil (what a more
on) by sticking the glue on the ground to capture the ene
mies. Pathological states are scattering across the ubi
verse like the well-known Cassiopeia dis-ease. Sudden

IX.

ly a gizillion (at least five) Moody’s Dicks (S’ i’ fosse
foco, arderei ‘l…), also known as scien’wist shmucks,
are swimming in the mercury sea of ab reductio, and
the bodies of the slain are burnt on the pyre. Mammals,

insinuations, forced allegiances to the murderers. Micro
RNA regulation up the ass, Mr Dicer. Fortune Lobo
(floating as the snow at the peaks, echoing as the sound
of the foothills, watchful as Heimdall, flying as the

X.

water of spring) resolves himself to catch the passing
boat of RightMindedness. There. So what are the forces
which hold protons and neutrons together in the nucleus?
What is the journey of the electron? We shall follow that.

When the field jiggles, it behaves like a particle. So nuc
lear forces command the will of Fortune Lobo, Steppen
Wolf of Scythia. Who commands the nuclear forces? It’s
turtles all the way down, apparently. But downstream

XI.

microRNA is commanded by the brain-less pseudo-thera
pist to vectorise the brain. How does the brain-less act on
the brain? Just wait and see. How will Fortune Lobo, while
spinning like the versus of an electron in the space between

particles, using the knife in part one of the story, preparing
himself for the fall… how will Fortune Lobo counter the
farces of canonical Wnt signalling coupled with the doctor’s
false oath? Now before we follow the electron, let it be known

XII.

that the Director of the Human Nation (Dux Ubi-Versal),
he that sees the gnat atop the pile of Jurassic dumping,
while sprawled across the ubi-verse, feeling poetic, he
lines up the ants, the mice, and the leading pine apples,

and declares the ten (mind you) tenets of Desired Behaviour.
But first, he enumerates the long-term benefits, then he asks
a few tough questions, and then he answers his tough questions
with a few tough answers. The White Plague has instructed

XIII.

him. But Fortune Lobo hears not, he is still spinning,
voiceless, in the unknown backyard of your mind, dear
Reader. But before we delve in the harmonics of
particle travelling, I should like to note that not all

scientists are born from the blood of Uranus when
he was castrated by Cronos. The child of the night,
with a broader portfolio than the Furies, operates as
a counter to the capricious Tyche. Now, I am not sure

XIV.

about Mr Tycho, but Fortuna does not come down
heavy on the man that declares that science and religion
are compatible. In reading the words of Mr Albert
Einstein, one is struck by the melody, the mellowness,

and the unshakeable empathy. A mind of thought and
beauty. Nemesis may have driven Narcissus mad,
Fortuna is still revered in Italy and in the shades. But
if there is no overweening pride, if there is no hubris, then

XV.

the mind is gentle like the relativity of simultaneity,
and the reference-body for the budding mind is like a
firefly in the night when the howling storm is far and
away, and Feynman’s path integral becomes certain.

Fortuna, you need not fret about the pebbles moved by
the wicked and the child-abusers, the Furies will have
them. Echoes in time, as Echo cannot love, and the
host of daffodils is dancing in the wind, not recollected.

XVI.

But as Matthew Arnold reminds us, the world in which
we are living defies death.
“In the pines the thrush is waking —
Lo, yon orient hill in flames :
Scores of true love knots are breaking
At divorce which it proclaims.
When the lamps are pal’d at morning,
Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand.
—Cold in that unlovely dawning,
Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand.”

XVII.

Scientists, pale maidens, the sirens of this age.
The orient hill is in flames with nanopores and
anti-gravity, and with delusions of monopoly. So
if science, liberty and peace are not the subject

of political debate, but relegated by doubtful
self-appointed chair-people of false compassion
to the vague notion of “poetry”, if the charity
workers are slaves of the marketeers, if the wo

XVIII.

men of science and the men of engineeering
are driven not by motion but by greed and ambi
valent ambition, then the understanding will
be nil, and the conquistadores will claim the

land, and the politicians will come with bare
hands to squeeze the juice of missiles, the forces
of the atoms unleashed at the whim of Cleopatra.
So after this disclaimer, I should like to discuss

XIX.

the path of particles, of cakes in caves, and
while we hide, waiting for the televised apo
calypso, we can test our hypotheses with the
Galileo method; let’s drop a plume and a rock

and see which particles fall on the other side of
Pinocchio. Disclaimer, disclaimer. More poetic!
So we wish the electron a merry Saturnian holy
day. Saturn is spinning while Titan is at rest. Lo

XX.

and behold. When Nemesis was turned into a wild
goose, the motion of all matter was first described
in terms of waves. The x-component of Nemesis’s
momentum is calculated with uncertainty Δhelen.

You cannot, at the same time, know its x-position
more accurately than Poseidon’s smelly bum. These
days, the God of the Sea is particularly polluted.

XXI.

“Is this the cycle of life story or the Ego boundary?
That’s tenderly. The moon talks to the universe, isn’t
it?” Kroo Pienkit hits the nail on the head. The study
of poetry’s recombination frequency is measured in

centimorgans. As previously stated, philosophically
we are completely wrong if we stick to the approxi
mate law, or the law of the conventional (buddhist)
truth. Nevertheless the sentence is passed on and

XXII.

the next generation of creatures observes the
particles jiggling and bouncing like jelly or
possibly pudding. At the level of the body of
liquid water, we have another source of vari

ation, the production of new alleles (which
are versions of a unit of knowledge) by mute
action. γνῶθι σεαυτόν. One of the first tasks
is to establish a correspondence between the

XXIII.

deoxyribonucleic acid and the map of knowl
edge. Gnostic and agnostic markers have ap
proximate distances calculated with electron
pointers, which contain the address of Apollo.

Particular combinations of andrewpaulmurphyc
narratives are termed nefas-rious and can allow
the restructuralization of the evolutionary history
of a popularized information set. Let us begin

XXIV

with a simplified picture of how memory is
organized. A typical machine has an array of
consecutively numbered or addressed mem
ory cells: Apollo, Apollo, Artemis, Artemis,

Artemis, Artemis. 110000. Over a large time
scale, business per usuals may shuffle the gnōscō
map of Here Comes Everybody. HCE, “an
imposing everybody he always indeed looked”

XXV

Information storage and transmission. One or
two angstroms will do. If an apple grows the
size of planet Earth, then the atoms of the big
apple are the size of the original little apple.

Information flows in cells, either as a 32-bit
float or a RNA interference machinery, with
a bit of Neo (or Don Juan), a pinch of Ahura
Madza and lots and lots of kinesthesis.“All

XXVI.

art is at once surface and symbol. Those who
go beneath the surface do so at their peril.” Sean
C has started a session of navel grazing in front
of the dark-pooled mirror on Planet Vashisht.

White, white… down. From the river of the past
comes a reflection of a story, the laughtears of
forgotten words. The Vashisht mirror throws up
images of delight and sorrow. Sean C listens.

XXVII.

Rain falls violently on every thing. Look, a
monastery, high up in the mountains, shrunk to
the size of Sean C’s mind set. The himmel-
laya are prostrating as tiny stones, much like a

chorus. Clouds burst like rotten eggs and the
jelly of heaven pours down. The gate of the
monk-place rises like an ogre. Giant statuary
shabbiness split between the perfect roof, the

XXVIII.

bulky wooden columns (tense like the nostrils
of a cheeky dragon) and the ruins of the night.
Beams are projected in mid-air like daggers.
So much chiaroscuro. Sean C marvels at the

crippled Aphrodite (vagina times), whose
beauty is enhanced by the concave parts.
The left side of the gate is griffin-paragon
in its full supermajestic slant. The opening

XXIX.

of phoenix wings against the Russian gloom.
In the middle of the gate, buttressed against a
colossal column, whose red-stained wood has
been ravaged by time and termites, a heavily

framed mirror looks on. There is a mirror in the
reflection of the mirror on Planet Vashisht. Sean
C is tripping. The Caivano glass is cracked,
venom’d with blackish veins. Silence enfolding.

XXX.

Deafening noise of falling snow. Roar roar roar.
Sunlight quickly vanishing behind the facing
mountain, engulfed by an army of massive snows.
The monastery sits on the east side of the valley,
perched on a platform of rock, cast between the
dark-hued slope, studded with huge sharp rocks,
and a wall of stone behind it, marking the impene
trability of the Earth. The sun rises from behind

XXXI.

the wall, touching the crests of the high mountains.
Opposite, west and north-west, burning their snowy
fingers, licking the sunsetty furnace red. A magenta
portal of the mountain deep, wide as a quadrangle.

In the middle of its inneryard there sleeps a temple
like a golden and shining gekko, a well-kept coil.
The high mountains form a narrow valley, frozen

XXXII.

in snow. North and south, a riverruns, bending way
through the marooned ice. One can witness the
advancing tread of icicles, a little tighter every day.
The cold, dry air is speechless, no warbling of birds.

The valley has halted in an echoing stillness, with
only the lone murmur of the river to emphasize the
silence. The reflection of the mirror is dark. There,

XXXIII.

the light is not thrown back. A black pond, in ripples.
Branches of trees murmur from it, though it casts no
image. Single drops echo in its mercury liquid glow,
and footsteps are heard. Sean C is mesmerized. The

shadow of a man flashes intermittently across the watery
wall of silence. Melancholy, a burning innuendo; the
figure emerges from the lizard shadows with an
expression of pain across the canvas. He comes and

XXXIV.

goes from the screen of the reflection, much like the vomit
of a Caravaggio picture. The dark waves in the mirror are
balanced by the late afternoon wintry light. There are no
leaves on trees, and yet Sean C hears the rustle of autumn.

In a brief enchanting second, light flicks in the mirror,
and Sean C is forced to witness the passing of a flock of
starlings in a pale blue sky, before the image of the Grim
homes in again. In an irony of pain, the Grim holds out

XXXV.

his hand. ‘I can’t get out,’ he says. “Becchin’,
amor!’. Sean C listens to the Grim. He is talking
to his non-angelified girl-friend. Then the lass
answers with humour: ‘Che vuo’, falso tradito?’.

Whaddayawant, that is. ‘Che mi perdoni’.
Forgive me. ‘Tu non ne se’ degno.’ Piss off.
The translation is liberal, ‘coz the Grim is heavy.
He used to be a poet of the throat, a clericus

XXXVI

vagans, and a goliardus (or goliard). After
many years of peregrinatio academica, he
is rather weary, especially as he has become
trapped in the mirror in the mirror (oh dear,

Mr Ende would have said “what a prison of
freedom”). On the subject, I advise reading
the Daily Spiegel (im spiegel). In this leit
motiv, there is a wanderer in the fog during

XXXVII.

a strange old winter, in the Ghetto of Venice.
So. Be moderate in sleep and wakefulness. The
sun does arise, and make happy the chlorophyll.
And hence on the electron transport pathway

we slide along with the ancient mariner (fabbro
like his son Thomas Stearn). Discontinuous lite
rary quantities measured by elementary quanta
of negative electricity (electrons). Poetry,

XXXVIII.

awakening, raindrops in the gravitational field
of Planet Freedom. Along with the many lost
and undead crawling across London Bridge,
together with Master Stetson, we find seekers

of Planet Carnuntum, people who remember
that pressure is proportional to density. The
job of the goliard physicist is to understand
why things want what they want. The Grim

XXXIX.

does not remember his true name, and lensing
gravitational, red shifts and expanding constants
all complicate his self appreciation. Sean C
talks to him through the mirror in the mirror.
“I believe in intuition and inspiration. When
the eclipse of 1919 happened, I was not in the
least surprised.” The Rashomon-Heisenberg

XL.

effect is a deity which is planted in thyself,
which has detached itself from the persuation
of sense, and has submitted itself to the gods,
and cares for mankind… the molecular motion

of the soul is like a hot gas (hence the hot-air
baloons), and in certain cases the heat can be
so enormous that it generates light in the form
of flames. For this reason, HCE (who we know

XLI.

as the Grim) is well worthy of any and all such
universalization… a bit like Fortune Lobo is an
unwanted Byronic hero with lots of reluctance,
and Desert Storm is a Sheherazade in the making.

Fortune Lobo is spinning in the semi-empty
space, his electron journey to Andromeda is
a bit of headache. A zero gravity sense of humour
is all we need. The NeverEnder, in a command

XLII.

performance, running strong since creation
(and destruction) is gossiping about all sorts
with Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman. The self
aware ship is filtering through an asteroid

field in the manner of chromatin immuno
precipitation. Desert Storm and Ariadne
are having tea on Uranus while being logged
on the Archive of Myth. Gawain and Monkey

XLIII.

are ju-dancing softly softly with brother Yermek,
founder of the Borovoe mountain trekking club.
The ju-dance is a physical property of humans,
these strange particles coming off the skin of the

odd-verse. Last year, they were in quatrains.
This year, sonnets or nonsensical coupling.
The connection between truth (as a gravitational
force) and all energy is a very weak interaction.

XLIV.

“The things which are external to my mind
have no relation at all to my mind.” Fortune
Lobo is spinning (much like a spider on a
mystical trip) very close to planet Carnuntum.

In the ju-dance, Gawain subject-weathers the
qi while Monkey spaces at very high speed.
Their movements are poetic, a bit like a muffin
(duly fought over in Earnest). From within the

XLV.

mirror in the mirror, the Grim discusses the
theory of shadows to the minutest detail,
putting Ahura Mazda and Chubby to sleep.
From over the short sea, mountains are rising

on Titan. Planet Pain is orbiting a flavonoid
star, and hormone signalling echoes are
discharged in the form of anger management.
On this very day of oscillations, when the light

XLVI.

is just for show, and the children of the Earth
are screaming on top of their lungs, counters
and geometeors are numerizing the algo-dances
all busy on this side of the galaxy. According

to the NeverEnder timing, all legends are
currently sleeping, and the white architecture
of mythilation is slowly unpeeled by the Grim.
“turns out, I am scribbler. I used to populate

XLVII.

narratives with words, so you could say that
I am a popularizer. I used to squeeze a friend,
but she went all oportet aqua on me. Her name
is Becchina, that much I can say. Kawaaaai.

I spent many a day in the shadows since then,
looking for Sapphic Wisdom. As I was walking
in the orange grove, I began to wonder what
secrets were hidden on the other side of the

XLVIII.

wall. I had often heard from the Tiger Tiger
that great beauty was to be found on the other
side. I went through the door and found
a desert. I closed my eyes and saw feelies.

In the wild, a rock and a piss, an old
friend was spinning a wheel, opening
and closing nematode holes for little
threads to fall in. Everything was so

XLIX.

interconnected. And so while skirting
around a hole, I fell in, and by St Louis,
there I was inside a painting, much
like a purple rose, St Matthew was

being slaughtered in a French Church,
on the other side of this page. While
stuck in crimson hue, I stumbled and
catapulted myself onto the screen of

L.

an ipad, hand-held by a Japanese comic
stripper, and so I came to the realization
of guilt. What are these narrative threads?
What is the relative amount of truth to

each little statement? This is why I am
now palely loitering from mirror to mirror.
I still think of the high mountain, and
the last time that I sang the song of

LI.

Becchina. My contemporaries might
know her by her nick name: Beccanassa.
In my time in the shadow I had much
sandwich to peruse the meaning of things.

The number of my issues may have
been complex, but I resigned myself
to live in a world of floats. Presently,
Mr Sean C (nice to meet you), I should

LIII.

like to elaborate on the following
subjects. The number 2, the behaviour
of an electron (sometimes a particle,
sometimes a wave) and the idea of

Romanticism. Let us start from the
latter. Romantic is that cavorite thing
which grows with thigmo, and then gravi
tropism. The painter of plate 2 summons

LIV.

up the courage to admit the existence of
uni-versal fear and sticks it in his art, a passion
worthy of Herostratus. Now Artemis is extremely
pissed off. Was there ever a planet Artemis?

Was it ever meant to be mis-en-Arte? That’s
a bad pun. Umberto Eco talks of unfinished
symphony. Kafka never finished a sentence.
‘That we must feign a bliss of doubtful future

LV.

date’. Kimmerians, living in the land beyond
the ocean stream (or on the scythian steppe)
are covered in mist and cloud, fog and dark
ness. There, the cloud somersault idea of

rom antic is quick-sand defined by the
legendary Odysseus, on his quest toward
home. That a Greek should define Rome…
is the ultimate joke of the Hades, a territory

LVI.

which we now must enter with caution
(there is a lot of traffic, a bit like Sathorn
road on a Freia’s day evening). This is
the Z80 CPU register which is available

to the misadventure befalling in the year
of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ, twelve
hundred and seven. Figure 2 (data not
shown) shows the 208 bits of read/write

LVII.

memory which are misused here. In this
study, we shall analyse the space between
cells, in the manner of biocommunication
capability, romantic emotion, soul or

in vitro leukocytes. Further more, we
shall elaborate on primary perception
in plant life. Lady betrayal says ‘more
meaningless impro-visions.’ Visions and

LVIII.

re-visions. At the gates of hell, some
French scientistics (Peak civilization
memorians) calculate the complete
knowledge of a quantum state, the

prediction of hullaballoney, a critiqual
step in quantum interfero-mechanics.
We’d like to split electrons in half or
we’d like to determine wavelengths

LIX.

with a knife. ‘I am from the government
and I am here to help’. Oh dear oh dear.
Itinerant electrons are being murdered,
the number 2 is so very square, and this

narrative is superconducted. But to the
matter. Hades. Lady Betrayal, Duchess
of the underworld goes by the name of
Hel (dweller under the tree). She’s got

LX.

balls. So to speak. The yoga of mysticism
is needed when crossing the river of hell
(somewhere between the ox-ford and the
camp-bridge). Devotion to the supreme

spirit. Prince Fortune Lobo has come to
rescue the antagonist (a certain dragon,
son of Troy). The spin has ceased, and
all the versi of all particles are pointed

LXI.

toward the exploration of malign destiny,
sought and found and defeated in the depths
of Hel. ‘How did you, still alive, come to
be in this murky darkness?’ Questions are

to be answered. Desert Storm has run out
of ink. In her plight-search for written word
she has dug out the curious feeling of
danger and of awk. Or was it awe. Cut it

LXII.

out. ‘There is more to life than this’, cries
out the infantile cadet, while her infantile
sister is digging deeper into depression
and anger. Planet Pain is unmeasured well

of justification and of regret. In this root,
the waters are divided, and the poetry has
run dry. Monkey has set out to find all the

LXIII.

other characters, now all confused and lost
in the expanding dimension of galactic Hades.
The dark energy may have been a blip, but
emotion-devotion is very real, and the judge

ment that each soul is calling upon itself
is so very real, it is almost artistic. Of the
number 2, electrons and more soul acoustics
we shall elaborate while journeying pod-palia

LXIV.

(a bad Russian translitteration of memories
from under-grown). The Olympian Gods
behave oh so capriciously, almost like the
biological signals of epi-mechanics (which

Sean C observes in the paintings described
by the Grim, who is currently thinking about
the best way to get out of the mirror in the
mirror). Recapitulation: all characters have

LXV.

collapsed in a state of coma inside a thing
much like a black hole which we writer-scientists
would like to call Hades (which stands for
Harmonics of Adenine Decency and Electrical

Speranza). The latter word means hope in a
now dead language, or language of the dead.
And this is why the Grim, suddenly oblivious
is now memorious of his true name: he comes

LXVI.

from somewhere across the water, and down
the valley of redoubtable Celtic sorceresses,
across the elephant mountains and on to the
maritime pine trees, the odour of cicadas, and

the ‘ramingo and esule in suol straniero…’
We now remember! Sean C understands, from
broken downloads that the Grim’s true name
is Cecco, and that he used to be a poet or at least

NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem

BOOK II

The Perennial Philosophy
Chapter One

I.

Gravity. Exocytosis. Be like the flow
of water. A vessel to build the gate of
history to cross the boundary of time.

For that, buy a ticket for the museyroom.
“mind your steps, koan-in. The three
muses at knossos; the griffin is tethered
to the column in the Great Eastern Hall.”

II.

Arjuna: “How shall Deva and Titan
know all the extent of your glory?”
Sri Krishna: “I am the Atman that
dwells in the heart of every mortal

creature.” Not to fight for gain or
loss. Now if the Maras come greedily
loping, the earth shall be my witness.“I
am the OM and the practice of mantra.”

III.

So here we are, at the entrance of the
Archive of Myth, along with Carl Jung,
Aristotle and Marlon Brando. It appears
that the child Woody Allen was wrong.

The universe is not expanding. New data
has come in, gravitational drag exerts the
light, and so the cosmos red-shifts gear.

IV.

Krishna, Krishna! What have you to say
on the matter? Sean C has built himself
a high-resolution telescope, and stationed
at his hermit-base on Planet Vashisht, he

pores over the cytoplasmic fractals.

V.

“I am afraid I can’t really report on anything
other than a ‘trifle difficult’, as a West Ham
supporter once put it. But, never the less,
riverrun, is the joy[ce]ful word. And so

“they all fell silent. O Queen of Carthage,
the sorrow that you bid me to bring to life
again is buried” at Amphipolis, and in the
shallow waters of the holy island of Delos,

VI.

where our Gods Apollo and Artemis were
born, a mischievious, ingenious joke that
Oðinn would never approve of. Huang-Po
argues for neither attachment to, nor

detachment from that R data.frame that
you have been tampering with, dearReader.

VII.

R being a meta-language, it is apt for us to
introduce our memory trip down binary lane,
so as to open the Archive of myth. In the ca
pital mud-city of the bastard race of the North
we shall visit the museyroom, downloadable

from the solar-system-wide-web (SSWW)
for parallel enjoyment on Titan, Europa,
Vashisht, Poseidon, Uranus, Fear, et cetera.

VIII.

“On the red shift of spectral lines through
interstellar space”, light quantum will change
its energy, and therefore its frequency. More

narrative oscillations. So, as previously stated,
the narrative is a trifle truffle, mostly due to
gravitational lensing, so excuse moi.

IX.

So let us set it right. At the rotational spiritual
gallery spinning on the OORT cloud, on this day
(calculated in relation to Neptune’s primary)
six hundred and forty thousand thirty six and

a bit since an arbitrarily chosen threshold,
Fortune Lobo landed (more aptly, watered)
on Poseidon’s water-ammonia ocean. That is,

X.

without being disintegrated. ‘Tis obvious ‘coz
he was wearing a gravitational suit. And a lot
of more clothing (there is no such thing as bad
weather, only bad clothing). Having said that,

the windy conditions on Poseidon are a tiny bit
adverse, to put it mildly, I don’t know about
superionic water or deep-down diamond oceans,
but there is a breeze at 2000 km/h. Nothing to

XI.

Put off a ship of the Griffinese (who are used to
changing weather conditions). FL found this ship
moored in solitude, and an old nostr’omo sailor,
memorying his days with Garibaldi, and his love

on the island of Victory (where diamonds are turned
into graphite), or even his journey into the heart
of darkness, along a snake of a river, down to the
still to the first immobile motor mount, the crossing

XII.

of the shadow-line. The old sailor, or (in Teesan-speak)
the ancient mariner, had eyes of sorrow (panda eyes)
and told strange tales of distant archaea colonies, and

further back into imaginary time, where p-branes are
created equal, and may or may not look like a torus.

XIII.

now on the ring-some aqua-face of planet Poseidon,
the ancient mariner stood (floated) and told tales of
Troy (what else), of the fall of Finnegan, of Christie’s
bad debt’s final balance, and “horror, the soul of the

[ Ligeia ] plot.” Now as the Archive of Myth is being
opened (excavated on planet what’s his name) by Dr
Gawain and Mr Monkey…

XIV.

… it becomes clear that Horror is the only apocalyptic
realm yet to be invaded by the White Plague. And yet,
it shall never be conquered. It is not in the nature of the
accountancy infection, whatever its tuberculotic
form, to be able to penetrate the Horror, and the
Moral Terror (ipse dixit, Mr Marlon). And old

XV.

story, written on the West Wind, reminds us of how
the mighty themselves might fall at the hands of the
spiritooal white plague and how only in Grecian Urn
immortality one may finally find rest:

“From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
with sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.”

XVI.

Arjuna: “Suppose a man has faith, but does not
struggle hard enough” […] “Is he not lost, as a
broken cloud is lost in the sky?”
Sri Krishna: “No, my son. That man is not lost.
No one who seeks the Brahman ever comes to
an evil end.”

XVII.

Siddharta under the tree, assaulted by the King
of Passions, touched the earth with his finger
(without sticking it into a jar of jam, that is).

The earth, the only witness of the heart, the
rotten heart on weeping clay. “For it is according
to nature, and nothing is evil which is according
to nature.” This is in Carnuntum.

XVIII.

“But”, interjects Fortune Lobo in a leap of faith,
the Carnuntum planet is so far away, how can I
ever reach the Pannonia galaxy and see it?

“Well, try tampering with black hole entropy”,
Sean C smart-asses in sub-speak, while sipping
cola somewhere on the side of the mountain.

XIX.

This narrative is concerned with memory.
Memory is that thing that, when you wait
long enough, it becomes legend, and then
myth. But Baku, dream-eater spirit,
please do not devour all of our hopes
and our myths. Please Baku-san only
eat our night-mares. The ancient dreams,

XX.

the spirit-formations and the mythical
stories, please do not touch. We call our
past time echoes dreams or myths
because we can’t bear to remember them.

at least half of the time, it is too painful.
and yet, the sorrow and the pain is there
for a reason, so why should one just forget
why should one just erase the past? The

XXI.

echoes call down the drain of history, and
so “draw down the vengeange of [planet]
Poseidon” (the ancient mariner speaks),
“for Cetus and Medusa, though sinless,

have been defeated. Following the tale
of the first whaleman (a certain Perseus),
a mirror-shield, gold-winged sandals, a
sword, and a helm to defeat visibility

XXII.

are here presented to you, Fortune Lobo.
Remember, gravity is a distortion of space-time.
Don’t forget to close your eyes before
you drink the quintessence and you listen
to the echoes of the dark energy.”

XXIII.

“It is unseen because it is colourless;
it is unheard because it is soundless,
when seeking to grasp it, it eludes one,
because it is incorporeal”, a bit like an

electron. “So down the Old Kent galaxy
highway, down to Planet Canterbury,
walking in pilgrimage along empty void

XXIV.

(’tis a bit chilly) using a void-craft (as
opposed to air-), leaving the old capital
of the mud, walking from the Abbey of
Cluny at Veremundsei (satellite of the

city), flying off in space toward Pocahontas
‘s final resting place (what bad luck)”, the
ancient mariner contines to tell his tale
about how he sailed from the mud-harbour

XXV.

past the Roman watch-tower destroyed
by a greedy Wapping developer (barbarians),
past the public bar owned by the artist of
light, and on toward the heart of darkness

deep into the cosmic jungle, where the
diamonds in the sky tell tales of the Congo
river, and the Pleiades listen (finally) to
Artemis’s bidding.

XXVI.

“I was a whaler, like Perseus before me,
and like David Mamet, whose wind-chill
factor has haunted my intergalactic treks.
Hence I heeded his advice, and I bought

myself a gun.” Fortune Lobo listens while
looking out into the full blast hailstone sho
wers which rain down with full speed
over the methane-hued cloud-sea thinge.

XXVII.

But condensation in his mind is mirrored
by the liquid rise of Poseidon’s angry emotions.
Back at the Labrys harbour, Desert Storm still
reflects on the inverted big cypresses, the

brown wood alabaster, and the architecture of
lambda. In the riton, the oil, the water, the
spice and other offerings for Gods who have
been sleeping for far too long.

XXVIII.

“From my grand father Marcus Antoninus”,
continues the ancient mariner, “I have learned
good morals and the government of my temper.
I was there at La Canea and Rettimo, and so

during the siege of Planet Candia (what a fight).
I fought alongside friends at Marathon, but
I ran at Lepanto and at Thermopylae (one
has just enough courage to fill an urn of ash).

XXIX.

So forgive me but my ashes are not kept in
a tray in the San Giovanni e Paolo cathedral
of the Veal city capital. My friend Marco Antonio
has not been so lucky.” Fortune Lobo wonders

about where all this is going. “Friend [dearReader]

XXX.

you call yourself a Wolf of Fortune, perhaps
even a SteppenWolf. Have you perchance
been raised on the steppes of Scythia?
Were you born at the gates of Ἀλεξάνδρεια

Ἐσχάτη ? Since you have been asking for
a mission, God (for your grins) gave you one.”
Fortune Lobo is unimpressed.

XXXI.

“Who is this God of whom you talk?”
The ancient mariner continues: “Your
mission is to find the outer reaches of this
uni-verse, to meet the lovely forms of

Andromeda (a galactic beauty), and to
carry the οὐροβόρος ὄφις talisman on
which one of the two snakes agrees to
the following statement: Tu, was du willst.

XXXII.

You need to carry that talisman past the
Ishtar gate, and move on well into the
unknown, past the ufos that have been
haunting Jung’s dream. You will need

to travel back across the Tartaros empti
ness, back toward Chaos (a rather large
primordial God), and then when you get

XXXIV.

there, ask Ginnunga a few tough questions.
For example, I would start with, will there
ever be another Herakles (or a morning)?
Will Ahura Mazda ever reconcile its daena
with that of Pallas Athena (in spite of Thaïs),

XXXV.

and perhaps by way of the Spartan IF. Others
abide the question. Thou art free. We ask and
ask… Fortune Lobo, hear me. I know you do
not understand what I am saying to you. But

beware, the east and the west of your mind
are divided by the word ‘guzastag’, and you

XXXVI.

shall need to bring them back together.
As you travel to explore the Greek End
and the Japanese Start of this ubi-verse;

that is thy mission, thy curse, thy blessing,
thy riddle of the sphinx.” Fortune Lobo
waits, waits; his mind travels back to the
ebb, the tremulous cadence slow, the

XXXV.

eternal note of sadness of the waves
blown back, before human voices wake
us. From the ebb of Neptune’s oceans
arises an oscillation of unknown source

“But the Buddha answered, what thou
bidd’st me keep is form which passes
but the free Truth stands; Get thee unto
thy darkness.”

XXXVI.

Mean while, Monkey is delving deeper
into the deep, the inverted Murakamian
well gave rise, on Uranus, to the cloud-murk
and the sky where emotion somersault

is so thick that painters across the galaxy
draw colour from it across space-time portals.

XXXVII.

Chubby is alone on Titan, wandering in the
zen garden steppes, sand dunes where the winds
blow in opposing directions, forming a kind
of momentary Japanese effect, making her
think of those Huygens probe painters of
Tokyo, whose depiction of the channels
and lakes of liquid ethane and methane
scattered across Titan’s surface convey

XXXXVIII.

(through the means of an immobile art)
the sense of Wildean switness and motion.
The dim roar of the mind is like a distant
note on the feline cat’s intellectual organ.

According to Chubby’s calculations,
the wind reverses twice during a Saturn
year. This is equal to about thirty Earth
years. When the sun crosses over the

XXXIX.

equator, the reversal causes a shift in the
atmosphere (and so the winds). The dunes
are shaped only during this brief time of
fast winds blowing from the Shelleyan West.

It is a bit lonely now on Titan, on the
shores of lake Distress, since Sean C
has permanently vacated the premises.

XL.

Chubby has a secret (or more than one).
She is one of the last remaining survivors
of the Laconian school (or Laconic). The
world, the ubi-verse have been taken by
storm by the alumni of the Athenian school,
but Laconia still has voice to put it bluntly.

XLI.

Pithy, they say. Raffaello Sanzio, painter
of the Apartment(s). Tiziano Vecellio,
painter of Dionysus and Ariadne, as well
as Artemis and Actaeon. These two among

many others are students of the school
of Pallas Athena. Chubby, the cat within
Reason has invited Ahura Mazda (fellow
feline) for drinking tea at her place on Titan.

XLII.

They will start with a chat about the ifs
and the buts, and then move on to
μολὼν λαβέ, and on to a full scale
debate of philosophy. Among the

topics of conversation, we have
Zarathustra holding the celestial
sphere, though Ahura Mazda has
feelings about that. The young man

XLIII.

Zoroaster saw the human condition
to be a struggle between the truth and
the lie. But Chubby listens, cat-facing
her guest. She is easily bored. “A little

nap would be rather nice.” Mr Ahura
is going on about the purpose of human
kind (sustain aša, or arta: the truth),
and Free Will. Fortune Lobo has a talis
man that agrees (in principle) with this
and with Ἡράκλειτος ὁ Ἐφέσιος, and

the concept that everything flows.

XLIV.

λόγος is the word.

XLV.

But Aristotle intellectualizes, the Stoics
decided to go all the way to Obi Wan,
with λόγος being like a force (not a farce).
The Lao Tze may talk about the qi (prana)
in the context of the Stoic πνεῦμα.

But Chubby is fast asleep now, the only
philosophy of hers is eat, sleep, and per
haps a little Dionysian Dithyrambs.
Don’t forget to shit, either. Or else.

XLVI.

I think that covers it.

XLVII

Nāgārjuna’s examination of motion
is hardly Newtonian, but then, as
Feynman put it through Gibbon:

“The Power of Instruction is seldom
of much efficacy except in those happy
dispositions where it is almost superfluous.”
And on, “Philosophically we are completely
wrong with the approximate law.” “But”,

XLVIII.

Chubby wakes up, opens one eye and says:
“for practical purposes, it is useful to be
wrong, and to send rockets in space or in
the salad dressing.”

Ahura Mazda and Chubby are thus engaged
in a philosophical wrestle.

XLIX.

“I should like to begin,” starts Chubby,
“mentioning that William Blake of Soho,
prophet of the time nearby, makes it quite
clear for us: the youthful Harlots curse,
the hapless Soldiers sigh, marks of weakness,
marks of woe.”

Ahura Mazda: “And you are completely wrong.”
“My son Cyrus, ancestor of my other son
Frederick Bulsara, Parsi of the Exodus, once
said: I returned to these sanctuaries on the
other side of the Tigris, the sanctuaries of
which had been in ruins for a long time, the
images which used to live therein..” Ahura Mazda
roars in order to make his point, and then the
prayer.

L.

“Radio blah blah. Or even better: Behulzebub
has a devil put aside for me…” Chubby retorts
tartly. “Bismillah: in the name of God, the
merciful, the compassionate…”
Ahura Mazda: “I am God.”
Chubby: “Though not omni potent, your potency
is at least debatable.”
Ahura Mazda: “The Parsis of Bombay agree…
evil is just an emanation of me, not my binary
opposite. Now, concerning Free Will…”

LI.

Chubby: “Let me stop you right there.
Since you mention Mahā-Ambā, or the
Etruscan Goddess Uni. And since we are
now living in the Uni-verse, in answer to
your claim of being a God, my good friend
Ahura Mazda, hear me out. My name is
Chubby, Cicciotta (in Italian), or Bastet,
or Bast, Goddess of the Egyptian Pantheon,
sister of Horus. The Greek know me as
Artemis, and my brother as Apollo. But
all of this is irrelevant. Because

तत् त्वम् असि

Thou art That

have a look back at the Chandogya Upanishad,
and remind yourself of that, kitty cat.

LII.

If you dare questioning the law of gravi
tation, Mr Ahura Mazda, please refer to
these words: Rex tremendae majestatis,
salva me. A sordid respect for Death,
the essential teaching of the awakening.

There is a kind of clog in the flow of
the uni-
verse. The qi does not flow freely, the
straight line of Newton is only valid
for a Galileian system of co-ordinates.

LIII.

But as Eistein said, Galileo was trapped
by thought together with Giordano Bruno
in a Tower which looks like the Red Queen
Hypothesis crossed with the Fisher King.

The infinite nature of the verse-uni is
twisted by the voice of madness, in an
alley, streams of voices howling in the
night, all the fears of dishuman kind.

LIV.

The body of Mozart has not been honoured,
the love songs from China have been
forgotten. The handsome Monkey King
has parted ways with Sir Gawain, the quest

has been put on hold. The Archive of Myth
can always be plundered by the greedy.
LV.

It is when the flowers of Qi have been
picked, when the relative powers of
beauty have been measured that the
voices of the deep come whispering

in one’s ear. Monkey is listening to the
Sadness Radio, tuning in with that region
of the soul which is uncharted. The time
less rooster is going cockydoodledoo.

LVI.

There is a word in the sky which is
not spoken, which is the reflection of
human thoughts projected onto myth.
that word is not utterable, its meaning

is lost in the collection of interchange
able dimensions which roll ball-wise in
the time-less dance of the algo-rhythm.

LVII.

There is much meaning which has been
untapped, territory of the Mind which
has not been explored. Fortune Lobo is
on a mission, and so is Monkey. Desert

Storm and Ariadne have their own mission.
Each character in this story has a path,
a soul chart to be drawn with colours
straight from El Greco, with a bit of doubt

LVIII.

from The Last Temptation, and other Cretan
myths. But I digress. Lord Byron guide this
poem, steering with the NeverEnder through
unchartered depths of the ether-less space,

and though energy can be related to mass and
velocity and light, the ether is somewhat a
paradox. The NeverEnder is sailing on the
ether, or rather the absence of it. The waves

LIX.

of non-ether may be designed by the God
of the Exodus, and may look like Dark
Energy. According to recent calculations,
there is a lot of Dark Energy around, and

some Dark Matter. On this note I would like
to elaborate a certain point. The NeverEnder
is made of paper and of ink, but it can sail
towards eternity. Dark Energy may revolve,

LX.

and the absence of ether may look like destiny.
Monkey is feeling the sadness tantrum, the
sanctity of his mission has been put into Q
and A. Monkey is here to answer your Qs.

Q number One. Why is the uni-verse only
expanding in doubt?

A number One (from Monkey). Doubt is
the thing that east of faith makes the wind.

Q number Too. Why is Monkey not related
to the Green Knight?

A number Too (from Gawain). The Green
Knight has lost his way. His ancestry there
to fore, has been re-formulated. His geno
type has been redesigned to fit the needs
of a very greedy narrative. The hungriest
of plots is what fuels the non-ether, and
therefore the waves which hit, photon-like,

the side of the NeverEnder, which is in
non-flight toward the non-end of the non-
universe.

LXI.

That’s a lot of whichs. But witches do not
exist. Only very needy Tigers of the Night,
which do not burn bright, only burn slowly,
like a fire which has not been staked (sorry

another which). This night we are honouring
the faithful departed, and also the unfaithful.

LXII.

They are very much the side of two squares.
A white squall of waves hits the side of the
NeverEnder, and the echoes of myth rever
berate across the galactose in space to vibrate

more energy toward Poseidon, and Fortune
Lobo, who is cross-legged on the bottom
of the diamond ocean floor, looking at the
Japanese Foxes’ Weddings. Ahura Mazda

LXIII.

is locked in a word-to-word wrestle with
Chubby, who is feeling all the weight of
the universe after Giordano Bruno’s post
ululation. The sadness of it all hits the clouds
which are burst by Monkey’s somersaults.

Tales of Ovid’s exile are ecchoed on the
darknening green by Dr Full-ton’s desire.
On the shores of lake Romantic, the treasure
of the Hittites and the Dacians’s mountains.

LXIV.

Secret paths to cavernous truths are being
tested, full many a gem lies in the diamond
ocean, where Fortune Lobo, soldier of
fortune, is gathering the forces of the storm.

There is no end to material suffering. How
ever, time must have a stop. “Thus did the
host sojourn at Zara all that winter (1202-
1203) in the face of the King of Hungary.

LXV.

And be it known to you that the hearts of
the people were not at peace, for the one
party used all the efforts to break up the
host, and the other to make it hold together.”

“Many of the lesser folk escaped in the
vessels of the merchants.” Sail to the port
of Moton in Romania, and meet the Doge
of Venice, or at least join the party headed

LXVI.

eastwards. Dreaming, the voices of the
deep. Whispers of non-vocal pain.
Fortune Lobo is a soldier not on a crux
ade, more like a fish in a pond, the

ocean of diamonds, though on a east
ward mission. Desert Storm and Ariadne
are soil-digging in the Archive of Myth.
Monkey and Gawain are mining two
different sides of Planet Pain, which
is an emanation of the Murakamian

Well.

Chapter 7.

one.

Begin at the mad hatter. Then go on to the
dark matter, then stop. Proceed all the way
to Knossos, past the Pompei explosion, find
a path back to Gesundheit (whate’er the spell
ing). Now the margin on this page is so very

smug. The eternal seed feeds all the 11 dimen
sions, and the duality is measured by wave
disequilibrium and relativistic increase (or
was it decrease?). Sean C is stationed on
Planet Vashisht, a snowy-mountainy place

two.

where there is a cold monastery, and only
a couple of people attendants (and no monks)
and there is food aplenty (soup with pasta).
there is, of course (de corsa) a dark mirror.

and in the mirror (which Sean C is encouraged
to explore), the secrets of days past and future
may be met with Arjuna-like courage. All this
myth is unsavoury, say the heathen romatics.

three.

therefore, more myth. At the gate in Babylon,
we said (we the author, not the characters),
there was a statue of Venus (persian one)
and lots of lions. There, einstein talked about
only being able to see the tail of the lion.

for this reason (once more), we (the authors)
encourage you (the reader(s)) to explore the
concept of the buddha-like elephant, which cannot
be fathomed, but man can touch man, say Robin.

Four.

It is late. It is the middle of the night.
No fingers pointing to satellites, and I am
sure (I the present state) that there is Brahman
out there that oversees all. In the meantime,
since we do have a little atman to share, let

us consider the following. On Vashisht, there is
a cat (still replicating) and there is a man
(an info-man). Also, on Uranus (ah no they moved
to planet Fear), we’ve got Ariadne with the Never
Ender crew. what a coincidence.

Five.

Ariadne came to Knossos, near the source of this
spring water, a while back, and was looking for
her hair. The architect had a son, who also had
pissed on Helios’s dignity. For this reason, kids

I would like to make the following pronounce
ment. Please, please please. If you can avoid
it, do not piss off Helios, we’ve had enough
comet showers, and earth quakes, and volcano

Six.

eruptions. Well, this night, dearReader. I
think I myself shall not have any eruption.
the writing is pretty much done. The story
can take off if we start peering into dark

mirrors. Sean C is rather tired, the journey
from titan was so very long (approximately
three ages and some middle-way side-tracks).
So finally, the cat and the poem may rest.

Seven.

For now. My pen was at the bottom of a Beppo
page, but no more. If the X trusted mother
Theresa, then the X must trust us all. Con
sidering Brahman, a perishable word for an
unperishable concept. “The ship under sail
has surely passed the cape of Wada, driven
as it is by the mountain winds of Muko.”

Hokusai-san, share the secret of the wave
and the sacred mountain.

Eight.

On planet Fear, Ariadne reviews the troops.
Surely, chief strategist Zhuge Liang would
agree, one needs a little wind in one’s sails.
The NeverEnder harbours at port Labyrinth, a
place where the double axe marks the takeoff

spot. The wind is in the East, and all is
quiet on the Western front, or was it southern.
Duality, the horns of the dilemma, of course
that is why we are here. So Ariadne, black

Nine.

sails and all, sets sail (repetition, excuse
moi) toward Urania (mother goddess of the
snake, sky, earth and earth2). Back to Uranus,
then, but with a vengeance. On the way, we’d
like to stop over at the Water Planet, where

The Peak Civilization is having a bit of a
croissant, and the Veal civilization is definite
ly looking to put together the broken pieces
of his lions. Then the other, very significant

Ten.

civilization, stationed on planet Griffin, is
the 1206 merchant city-planet of another most
serene water-bound thing of the public. Res
publica superiorem non recognoscens, they say.

The also say, kill the dogs, especially if
they come from the south with ships laden
with black sails. This, of course, reminds me
that the Griffinese flag has been borrowed by

Eleven.

Some silly race of the north, one whose planet
has a capital built on a muddy river (of course)
and that uses a red cross on a white banner
to remind themselves of their allegiance to
the Griffinese.

So now that we’ve got the old alliances in place
the Griffinese with the Veal, the Peak and the
bastard race of the north (dicit a certain poet
whose book about a Crusoe shipwreck survivor

Twelve

endures in pockets of Post-prandia), we can
have ourselves a war. On the other hand the
forces opposing this alliance (famously spear
headed by Ariadne and the NeverEnder) are
rather scattered on the plain of Kurukshetra.

So first things first. Urania claims holy
water purification in the skylight water
basin. Then Ariadne, famously itching for

Thirteen

freedom, has a look at Planet Dionysus.
The black flags are still fluttering in
the wind, the Muko mountains breathe.

There once was a king, seated toward the
Helios the Titan, whose son travelled
to the Athenian school, and had his balls
cut off by the local version of Cretan

Forteen

games. Now these were not international
in kind, and the locals were rather un
fair in their unsportmanlikeness. So,
the bull-headed king had a rather bad

day, and declared war on the petty
Athenian school. But that was before
the Yamato Cave Academy, and much much
before the establishment of the Borovoe

Fifteen

earth station. Sean C and the cat are
still trouble-making by peering in the
dark mirror. The mountains loom and the
snow is thick. Ariadne is treading her
pace in search of the exit from the

local king’s harbour-bar. the place
of the double-axe is where the NeverEnder,
on its course toward Uranus has docked
in search of a little water, and a little

Sixteen

lamia. That is the one word that we
should avoid, considering how pissed
off the winds are when we head toward
the west, NeverEnder and all, with all

the cannons blazing, and the desire to
confront some issues that have been
(so to speak) hanging in mid-cosmos
for a few millennia (or was it billennia).

Seventeen

Fear, wonder, love. Onto the virgin lands
the NeverEnders (the officers and the cadets)
disembark. The Urania Goddess welcomes them
to the sky. Fortune Lobo tooks his Rabdoman

Call Junior (his Y-chromosome Wing) and
(I mean his personal spaceship, eh) flew
over to planet Poseidon (Roman name, Neptune).

Eighteen

there, he found a very sick planet, still
mourning for the loss of his people, the
people of the island of the Atlas.

On planet Vashisht, many years into the
space-bent future (or was it the past),
the dark mirror reflects monstruous echoes
of burning tigers in the candle light.

Nineteen

Ripples of the enemy and of fingers of
assiduous ravenousness. The ghost is to
be busted and the slithering voices are
to be ignored. The memory of early defeat

needs to be replaced by the advancing
perfection of the flow and the anger is
to be contained.

20.

The neverEnder sets sail for Titan, 2500
years from now the Buddha, the awakened one
died (but before that, he lived, and spun
wheels). 1500 years years into the future

(give or take), Sean C is peering into
the dark mirror. 1613 years before the
birth of the other prophet, whose name
now appears to escape me, Ariadne was born.

21.

She grew up, daughter of Minos, king of
Crete, and then she was snatched by Dyonisius.
She was immortalized, like Artemis.
i ariadni i lisi. women think up the strategy,
the solution of the problem. Ariadne, vritometis.
Artemis, vritometis.

So Ariadne directs the NeverEnder to Titan,
now abandoned. The probe Cassini once
travelled the oceans, and watched the waves.
It stopped at the mysterious island and

22.

fathomed the full many a gems in the depths
of ethane and methane seas. On Titan, the
probe found evidence of alien life, a sort
of loch ness creature in the depths of the

methane ocean. Now, feeding on hydrocarbons,
who in this world would ever think of that, eh?

23.

From the Labrys Harbour on Uranus, bade farewell
to Urania, the snake-Goddess of the south,
flew to Knossos station on Titan, and onto
the ocean sailing journey over the Kraken Mare

The sea there is deep, but there are no Korean
squids, just tiny hands of love that touch you
in all the right places during the restnight.

24.

Ariadne is still upset about her father, lost
a long time ago, and though he bequeathed a
sword to her, she’s only been practising behind
close doors, afraid of herself (rightly so)

unfortunately, she has never confronted a foe.
Ariadne, Immortalized Goddess, now captain of
the NeverEnder, is in the present incarnation
a speaker of the Peak language, but also loves

25.

bastard race of the north (west). Once at Knossos
station, she goes down to the basement
and performs a religious purification (with
methane, or was it methanol). the mysterious

island on Titan has been visited by the Vea race,
much before the demise of the Memorians, and
the rise of the oblivians. They named it (God
bless them) “the island of many saints”, though

26.

not much is left after a volcano and a tsunami
destroyed it (and the civilization on it).

The original name of the island (it was a
place where the race of Alexander must have
been, or said to have been) has been lost
though Ariadne is on it, doing research and

27.

Desert Storm (now back with the NeverEnder)
is helping her. All the crew are back together;
Tierra Madre has found the path to Zuracornia,
Gesunheit has found a plausible solution to
God’s algorithm (or was it g.o.d.’s).

Now they sail on the ocean deep, proud prow
remembering the siege and the burning of the
Yamato Hollow Cave, and mourning on the shores
of lybia. Memorians themselves, and found so.

28.

Sailing toward the mysterious island, now
discovered to be named after Thera, and they
probe the seas for carbon fiber. There is
something on the ocean floor. A mirror-like

shape, a liquid carbon phase. It speaks!
Yet it says nothing. “What of that, its
eye discourses”. The mirror eye sees every
thing, much like Odin in the well (or was

29.

up-side down hanging from a tree. What
ever). Ariadne, sub-methaned and all geared
she talkes to the eye-mirror, and she
laughs. it is time for john c to exit

the vashisht hide out, and for Cicciotta
to have dinner. The war is over, for now.

30.

Ariadne is mourning, and her love is strong.
Sean C is still in the making, Cicciotta
spider-weaves a traning suit. Zeus is not
dead, he is only sleeping. The Milky Way

is still pulsating, and the Philae Comet
is being ridden. Comet-riding is an ancient
activity (Monkey is good at it) and so is
comet-gazing (rabbit is very well versed).
31.

now the poem (not very well versed) is almost
done. I just have to find a way back,
cos John C is still stuck in the mud.

Ariadne is still lost to Dyonisius,
and the long, melanchololy withdrawing
roar of the Sea of Faith is still echoing
stronger and stronger every day.

32.

What will Fortune Lobo find of Poseidon’s
planet? What destiny awaits Gawain, now
asundered from Monkey? Will the NeverEnder
find the core of Titan, and will the dark

mirror on Planet Vashisht spew out more
lamias and demons? Will the eye-mirror
on Thera tell the truer truth, or not at
all? Will la belle dame sans merci

33.

(transiently stationed at a bank) ever
send a message to the the cold hill side?
All these questions, and more, will have
to be addressed.

But as Michael Ende once told Bastian,
these tales shall be told, but they
shall be told another time.

Chapter VI

I.

Fight. Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.
Palpitating, alive – still. Down in the pendulum
the entanglement of particle and wave, where
the duality is boson-glued, and anger is speeding

down the universal rabbit golf course. Per
turbation of Neptune and Saturn, is where Titan
comes in. In the Murakamian well, once the cat
is gone, and the lady is also gone, the biologi
cal quanta are at once light and darkness

II.

Objects existing onto two places at once.
In the grid, existence is frequency-hopped.
The chirp modulation is rf-oscillated

the spectrum of the chirp corpse is where
John C comes in, all digitalized and shit
and so he moves to fourier-transform the
hell out of every living and non-living

moment and mode of vibration. The great
exo-comets, the exons and the meteror
showers, they all come into the gigantic
analougue cytoplasm where they are con
verted into single apparition comets, and

their vintages are fully formed, so that
anger boards the NeverEnder, and the potential
is attempting the realization, once again.

III.

Dead brides. The Zen teaching of Huang Po
and some such adapter trimming are the
food of today’s digitalized enter-prize.

We’re all mad here. But it’s ok. The
Heisenberg-Rashomon effect indetermines
what’s what and what’s not. Or really,
we can’t really measure the Jabberwock.

“We don’t see these weird states because
they collapse whenever we try to measure
them”. Hence the Jabber-wacky.

What is time? The ever-rolling grin
is behind me, John C is in wonder
land. Nothing puzzles me further.

Stop retreating, scorpion! The
verdict of the wise is that birds
are mocking, duality in the X
is phatomable. Full many a swan
is white, the summer is ever
ending, and the lovers squeak

IV.

and quibble. What have we learnt?
Desert Storm is starting to know
and Fortune Lobo is exploring the
ubi-verse. The Gawain-Monkey is
lost in a sea of bullshiviousness

it’s ok. keep going forward on
the relativity ladder, and the
pelt and bog and pendulum will
suddenly make sense.

the theory survives the test
hardly innocent. never make
a sound. vulnerable karma is
not for me, my friend. lesson
learnt well, not? One cannot

curve space without time as
well. Time has a shape. Is
it one-directional? Or does
it just appear to be so?

V.

Gilles, the friend from Canada
sold his house for a dream.
the safety of the murakamian
well is not reached easily

it is safer not to write, not
to share. Bubble up, forbidden
memories or some else will ride
you. The replicant sheep, the
android goats, the robot, the
worker learns his lesson well.

VI.

Or not. Duck, you sucker. The
Mocking Bird or the Potter the
Rotter, or the Picture of Dorian
pendulum under the laburnum tree.

Just write. At this point it
does not matter anymore. John,
John. Or was it Sean? Juan and
John. No baptisms here, but Salome
indeed does cut across the cheese.

VII.

The Neutral Kimura Theory and the Select
ionist Haldanism, as well as the Great
Crested Grebeism, and the final epigenomic
solution, are all the ingredients to the
soup which John C is cooking. The grid
may be small now, but there is room
for aggressive Joker-clerical expansion.

VIII.

Chubby the cat is reading the book
which I am writing, as I go along.
Down in the pit, the inquisitive mind
is alone with Carl Jung Syncronicity,
a little bit of plum pudding and the
flow and its power. That’s all we need,
yo.

Now, induced synchronicity, low in the
pit-grid, is what John C is osculating.
His digitalized oneiric human form is
opinion-changing, charged and dynamic
and also oscillatory, and dual.

XI.

The grid as a Maxwell field, a power
ful wave-to-particle reticulum, endo-less
plasmatic-less, but all the shebang way
to the speed of light. Mr Biological
Kammener’s seriality is what Cicciotta
the cat is having for pudding (obviously
while reading the book that I am writing).

Long velocity, short position.
The Rashomon-Heisenberg effect is dual
enough for breakfast. John C’s last
stand before cooking the charge of
gnostic neutrinos mixed with boson-glue
and all the byronostromical complaints
you might voice, DearReader.

X.

A rose by another stench would sunflare
as sweet. Grave electro-magnetic mistakes
gravitational fingers upyoursing the moon
doubts and fears, all the arsenal of the
grid warfare. Wander-land is the earth
(and Titan) outside the Murakamian Well.

Digitalized John C finds it very diffi
cult to focus on mind-not-matter.
“and then it jumped on me”, quotes the
inner Cheshire Cat. Beata Giovinezza.

XI.

‘Gee. All this grid-talk is un-bear-able.’
Gawain says this. While Monkey is having
a wank. ‘But the string of synchronicities…’
is the unfinished arguments put forward
by gentle Desert Storm. The latter, while
having a test drive

on Titan, found the
lost forgotten disks of time-space travel
describing the trip of eleven-years from
now, down the golf field, all the way up
the himmel-laya to meet the lamas and camels
and the numerous children of the maha country.

XII.

Fortune lobo, instead, now warrior-like,
exits downstage toward BruceLee Planet,
full of water and fire, all unfettered
and shit, though still doubt-wary, he’s
a peachy lucky Ulysses on a day trip.

Or a year. Or you-know-what. The un-bear
able heaviness of youth-stars.

‘I got the message, bellezza’, is what
the upcoming warrior blabbers while fight
ing his own personal war with the ubi-
verse divisive asynchronism.

XIII.

But then Gawain asunders Monkey
the latter continues to pillage
and rape the planets and platelets
he joyrides the figures and the figura
tive speeches of all georgian fabulousness
all the desires of romantic amour-rouseness.
all the concentrical fractals fractured.

XIV.

‘Love-making is what we chiefly need,
Chubby’, John C de-oscillates just to
pee out of the web-grid-Max-Well-flow-
thinge.

‘Asynchronous pissing, is all you need’
Chubby is increasingly weary, replicantly
petulant. ‘To the point of being redundant
you need to rhein-in your heterogeneity,
for fuckety fuck’s sake.

XV.

But John C is determined, impersonating
the empty non-existent white Calvino Knight
and perhaps also the happy-go-lucky Bramante

XVI.

‘I was very sick, dear Cat.
The first being on the flow-grid is to be
formed as “poenas in the snowstorm”.
You like that?’

‘Yeah’, Cicciotta says. ‘A little to the
right’.

XVII.

Handsome Monkey not yet King, out of cave
and into doomsday. Saturn’s rings-counting.
Uranus above Kandahar, Ladakh over Cassiopea.
Double-agent monkey head, constellation by
proxy. Evaporating peaks on Monkey Head Nebula.
Down at the library, the ghost-in-mind
all being being busted. Something strange,
in this galaxy. Who is being called?
Monkey is not afraid. The first being on
the Max-Well-Web is a spider at the centre

XVIII.

of the grid. Still, observant. Waiting for
the blade runner unit orange eggs to hatch.
Spider-Monkey is very hairy, spawned by the
sickly woven mind of Sean C, down the pit,
out of your real horizon, what a double-star.

the rain on the web is interspaced with empty
ness. from orion, a new star is growing.
cappella is golden-hued. artemis was not
pleased with either orion or with the ursa
major. luckily for us, there is more than

XIX.

satellite to charge up the shingle. On
Titan, Sean C is slowly building the
digital girth. the sick thoughts of plate
lets are spinning, after all, 15 centuries
have past since the last argument about

the missing prophet and the interpretation
of the words has gone semantically berserk.
Decelerating, Uranus’s genitials gave birth
to Aphrodite. Sky being what it is, there
is little evidence of anything other than
the eternal cum.

XX.

Gaia and Uranus, also, of course, produced
the satellite creatures on which Sean C lives,
and among which there is a certain Cronos,
the castrator, friend to man, not to woman.
But to the matter, the Titanic task at hand,

on the saturnine globe, encircled by Maxwell
and Huygens gaps, is the description of the
molecular cloud, the interstellar gas, and
the brain games now serving on this week’s

XXI.

satellite dish. Once again, as at the start
of the molecular pathway, Mozart’s notes are
resounding across the westward hubble bobbles.
The magic spells of Shakespeare touch upon
winter’s discontent, linger on the house of

York, and move on to distilled honey-dews,
while the plague is raging outside, we may
cozy up and huddle and cuddle, and tea-drink
(of course, potion-less, opossum-less).

XXII.

As at the start, in medias res, of this
never-ending story, Ariadne is sitting,
listening to music, while thinking about
the deep field, the majestical fires fretted

with golden glues and some music resounds.
rain pours down the soul-drain, oscar wilde
voices raise from reading gaol, dorian gray
imaging brings about more vernacular, and
on the grid, the second being is in the pro

XXII.

cess of gestation. Water, ammonia and methane
are what we need from Uranus and Neptune.
Ariadne is leading the NeverEnder toward these
blue planets, the gravitational pull is pretty

intense. The crew of the NeverEnder is jubilant.
The summer triangle is now sinking very low in
to the west, and at the gray havens, all the
talk is about which direction to take toward the
lands ever blest. Linguistically, though, we

XXIII.

might say that we lack advancement, and lack the
skill to steer the mightly NeverEnder toward safe
shores. The thing is, one must admit at some
point, is that the milky way is way too short
a day trip (pun intended) for just about any

kafka-reading, intensity-riding heterogeneous
Sean C, or Monkey cub, or even angry ape. So,
Ariadne leads the way, and the NeverEnder follows.
November is home to Perseus and Cassiopea.
The sky is clear, and the night is deep.

XXIV.

So many things to say, and so little time.
Cronos! You’re such a biatch. More to the
purpose, there once was a girl, John C.

Shit! The second being on the grid’s gotta
have a vagina? Please, please, please no!
A persian high, a hebrew exhalted, a turkic
shadow across the Borovoe mother land.

XXV.

Mother to Persia, sun of the east, and
westward-honed. But of course, John C
lost the tracks, and of course the hills
are high, and the lions and the tigers
and all the lynxes of this world are

populating the dark forest. so, then.
And so it happens, Ariadne, Uranus-bound,
is in tune with her sexuality. Her love,
perhaps only love is the sword, and also

XXVI.

perhaps there is something more. The
other being, the third, on the grid,
is the infinite vastuosity of cloud
space; so while we are on the cloud,

we may have a look at the ubi-versal
criterion of divine distinction. So
here there is all the material for spi
ritual congestion, and all the rest

XXVII.

of it. On Neptune, the wave-particle
reader of the NeverEnder is going ball
hooney. Cappella looks perfectly white
to the naked eye. Star-gazing, comet-gazing
God-willing. There is so much to see.

In this incarnation, Monkey-Gawain has
a duty to star-gaze, cytoplasm-riddle
and rob all the words of their mendacity.

XXIX.

Weeks of attention, days of discovery.
Paul said it, we’ll all be fine! Now
if Paul said it, then lah-dee-dah. But
there is always a head-butt. So one then

needs to find something to collide with.
the NeverEnder is manned for interstellar
exploration. Monkey-Gawain is womanned
for interstellar copulation, and the rest

of the spiri-tooual crude is too power
hungry to be even considered.

XXX.

Odd, quite obviously. The bottom edge
of discourse lacks mobility. The Never
Ender is not equipped for fighting. The
god-mobile is everywhere, and the tech
nological dis-ease is rising, and the

voices of poison-deep are multiple.
so Sean C considers his options. In
the grid, the spider web is growing.
Wait, linger, let the enemy nibble.

XXXI.

In the ubi-verse, granted there is much
to tron about, and much to discuss about
the character-descriptions, but all the
Desert Storms of this world, the Tierra
Madres, the Fortune Lobos, the Flexas,
the Ariadnes, the Sean Cs, and all the
other characters of this story cannot
even begin to phatom the relentless

XXXII.

wheel of the engine, sinking deep
into the flesh of my spirit. Oh
dearReader, have mercy, I lack advance
ment. Tame, I am not. There is much
to tell, but no words can describe
the narrative threads coming loose,
the ubi-versal explosions on the shores
of orion, and all the rest of the
stories all happening at once in the
oceanus of great belief and dis-belief.

XXXIII.

Sir, I lack advancement. Here is to the
matter, every thing is very much like a
camel or a cloud, depending on how you
look at it. The rains of Londinium tran
scend the rains on Titan. The methane
is drinkable, the Murakamian third, forth
wall come down.

XXXIV.

So Ali and Nino, or Ninah and Aliya. The
forth being on the grid is the eternal
force of duality, the chaos-eros theorem.
God’s algorithm has impeding priorities.

Following the flow of the mind-matter
is one synchronous bitch. Meditation,
not copulation, the wise men said. Though
some Dyonisian elysiacs also discuss
the nature of love, and the mystic

XXXV.

Capacity of third and forth wall crumbling.
Begin at the beginning. The grid.

XXXVI.

Spider (web), exhalted-one, cloud, duality.
What shall it be?
Oscillations and greater fragmentations.
Unity and discourse. NeverEnder journey-ing.

XXXVII.

I, no longer I. There once was a book, writ
ten in the age of space travel, when humans
were discussing Laputa, and other missions.

‘Island’, it was. The mystical writer led
charge on the notion of literature-science
on the virtues of ecological sustained society,
of peace, and tolerance, and acceptance of

destiny.

XXXVIII.

Now, destiny is where the NeverEnder comes
in. Unexplored territory, the mystic mountain
a bright cross in the Carina Nebula. The
top of it, an archer’s hand. Could it be
the spirit of Artemis, reaching all the way
in the vast star-forming foaming regions of
the way-galaxy, hungry for milk, breast
feeding from the ubi-versal galactic tit?

XXXIX.

But the Milky way and Andromeda are headed
for a colossal head-butt. In about four
billion years we shall meet the unfractured
voice of God. A single elliptical galaxy
will be formed in about 6 billion years.

We shall all pay dearly for Cassiopea’s
arrogance and hubris. That figures. Pin
it down to one beautiful and vain lady.

XL.

So, the Carl Jung permitting, Perseus
will find his Pegasus. Allow access to
spiritual energy, and access the realm
of the Gods on mount Olympus. But not yet.

The shaman mount, the water, the solar
myth, the siren-charger. The spring, the
well, the thunder and the lightning.
Pegasus, born from okeanos, well of the
cilicians, and from the distance of this
one very humble murakamian well, it is

XLI.

one computer simulation away. Once
Andromeda will come crashing through,
the lights will come on, and the storm
will have more than one poena, and the
light of the gaseous vertebrate will
shine beautifully.

XLII.

Crash of the Titans, well.
From the simulation on Titan’s night
the desire for future is almost as
hungry as for the desire for Pegasus
riding. Look out onto the night sky.
Andromeda may be so far away, but
Perseus-Monkey may just have to wait
long enough for a head-on collision.

XLIII.

In the depth of night fall,
when time is bounty, and scarce
is the horror, where the dead souls
rise and talk, the living creatures
sleep, the trees wave and tremble.
Willows calmly weep,
Ash-trees hide sulking uber-squirrels,
foxes, in families, come out foraging.

the beauty of the serene city,
surrounded by walls of sadness.

XLIV.

during this long, protected hour
before the sun again spins toward
the head of our life, in the shadows
all souls can find solitude and rest.

on the horizons of the ocean,
the last remnants of sea life
in the deep well, the fountain of
former lives, please go to sleep.

XLV.

I am sure this conversation already
happened. The fragile path, the smell
of the night. The White Plague on the
rampage, the moonlit mountains re-mind
of me.

The chorus from within the volcano,
the long procession of amends, the
delicate hands of the night’s shades.

XLVI.

Clutched by the still of the night,
all sorrow moves toward the love of you.
Brief candles cast in the ocean-sky.
Pontus and Uranus in the dark cloak of
night. On this day and night of all souls

the prayers and thoughts linger, galaxies
drum and beetles crawl, the wind is rising,
the breath of the eternal in full sweep.

XLVII.

Per aspera, ad astra. Tradunt.
Hence the nocturnal majestical roof
is fretted with hundred thousand, a hundred
million souls, all dancing and pulsing

well until the dawn churns out another spin.

XLVIII.

On the NeverEnder’s road, the bells are
ringing, well within the echo of MayFair’s
lovely streets. The tower in darkness is mute,
the twinkle and sprinkle of water and of light
descends onto former lovers, and onto the land.

Earth is still living, the giant trees of the
green park are witnessing a still echo of astro
logical clouded dream.

XLIX.

There, the heart of the writer is fooled,
folly is the love of You. Crimson path ahead,
the absolute solitude at the centre of the
grid, even eternal distances, boundless time
feels so narrow.

The crescent moon, the dolphin call,
there the heart is beating, calling, calling
calling at the equinox of stillness.

L.

Multiple voices on all souls night, all
clustering in the alhambra. the pearls
in the emerald darkness, bonfires dot the
pulsating himmel, lying stretched like a poem.

LI.

God-mobile declares the invasion of Titan.
Sudden bombardment takes Sean C unawares
It hurts to be set free. Never follow him,
it seems. Soft lies, being destroyed.

We tried to love, and hence the End approaches.

LII.

War!

So swordplay swishes on the whale’s way,
Shield shuck fighters with ships play
With sheer shoregunners ashore.
Sea-paths, seacliffs and the shingled shore
Are the place of the dead for ever more.

Sea-faring ships shell the land
With flames striking sea and sand
On the shores of Titan showdown comes
With sheepshank fighters and the world’s done.

LIII.

From foamy-necked floaters come waders on shoals
They swim to shallows to crawl ashore.
Welding their souls with marshes, mires and dunes
They cry their war-cry, finely attuned.

But the weaponed men are gunned down shoring
Bullets pelt them down boring
Cracking bones and head, soaring.
Sea-stormed, limb-naked, swung
Men are on awaiting sheer cliffs flung.

LIV.

Sherrying off under shells,
Shilly-shallying as gunfire shills
Shrill shrieks and shright shrieks,
Thrilling.

Shill blasts blunder shifting men
Shilpit are now the swifter men,
For a shim of life remains,
As the world-candle shimmers.

LV.

The shock of death on a shoestring,
Waders are shot, the shots sting.
The sheen of the sun glistens,
And the quiet beach listens.

Groaning men in shiver:
Blood
Is the shed of the river.

Ships in swirls, swishing, sink.
Silence comes in a wave’s blink.

LVI.

Walk-on part in the war, all the
way. Bermondsey, Borovoe and Titan
all under under V2 bombardment.

All the way, in the 21st century,
Baghdad and Kobane are being sieged.
What have found? The same old mistakes.

the old adage, the night is darkest…

LVII.

The wind may rise and fall again,
we are like leaves… you know.

LVIII.

So on his death-bed, Mr Mescaline
wrote about Shakespeare and Religion,
a new voyage is due for the NeverEnder.
Planet Compton may soon see the blue-red
prow of the NeverEnder rise up the Ascalot

road. The process of spider-weaving may
be long, and of course the lady of the
castle may still have a little issue
with freedom. So then, in the Murakamian
well, all needs to be digitalized carefully.

LIX.

So therefore, we come now to the publishing
of the archive. Sean C escapes down the hatch
with Chubby onto the safe(r) location of
planet Vashisht. There, he regroups and plans
the strategy for the NeverEnder, since after

all, Monkey and Ariane are under his command.
The Auryn has been traced all the way to
Ariane’s command. Monkey is a loose cannon,
and the brigade may or may not come along.

LX.

The NeverEnder is now stationed on Planet
Fear, where some Byron-Wildean cannons are
being fitted. Also, other guns. Shelleyan
missiles, Shakespearean mines, Miltonian
guilt-riders. Even an Huxleyian Reason blazer
is being fitted in this last, desperate
attempt for self-defence.

But the last, perhaps unreasoned fit
is the subtle particle gun shooting
tiny picogold fragments into the source
dna code. the bullets, perhaps made of
an ancient mould, smithereen-like.

LXI.

The alloy is made of several compounds
which we may or may not care to enumerate.
In the mean time, a very very mean time,
Mr Cronos is scheming and whining
all the more reason to hide Uranus’s balls.

Which brings us to Ariadne, which having
foraged at Uranus moved the self-aware
ship toward Planet Fear to reflect on
the nature of Shiva, and the reason for
all the war-drumming in the ubi-verse.

LXII.

In a pause between slices of war, and the
echo of silence, all the insignificance
of anger. So back to the source of civi
lization. And that’s not a certain Syd.

Let us say that, the north gate of Babylon
was built in honour of Ishgat, and she was
one mean lady. Let us also say that, if
one decides to go ballistic, one may start
to build Palazzo Ducale with quantum gravity.

LXIII.

Roasted cashew nuts on Arolithos, Crete.
The moon is a disk seen from the reflection
of the earth. On another planet, the reflection
of the moon of Titan is one of relative war.

In the journal of Astrophysics, it was recent
ly reported that Helios (the titan) was very
very cross. The statues at Rhodes has collapsed,
the thieves and the raiders got to it (usual
God-mobile people, and the like).

LXIV.

for this reason, the argument on Planet
Vashisht is the following. A) can one
stick everything into a dark mirror B)
can one read from the dark mirror C) can
space/time be bent/transcended/essentially
can we travel through time from one of those
wormholes or dark mirrors and stuff.

LXV.

In answer to A) we get the NeverEnder (the
poem, that is, and one work of (c)art is
never abandoned, only unfinished). Follow
ing B) yes one can, but one can’t understand
shit (hence Teesan can only understand if
Sean C starts to hum subtitles. on the subject
let us be clear. No fucking subtitles).

LXVI.

In answer to C) yes of course, yo. That is
the whole point of this sheenanigan. the point
is, ladies and roughmen, that all of the
ball honey (and all of it) happens at once in
some M-theory Mystical Revelation (collapsed

gravitational pull) and the super and little
stringlets of this shmuck can be best described
by the following statement: follow the dark
horse, read the story in the dark mirror. chew
bubblegum and kick butt. Now that was cheap…

Chapter 5

1.

light perpetually ultra, passencore
tumult of sparkles, humanoid crowd
fireworks for wedding poisons and vows
an indoctrinated mafioso and an astonished

face. Fortune Lobo can’t believe his
luck as he is tripping onto opossum tea
while being logged on to the X. Death
by future, memory of the day of wrath

2.

g.o.d.’s algorithm is merciless, testing
the resolve of a faultering cadet. The
planet of Swappistan is closing in around
him. On the second day of his sojourn,
he met the most peaceful sight in all

the uni-verse. fallen into Murakamian
colour, he has. Before the throne of
love he has laid down his emotions. The
ugly head of resurrected doubt stares

3.

at him from a deeper, wider, more
judgemental ubi-verse. The object of
his adoration is a non-object. A myst
ical mirage has befuddled his reason,
clouded his mind, addled his drugs.

the thin air around the rarefied
temple, painted in colossal red, spectre
of a pool of water, overlooked by
an eagle. Time, which must have stopped

4.

calls him back from the grave of idealists
the violins and the thiolins pull him
back toward reality (John C knows that
there is no salvation from alzheimer)

he wishes to find more of himself in
the vessel of unknown circumstances,
while spinning high on opossumite, the
young cadet paints dreams with scarlet

5.

the throb quality of his sexual focus
points toward the girl who said she’d
swing by. All else has stopped, the party
continues upstairs, the cerebrative

union of Arsehallah and his migrainfriend.
Fortune Wolf, sheepish in devotion, frees
a sigh in search of more call of the wild.
he begs the algorithm for another escape.

6.

All virtue and all sin on Swappistan is
tightly regimented, so all lovers must
die of thirst, or become alcoholics. Hence,
Arsehallah has found peace between mast

urbation and little-water drinking, tucked
away, all his dark thoughts simmer inside
a smothered soul, a rag of a beast. Desert
Storm has gone missing, probably in search

7.

of Swappistan’s highest peak. A wisteria
of feeling descends upon the west-ward
brigade, everything they believe is wrapped
in doubt, for a moment they whisper love

to each other’s ears. Rabbit does the atom
justice, all that’s left of Billow-vehicle.
Holding it up like a mirror, Rabbit
compares the atom to the force of the

8.

star. The sun, now far and away, yet
growing so strong as to swallow the
tail of earth and menace the system
with one wistful gulp. the day of tears

has come. the uncontainable solar
plexus has eaten up cake and corona
John C and the cat are saved; a sinister
warning to their future status on Titan.

9.

John C is aware of a growing disease,
which is eating away at his mental state.
Chubby the cat is witnessing the withering
of his intellect. Free from judgement, yet

memory comes and goes, and the upload-down
load continues, so long as the finger can
click, and the mind can blank out for a sec.
The ipse opossum trickery can be accused

10.

but the truth is that John C’s meta dynamics
and due to dysregulation of his chromatin,
the TET-hungry enzymatic climax chews on his
stability, while the weather does the rest.

Salome, the migrainfriend whom we’d like to
adore, is just around the corner, ready to
spring forth with maternal caninity. Ready
to fold, is Fortune Wolf, while Desert Storm

11.

on the peak of the country, idle and free
looks down at the fly-infected horizon,
and delicious memories of future past are
settled like an earthwake on the now

so that her magical beret on her head
points skyward, the green sky reflects
her metaphysical state, so ornamental,
and yet so sublime. She knows that in order

12.

to discover more she needs to sit atop
all trouble and look inside, while the cat
languishes in her heart, and the wave of
feeling comes close to being an intrusion

but it is actually a wall, something to
be circumvented. spring the wall, young
Desert Storm, for the love of God! you
have a chance to take jack butler yeats
13.

from the collar and splash through
all those painted limits, let the water
colour of artistic illusion be the
lightning rod that it is, and transcend

all boundary toward another dimension,
far from Swappistan and Borovoe, altogether
another world with far other shadows.
We’d like to have another interview, so

14.

Let us approach our unwanted heroes. Desert
Storm, dear, let me ask you a question:
why suddenly so autumnal? The fall on
Gawain-Monkey’s head is a master-stroke.

Guilt hangs like a canterville painting
stabbed through the chest and behind the
screen, and all other emotion is hidden
from sight because the Monkey is crying

15.

inside, while dining on buffetteries
at the air-station while gizillion
swappistanis cerebrate the union of
sloth with wealth, and the smoke is

thick, and the cream of sex is buttery,
gunfights are in order, and the slaves
in the kitchen labour away, because they
should be grateful, we are told. They

16.

are lesser beings, Arsehallah assures,
theretofore outside the mansion, the
villas and the folkloristic arrangements
child slaves offer wuthering roses to

strangers in stages of paedophilia,
while the kindest of prophets, his
mother beside him, offers a paraphenalia
of justification. Such is the life on the

17.

alien planet. Yet would you not say,
it somewhat resembles the rattles
and battles of the solar stumble,
the terrestrial tinge where all is

fine as long as it is swept under the
carpet-table-bed-destiny-famine. So,
Fortune Lobo in love, Desert Storm in
incantation, Rabbit in food depression

18.

Vehicle cursed and crushed into a green
atom, while the rider, Gawain-Monkey
remembering another life of his, decides
that it would be time to look for a

beheaded friend, and scrambles for the
attention of his companions, though
apathy has had the better of them, and
the teachings-in-a-bead lie scattered

19.

all throughout the uni-verse. Since all
is silent, the dead planet Zhuangzang
echoes his woes from behind the subatomic
grave, and the ripples of cosmic feuds

spread like bouncing lights off the recoiling
surfaces of multiple planetoids and stars,
everything in the ubi-verse stare at us,
with biting intensity and shattering rhythm.

20.

In the Jurassic era, poetry was written on
polished stones, rudimentary lichen sketches
traced aesthetics onto algal relationships.
The NeverEnder has long sailed past Titan.

Chubby wishes to remember the valiant dead,
friends of other times, and Marvell-ous places.
Gawain-Monkey unleashed monomania, starring
across the dim-witted uni-verse. Scattered,
unfriendly, all the thoughts of unity are

21.

Left behind. Long ago, there was friend in
need. Gawain’s mentor recruited him through
an Argentinian mussel. The Green Knight, a
headless chicken with amphibian desire had

landed from across the Colombian water on
to the shores of planet MineEnd, where Gawain
had shipwrecked on his way to the outer borders
of the ubiquitous uni-verse, and chocolate mixes.

22.

The Green Knight had long been split into two
halves. A head without a heart, and a body
without a mind. The endless battle between the
two had raged since day one of decapitation.

John C is downloading his own memory from
the hub of gits and of bloody course, tis been
tampered with. Rashomon effect, all over the
squeaking ball, a dreamer must learn how to chew.

23.

Long before being sent on Titan by the authority,
John C had applied for a supplementary dreamer
post at the Borovoe Academy. The commander in chief
of the institution decided to let the cat out

of the bag, and allow Gawain Monkey to take place
amongst the serendipitous sublimes who ruled the
Boccherini choices and steered the NeverEnder
well clear of lethargy and morular decisions.

24.

The Green knight offered monumental relief to
Gawain Monkey, inviting him into his rose garden
and sharing manna-dew over the derriere of queen
flowery-arse the secondette.

Now the flowery-butt girl did not first announce
derelection and woeful eye-to-give, but as the
summer peaked on the Borovoe steppe, the bogs let
out the final fart, and the swine reality came

25.

forth. The melody of the summer is always the
delight of the birdies, and the sound of water.
Gawain Monkey was but a teenee weenee liberatus,
seeking counsel in the great and glorious Green
knight, master of cloud summer-sault, and holder

of the twice-beat golden key to secret riches.
The sky was clear, the moon was dark during the
day, zombic clouds hovered over moonstruck trees.
The multiple incarnations of loves over the golf
course streamed out of the woods onto the lawn.

26.

Gawain-Monkey was assaulted by an army of dead
lovers, and mister hob-knob, Green Knight of Caledonia
Hibernia and the needle’s silver coin led the
charge onto the dark summer wintry air. Streams

of lovely kisses came showering from all over
Borovoe, and the grandeur of the event was remarked
in the local papers. “Zombie army assaults Monkey”.
The delights of juvenalia. Another moment, and

27.

We might have remembered, en passent, that Monkey
was orphaned out of a rock, shat onto the mountain
top, stumbled across the abyss, streaked a momentary
bliss, drunk the honey-dew of knowledge, past the

cave of watershed, onto many adventures which we
may or may not venture to discuss, and crashed on
to the gate of Dr Green Knight, esteemed coll-ague.

28.

In autumn, all the mussels came ashore, and the steppe
was bathed in cold nippy dusty sledge-hammer snow.
Adagio for Tron, and its legacy.

It seems that Dr Green Knight did not envisage
fighting for the users after all. His moustache
was wet, and his feet were webbed.

He came into being onto a desert planet, while
a hermit was pissing from on high.

29.

Dr Green Knight has lost his way. In the
shades of fall, the stellar decadence
those ripe moments of novembral cadence
when all comets shower and crumble

and the meaning of existence shatters
because perception is stabbed by hallo
weenish pretensions.

At that time, when the cycles of one
planet reflect the string cycles of
multiple white guelfi comedies

30.

That’s the time in which we are speak
ing now, you and me, dearReader. There
is much to be said. Of the NeverEnder,
its spectangular destiny unspoken, we
shall not pass.

Of the detriment of clonal cats, and
of distinguished memory loss routines,
of that, we shall say a little.
31.

In the digital frontier, where the
decline of roman and etruscan mollusks
is catalysed by aspera-astra oscillations

there on the tronic grid, there we shall
meet to discuss on whether or not you have
a clu of what the hell I am talking about.

32.

joke. caught ya. I was being serious.
On the byronic shore of a Greek island,
we may discuss of juan and haydee, or
whatever her name was.

the point being, should John C retrieve
his memory or not. And here is where you
can get to cast your vote, dearReader.
Let’s make this a democratic process. or

33.

not. In the Murakamian well, John C
switches on the discoursive waters.
he then starts to home in onto the lagoon
of solitary confinement. the blue colours

remind him of his long lost pond.
the bog where he grew up near Borovoe.
the advancing retreat of shizo-frenzy
is capitalizing on his doubt.

34.

On the other hand, the immortal anger
of Gawain-Monkey needs to be looked at
more in particular. On the distant fireball
planet, the one too close to the star

to be particularly habitable, there Mr
Gawain-Monkey decided to take his holiday
after a short training with Green Knight.

35.

Other teachers were available, but Green
Knight was convincing, and his sirenic voice
was very imposing. Gawain was lost in the woods,
in search of a missing jigsaw, and Monkey was
riding the horses to sexual hec-stasey.

Now, I am not going to sleep. And I would
like a little attention. Are you busy, super
busy?

36.

Going back to the adventurers, Gawain-Monkey
is being tortured by remni-sce, and looks out
at the impending globe of fire that is grinning
with ominous fortitude at the merry brigade.

Rabbit is holding the atom-vehicle spirit,
in digitalized attention toward meditation,
but only realizing half a medallion and a pig.

37.

Fortune Lobo has his eyes fixed on the green gases
the swine-blue hues of delirious joy, the time
of peace of senses, the space of empty glasses.

as they travel throughout the galazies, the platelets
whirl and buzz like cosmetic cosmi, and the stars
look like fortnum and mason china-aware.

The uni-verse is throbbing with elegance and
anger, and the rightful space is the vanaglorious
ego, where the void ends, and the time begins.

38.

In the well, John C is indulging in sexual thoughts.
Then, the waters rise, and the realization that
time is short or eternal make it difficult to sieze
the night. The clonal cat has finally come to the
realization that its ancestor was murdered.

Cicciotta was murdered by a jealous bitch.
Dogs will be gods, though, so it seems.

Chubby, rest in peace.

39.

Dr Green Knight escaped the uni-verse to hide
in mountain and into very schemious wife, producing
two off-springs. From hence, all patience holds.

John C stirs the pot of his insidious St Theresa
ex-stasy, and the desire to come together with
his own falsitude and his depreviousness.

Krishna, the old fellow, seems to have come
down the galactic staff to remind Gawain-Monkey
that the indulgitude on this battle is not accept

40.

able at all. Dr Green Knight is coming to the party.
It seems that they are travelling on voidy space
and that the Desert Storm girl is driving. Oh woe
is me! The physicists in the hall, please raise

your hand at the idea of Desert Storm driving.
Scream! She’s just a peach, though please do not
eat. East is east. They are travelling fast on the
galactose belt, the vomit of former godditudes.

41.

And so finally we come to the start of the story.
Artemis, Goddess of the hunt, bless this narrative
with your archery and your anger.

Apollo, God of the poesy, bless this story
with the waters of your wasted love.

Eros may be chaotic, or some son-in-law
but all of scheming eternity cannot prevent
us from hailing other voices from out there.

42.

Out here. In the beginning, when ‘Ar var alda’,
then skopun heimsins, and so behold the cow.

There was a gap, and what an abyss.

Fire on one hand, poison-ice on the other.
And then the trickle. Fuckety fuck.

43.

Krishna, Krishna!
I see the mantis talking to itself,
and such omens of evil!

How can this obliviousness be real?
Well, Krishna might say. It is obvious.

But not to me! What is this hologram?
Why does dance-zheimer catch up avec moi?
Why does Job have no job these days?
Why the anger and the fall?
Why death, and the end of hope?
Why did that friend of yours die on you?

44.

Krishna, Krishna!
As I stand on the plain of kurukshetra,
I see no voice in the mirror, no silence in
the void.

I see no end to suffering. The NeverEnder
may cycle and blasts its way around the spring,
all the way to the interwoven string, but
theory or practice, all seems to fail us.

45.

“You and I, Arjuna,
Have lived many lives.
I remember them all:
You do not remember.

I am the birthless, the deathless
Lord of all that breathes
I seem to be born:
It is only seeming,
Only my body.
I am still master
Of my mind.

When goodness grows weak,
When evil increases,
I make myself a body.

In every age I come back
To deliver the holy,
To destroy the sin of the sinner,
To establish righteousness.

He who knows the nature
Of my task and my holy birth
Is not reborn
When he leaves this body:
He comes to me.

Flying from fear,
From lust and anger,
He hides in me
His refuge, his safety:
Burnt clean in the blaze of my being,
In me many find home.

Whatever wish humans bring me in worship,
That wish I grant them.
Whatever path humans travel
Is my path:
No matter where they walk
It leads to me.”

46.

Suddenly the brigade is at the end
of the uni-verse. The frog-bead has been
retrieved. All one needed to do is to go
to Swappinstan and avoid falling in lust.

And yet, there is more. There is a lot more.
What is the NeverEnder about, and where is
it headed?

The teachings of the swapped thru-true-truths
may have been revealed, but the incarnation
of John C in Gawain-Monkey is not yet through.

47.

It is time now to enter the grid. From the
Murakamian well, John C carefully selects
the memories and the characters of this story
to digitalize and to punch through the

oscillations and the fragmentations of
this obnubilating story. The karmic load
is such that the void empties the space
and the opening is for all the bodies to

48.

fall through like the stateroom scene
of Groucho’s night at the opera.

49.

So bear with us, dearReader. If you can
extend your patience a little longer,
you might see a thread in this tale of
cloudatlassness.

CHAPTER IV.

I.

There is a red-hot lava planet that’s Coruscant-leaning,
and with a thin silver lining, a rather disturbing place
to which the tale must be directed to, at this point of
the stream. The planet’s chief emotional force, source
of emotional growth and the centre of electro-magneto-
gravitational balance is the nibbling off the fears and

anxieties of cis and trans beings across the galactic
deeper field. The feeding in cis is easy, the planet’s
living off its inhabitants, while the proxy sucking off
is rather tricky, that’s done via rabbit holes, and
other gala-lactic tricksy cheats.

II.

Planet Fear (a.k.a. Saliaris) was originally discovered
in 1789 by a French phallosopher-astronomer whose name
I quite forgot, while he was on a drinking trip to Moskva.
On this planet, the two cadets that we have come to
appreciate and like and even love but sometimes hate

are doing some experiments, listening in to the large globe’s
emotional field, a bit like doctors with a spectoscope
(I never know how to spell that). The giant rotational
orbit is listening back, tracing their cellular lives
to the nanometer.

III.

The Don Quixote trope is there too, chiefly to disturb
them, so he goes and chat to them (which they find annoying).
He has a small squedgy ball which she bounces off
the volcano in the foreground. Mousier MortLock and his
sidekick Mephisto, meanwhile, are also playing scientists,

so they are trying to dig out the jewels of the anger runes
(ruins?) and carry them back to the laboratory, for
further analysis. The rubbing volcano’s not at all happy
about that, let me tell you. Planet Fear is rather pissed
off; ‘you’ve ruined me now’, it thinks.

IV.

The thinking planet does not like being mined one bit,
especially by these semi-human intrusions which appear
to feel little and think less. In retaliation, planet
Fear feeds off their fears and hungers, making them
more afraid and ever more hungry. So will they ever be able
to leave this planet or will they do an Artax right here?

Don Quixotette knows that bringing balance back to the
blithering blasted balloon of the bounce… I have run
out of b’s I am afraid; well I meant to say that Don
Quixotette knows that the score is high and the time

V.

is little and the gods are angry and the Greeks stink
at making destiny user-friendly. So there is the inter
invention of the nemesis, a rather cheap device to make
sure that at the end, things are rather out of balance.
Anyway time is short so I will be brief; emotionally
disturbed planets are very difficult to cure. So my

friends, the younglings linger (the cadets and all else),
and the wicked thrive. What shall it be? The red
button or the waiting game? The Buddha gaya of all reli
gions shines in heaven, and meditation game is on;
the X watches still, and to the spirit-ally aware, the
gap is not to be filled. At least that’s a decent way
to start Chapter Four, goddamit.

VI.

Deep in the recesses of gaseous, empty space
echoing pulses of far-away life; stories fallen
into oblivion. On a remote dot in the universe,
a star system with multiple planets. On a not too
distant orb from that throbbing flare, a land

which is beautiful and full of memories.
The birth place of some characters, let
me just say. But where sky met ocean, this
land, this planet is now abandoned. Empty
shells in an emptier shell. Roaming across

VII.

the universe, the people of Ithaca carry
with them the images of that once happy
place. Perhaps, captain, X, or anybody
out there, you would care to grant them

a new home? What happened to this little
planetlet, and what happened to Borovoe
earth station? Why are we wandering,
fading, shining across thin layers of skin?

VIII.

In a dream that came upon Ithacans,
all at once, a monkey king was travelling
the universe in search of lost scripture,
or was it a planet. The curtains rose,
and a turreted, meandering city was found
clambering all over a high hill, up higher
and higher, nearly a mountain now.

And rising with this kafkian-breathing
castle city, all the Ithacans found a home
overlooking an ancient valley, the sky
brooding with darker clouds, as black as
the angry deep field. If one leaves, one
carries on leaving, and never, ever arrives.

IX.

War! The theatre was filled with a
compassionate crowd, but the battle
was lost, and the city was swept away,
and the Ithacans woke all at once
from their Trojan dream.

But even now, as the illusion has
vanished in the mind, even now,
if you close your eyes, you can still
see the towers and the smoking hills,
and the burning land.

X.

‘There must have been a mix-up
with the download’, thinks John C.
His ear is bursting with pain,
all parties on Titan end in usb
drinking, and dodgy downloads.

Not to mention the dodgy uploads,
though John C has hardly anything
else to dump into the solar system
wide web. From his window, he can
see a desolation of gases, and
long silences, as long as imaginable.

XI.

In the Zabriskie desert, John C uploads
his cloudy thoughts; reflections of the
sick thoughts of planets shimmer across
the cosmic cytoplasm. In a dark moon day,
sailing across an unfettered sky, a poem –
like an albatross flittering through the long

curtains. Energy, sinister and bending,
permeates the empty night and the bright
sun. Day after day, we sit and wonder,
when is THE CRUNCH going to come. This is
being stuck between the will to escape,
and the ability to accept. Acceptance and

XII.

escapism being the two torn tussore-silk
layers of a cocoon universe. The title
of a story popular with the marketeers
is ‘Escape to Planet Greed’. The common
origin of all the ways of the twisted is
the manipulative lie. If one prospers by
lying, one is a sickly bastard. Hence,

planets are ailing, and the White Plague
is on a rampage. ‘I have everything,’
cries the first marketeer, ‘and yet I
want, indeed I need more’. ‘I have
everything’, cries the second,’and yet
I am deeply unhappy.’

XIII.

The X that can be told, is not the true X.
Nevertheless I am trying to describe it.
The nature of folly is to be a predator,
all else is just escaping judgement. At the
interchange between rainbow and fox, there
is a deep underground canyon; the X lives
there, unknown, unbroken, a fallen source
and water-falling in perpetuity. So nothing

is more manifest than the hidden. Fortune
Lobo can sit at leisure, waxing and waning
over his navel, and yet his journey never
started, and the NeverEnder never sailed
east, and the West has never seen a Monkey
King come larger or smaller, asking for a

XIV.

sure cure for sick planets. The shape-shifting
space ship is sailing high and wide across
the galactic seas, and yet it has never seen
a sight more beautiful than the peace that
resides inside of you, dearReader. You may

observe the phases of the X, and record them
in a little white book, and we (John C and the
narrative brigade) may never know about it.
Hence the need for an end to these means.

XV.

While on Planet Fear, the cadets made a new
friend; so finally after years in training,
waiting to be short-listed for the not-so-clever
Borovoe Academy, Don Quixotette comes aboard.

More data analysis is needed, but she-he is
really and truly a tranny, and therefore a
true wise meter of both ends. She/He sits at
Desert Storm’s bed side, for the hapless cadet
has caught a bug on Planet Fear. The echoes

XVI.

of past are catching up to haunt the NeverEnder,
and squid-like ink is covering all consciousness.
Rains on Titan regain intensity. An ocean of stars
gurgles from the deep of the night, the Pleiades
witness the spaceship’s prow sinking deeper into
blueish space. Blackened thoughts gather, and
Desert Storm is having an outlandish cuppa tea.

It is always three in the morning when times are
dark, and so the little white book you are writing
must occasionally be burnt, or else we all go bonkers.

XVII.

The NeverEnder has come to a halt, stationed high
above a mortal planet, suffocating and in panic,
wondering what little creatures will descend upon
it. The valleys and the hills of the ecological
system vibrate with expectation, as the people of

the ship disembark and look around in wonder. It
is the time of the night, the suns are around the
corner. The mountains are climbing higher, while
Desert Storm looks at the light coming through
nocturnal clouds, blinking with stars and void.

XVIII

The planet speaks!
‘Welcome, pilgrims. Will there ever be a morning?’
Amid the amazement of the NeverEnder crew, the air
vibrates with the voice of a precious stone, and
like an emerald, everthing glows green, and the sound
of a mysterious voice echoes in the steppes of the
imagination. It is time for looking inside.

‘I am a sick old planet, and my name is Xuanzang.
I have been looking in the direction of the Wing within
the Small Magellanic Cloud for far too long. I have
been waiting for you, my closest galactic neighbours.’

XIX

‘There is sickness in my planet core. In my youth,
I was a conscious, and mobile being, able to perambulate
like yourselves. With age, I have grown stationary.
I understand that your own planet Earth, my old
friend, is also sickly woven. If you wish to heal

this crooked uni-verse, you must travel westward
to the outer reaches of fantasy-driven space/time.
You must find a small iconic frog-bead, containing
the healing teachings which can liberate all beings.

XX

‘I once travelled to this spiritual place myself,
but I learned next to nothing from the bead. It
radiated wisdom, and I had become quite convinced
that the temporary widsom it had bestowed upon me
was my own.

Alas, as I have come to realize in times of despair,
it was just echoes of energy in the empty space,
and once the master bead was hidden from me,
the blessing light waned until it completely
disappeared and I was left alone in the dark.’

XXI

‘Now this distant blessing is what keeps me stable,
but a crack in my planetary balance is deep, and
the rift in my spiritual mould is growing. The
rocky surface on which you are standing hides
a profound chasm which is expanding.

Once the crack will reach the surface I will be
destroyed. The same pathology affects Earth.
If you chose to, you can save all the sick
planets in this rigged, swamp-like uni-verse.’

XXII.

So tell me, will you help? My disciple went
off in one of his stunts, and has not returned.
He is cheeky, and unruly, and silly. But I trust
him. His name is Gawain-Monkey. He will help you
in this spiritual quest to retrieve the lost frog-bead
of wisdom. You must first rescue him from the bind
in which he has fallen. He is being held prisoner
by ravenous demons on a nearby system.

Borovoe earthlings, believe me. There is such
a thing as order in this uni-verse. The is no
solution to g.o.d.’s algorithm, but there is
source of eternal light. I have seen it, briefly.’

XXIII.

The first to speak is the spaceship NeverEnder.
‘I am not going anywhere! I need repairs, I am
oil-hungry, and this isn’t really my fight. I
am a machine, and I don’t believe in ghost stories
of any kind. Your bead is an invention, at best.’

Desert Storm is moved to a certain extent. She
was wary, but curious. The old planet has spoken
wisely, and something is echoing in her mind.
Her gut feeling is to speak, and so she comes forth.

XXIV.

‘I don’t know if I believe, but I will go. I will
try to help you, strange planet. I want to see
the confines of all space and time, see if there
is a border, a sense to all this.’

Fortune Lobo is feeling heroic. ‘And I will go
with you,’ he adds, with a certain emphasis.
Everyone one else shrugs, and moves on to re-embark
upon the NeverEnder, who has become very moody.

XXV.

Don Quixotette, in a typical show of character,
has deviously shapeshifted into a white rabbit,
and is quietly grazing away at the sick planet’s
remaining patches of grass. ‘Carrot-go’ is her
body language. But then again you can’t trust a
rabbit. Especially a hungry one, or a sexy one.

Exploring the vastness of space, the NeverEnder
and its crew leave on their middle-class journey
toward empty space maps, hidden treasures, and
more goodies. Cadets aboard begin their daily
ratio of dark matter. Clouds inside their mind
burst with you at the thought of a new leather bag.

XXV.

The sick planet speaks again, with great difficulty.
‘I shall give you a craft to fly into the unknown.’
At that point multiple volcanoes on its surface
erupt in a flurry of cosmic directions about which
way to go.

‘That way, my kind earthlings. Find the Gawan-Monkey,
and bring balance to this bloated uni-verse.’ While
it speaks, basalt lava crawls near assembling a
gorgeous spaceship, not unlike the interstellar craft
that once trekked to the source of light. But that
was another time and space. ‘Here is your vehicle.

XXVI.

It is made of rare elements. I’ve dug down and deep
in my core to provide you with the best possible
ride, as light as a feather, and as hard as the ego.
Now, please leave and do try to catch that cosmic
Hubble train, moving outwards. Remember, you must
find the bead, but then again it may find you.
I really can’t tell you where it is, I have forgotten.’

XXVII.

‘It is like a frog at the bottom of a well hidden
in an inverted ocean away from a big bang galaxy,
who has become nebulous at dusk. A Pleiades shot
in the dark. Perhaps you will find it on the banks

of the Aragva. Its blue colour may show you peace.
Now I am sad, and my feeling is weightless. My
sadness is sweet. My core is burning still, though
its combustion may not claim to be made of love.
The infinite is near. Save your planet, save all
planets.’

XXVIII.

The Xuanzang planet groans, it cracks open
and divides in half. A last few pulpitating
pumps of heart-core energy, and then a rasp.

It is dead.

XXIX.

‘Greetings. So sad the passing of my creator.
But planets come and go. My name is Snowflake
Billow (I’ve just self-baptised). I am a merry
go round space ship and will take you to the
outer edges of space/time. Or do you want to go
to centre, the inner core of your plasticity?

Bear with me, I am programming myself, being
just born has its drawbacks. I fly, therefore
I am. My senses are all out! I feel so good,
being alive, well I am a machine, you know what
I mean. My problems are materialistic. Are you
materialistic people at all?’

XXX.

The Rabbit (formerly Don Quixotette) speaks first:
This creature of space craft is from the world
below, it was born of the essence of Xuanzang,
it needs not surprise us.

So Desert Storm groans, Fortune Lobo weeps, into
the dangerous uni-verse they leap (so to speak).

XXXI.

‘So let me get this’ quotes a miffed John C.
They left earth cos it was broiling, they went
to a watery planet, they left and went to planet
Fear. Then they explored space a bit more and
stumbled upon another conscious planet which
gave them an impossible task. And now they are
on a spiritual quest. Is that right?’

‘Pretty much,’ Chubby is not interested in the
exploits of long dead people. ‘Would you quit
day-download-dreaming and help me with the dishes.

Give us a totally liberated sink, and will yield
you a cupful of nirvanic bliss.’ And so she pushes
the dishwashing liquid toward him. Gently, her
paw pushes for decisive argumentation.

XXXII.

Paralytic. Fly, like Ariel onto a dark planet
a mountain, one where the air is syrup glass
and pressure builds on. You may stay in doubt,
we shall not discuss the habits of the cadets.

Amble to and fro, the Rabbit munches
and meditates on the colour yellow.

Tip-toe, shark to mouth, they navigate deep waters,
sub-atomic shacks, colonial towers, forbidden
planets. They are out-casts. A storm of colour
is glowing in the distance, a star-set fandango.

Flutes and percussions in my head, if you wish.
Timid mediation, something is about to happen.
Desert Storm and Fortune Lobo, Rabbit and Vehicle
are alert to the Seasons of Now.

XXXIII.

They landed on the planet of compassionate dragonflies,
hosting a wild-gaoler, an ugly and deformed she-monkey.
Lying, cheating, and stealing; she bought her ticket to
insanity. She has burgled the dragonflies, tinkered
with their good will, swept away with their emeralds,
dared eat an immortal peach.

The Immortals reside under-ground in caves beyond the
waterfall. The flies, their faces large with complex
eyes replete with Friedrich sunset brothers, are shaking
with fear and perplexed anger. Where is their compassion?

Now going about his business on the Old Kent Road,
Gawain is schizophrenic, the she-monkey resides in him.
He left his master plan(et) to escape toward harvesting
galaxies, wishing to retrieve wisdom and materialism.

However, he’s been delayed.
Caught read-handed, he left a darling buck dead, up in
the mountain toward the sky, and he’s been imprisoned
for poaching on the peaches, illegal hunting, peach-
formulating, eating cookies and other immoral echoes.

XXXIV.

‘My mind, a rock’, my friend John C is frozen into
a terror. Night-mares follow his trails. Quantifying
his delay, his worry has taken him outside the tower
where he used to reside. Titan is hostile. Methane
breathes his fear. Wrapped, unagitated liquids about.

XXXV.

The dragonflies are friendly. They have Byronocular vision.
I love the fact that they sing to themselves while they
stew their dinner. Their soul dances without theatrical
preferences. They issue exam entries to all newcomers.

Into the desert the four riders come now, light of my eyes.
A mirage, way above the blue skies. Desert Storm trembles,
Rabbit Tranny is adamant. A slow kiss of God, this Arabesque
sun shine where the edge is narrow and the zenit is hot.

Fortune wolf desires freedom, lo – all kinds of warnings.
The monkey is hidden from sight, dreaming his life away.
A black box appears, the shape of a cube. They are lost
in confusion. The vehicle space-craft reads the papers
from yesterday, flicking the pages through its wings.

XXXVI.

This desert is a lost place in time. The sky is high.
Ten million friendly dragonflies swarm in the distance,
a cloud of black judgement, and an easy conversation. So
far-away, and yet so close. The three riders plus the AI
scrap
metal
are stuck under a torrential sun, and stare at the black box.

They are invited to enter. Could this be a dragonfly trick?

XXXVII.

Logic and proportion are changed, inside the colourful
cube, a shower of rain. Desert Storm is alone in it.
The space is little, the mind expands. Cloud-bursting,
inside his motley soul (not for sharing) Monkey is
talking to Gawain, that is, talking to his other self.

Cloudy and overcast. Cloud-clawing, a vicious and dange-
-rous occupation. In the dragonfly prison, a place full
of wooden planks and ikea products, a legoland of lakes
and mild sensations, the passionate monkey person is
very upset. His cell is his melancholy enclosure, a
blue moment in time.

Like the rabbit, monkey’s not very sure about his
sex. Sometimes he feels very mad-world. The conversation
inside his head goes like this (Monkey-side says):

XXXVIII.

‘I wish to harvest galaxies. I wanted to explore the ubi-
verse. Now I am greedy.’ Gawain opens up the soul, and
lets the verse rip. ‘Big mind is slow, sweet and bitter.’
‘What am I doing in gaol?’
‘I went flying across the mountains to the cave beyond
the waterfall. I found refuge there.’
‘I must get out of jail, not matter what the cost.’

‘Say Cicciotta’ John C remarks ‘this monkey individual
is one hell of a troubled person. The cat whatevers him.
‘I want more life’. Chubby reads on the screen. ‘I can
relate to that’, goes the poetastric cat.

39.

Fuck it. Roman numerals distract. John C
is up an running, the window of attention
short-circuits. Cats speak the truth, or
not at all. So Chubby once more points out:

‘Your memory download has become a memory
upload, I don’t know if you realize. You
are downloading your own memory, only it’s
been tampered with. Obviously, you don’t
know who did it.’ John C shrugs. ‘Recently

40.

I have received a seed-mail from a dead
source. We used to be like this [vagina
fingers]. She’s sick to the core, much
like this Monkey character that, as it

now seems, I used to know. I feel sorry
for her, because she has lost her karmic
identity, and gone full blast vitriolic.’
Chubby purrs, and sits in his lap. ‘Let

41.

the dead bury their dead.’ And that’s that.
Gawain-Monkey is sprung from jail, and
leaps around like a mad dog. He wants to
become a she, and settles for an ‘it’.

‘I am so in love with the universe’, it says
‘that I want to fuck it.’ Chubby snores.
‘Make more money, yo. There’s dough to
be made’. Fortune Lobo and Desert Storm

42.

Stare at it in amazement. ‘Is this what
we risked our lives for [ the cherry-linger ]?’
The Dragonflies arrive in scores, and buzz
in, straight onto the conversation like
emotional-retorsion butter.

‘Shit, man’, goes dragonfly #1 ‘I have learnt
so much from Nil by mouth. I just want to cry.’
In the mean time, Gawain-Monkey is leaping
around like a mad elephant, poisoned by life.

43.

‘Dude. I am totally into her. Holly the girl
from David Mitchell, she’s the real deal. In
case the other compassionate dragonflies ask
what shall we do about this wild bunch?’

Dragonfly #2 is hesitant. It looks in love,
and full of opinion, and full of sperm.

44.

Gaway-Monkey is defiant. ‘Glargh. Fuck you!
I am free now, to purse my own dirty mindless
interests! Fuck the universe, and everyone
in it.’ Dragonfly #1 and #2 shake their heads.

‘That’s not a good start, eh?’, goes #1.
Desert Storm intervenes. ‘Kind dragonflies,
it is an honour to tread your planet, and
meet you in arthropod. We’d like to negotiate.’

45.

#2 looks at #1 and squints (you know dragonfly
eyes). Desert Porcelain quotes her Sylvia Plath.
Fortune Lobo is looking on with increased
interest. He’s learning the ways of the magneto-

hesitancy. ‘I dare say we are pilgrims onto
this uni-verse, tracing the outer rims of the
galactose axis, looking for the truer truth.’

46.

Desert Storm is in full bullshitting mode.
Fortune Lobo is starting to have a hard-on.
‘To quote my not dead friend, the old wise
woman Tierra Madre, we are here to solve

your problem. We’d like to shoplift your
trouble, and carry this Monkey with us.
#1 now looks at #3, who just landed, and
is looking like the ranking officer.

47.

#3: ‘You are mistaken. There is no rank
amongst us. We are one.’ Fortune Lobo comes.
Desert Storm is digusted: ‘Do you mind?’
‘Sorry,’ the lad’s on fire ‘it’s just that

I am young, so full of energy.’ Desert
Storm scowls. ‘Now’s really not the time!’

48.

‘Bonjour, je m’appelle Candide’, dragonfly #4
chips in. Dragonfly #5 decides it’s time to
settle the score. ‘Ok, let’s all take a deep
breath, and do a Wes Anderson flyover, shall we?’

‘I hate to interrupt,’ quotes the transexual
Rabbit, ‘but we are on a schedule to save the
uni-verse’. Desert Storm looks pleased.

49.

Gawain-Monkey cracks the head of Dragonfly #5
with a clean axe-cut, and looks pleased with
itself. At this point the Billow vehicle
rescues the living lotus-blossom out of them,

and everything is nice and peachy. Except,
of course… the dragonflies are not happy.
They have to start a Herman Hesse flower-
celebration, looking toward the star of the

50.

Planet where the wars have ended as an example.
Dragonfly #1 takes a deep breath and goes all
Panglossian about this. Dragonfly #2 accepts
the truth. Dragonfly #6 decides to chase

the vehicle, ridden by these idiots, and
possibly intern them all in Dragonfly planet’s
rottnestest prison cell.

51.

Fortune Lobo wipes his cockerel, Desert Storm
looks away, at the galatic skies whizzing
past, Rabbit counts the number of stars, and
is doing a good job ‘three billion million,
six hundred million, thirty-two, and half and a

blip… does this one qualify?’ ‘It’s totally
a planet, say Gawain-Monkey, who has now settled
onto a more friendly mode ‘by and by, thanks
for springing me’. ‘Pleasure’, says the vehicle.

52.

‘Call me Billow, I am the leader of this outfit.’

53.

‘Hi! My name is Goofoh Soofoh Arsehallah, and
I’m splendid. Rabbit and I go waaay back. I
just happened to bump into your expedition
while looking for temporary gas formations

for the adornment and supersizification of my
big-ass wedding. Now, Rabbit dear, would you
remind me which one of you is the leader of this
rickety contrapunctual figurative enter-prize?’

54.

Rabbit shifts in his (her) seat. Times abound,
and mistresses linger, and so do famously
poisonous friendships. John C gets up to get
himself a sandwich. Ticino bread, yum yum!

Chub gets cozy with the lap, and on top of that,
the electric storm outside chirrups and stirrups.
Rabbit was born out of moss, long before the
existence of a path, and a trajectory toward

55.

the end. Along the road, Rabbit met Arsehallah,
joyful the day they sealed their awesomeness
deal while the sunset strips of Veal city skies
expanded, with a mega-galactic significance

into a global and permanent alliance between
a Jim Morrison incarnation and an increasingly
deranged Don Quixote contained in the body of
a rabbit, henceforth known as “the Rabbit”.

56.

Why oh why do bad coins pop up? Rabbit scowls,
Desert Storm decides that it’s time for tea.
She offers the ritual like a medium-size opossum
tree, all velvety-green with touches of my-God

’tis-good-shit. Don’t drink opossum tea, kids…
unless you are going all the blistering way. Be
warned. Are you ready to be skullfucked by a
horde of invading barbarians all singing from

57.

within you? Granted, you may find a glimpse of
oceanic boundlessness, or marvel on the magic
powders of Dover beach. But since we are, and
have been in tremendously advanced retreat, I

suggest you poppets of future high-sky, be
cool with your opossum tea. If you do an Aldous,
be reminded that there are consequences.
‘Consequences, schmonsequences!’, quotes

58.

Arsehallah, given his infinite erudition
in late twentieth century video-piracy.
Speaking of monkeys, Gawain-Monkey is being
unusually quiet oh-shore-dwee. ‘What’s on

your mind?’ asks a very concerned Fortune
Lobo. ‘You’re all invited to my badass
cerebration, we are gathering all of
Swappingstan to honour the Gods (many
of them, innit).

59.

May I remind all the clientele that my
views on reli-john are contained in a
book called “Space Epic Poem”, which may
be consulted for random specification.

Debookeries apart, the alegre brigade
enter the Swappingsteinish space since
you can’t really turn down an offer to
drink opossum tea, attack a few concepts

60.

and so bloody on. ‘J’adore!’, quotes
Gawain-Monkey, suddenly exilarated at
meeting fellow thieves. At the landing
platform, Fortune Lobo is searched and

his assets are siezed (he had a diamond).
Tut tut! Up to no good are these young
cadets. Desert Storm is instead shipped
across toward a room where a group of

61.

Some twenty-three randoms are preparing
to gangrene-rape her. Swifty, Rabbit
intervenes and Arsehallah pulls out his
tremendous bullshiviousness and talks

his way out yet another shit-a-la-creme.
So they reach the safer indoors of the ‘haves’,
in the mystical planet of Swappistan, where
most of the derelict population is in the

62.

‘have-nots’ category. Wilkommen, and
remember, arbeit macht frei. So Fortune
Lobo is stationed onto Arsehallah’s best
friend’s gigantic lobster-bed within

the house of the Nazis. No, don’t think
skinheads, think of plump mater familias,
going on about the gorgeousness of super
literary prizes dished out to the absentee

63.

golden boy son, while the uncle a la table
dissembulates on the wonders of making
monkey with expat nazional-fasciter, who
just happen to be hiding in Swappistan

for their money reserves in banking land
are infinite, and the opportunities for
enslaving the uni-verse are wunderbar.
Fortune Lobo listens, but his mind is

64.

Elsewhere. He has fallen in Murakamian
colour. ‘Screw this.’ John C abandons
the memory upload-download and throws
himself in the Murakamian Well. Oh the

days of glorious past! Memory’s gone,
but the bass-guitar backbone of one’s
existence insists on harping back on
the basset-hounds of sound and sea.

65.

The time is for a pause and a reflection.
Desert Storm is meditating on the painting
ovulating on the wall, a kind of Don Quixote
ascending from an angelical egg, while

the background is sort Yggdrasill stump,
merging with diahoerrea colours typical
of ancenstral artists, those that made
the womb the best place to get out of.

66.

The last breath of vehicle, before it
is crushed into a single atom, is devoted
to the obliquity Goddess, an ancient
cult which focuses on the ambivalence

of non-committophobes. Desert Storm
sighs, she alone has a hunch that the
journey ahead is so terribly long,
and that many of us may not survive.

Chapter III
I.

skyless (skypeless?), old Caravaggio
translates violence into action,
piercing perspective with shadow and
beefy angels. Downfallen apples linger.

The cat talks to me from the dead. So does grand-ma.
When in fear, in doubt, I walk the hades-crystalline,
so daylight nightly creates illusions. Burnout, desire.
Featherless, stalking nostalgia.

II.

Memory of past bliss is sorrow of to-day. Feline wrath
cast an alliance with water-dwelling iron bars.
At first, a dazzle. The porcelain girl eats yogurt on the
asteroid. The NeverEnder exploded when flirting with a
super nova sinister light. The crew’s dead. Disconnected, the
Johnny and the other computer lads have been found
shredded to mincemeat. Lucky, you – monster reader.

III.

The Siberian cat lives on, alone, somewhere. No more on cats.
How ice! The Edda flows, Ginnunga spans. Fire on one side, frost on the other.
On the asteroid we find the porcelain girl (an incarnation of Desert Storm).

The asteroid has fat breath, fire on one end, and golden fire falling
into the abyss, a river of spewing milk, poisonous to life.
Glassblown experiments over the mountain meadow (on the asteroid).
The ga-lactic enter-prize has open gates for survivors and dead people
coming back from the dead because I want to remember them.

IV.

Free verse haunts the chimera,
a soul wiped out by history,
moments away from doom.
The Berdmonsey street is sweet, swept by yellow shirt
men, the church shut is riveting with skylight wordship.
Only elderly people inside, awaiting execution.

Askew sun, splayed over potato soup
this is offered to survivors on asteroid Loki.
Bmv sky reflecting sunk concave dreams
pink smart choices await execution too.
Trapezoid humans crawl out of the gutter
coughing up glued-over conscience;

V.

sensing purpose, eschewing it, circling around it
shark-like, taking small bites, choking.
Strategically placed, I intern-fero UV light.
Playing with the spectra, harmonicawise.
Hints, here and there.

‘I don’t wanna go’, sways the porcelain girl.
Neither do I. God plays too much evasive
action; unpaid bills, horizon gulls bumming
ciggies off each other. Do not forget the dead,
who smoked their vouchers and led the life
of dogs, sometimes acting up to be Actaeon.

VI.

‘Catching Diana with her pants down, that’s my ambition’
this is the internal creed of porcelain girl. She is not alone.
Now, pyrimidine memories survive the crash
of the NeverEnder. Seeking new sources of memory:
John Ashbery, poet.
Richard Firn, botanist.
Silvano Onda, art historian.
All of this is delta-like, or invano.

The accumulation of the Edda-Aeneid
whirls about the X, pointing to the power
and the slide of the Uni-verse. Deal now with ‘the keep us
from going’. No cats left, no Titans, only mani.
Hung on compassion, cheaply Renaissant, I virgil-crawl
toward my master ‘Button and Unbutton’.
I prithee, Lord Byron, lead the way, along with Mr Merisi.

VII.

Zomboy (Fortune Lobo reloaded) and Porcelain
are Adam and Eve on the water – excuse moi –
the water-bourne asteroid. They’re there for
a rendez-vous avec la X.

Yes, the asteroid is quite from another world,
another universe. The speechless couple, land mark
in this space of ocean waves over a falling rock
in the empty space, they’re bound, forgive me
to rise in love. Zomboy would like to eat her head out,

Porcelain is careful not to crack her nails. Two souls
in empty space, they leap into the void, head, belly down.
So the X is there, logging in to ask de questions.
Zomboy begins. ‘I should like to ask’ he interrupts,
the divine terminal buffering. Belle Porcelain has her
head spinning in a clueless crescendo. The dominating
question is: ‘Why’ … ”’ why do I have to
fall in love with Bete-Tomboy here’.

VIII.

If you, reader, should ever meet the X, what question
would you pose? Always travelling back to your past,
you would interrogate the whys and wherefores of
all those clipped moments, now long-gone?

Or would you dare query about the eternal? Per-
Haps only about tomorrow’s luncheon, or the identity
of the X’s true core?

IX.

‘I would like to go astray’, Tomboy launches.
Across the aisle, Porcelain digresses in poly
morphisms avec God’ internal processor.
Time off, Crossbone cemetery, memory-slingshot,
outcast graveyard. The X shows glimpses of old

earth to the celestial couple. Here, landless
people were cast into the jord, back into Ginnunga.
When there was no sky, no waves, no earth,
there gigantic emptiness stood before us,
and attempted to load a reminder of suffering.

X.

At Churchill’s tomb, Byron said farewell to
two months a year of sunshine, and the piazza.
Enemies to imagine, Orson Wells at Chartres.
Art and fiction as fake of fakes.

On occasion, gentle conversation makes us
digress, so Porcelain daydreamed while staring
into the X. Her lover of new light, free of death,
was hungry. He did not ask a single question.

XI.

The X retreated into the universe’s vulva.

XII.

Three ghosts came along, their names above,
were friends to man, and to the vision.
‘I shall pose a question’, the first one said.
‘Motley morality is for finders keepers, is it not?’
‘That’s a thought’, remembered the second.
‘If you’ve never dug up a potato, then perhaps
you’ve missed on much in life.’
‘I wept when first at Venice’, said the third.
‘We’re friends to you, we are fictional spectres.

XII.

If you want to return to Borovoe, or if you wish
to assume your ancestral shape once again,
or if you simply wish to continue exploring
the Byronic way… you must retreat.

Turn back and swim that wide black ocean
behind you, life lessons are fish and coral.
Belle, you’re very fragile.
Bete, surely you should have a hat on the “e”,
somewhere.

XIII.

Born, abandoned, astray, in search of atom
a book, a story, a science, a soul, an ex. The
X incumbent upon us. Pourings of sunlight.
Not mysterious, travelling. Swimming on the
asteroid’s waters. Porcelain wishes to come back.

She wants to be fictitious. She has not found her
self. Tomboy is yet alive, and drinks saltwater
to quench his thirst. His hunger is his blood.
Should he ever chew on his arm, would the
reader turn away?

XIV.

What creatures dwell in the large body of asteroid
water? How does one ever cease to get wet,
the current bears one away, bobbing, flushing,
sinking, floating, soaring, air-lifted by strange
tunes in the vitreous air.

Shall they ever swim to an island? Shall Porcelain
find her mirror in Haidee? Or to be precise,
does Zomboy’s soul dwell at Walden Pond?

XV.

Porcelain, cast your mind aside; even as you
cannot find focus. Beowulf might have outswam
his monster fear, while Thor sank his teeth
into the Worm, but you cannot afford to lose
faith. Young Juan, formerly known as Fortune
Lobo, frog-flies downwards into more ocean.

He swims after a sinking Grecian Urn.
Porcelain decided to shapeshift. She’s so
empty, tumbling into fathom five.
So full of fear, we all are. Young Juan

XVI.

endures. Urn-girl is freefalling toward
a hashtag #rocky# ocean floor. Her painted
porcelain body flickers with fleeting images.

On the level of sands, lost consciousness.
Nothing is left of who once was Desert Storm.
A pearl among the soaked ashes. The silent
contains a voice.

XVII.

The ghost of Mr N.S. , tanner of this parish,
appears to Juan and the Urn, as they reach out
in the ocean darkness. The pearl-voice from
an earlier age follows them. They listen, on
the current of remembrance.

‘There once was a monastery at Veremundsei’
Juan’s buoyant lungs bring him upwards,
Urn, ash, pearl in hand, seeking the light.

XVIII.

On shore, his mind drifts toward thoughts
on the shipwreck upon shipwreck. Waiting,
drying, shuddering. The pearl turns on,
radio-like, and goes through a thousand
and one stories worth telling, worth

remembering. Stacks of dice, echoes of
colour, lines on the water. Ripples in
time. The void-filled Urn tunes in.

XIX.

The NeverEnder is restored! The self-
aware spaceship, delighting in your company,
flows back from unity with the heart of star;
de-stryxed, majestic, unburied, like Carthago.
Inside of it, a world of ideas. Books, flying.

Monads, believing. The characters of the
spaceship consciousness are tales to be told.

The great Space Ship sits, reads poetry,
the very Ariadne story, Flexa and Chubby,
and invites Fortune Juan and Desert Urn
to come back to mother, and resume the
journey.

XX.

Is it not time for us to encounter an
antagonist? The NeverEnder is our hero,
the Borovoe Cadets, armoured with piety,
are terror-driven, sharp edges cutting
through all negative feeling.

Who would dear reader choose as an
enemy? The marketing forces (definitely),
a Titan-sized mechanoid, a seedless cherry?

XXI.

Such decisions should never be left to
the word-cobbler. What shall it be?
Spiritual captivity, I am told. Control,
of the mind. Hence, the antagonist,

born onto a distant nook of universe
shit, flies out toward our noble space
ship, seeking to divide it and rule it.
Its friends, other destructive forces in
the spinning painted uni-verse, stem

XXII.

from split white dwarves. One of them,
taking the shape of empty space,
hovers in a room, third floor on the right,
at the David Museum in Shoppen-haben.

The city itself, now free of slavery, bears
the name of those evil marketeers that
seek to control our minds. Pirates of the
mind, they are cross-bred with the religious
fervour of neatly arranged wooden-panels.

XXIII.

Inside the stormy consciousness of the space
ship a flurry of violins, voices, vices.
Sheherazade comes in with her hands full,
Ariel, Narcissus, Aeneas merge into a pond
of music. The water cresses oscillating.

Evil comes alive elsewhere in the ethereum,
the X unknowing. When enough negative feeling
has streamed out of the Mordred corners of the
uni-verse, a great big belly-faced mobile phone
appears, masquerading, fashionista stryx-style.

XXIV.

To Hel with it! Odinn has come to claim the
broken verse, Huginn and Muginn accompanying
the NeverEnder for a period or two.

Stanza upon stanza of mediterranean vomit
piles on the ligurian mountain-side, battered
by Tramontana lies, whispered much before
the fall of the Republic of Amalfi. Under

XXV.

the Yggdrasil, Hel decides the fate of unborn
creatures; there, the runes in the well are hidden,
an explosion of self-awareness inside the Never
Ender gut creates cramps and stomach-pains;

Desert Storm is awake and she is bored. To her,
listening to the Sheherazade tales of destructive
forces and talking crows and music for tea, is just
as tedious as tuning in to John C’s conversations
with Chubby, or delusions about the X.

XXVI.

Thetis decided to give up, Achilles was born.
John C’s mind-eye mulls over the contradiction.
Chubby’s desire for dinner leads to the sin
of wanting more. Unsatisfied, the two travel in

time and in memory to shunt anxiety and harbour
illusion, a welcome break from dreary reality.
So the struggle is not just between Memorians
and Oblivians; but also between the Knowers
and the Unknowers.

XXVII.

Those that, grounded in the present, might want
to enquire (or not) about their past. Those we call
the Past-Timers. John C is a past-timer. Now,
what of those that are grounded in the past, present,

future, and want to enquire forward, discover whatnot
(or not). Those we call the Present-Dwellers. Now
Fortune Lobo Tomboie Tromboy Tomboy Juan is indeedy
one of those. And his sister-cum-lover Desertia Stormia.

XXVIII.

All their friends are dead, at least in their present
(which is somewhere in the uni-verse), in the gut
of the NeverEnder, enquiring forwards, onwards
to far other lands and other seas. So to speak.
Now then, this is where it becomes (un-)interesting.

What if their friends, having crash-burnt along
the first NeverEnder, actually existed (alive or not)
somewhere else in the Uni-Verse, perhaps down
and under, through the X, or some such dimensional
gateway? So if Tierra Madre’s consciousness (and perhaps
her body is somewhere somewhen somedimension else,
where in the flickiest flick is that?

XXIX.

And by the way, who is Dr Fortune Lobo, and everyone
else mentioned in this story? Where do they come from,
what is their purpose, motivation and guilt history?
I see Memorians and Oblivians everyday, they happen to be

Knowers and Unknowers at the same time. Could one be
a Memorian and and Unknower simultaneously? ‘I want to remember,
that is, but I do not want to discover. I want to retreat in my
body and mind, and forget everything else.’ The Memorian-Knower
combination is hard core, these people actually want it all.

XXX.

So Fortune Lobo is one of those, he wants the whole shebang,
while Tierra Madre only want(ed) to be a Memorian-Unknower.
A certain woman I know is a Oblivian-Unknower. That’s a bit

like saying, I don’t want to live, not even in dreams.
That’s why plugging in the history or the cosmos-net is
probably the way forward (backward) for her. Enough of
that.

XXXI.

So that bring us back to John C’s original intention:
download unwanted memories. He wants them, otherwise,
he would not bother. While his unwanted memories drift
somewhere on the cosmo-net. He pauses the Borovoe download.

A cup of tea. Titan is empty of titans. Giants are nowhere
to be seen. The window sill is devoid of cats or any
mammalian. Perhaps a few dandruff scabs. He looks straight
into the camera and says: ‘let’s watch a few rolls of
that discarded movie which I have uploaded, containing
my drop-dead virtualia cast into the unknown. I am ready.’

XXXII.

John C: ‘Tuba mirum spargens sonum. Always a good mood-setter.
Longevity, that’s the question. When I first joined the
personal dna corporation, I was introduced to the resident
man’o’science. He was a man of many words, enthusiastic,
xtatic about every thing around the cosmos, except, perhaps,

the X. My good friend Gluteus Maximus warned me that if
I continued to be a believer in the X, I might find myself
deproteinized. Gluteus was a heathen himself, a smoother
of crypto-analyses. He never did join the corporation.
He got married in stead, and produced off-spring.’

XXXIII.

‘So anyway, the lord of nucleo-tides told me to sit back,
and enjoy the sequencing. We might find a huff of the X,
down in the grooves of neuro-genomo-science, he said.
Resident chief told me how since we could, we would grind
the frontiers of ultra-science, and do more, grep more.
We do this, just because we can, said I. He just shrugged.

XXXIV.

So.
John C’s first job at the Corporation was
to deprive-sequence IDENTITY.

Other quest-yonders would later be
PURPOSE, LONGEVITY, CONFLICT-INNER,
CONFLICT-OUTER, CREED, CONCLICT-COSMIC.

He was banished onto Titan following
an incident which at the time, you know,
caused such public excitement, giving rise
to strange Wildean conjectures. But more on
that in the supplementary data. This page
margin is too narrow for my mind to fill [chuckle]

XXXV.

John C was a rookie seqHenceR. IDENTITY,
no mean feat, was the TARGET. IDENTITY,
when sequenced, would be tweakable, twittable,
chopped up into snippets and fed to the
ever-hungry marketeers (whore-shippers of
God-Mobile), the very same people who
suckle the out-puts of the Corporation.

Now if you, dearReader, could decipher the
nucleo-oceanwaves of gnoscomics, take a
peek at the glimmering soul image scan (scam)
now, really, would you publish it?

doriangray imaging allows a certain degree
of manipulation (if you happen to be an
identity-manipulator). Upload your sample,
get a picture. Simple!

XXXVI.

So John C fed his own flesh and blood
to the Corp D Well reader and writer,
The output, I am afraid to note, wasn’t
pretty. He stuck his query into the Seq,
namely –> ‘biscuit’. The learned-machine
algo-dances squeaked and gibbered, he also
got data about the characters of this story,
incidentally.

XXXVII.

But first, the get-well readout yielded
a laburnum deep-pression, and lots of
expero-memorian data on his IDENTITY.
LOGIN: ‘JohnC’
INPUT_QUERY: ‘biscuit’
GET_WELL_OUTPUT (decoded): ‘get a life’
DORIANGRAY_IMAGING: link_to_download (random?)
NARRATION_POEM_ATTACHMENT: file_open(‘
Back to the Fossil Shale, echoes in the clay,
a cromoflower balooniana against the darkblue sky
sunrise at Rohtang La,
Vashisht termal baths, Himalayan Time-Travel
Vol|poem_truncated
\\ get-well error \\
line[too long to write] sentimental attachment not uploaded
[data missing] \\ probable [guilt] error
ENTER INPUT_DATA_TYPE: {1} identity_seeker
{2} identity_manipulator
{3} not_sure
$ 3 —-> you chose {3}
|machine_learned_rest_of_story:’

white sky, heavy rain, throttle-guilt
a solitary fugitive finds refuge
in a mountain hut, up into the silent
snows.

a retired vampire at a lake resort
reminisces, meanwhile, about ‘feeding’.

XXXVII.

Guess what, he enquired about random people,
and he got the identitomes of Fortune TZBJ Lobo,
and Desert ‘Porcelain’ Storm. But more on that
later in the day, s’il te plait.

Meditating on the random oath,
wandering on the apparently random
path, the Djikstra’s algo-dance lets
us hope for shorter ways to God.

XXXVIII.

There is much angst, much anger
found in any one breast. The mind
supplements the oath, and the lie.
The anger is directed at one self,

and the self is angry at the anger.
The angry is anger at the rest of
the soul, and the less is wondering
about the more.

XXXIX.

The more is too large to be accepted,
so the less takes charge and erupts,
vibrations of i-deas resound in the
abyss of the mind. I want more, fucker…

More life? More blades? More
torture? More villains?
Mr Lobo is a shorter man, a happier man.
He is aboard the NeverEnder, showering.

XL.

The NeverEnder goes about its deep field,
all the more star-wiser, echoing music
of the Titans, who sang about
the largest dumplings that ever ‘lived’
Stars as dumplings in the sky, forbidden

walking grounds for Spirits such as
Mountain Snake, and her Arch-Enemy,
Oblomster, the artist from former Russkia.

XLI.

Mountain Shake is a handy sprite, up and down
the valleys of the sour dough galaxy. She’s quite
a non-thinker, a very light-footed bare-ballerina,
chasing treefoils among the cosmic debris, and

finding some, like it or not, in the most unlikely
places. Her Arch-Enemy, likewise confined on the
outer pasta constellation, draws atomic colour
from all gaseous conformations around him.

XLII.

Chagall-like, he blasts infinity with metallic
sound, making art out of no thing. He’s very
charming. When they do not fight, the two
form a dancing vector across the single, nonmulti-

dimensional space which coats the
NeverEnder when travelling at slow speed.
The two permeate lifelessness, and constantly
argue about the meaning of art in the void-X.

XLIII.

A long time ago, when he was a bi-sequencer,
driven by despondent deprivation and scientific
hunger, John C carelessly downloaded the
future identitomes of some of the Borovoe
academy usual suspects. Fortune, now slaving

away as a concavity developer, was at that time
nothing more than tiny bundle of cellular happiness.
The singular decomposed clichee-free Desertia
Storma was already labelling sounds of infinity,
way back in the nine ages before candour.

XLIII.

So when he sequenced their files, he did not heed
the premonitory dream attached to in such hybris;
acted as though danger did not exist, and pinched
time’s ass, deciding that it was time to dig some

identities, and these worked just fine.
Now, retracting such actions is not legal, his
banishment on Titan testifies. The core dump file
he’s now trying to analyze does not contain any hint.

XLIV.

His dissertation on the Sick Thoughts of Planets
has not been finished yet. He initiated the literary
count-down several years ago. The then-Chubby
unclone was giddy and alive. The Athenian school,

from which he had graduated, had spewed out
similarly poisoned power-dreamers, and his talents
were devoted to sinking into virtual dreams and
feeding number-crunches to artlessfictionalintelligences.

XLV.

Fortune Lobo’s identitome showed his desire
to create simple data visions to formulate
subversive narratives, gallipulating dogma!
From his soul-obstractle, negative emotions
were mostly absent; while from a walking
shadow horizon, his shakespeare meter was

leaking epinephrenetic compassion by the bucket.
Desertia Stormia single deductomics style
archive hinted at her drill toward poetically
enhancing understanding, her mind-motion as
circular as the cell-cycle::washing-machine analogy.

XLVI.

Both were (are) bent on understanding what
sticks. Playful, young lovers on the plane of
non-emotion. Not really loving each other,
but rather loving the cosmos at large. Their
reading and writing echoing the lesser and the

greater beauty of infinite jestology. So, John C
decided to burn their record and disband his
associated memory, their beauty was much too
much to be tampered by the marketeers.

XLVII.

Upon first reading a certain book with
a broken feedback loop, I had a feeling
born in the mud-pool of poetry, deserts,
cubes, oceans would henceforth be the
bread and butter of my existence. But
the single melting point of this ever-

revolving small dystopical booklet
was the temptation to infer on meta
physics, the circle and district of
evil being at one point or another
identified with a black wolf (why oh why)
Now, is there such a thing as absolute

XLVIII.

evil? Now recently, upon strolling
in a university centre, I came upon the
very definition that the fantastic book
had always been lacking. So, on the
God-mobile planet, where marketeers
are spawned, along with other inverted
brats, I hereby design (primum movens)

the prophet of brightly-coloured ends
as opposed to means, a creature by the
name of MortLock. That which you call
corruption, he calls it leverage.

XLIX.

Roundabout the time in which the
NeverEnder first took off from Borovoe,
Mr Mortlock had a meet with God-mobile;
together they agreed to locate the
longevity discretion variable in the
uni-verse, other wise known as
the fountain of eternal youth.

‘ESSE QUAM VIDERI’, reads the prow
of the NeverEnder, in its erratic
search for the epic narrative thread,
the truer truth, and other clouds.

L.

‘The deep field yields perspective’,
quotes ghost number one, now
following the two surviving space
cadets (Desert S and Fortune L).
Nathaniel (Bermondsey tanner),
friend, reveal to us a cure for
the sick thoughts of planets!

Now the most distinguished among
the three (four) readers of this
epic might cringe at the thought
of a truer truth. Wishing to init
iate a certain discussion, John C

LI.

throws digits in the empty binary
chest, the deep computational gorge
echoes with with unstable algo-dances.

So Mr MortLock sets out from the dark
lying sense of incestuous greed; on
the planet of his origin, green thoughts
in a green shade ooze out memoriam poetry

LII.

the treasury of God-mobile has approved
water-boarding of emotional planets. Other
missions to psycho-somatic heavenly balls
has been decreed. Dr Mephisto is an inside
trader in the ministry of marketeering, on

the shores of the horizon he awaits the
ship’s call. Ship his ship, he seeks the west,
and fields of barley ever blest. Actually,
he is waiting to sail out with Mr MortLock,
they are assessing the possibility of genotyping
eternal youth, with ensuing recipes for aging.

LIII.

A private project, not shared with the agency
of marketeering, he is developing a cure for
the sick thoughts of planets. The first stop
over for MortLock and Mephisto is on planet
guilt.

Mephisto is working on ancestral allele
determination using archotepteral data.
Former DorianGray images from a bygone age.
There’s a picture of a clarinet, a voice
of a broken dandy lately on his serious monies,

LIV.

and more music-sucking by a demon-following
concertista, something straight out of archeo
logos, something ready for a planet fear feast.
Mortlock is tracing the story of a doomed kesterlman,
who tried to seek redemption from a dragging demon,
hellbent and very pissed off. This narrative thread

has been been spooled so many times, yet
marketeers, financiers, insurers, etheral youth
seekers, destiny agents and all the mongrel species
of planet greed or planet God-mobile have
an endless craving for this feat, which is
LV.

always featuring a finale of prosecco and sparkle,
belladonna concertinos, and introductions to reli
gious 101 hunger right before the end of tragedy
and the start of boredom. Deserts are not big enough
and thirst is not dry enough for this gentle folk,

So John MortLock seeks more, and Mephisto
apres lui. Any way, while we are at it, let’s
talk about the randomization of poetric processes,
I believe a little script has been scribbled not
so long ago, just to twist and bend the story,
and introduce spiritual elements, parallel universe
openings and likable or dislikable cross-roads.

LVI.

Now this spoof of a story has been blown out,
John C’s busy revving the poetical mind-moment
and the Borovoe download keeps fading, perhaps
flailing, perhaps failing, certainly not falling

prey to enjambement pyrotechnology, NeverEnding
devices and rabbit-holes to parallel dimensions.
God (!.?,!) save us from such hyper-speak, and
spiritual chorus liners of eternal jokes. The

LVII.

itinerant knight-monk is a click ahead, he holds
the cliche trope, she holds the wisdom of a hamletic
gravedigger. He confronts John C from beyond the
screen about his final Chubby digging, and at the
same time he entertains the two cadets, fresh out
of their respective dimensional supposories and
investigating past versions of presently sick planets.

The younglings have been sent for observation,
recovery, and symptomatic discovery. The mission’s a
bitch.

LIX.

Hallelujah! The gravedigger beeps from a green-keyed
terminal shell. The sick planet is being diagnosed
with the white plague; Fortune Lobo and Desert Storm
are out of their supposory and are investigating
the mental state of planet Fear (actually Mr Lobo

looks through the microscope and out into the galaxy,
peeking descending paths onto planet Anxiety) (in all
honesty, he’s already bored with the mission). Any

LX.

way, that’s the past. The two cadets have found,
among the rubble of an apparently ancient civitas,
a strange-looking sharp object, a once-adored sky
scrapper, covered in ashes (volcanoes abound) and
snow, because, as usual, it’s freaking cold.

The two work tirelessly and retrieve ghost-in-a-shell
scattered data. The snow’s thick, and the evidence is
skimpy. However, from a preliminary analysis, it
appears that this object of object-worship was once

LXI.

called ‘the shard’. The phallic phenomenon, now an
archived lesson at the Athenian school, is one of the
finest examples of latter-age lethargy, and pre-thing,
pre-apocalypse religious objectry, thing-adoration,

and other variations of idolatry and spiritualessness.
This thing is covered in motile snow, all fingery and
wet like the chassis of a turgid vaginal cry. The deaf
sound of cold snows and hot ashes mixes in the staggered
air, the composition of the atmosphere is rather ecletic.

LXII.

The identity of the new breed, the shard-spawned
marketeers, the infected with the white plague is
tightly linked to cloudy origami-galaxies, and black
holes (the size of a small cat). Now then, John C

is stuck in a terminator download-loop, his avatar
kids are stuck (california-like), snowed under; and
a new character is added to the rubber band of the
story (sorry). An af-ghann knight-rider comes forth
bursting through the narrative, carrier of the Don

LXIII.

Quixote trope blended with some Calvino coffee.
He comes and sits in front of the audience for
scrutiny, cross-legged, diamond-begging, and all
buddhistological. He’s got the experience, they say.

From a Q and A with the X, he can go on for hours
about ‘being in the X’, ‘at one with the X’, etc
etc; he’s also being writing an essay on the finest
measures of how to use the X for apps, resource
allocation and thermal dreaming. Obviously, ladies

LXIV.

and gentlemen, he’s been focussing on CONFLICT-INNER,
being a survivor of the India experience, and a believer
in the Himmel-laya. His name is here left unsaid, also
because he is really a lady, under neath that pink
medallion (gorgeous stuff) and that white shaded armour.

She-he’d loved to be hollow on the inside, in a friendly
nudge to Agilulph, let’s just say that they are related
(not by blood, but by emptiness??). She’s really full on,
ready to fire, and all that. He comes forth, brandish
ing the X momentum, and she goes ‘you’re going to be
famous’, that’s his line. It can mean various different
things according to the moment.

LXV.

The two cadets are bewildered, who’s this trans-atlantic
sage? A plant for feeding? A detective? A ticket
inspector? ‘He’s really annoying,’ says Desert Storm,
‘showing up like this.’ And Fortune Lobo adds: ‘He’s
totally out of it (in of it), being in love with the
‘moment’.

Now the story has topsy-turvied, and the reader’s
more than usually tired, and I am gonna get some tea.

LXVI.

The next part of the story tells how a few cadets
became heroes of a spirital quest. It would be nice
to have them for dinner.

Wisdomous young people will change the uni-verse,
if you care to wait, you will find flecks of melancholy.

Chapter II
I.

When the volcano erupted, we could
not turn back – it was late to change
the course of our sail boat. A cloud of
ash rising, moving across the ocean,
blocking the path of sun: the Gods
awakened and disturbed in their sleep.

So I said good-bye to Herculaneum,
farewell to my free man’s villa, and
welcomed the eclipse, the explosion
and the end of summer. The dark azure
intensity of Mare Nostrum called us
away from the coast. It was time to live.

II.

‘Chubby! Do you think I ought to switch
on the Murakamian well?’ The poetess
is making coffee. Early morning on Titan.
‘First put some clothes on, John C.’
Chubby is stating the obvious, with gentle
care. The light of distant galaxies comes

in the living room, soon the Tarantula
Nebula is fully visible on the Dedalus
screen, and the joys of remote living
are met with a bit of Mozart, and a touch
of coffee. John C begins ‘Today I want to
again-explore the Borovoe memory download’.

III.

‘I wonder if they actually left Earth in the end.’
It seems that `the readers` did not appreciate
the choice of names for the Space cadets.
I do apologize for the two-dimensional feel
to them. Tierra Madre is hyperconnected,
but Gesundheit so far only appears briefly.

When one tells a story, one must make do
with whatever poverty one has in one’s path.
It seems that the sea murmurs, the deep rises,
and the songs swing back and forth. The
albatross of inspiration comes bound over
the ship of the epic poem. Everything is

IV.

woven into the fabric of the narrative.
Distant memories float up and rescue
themselves on the shores of Titan, and
John C welcomes them on the screen,
in the mind, and the Murakamian well.
It hurts to set these half digested dreams

on paper, but one must let go of illusions.
Chubby only wishes for happiness to ensue
for the writer, and for the reader too, even
the most demanding, and uninterested reader.
I care for you, too – reader of my dreams.
Love has been lost, and regained: eyes of ash.

V.

The ship has not sailed, moist-bulky as it is.
It is too gray, too dark, too cemetery-bound.
Switching on the Murakamian well. John C
cannot listen to his own voice. Deep in the
well, the storm cannot be heard, and the voice
cannot be uttered. Screams can be landlocked

inside the hills of the mind, and the pain
itself cannot be rendered well enough by the
surgical operation of de-contaminating the
Soul by the sheer force of creative impulses;
so why try… the characters in the story have
collapsed to kites in the sky with paper histories.

VI.

Everything is connected. Let us start with that.
John C cannot really distinguish anything
in the shadows of the technological well
where his visions, neurowaves and emo-rises
are laid bare in a liquid phase, and like a
caterpillar weaving itself to madness, a magic

cocoon made of wires is wrapped around him
in search of the lost connection. Complete
silence. Complete darkness. Chemo-therapies.
Chubby is lost to him. The clone is dead,
because it never existed. Waking up in the
Murakamian well is anguish itself. A purple

VII.

nightmare of all proportions. A shifting shape
pyra-mind appears to him, disguised as an ice
cube. The Titan upload has failed. Feathers and
bullocks. The brain is shrinking, the voice is
sinking. The air has been sucked out of the
informing wire. The tubiscular wood around

his body is defaulting in this time of crisis.
The memory of Chubby has been erased.
Gentle reader, forget that you ever existed.
This book will now be discontinued.
This legend has no meaning. There, in the
voice, a sound, a unique, throbbing rhythm

VIII.

dot dot dot dot. Experimenting with the mind can
lead to salvation as well as damnation. In the
ocean, diamonds are found. Music may be
streaming through this intermittent connection.
It is August 12th, and all is well. Coffee is spilled;
over the mountain-top, an aria is rising with

momentum. The story is suffering, caught between
the fabric of emotion. John C is down in the drown
room, soaking in all the forgotten insomniac garbage
stored in the cellular luggage hold facility. Bang!
Compressed graphic material about the start of
consciousness. Snow, leaves, winter chill.

IX.

there is an objective reality, a truth with capital t
in order to access that, the filter must be stopped;
fiction and fantasy are fragmented half-truths,
regurgitations of a confused mind, whose vision
is dimmed by a myriad insectoid sensory loadings.
form must re-discover faith, and its koan voice

the Never-ender is set to discover the Cosmos
a heavy spacecraft, a Colossus of Rhodes, ready
to leap across emptiness with idealistic daring;
a motley feathered phoenix, rising of the dead land
rain over the North Yorkshire heather-hued moors
assembly of these fragments joins by suggestive

X.

chance within John C finneganic dream, for
he must sleep a dreadful lot; deep in the Murakamian
well, echoes of memory bubble up, though
we cannot infer with certainty whose experiences
those may really be, the electric impulses have
profound emotional impact on the visionary

John C is burdened by excessive Lockian freedom;
successive, aggressive revolutions in his life
history determined exile on Titan; but how does
the waking mind selectively uptake figments
of the real to formulate a credible dream, or vice
versa? It takes many a day to wake from slumber

XI.

for such wind argonauts as our less than Titanic hero,
vicious recirculation by circadian rhythm murders
any hint of achieved knowledge of what is what,
and each day, when dawn rises from the fog,
the fearful and broken mind finds itself in a pool
of naked sentiment, unable to escape the inevitable.

Chubby day-dreams of the satellite closest to earth,
whose orbit determines the lunatic phases of the sea
and the tilled fields, and the summer-weary swan
She’s busy writing poetry, shaping word-dough
while John C is in liquid phase. The Murakamian
well is a consciousness-extraction device whereby

XII.

the subject is inserted into a cylinder of red solution
to explore the most inaccessible memories residing
in the fathom five of the ocean of the unconscious,
regardless of what happens in Croydon, that is.
Alone with the dark blue bottle, the mind wanders
Harks back to the time when Chubby was a little kitty

Happy times when the sky clears and the cloud
lets out a deep breath. The street hurts. Echoes.
The cosmic space, word of a wonder-wanderer,
Happens when light dazzles from above and below
A mirror scheme, the bottomless ocean, the skyful
Skillful blue, pattern after pattern, a sad dream.

XIII.

June nine teen ninety eight. Morning air,
nippy. I am worried, I just had the most
frightening premonitory dream. The world
will awaken from slumber on a day not
distant, and everything will be undone

We shall all wake up from this illusion
of light, Beethoven will want to drown.
Skies shall crack open, mountains shall
crumble; people with their mouths open
will eat each other, along with daffodils.

XIV.

Cicciotta is dead, the iridescent phoenix
roams over the Russian waste land, inter
poenas et tormenta vivit anima contenta,
casti amoris sola spe. Norah Jones is so
cool. I am trying to pick up the pieces,
I never have to see Eastern Germany again.

Pick up the gun, set up the story. Just let
dreams be, just let the haunted ghosts be.
How does it feel to be dead, grand mother?
It feels like exactly like being frozen to death.
The Neverender is a space craft designed to
leave faster than the speed of ‘face the music’.

XV.

Down in the well, all planets are equally
distant. The emotional log makes a record
of the electrical soul inklings . Sugar
manufacturers will deal with the rest.

A Ginnunga gap, a main stream of present
past and (possibly) future offers opportunities,
gawp with their jaws all shilly shally. For
the eternal light, everything is really fuzzy.

XVI.

Now the Neverender has been tripping for
ever seven months now. Softly, the sunny
stars eclipse the day dreamers and voicelessly
murmur slavishly angry thoughts. The clouds
will never reappear, but Titan is outta kink.

Sheltered in the ship’s claustrophobic gut,
Officer G is counting twilight breathes
with his meditating swing. Out side, the
head light of the star ship endlessly searches
the uni verse for meaning purpose etc

XVII.

‘What’s the temperature? Straight jacket
cold, you might say.’ The hull echoes with
a voice and two heartbeats. Tierra Madre
is tapping on her musical box, reading
her soul history out loud. Gesundheit is
studying the exterior through the deep space

lens. ‘So my Roman self life history was
intense. My soul record mentions a volcano
eruption, a nomadic journey and something
called a memory download. The meaning of that
escapes me. Do you remember any of your
previous lives?’ Gesundheit continues with her

XVIII.

focal activities, then pauses, resumes and then
suddenly turns irritated ‘Why are you interrupting
me with your soul garbage? I’m looking into
infinity.’ ‘Scuse me, miss phallosophy. Didn’t know
you were so deeep.’ Tierra Madre squirms back.

Suddenly, Gesundheit hollers, then whistles, then
sibilates in the most insecure voice ‘Land ahoy, yo!
Or water ahoy, really’. ‘Whatever’ Tierra’s smoky skin
lights up as she speaks in a sing-song tone, all but
excited, she is not partaking in the marvel of the
discovery. ‘I was telling you about my soul history, girl.
You see, I had to leave a Roman fishing village first.

XIX.

These freaky parallels! Now we had to leave earth
because of the solar system was being engulfed by
our star. A volcano, the sun… don’t you see everything
happens in fractals, patterns, circles? Are you listening?
Blondie? Bitch? Crestfallen?’ Gesundheit is not aware
of her words. She keeps her head down above the lens
and looks into deeply questionable space. ‘Why should

there be other living creatures in the cold empty void?’
Tierra Madre explains herself the meaning of all that
while the ship veers starboard toward a bubbly thing,
a planet, it seems . ‘Ladies and Gentlemen this is the
Captain speaking.’ Ariadne clears her voice ‘I hope

XX.

you have been enjoying yourselves on this short-ish
trip to a new home. It appears that we have found
a large quantity of wo’er, H 2 O, a great big heap
of life sustaining liquid. Forgive my French, but
putain! Fuck me! This is an historic moment! Now,
where’s my hat? Who took my hat? What are these

flowers for? Where’s the champagne? Bring me my
vice-empress Flexa. Where’s everybody gone to?
Mr G, have you seen my hat?’ Tierra Madre, piqued
by her friend’s lack of interest, retreated to her cabin
with her music box on, so she missed all the fuss.
Gesundheit is in a state of shock, her heart all racing.

XXI.

Two months later, all the novelty has worn off.
The planet is just water, water and water. A bubble
castle against water events, wavy and squally like
that. The inhabitants of the planet are human-like
except for a fin here and there, and the absence
of a sense of humour. Philosophers on both sides

collide in epic discussions, Laputa-like, on the
possibilities of convergent evolution. DNA stringers
are busy phylogenetising all impermanence and
all living things, but it’s gonna take a while for
that neighbour-joining algorithm to fit this one.
The main occupation of the indigenous humans

XXII.

Is war. Surprise! I thought it would be poetry.
There are two empires clashing their claws like
cats. The main ethic-territorial-religious dispute
is between Memorians (composed of Veas and Peaks)
and Oblivians (who used to be called Wallyees).
Tierra Madre gets dispatched to the Vea capital,

while her friend Gesundheit stays on board,
monitoring the activities of Wallyees from afar.
Way better assignment, at least you can work
in a pajama. John C walks out of the well, and
looks for his friend, the clone cat. But she’s gone.
Will you side with the Oblivians or the Memorians?

XXIII.

Desert Storm is unsure with whom to side;
She has chosen, after some consideration, an
assignment to the Peak Capital, the decaying
city of Light and Dark. It is her conviction
that one cannot fight darkness. It is a slow,
inevitable wave, like a requiem played when

making love. King of Heaven, we implore at
night, suddenly awake, save me, save my soul.
Desert Storm is a troubled cadet, but she’ll
have to take sides in the end, and her decisions
will affect the rest of her life. Light becomes
light, a hermit once said, but that hypothesis

XXIV.

Has not been substantiated. The city of Light
and Dark, a strange land sprawl on a planet
confounded by waters, has shadows and shades.
Its moribund mystery has long been claimed,
And the treasures it holds are but a series of
Memories. The Memorian city does not want

To forget. This idea appeals to Desert Storm.
She has long fantasized about discovering a
civilization with a history to sell, a myth to
dig from the grave. Water-planet humans revere
the achievements of the Peak people, the city
reflects moments of their history. Buildings

XXV.

breathe with pride, the moon is high, and the
night is white, and memories are from
underground. Aboard the Neverender, Desert
Storm bids temporary farewell to her cadet
friends. Stars outside the ship’s panels, a
chasm of slippery light and forgetful silence.

The azure glow of the water planet dims
her eyes. Tierra Madre is sad. “So bright”,
she says. “I’ve been experimenting with
mind-altering teas. I will soon bring the Placebo Wing
to the other Memorian capital, and my
carcass with it. A city, they say, protected
XXVI.

By walls of water.” Desert Storm sits still,
staring into her X. John C is fretting over
the memory download. There is something
odd about the experiment he is undertaking.
There’s something off about this one. “ I do
not like this one bit. There’s something wrong

with it. Or with me.” And yet he is inexorably
attracted to it. “So much of life” he tells Chubby
“is composed of sifting through other people’s
mental garbage, desperately seeking something
resembling our own experience. Copy after copy,
paste after paste. We live parallel lives. On the
screen, on the touchpad, on our bed.” Chubby

XXVII.

Writes notes of all of this, intermittently licking
her paws. It is going to rain on Titan, a wreathe
of gaseous whorls lifts up, carried upwards by
winds unknown. “We’ll have methane for supper, dear”
That’s all she says. John C opens a can of cat food.
He eats from the can, Chubby stares down.
The drop is some hundred meters.

XXVIII.

In the city of Peak winds, it is a cold
Sun day morning, except, as in any good
sci-fi story, there are more stars in the sky
than one, not to mention the moons. How
many would you like, dear reader? Myself

I always liked a sunset with at least three
Suns and a dozen satellites. Go figure it.
The warm season is yet to come. The water
planet is slowing awakening, the gaia feeling
it has is a feeling of sickened remorse.

XXIX.

Desert Storm is full of childish thoughts.
She has just landed near the Peak memorial,
her eyes are welling up with emotion.
Long has she dreamt of visiting the home

of a creative writer, and this V. H. is
an etcher of moving stories. She’s finally
here, face to face with unknown myths.
The history is both familiar and remote,
such a frightful headache.

XXX.

On Monday, she wakes up in jail, her face
pressed up against the glass. Ariadne is with her,
her hands resting in her laps. “We’ll have to
negotiate with the local authorities. Tell me what
happened.”

In the ocean of the water planet, there exists a
creature with many eyes, a ball of flesh, a gourmet
sinuous bottom-dwelling monster. It can see
every thing on the planet. “I’ve had a good time”
it says “other times, I’ve had a good time”.

XXXI.

The creature lives alone in the wake of waves,
and never rests. Its hunger, Grendel-like, is only
satisfied when feasting on forbidden land creatures.
In the dungeons of the Peak capital, there lives

another creature, roaming the underground restlessly.
It can touch, but cannot see. Its pod-feet wander about
in search of light and knowledge, but blindness and
darkness is all they have as choice.

XXXIII.

“I don’t feel happy”, begins Desert Storm. I went into
a sexual frenzy. I mutilated a Peak statue, I tried
to seduce a Peak citizen. There’s something in the
air of this planet that stimulates my libido. I know
it’s me, and yet there is something else, speaking to me.

As I was masturbating with the fingers I cut off
from the statue, memories of this planet flooded through me.
I’ve had visions of a sea-dwelling creature, a sort of
disgusting, many-eyed whale. And under this city,
I saw a crawling thing, stirring in the morning time.

XXXIV.

The clouds dim my mind, the days roll by, and I find
in myself a sort of nostalgia for our old planet, for the
old days. Help me, Ariadne.” Dreamer and Lightluck,
the two archivists, walk in and motion to Ariadne.
“You’ve always been my flower-student, I have to go now”

And so she goes. A night in Napoli, a long time ago.
Memories come as visions to Desert Storm. She plays with
the broken statue. In the peak prison, she only finds
comfort when playing with her sex. “These memories,
they belong to someone else.”

XXXV.

“Why have I been arrested? Why did
I decided to insult this alien nation by tampering with
their historical heritage? Why do I feel such erotic love
for the skin and convulsions of this planet?”
Meanwhile, Fortune Lobo is among the Oblivians.

They are such lovers of good food. They eat without
shame, and continuously. He is meticulously scribbling
away, recording every small observation, a good biologist
on his Galapagos journey.

XXXVI.

And Tierra Madre is feeling ill. Somehow, she knows
there is something wrong with her. She looks outside
of the window. This is the Veal city, a city surrounded
by walls of water. Gesundheit is with her. She is learning
the Citoo language. It’s a culture whose origin no-one

really knows about. Yet, one day, a new section of the human
archive just appeared, and there it was, carefully described.
Gesundheit wants to be able to tell the future, so she
studies all that that pertains the unknown, the bizarre,
the unconscious, the time-relevant and the timelessly
mysterious.

XXXVII.

“Master Goya once said, the sleep of reason…”
John C disconnects the download, and looks down.
There is a choice of other downloads. There must be
other things to do in this cosmos than replaying

old downloads, or uploading discarded files.
“Do you miss me, my darling?” One of many
unforgiven downloads
speaks to him, as he closes his eyes.

XXXVIII.

Tierra Madre is sickly-woven. There is a slow hades-feeling
creeping over her. She’s caught the grey-area bacterium.
It causes a sort of mystical dizziness at first, and then,
a peculiarity of the Veal city, a kind of major hopelessness.

The city is beautiful, yet abandoned, and yet somehow
still living. The Peak and Oblivian tourists populate
its cobbled streets, boats slowly slither away on magic
waterways, and the light of the multiple satellites
calls pockets of silent musicians to play dead songs
to the nomadic lovers of yester-year.

XXXIX.

Yes, it’s you – you fear being found out, reader. I am
speaking of you. Creme-caramel, a Peak inhabitant,
has as a day job the ungrateful task of keeping the
prisoners happy by telling them stories. Not about

insurance salesmen or slumbering numb-waves,
or sailing decorations of plates through the kitchen
void, or anything to do with marriage, or deceit.
Creme-caramel, strange and fair-headed, mindlessly
considerate finds it interesting to escape her duty
and interrogate the prisoners.

XL.

“So, tell me, Desert Storm, how is life on earth?
Or should I say, how was life on earth? I’d like to be
sadistic with you. I’d like to get all the juice out of
you, and find out all your deep undiscovered biscuits.
I am sure you – human – have a lot to tell. Do tell.

I am bored with my job. I need a break. I need a life.
Do tell. I need to slumber, I need to fly. I like Kafka,
but not on any beach. There are too many cats in this
story.”

XLI.

“If you want to understand humans, my alien Caramel,
read Clarel, by Herman Melville”, said DS.
“’Scuse me, silly Desert Stormette, you are the alien
here. This is my planet, yo.
Who the hell is Fortune Lobo? Why is Desert Storm called
with such a Titanicky name? Why is Creme Caramel

not married? These, and such other crucial matters
to the telling of these stories shall be recounted after
the advertisement suggestions for you, wondrous audience.
Please buy “Let me get by”, a new product by Chop-Gunn,
the air-teasist from Dusseldaft.

XLII.

The Neverender has been trippin’ for several months, now.
We got that. The stars soffly mur-mur and ciao-ciao
while voicelessly angry thoughts are being down-loaded
by John C. Sheltered in the gut of the ship, Officer G.

interrogates his navel. Who is Fortune Lobo? He is
a cadet. He’s got locks of hairdo. He’s kind. He wants
to be a scientist. His trousers are long and his smile is steady.
What kind of a wimpy-ass character description do we
have here?

XLIII.

The head light of the Neverender searches the uni verse
for sherry and gin and tonic and for meaning and for Aldous
and Chop-Gunn. I am a graduate from York, from Brun-Hell.
Desert Storm has a choice. Recount the story of life
on earth or die tryin’. She has been sentenced to death.
Orgasmical Creme Caramel visits her regularly to milk
her of the absolute hidden Truth, the truer Truth, the one

with the capital mis-understatement. After all, fox,
being alive is not all that worth it. Don’t hide, reader.
The choice, oh my dear Tierra Madre in Veal city,
is not between selling out and being strong.
A boat floats by while The Neverender awaits
instructions. Chubby writes them down, and John C
interrogates himself on why Officer G reminds him
of spontaneous miraculous.

XCIV.

The Never-ender is a self-aware ship. It knows all about
its cadets and officers. It remembers earth, and the way
back, much like a stray dog. Can you imagine a star-ship
much like a basset hound? Well, you know.

Chubby is picking her nose with cat claws. Don’t
recommend it. Gesundheit is also in prison. She tried
to spring Desert Storm free with one of her spiritual
séance freedom sessions but all she managed to do

XLV.

Is get herself noticed, and arrested. Her boy-friend,
an artist that shall remain unknown, should take note
that he ought to take better care of his very smart girl.

If all men knew what heroes they have as partners…
we wouldn’t be here to try to confound and better
the uni-verse.

XLVI.

The verses are getting narrower, the Placebo Wing
is roaming among the canals while Tierra Madre is
playing with her mystical-musical pod license.
I wish I was a musician, she interjects.

She loves to fly her craft above the water, the
still water of the Veal lagoon.
Gesundheit got busted trying to free her friend.
Desert Storm, a very beautiful young woman,
very intelligent and everything, is not impressed.

XLVII.

The eroticism of death does not appeal to her.
Her days refuse numbering. We’re all dying,
she keeps telling her blond, crestfallen friend.
Desert Storm draws pictures of mythical birds

which are cluttering her mint mind. She feels
her youth growing inside of her. Water is still.
It sparkles. The planet where she has landed
is very interesting but she misses home.

XLVIII.

“Why am I in prison, goddamit. Want to smoke.
Want sex. Want some new wants. Bullet train
to oblivion. We left the earth to be outta kink.
Outta time, the Romans came from Troy.

The Trojans faced the seas and one of them
got killed by Neptunian snakes. Gesundheit
is convinced of being a reincarnated Roman.
A freed slave.

XLIX.

There she is, thinks Desert Storm. Gesundheit
sleeps like a miniature warrior, peacefully.
“We left a burning planet, much like the city
of Troy. The planet was full of infested weddings.
The water-main had broken. Free rein to the
consumerist virus. The biology of the virus
is that it consumes you from within.

L.

At dinner, Fortune Lobo observes Oblivian
lore. Large groups of people gather and
draw pictures in the air, with cloud brushes.
Yet they are consumed by a hookworm,
a verme-solitaire, a solitary worm.
They eat, and laugh and spit and pig out.

They love life. They love food. They love
being together. Being loud, together.
They smile a lot, even without meaning
to do so, Fortune Lobo notes. He is happy
among them. But they are hungry.
They continue to eat, and eat, and eat.

LI.

Tierra Madre, flying, reflects on the
nature of the Veal city: abandoned,
semi-flooded. Its civilization destroyed
by Peak invaders. An old poem,
remembered by the few survivors,
narrates the last days of the city.

She (the cadet, not the city) is ill,
with a feeling that something wicked
this way has been coming for a while.
Fortune Lobo, stuck between youth
and diplomacy, enjoys the company
of Oblivian women. He is entertaining

LII.

the idea of sailing across the Sword
Ocean to explore this planet for the
human story to include slightly richer
chapters. Desert Storm, in her cell,
etches little fables onto a luminous

slab, in order to fight depression.
She recalls her childhood. Dreamer
has swapped seats with Lightluck,
they are about to begin a game of
relationship speed chess. Officer G
has met Ariadne and Flexa. They have

LIII.

Decided to fly to the Veal city and
study the development of a strange
disease, which apparently has infected
Tierra Madre. According to the DNA
literate men, the story that this virus
is fond of telling is a story analogous

to that of a known terrestrial pathogen,
which wiped out, among others, frogs,
bees, horses and a large number of
humans, mostly before the Thing. Land
ahoy! Dreams Fortune Lobo, while
he eyes the breast of an Oblivian athlete.

LV.

Dreamer and Lightluck are old friends.
Dreamer is ginger soft woman, with
delicate hands and artistic inclinations.
She has a hard core of plastics inside
her, and she listens to old records, and
she does not eat chocolate. Lightluck
is athletic, pathetic and strong. She has

a strong sense of enthusiasm for flowers,
derivatives and timelessness. Neither of
them is innocent, and yet they are angry
and annoyed at an increasingly corporate
universe, and they cherish childish dreams
of light and luck. They are so fond of each

other that they hate each other, and not so
secretely. They are in love with one another,
if anything, to defy loneliness and the cliff
hanger of marriage and devotional duties
to the Neverender, humanity and their Borovoe
dictator.

LVI.

To be honest, I resent them, and so does
John C, who is currently entertaining the
thought of throwing the damn cat from the
window. Methane is a good pool for naughty
cats, he thinks. I happen to think that Titan
is crowded these days.

Now you know, dear reader, that Creme
Caramel has naughty dreams, and she is
trying to tease out from an increasingly
depressed Desert Storm the story of her life,
of life on earth, and the secret of the universe.

LVII.

Everything is rolled into one, according to
Irish story-tellers. I woke up from a falling
dream and I saw Lightluck and Dreamer
playing their favourite game, just to defy
their sense of time and of meaning. Fortune
Lobo is making love to Oblivian goddesses,
two at a time, while they try to understand
the nature of men, women, the chemistry,

the life of a single person in search of a
committed relationship (both in an urban
setting as well as in the country).
For this reason, dear reader, they play the
world famous gimmick of relationship
speed chess.

LVIII.

Huff! Puff! Fortune Lobo is labouring away
well into the humble digs of an oblivian
dweller, and he performes above the
average for a friday evening at any of your
writer’s clubs lovelies.

In the meaning time, Dreamer opens
with a rather daring gambit. “A funeral
pyre as the starting point for love and duty”.
“A flick of the wrist, and a dazzle in the eyes”,
replies Lightluck, always trying to defy Dreamer
in her territory.

LIX.

There’s always a moment in life
when the unexpected happens,
time comes to a stop, and God
comes fingering you in the most
unholy of places, a thing that
the Japanese call satori. Those
moments, known as moments of

clarity reconnect living beings to
the universal plug-in. But, one may
notice, these moments are sometimes
seen as holy, and thus revered, put
in a showcase, gilded. The most
unpleasant motions of revisionism
then sap their energy, and the mind-body
regains control of the material and the
spiritual.

So, what life once taught us becomes
a myth, and this story is concerned with
such myths, thus deconstructed and
revisited. Brides’ head turned on its ass.

LX.

Those moments of gilded horns
of dilemma and digestion are the
sub-ject of this space epic thing,
and I am afraid to say that those myths
are re-narrations and evocations
of earlier insights that I have largely
forgotten. Ladies and gentlemen,
I have forgotten.

LXI.

Tierra Madre observes the bacterium
that has infected her down the picoscope.
What a large father mucker, she thinks.
So it turns out, according to the DNA
addicts, that she also carries the consumerist
virus in her blood. Pot bellies and empty
look? Luiz Vittonz on the horizon?

Fat chance, Tierra has crocodile
skin, and she is putting up a fight.
She goes flying with her Ballerina Wing
on the lagoon, observing the tiny
Veal fishers and clammers labouring
in the water.

LXII.

Senior officers are concerned, given
that the consumerist virus wiped out
large parts of the human population
on earth.

Dogs bark, lemons are being squeezed,
and Fortune Lobo lies in bed, victor
in battle. His next project is to stand
inside a sail boat across the ocean
and sing schoolboy songs.

LXIII.

Desert Storm weeps silently in jail, her painted
techno-nails discuss options with each other,
while Creme-Caramel sips tea and Gesundheit
still sleeps sleepful dreams about Frankenstein.
‘It’s not my problem’, mutters the many-eyed
whale as it attacks a Peak settlement,
humming ‘là ci darem la mano’.

LXIV.

“Check!”, Dreamer parades her cat grin.
Officer G, Flexa, Ariadne watch the skies
in search of hope. The Neverender sleeps.
RostRya, inspired cadet, is daydreaming,
the light of the multiple (local) stars in her eyes.

LXV.

‘Sometimes I love you’, Chubby sings,
John C is panting a picture about a picture
with a damned gentle-man, and all the
nanolepidopterans are flying at the sound
of music.

LVI.

There. The Coelacanth genome has just been
published, the transition on land ought to be
mapped between an eye toward the sky
and a fish for starters.

John Ashbery, Jonathan Prynne and Dr Full-ton
discuss versions of a screenplay about
Laputa, Jurassic eggs and the postmodern
Egyptian poetry. Did you know that Emperor
Augustus was born in Nola?

LVII.

Tierra Madre traces a little de-tour,
While listening to Bach, she thinks of love.
There’s more light to this world than
The old mistakes would lead us to believe.
Fortune Lobo, sailing across the water,
singing of unknown mountains, still
following the code of the good man.
He shipwrecked, then married an icicle girl
in the steppe, following the yellow ribbon
of narration.

LVIII.

Much like Aeneas with Dido, he spurned her,
beautiful martyr, he sailed across more water.
Desert Storm, in a prison cell, recalls
abandonment in the rain. Dreamer and Lightluck
have forgotten the secret they were meant to keep.

Desert Storm opens up a case, and with a fine
needle, she injects pure self-esteem into her vein.
Fortune Lobo is still sailing, sailing on the fire
of filtered water, across unknown straits, quotas
of land, of rejected beliefs.

LIX.

And then suddenly, they are all beamed up
aboard the NeverEnder. The self-aware spaceship
decided on a question of style that the machine-written
laws of the universe would lead us to far other seas,
and other planets.

Fortune Lobo marvels at his wedding band. RostRya
sits and observes Zeus’s vomit outside the window.
“I’ve gone out the window”, an echo in John C’s mind.
Tierra Madre is semi-cured, and Desert Storm is semi-sexual.

LX.

What will happen to our sexuality, once we are fully human?
So the ship drifts toward more space, more hubble-bubbles.
It’s been a while since anyone on the ship visited the X.

Cicadas in the wind. Up in the twisted inverted relative cold,
the far-away word and music location of the NeverEnder,
space is lots, and the wave-chopping vessel rows across the photons,
swinging in the ecstasy of lots of satellite garbage memories,

LXI.

unbound, forgotten, drifting, where each human and non human
moment walks across the universe in the form of a memory pod,
grab one of these, reader-thing, and chew it. Millions of sentient
monkeys have spent their money just to be something, someone
at the mall down the alley.

Our cadets and ship, and officers and staff are stuffed down
the gorge of limit opening space, almost a transition to being
some thing else. They are limited by the objective of the narrative,
and the capacity of John C to re-live enacted memories, and the
interest of dearReader to keep on going in a waste of dead roots.