jim bellamy's songpages ~ some short stories and extracts from 2 esoteric novels

some short stories and extracts from 2 esoteric novels

fine photo of the late great genius poet Dylan Marlais Thomas.

some short stories by jim bellamy:-

‘BEFORE TRUE REST HAS COME’ a very short story by jim bellamy

THAT EARLY evening, in September 1985, only one person was mad

enough to light the lamps, and she was the cruellest. She behaved as

a bore and did not like prosody. Call her Jasmine. She wore a

strange suit that seemed washed by the tides. By her side there was

a book and a phantom man and child. The moon was not yet out. I

travelled home with a bag by my side. I bore an album too. I did not

care for dancing.

Inside my home was a pair of tights that was torn down the legs. I

padded barefoot to the parlour downstairs. Downstairs smelt weird.

Pungent scents wafted from the cigars dad had smoked before today. I

peeped noisily at the corners of my kitchen. It seemed as though the

curtains there were forever drawn. My eyes were still heavy from a

future dream. A dream of untouchable woman and I was falling,

always. I heard my sister weeping. Beneath my larder, I sensed

vegetables turn to utmost rot. Upstairs from myself, there was a

family viewing the news. I closed the back doors: now there was

nobody to disturb me.

But all the noises of the otherwise dead, darkened by mourning,

intimated breathing on the mirrors in the hall. And the gaslight,

gone, served as intimate relation to a past I had known long before

this life had formed.

First there was a long strip of photos of my great grandmother. A

professional dickybird with hood once snapped his way as he strode

the vanished main streets, calling “Good morning” across the lanes

where once shop-windows shone inside candle-light. And here I was,

yet asleep, walking down the precincts. Here were the

mendicant-blind and the cured killed. All I could do was to bleed

into my own heart the peculiar fact that my life as an infant was

now ended. But melancholy could not damn me. I was assured by sound

of my own personal fate. And school is often spelt wrongly.

Bells rang in my ears. Bells rang at the heels of my school-mates.

It was as if an earth of fear had been deposed to reveal a station

with a train whose destination would appear neither hidden or

absolved. I knew then that learning was to be my only future.

And here I was, running down the dead-ends of my childhood, stout,

confident, in command. But I appeared to peek into the windows of

forgotten stores. Buried in errands, stepping aside from the common

kind , prying strange looks at the broken looking-glasses of

furniture shops, my soul was photographed.

“Your image has been taken”. Immortality achieved in the space of

one moment sent me skipping along the roads forever. And learning

was to my immortality. With hairpins, buttons, screws, shampoo

packets, knitting-needles. At nearly six-in-the-morning, I was

hurried to awake for real.

The clock struck six. Daddy put his hand out and turned it askance.

Then the whole of my life was dreaming but thence self-lead.

The dog growled like a demon, and showed me his largest teeth. “Stay

still, Stinker. Get back to sleep, boy.” I was yet too tired to

speak with a slap. My eyes pulsed with a forgotten tiredness which

was soon to permit for seven whole years of learned life.

Most of the sheets on this table were dirty. A lump of coal from an

open fire should somehow remark on the vandalism apparent thereupon.

Foisted on the careful graffiti were drawings of legs and breasts

which smudged out rude names and formless numbers. History is lies.

Now take the Jutes. Read ahead, read about King Charles. Move ahead,

read about Prince Alfred. Discover who killed the headmaster’s

daughter. Read about old Bennett and see him whipped down the

corridors. See Liz stuffed with dates or dip a starched collar in

the smirking inks as hammers smash teeth into a prim, bald, smirking

head. Spiral away from Saint Nicholas and speak of his presence till

gifts are stopped. Ride the piggyback of a drunken scream. Catch

penny stains sketched as if silk garters. These tables are as true

as History.

Upon the last sheet I signed my name several times with a pen which

had no lead. I did not opt to scribble with the real. At a first

glance there was no sign of interference. Thence I drew my eye to

the coke inside its synthetic grate. Dust drifted up into a cloud,

and then I settled down into my first true day. If only I could yell

at the ceilings and trace dark circles made by former gas or crack

into lines the figures and faces which danced and chased animals

over hidden fields: Come, let’s look at Saint Joan who has somehow

destroyed her parents’ house in Stephen’s Street, or else Staines

Grove; he will never be allowed to come back. Mrs. Baker, have a

peek now, perhaps, from under these cold sheets, at Mr. Baxter, who

worked in the Post Office Tower.

“Be quiet”, I said to myself, “Surely I know nothing.”

Dad opened the gates of the pantry door. The worn best plates shone

like fire. A pattern, akin to a willow tree, span round the cups and

filled with flowers the fruits of the coiling texts. Jugs were piled

up on one large shelf, on another the bowls, the soup-tureens, the

toast-racks spelling Brighton, Hastings, Porthcawl. Then for the

trifle-dishes. Thence the fitful afternoons when tea-service was

brittle as biscuits but proud with gold-leaf. I cracked two saucers

together, and the curved spout of a teapot came off in my own two

hands. Inside five minutes I had perhaps smashed the whole set. May

all the vices of Leicester Square bow down to see me as I whisper in

this scullery: the spidery young girls who help at home. Calculating

down this pavement where the rich-smelling shops,

screwed up in their sensuousness, dry hair in the rooms to the side

of this home. I blood off salt with the plant that’s grown. And I

should have hopes that the office girls may knock at my door with

the very stubs of their fingers. You can hear sex now gliding from

the glass porch of this sealed room. “Oh yeah” I must have said, and

the just male voices agreeing softly. “Shoo to them who snore in and

out of Staines Grove”. I know that they are sleeping under vexed

sheets up to the fringes of their grey whiskers. Meryl is marrying

the Chamber and Mary is wedding to Lady Settee. I am breaking

tureens in this bad cupboard beneath the stairs.

A metal plate dropped from out my hands and smashed to smithereens.

I awaited the sound of my mother awaking. No one stirred outside.

“Stinker is perfect,” I said aloud, yet the harsh noise of an inner

mental voice drove pets in my world back to silence. My fingers

became cold and numb for I knew I could not lift another plate

without breaking it.

“What are you doing?” dad said to me at last, in a cool, flat tone.

“Leave the Streets alone. Let them sleep”.

Then I closed the pantry door.

“What are you doing, raving away?”

Even so the dog had not been awakened.

“Raving away,” I said.

God would have me hurt quickly now. The incident in the cupboards

had made much of a trembling so much that I could hardly tear up the

mess I had made inside the sideboards and the china that was

scattered under the stairs was too difficult to destroy. The doilies

and the patterned tea-cosies were still together, hard as rubber. I

pulled them up as one, as if in a hope of wedging them up the

chimney.

“These are such small things,” I said. “I should break the windows

and stuff the cushions with this broken glass.” Dad saw his round

soft face in the mirrors under the duplicate Mona Lisa. “But you

won’t”, I said,, “Be afraid of the noise I have made.”

Dad burnt away the edge of his mother’s guilt and shame and

remembered to poke out his tongue to sap the tracks of my tears.

“Still playing to cry,” he said. “Tears have salt and life is all

salt. Just like the best of my poems.”

Dad returned upstairs to the dark, with the light flailing, and

seemed to lock the doors on the inside. He put out his hands and

touched the walls by my bed. Good morning and farewell, Mrs. Barker.

My window, facing his bedroom, was wide-open to the winds, but I

could not hear the breathing of my mother. Most of the houses were

still quiet. The main part of the street was a closed grave. The

neighbours were still safe and deep in their separated silences. My

head no longer touched its pillow and I knew that I should not sleep

again. Dad’s eyes stayed closed.

Come down now into my arms, for I shan’t sleep. I know your rooms

like the backs of my hands and I do not wish to sleep again. Tomorrow, today,

I am going away by the 7.50 train, with five old pounds and an old

suitcase. Lay your dreams against this

bed for the alarm at six-thirty will hurry you back to the once

drawn blinds where lit fires burn before true rest has come. Come

with me quickly to where we may hear breathe the floats of the

milk-men as they are waking.

Dad was asleep with his hat on still, and his hands were clenched.

My family awoke before cock-crow. At least, I thought I heard them.

They would stand in their dressing-gowns, stale-eyed and with ragged

hair. O, come with me quickly.

....

.copyright jd bellamy 2002.

......................

A NATIONAL TRAIN OF LOVE (a very short story by jim bellamy)

I sat in a state of privy, with a slag-heap sat beside me. In all the compartments of the train I
travelled, there were lessons to be gleaned and learned.

Time was dressed in a bland tweed suit. The apologies of god were leaden with shame. Galbraith
served my mind and still I danced inside my sullen
body whilst love reared up from the chains of the happy-killed. O, my soul lay dented and
Everyman reneged on my thoughts and stilled the veins of my
brain.

“I saw you use the dance-floor” taunted a woman in a state of obfuscation and the side of Her
head damaged by way of dreaming. The lavatories of Hell lay
opened. My dark side appeared to rape my Gem. The scented sentimentalities of the seats which
rode were forced to swerve. Lust’s hands turned askance.

“Heavenward for these pages you read” spoke my tutor. The peacock quills of a former state
denied my dreams as passion raided the sly scenes of my
languid ear.

Home and help were ended. The gardens of the thrilled children of life stabbed me in both
cheeks of my bum and the guards of Christ’s subhuman Turin
Shroud noosed my cries with Atheistic lies.

“Jain” said a second teacher. The hands of the clock on the wall caused words to repeat as if
entertained by self-flagellating cries. The hole in my sex

descried gloom. It was clear to me that girl kind should desert me. After all, my denial of
sex-abuse had been all too apparent and I could not find the

masturbatory words whereby I might at last indulge in a sensuous scream.

The handle of love turned.

“I do not consider youth as a bed-wetter and I must presume that when I cross my legs the scars
of the ocean make a way for plum-duff?!’
These words from a third tutor seemed remotely powered. I dared not understand what She eant.
Now my use of the train was gaining swiftness. Running down its rails, the gurgling noise of
fellow-passengers caused a hapless sensation of disquiet.

A cloud of people stood arguing with the north-wind. I was not too maddened to experience pain
and the length down my leg was never real.
“My name is Dom Daniel. Can anybody tell me why elderberry wine causes trips?”

But Dom Daniel was not blessed. Clasped in His hands was a copy of The Times

Chronicle. It was my opinion (for what it was worth) that time was a funnel with weird noises
closed around it.
“Thus is the beginning of the end.”
But there is no tangible end. Time unravels into itself and causes mirrors to intertwine. What
should I choose to do but fall head-first into a tunnel of papers
whilst lessons shoot past me. How should I refine timed life except by living inside my own
estranged beliefs?
..
Strangled rats strode beneath my feet. The face of my tutors seemed planed away by foundations
but the glibness of cosmetics coughed up
invisible bleeding as my spirit lay half-awake in a medical room which did not inspire any true
state of sex-yearning.

“Did you try to speak?” asked a man who had a bizarre birth-mark. His face was perhaps a
miasma of purple and it was not until I found myself
laying prostrate on an impossible settee when I considered my own face as a blemish. There are
spectacles on my face and a nose never
dinted by amateur boxing. I imagine you know the unhappy scene?
“I snapped at you and that means you must listen!”

Slang spilled from the walls where the bodies burned and glistened. Often, I had thought of
burning sculptures and thence the wholeness of statues struck
me dead.

Now, every table must seem spread. Cold, snubbed peoples killed for home-time and here lay
dying all over mean floors. There were no carpets but rugs of
magical importance strove to stuff our eyes with Aladdin and His insane lamp.
…

The train rode faster. A waitress with a scrofulous cold served meringues to sleeping women.
The briefcases of the working hordes seemed to pleasure the
passing hour. I could neither weep nor taunt.
“I saw you using a pen for no abundant cause. Your words are worth two-pence and cannot
change anything!” trilled a bent prefect who surely believed that
heaven was still alive.

The rest of my pages are picked to bits by the howling of strange birds. Glimpses of hedges light
all lamps and the dishonest peoples cause hateful pain.
“I who saw you dancing,” Love said but Love was locked the other side of its door and the bit of
sex-business pissed into the wind as the cloaks of the caned
scaled the walls of Judea.

“Did you try to speak” asked a premier of learning but her face was pale and guiltless and her
sight impossible to bear. She was perhaps ‘pretty’.
…

The wheels of my train span into the sun. The pleasures of sleeping travel surged beneath its
counter. I did not think that a choir of songs would awake me
but it did and as I walked up the slope to an outside street, bottles span from my fingers. There
was a girl with shells for her hair. In the space of the city, a
sea of whales span round.
I have never considered true life since spent candles burn more brightly. There are tocsins heard
in towns which mean all and nothing and the oceans of this
earth collide beneath fled flames.

I gave my home three knocks. “Mr Anodyne,” God said, and softly strode away.

* …

....

THE HOUSE OF XMAS JOCUNDITY (a response to Shakespeare?)

a very short story by James Edward David Bellamy.

IT IS a burnished transparent night in the better half of December. The bacchanal Babylonian fields are enshrouded in a sobering coat of turgid ice. Here and there, amidst these cruel Phlegethonian sheets, dunes of Hippolytian snows dance upon the feline wind, and scatter Seraphic, white blankets across Asteroth’s astir sky.

The Acherontic eyes of a Clown with a boy’s face are focussed on starry Empyrean quarters. He cares so much for what faith sees, and has no desire to pass beyond those Perian Memories of a Dulcinea, whose sweet farewell chiselled a Lacrymose hole in His Soul and submerged His veins in molten-ice. Tepid saline tides erode His wan alabaster mask. “Well, you saddened Maecenas of mine, it is Xmas Eve,” he mutters to himself, “A time when we all decide to live under the same stars without conflict. These basic annual vows shine upon many a civilisation. But what of afterwards? Shall we still drink from the honey-choked wells of truth? Shall we still imprecate Martian fists?”

Far away, somewhere behind the Nectarious, female scent of lingering rain-washed wood-smoke, a Rosary-Clad Congregation, wielding Prayers, reveres the dark Olympian night. O, Saturn plays the organ, plays it just for me and you, and the Cherubic cavatina of the Midnight Mass intertwines with the Moon; and the Choral-Lamps resuscitate dreams in Atrophosian tombs. Over Lucretian valleys, and along interwoven Sirian passages , drifts the Congregation’s chaste Hymns.

Asmodeusan, a stygian lodger from profligate Italy, has a penile light in his eyes; a penile light that compels women to flaunt livery and virtuous men to file for castration. He grasps a vintage cheroot from King Aphonus ‘ cigar-box and lights it with a Plutovian whisper. It will soon be morning, and he is preparing himself for the arrival of Myrtle’s sentient bine, Asphodelte. “She has Houri’s unbridled favour!” he spits salaciously. “Paphos never beheld such vestal dulcitude!”

A lark’s transcendent cantata bids Asmodeusan’s annulet an antiseptic morning’s greeting. No doubt each mellifluous staff of recalls his lickerish, hymen-spewed past. Even before God’s thick, hispid hair sprouted from Love’s mammonian face, and bibacious wine clung to His soul, Asmodeusan was intoxicated by vile lust. When he was eight years old, he made a laconic virtue of boasting about the adroitness of His masturbatory deviations. And, on one dull Apollyonian day, he plundered a Venusian’s world and stained several pairs of her dew-laced silken underwear.

The phoebian star dances on the pock-drenched roof of the House of Xmas Jocundity, and swims within and without its ghostly tiles. The life which lies within is slowly and dearly exiting from the wrecks of hypnotic motion. Life – dear depressing animation – is returning to its enchanted and ghastly inhabitants, and the phantom moon is fading and fades back; back into the deep, dark Prussian blue meridian.

What is to happen to Asphodelte, as she lies in the fairest eiderdown, far away from those free-falling cucumbers in eastern and western markets? What I to happen whilst King Aphonus, her Father, sleeps so long? Is Asmodeusan to gain that lithe and labial fortress? Or will it be Jureis Divinoan, that free and righteous fellow who sleeps on time’s timeless floor? Who shall it be? That is the Question; and nothing lies beyond it..

Jureis reeks of fulfilment, but what can he know? For the solar bowl shines down on Humanity, spilling forth its Omniscient Soul, as if it were the home of Antihodean Wholeness. It knows for certain that Life is never planned?

And Jureis and Asphodelte are free to feel whatever they wish, while Asmodeusan fishes for the largest of lustful fish. And I know, as well as the clown with the boy’s face, that death is as drunk as Pluto’s Jury. Death’s befuddlement will teach the ignorant world that Hell is a mindful dell. “Screw, fuck, lick, suck! Learn of Peace without constructs,” God mumbles to Himself.

Asphodelte is here, singing for freedom, Jureis is present, learning of Healing. The noblest of servants, Hesperion, is endeavouring to quell the panic. “I am here, with self made evident,” he yells. “Learn of freedom, learn of pain, crush oppression, yearn to be the same. This may be a dream, of thi may be Life, but mislay anguish for she exudes strife. Love, love is the answer. Learn it before you squander your hours inside this Earth. Surely you understand that Sex is wonderful?”

A fantastic, adoring wind strikes the House of Xmas Jocundity as jasmine-sprinkled Asphodelte arrives in Asmodeusan’s realm. She smiles upon him and burns hole in his odious trance. “You, sir,” she says, “are an example of Satan’s partner, and I have no desire to brush my breath upon your jaded soul. What ho, Hesperion? What ho?”

Hesperion appears and Asmodeusan backs under. There is no freedom for sexual plunderers. I know what I speak of, I know what I see. Lust is obscene yet resides within us. Asmodeusan must learn to confine his lust to reclusive hours?

The House of Xmas Jocundity glows with the light of a deity. It conveys the spirit of peacedom. Liberty lies within its gardens. Therein, repression is Dead.

Asmodeusan’s heart is smeared with sulphurous clay. He envies Jureis Divinoan’s love-glazed eyes. A further cheroot juts from his face, and he feels His lungs rapture into Obscurity.

Hesperion calls for understanding, whereas King Aphonus and His Queen, Perfidene, build a wall between each other. Neither of them can comprehend their daughter’ love for Jureis Divinoan. King Aphonus cannot comprehend Women, and nothing lies beyond His confuted Thoughts.

The sun shines upon the House of Xmas Jocundity whilst the clown with a boy’s face cries. He is the master of this chaotic, obfuscated demesne.

Jureis Divinoan awakens. He is Jupiter’s protean servant. but he is drunk, too. They are all drunk. Asmodeusan, Hesperion, Perfidene, King Aphonus, and lovely Asphodelte. All have partaken ofd December’s truth-seeking waters. They are all lying on time’s timeless floor whilst Asphodelte weeps. Tears flow down her disillusioned face. She is the only virtuous virgin in his place. She cries for Jureis’ innocence as the clown with the boy’s face understands that churlish Asmodeusan does not stand a chance. He is the master of this obfuscated ball, and nothing lies beyond Him. “O, life is an intoxicating well of Evil,” God shouts, “Drink from it, and your stomach will vomit diarrhoea. O, why is it that Life is so ferine? Why can’t we all live together?”

As the needles fall from the brazen coniferous tree, Asmodeusan and Jureis Divinoan realise that Christ is an unending Requiem. How do they know? For they have realised that Jupiter has turned against them and all they have nothing to aspire to but DEATH, DeATH, DEATH!.. Pain, degradation, decapitation. Please understand. One day, in the not too distant future, everything will change. When? I cannot predict. O, let the change come now!”

The House of Xmas Jocundity knows what it is like to be free. Its creator is wandering over the Hills of Avalon and strolling through Mammarian Fields. Yes, it knows what it is like. Don’t you see? There are no more Precepts. The Governments of Eastern and Western Markets are dead. The free-falling cucumbers have been shot from out the sperm-clogged sky, and the House of Xmas Jocundity bathes its souls in the sun’s solution. The clown with the boy’s face has created paragon of Liberation and nothing lies beyond it.

Asphodelte wanders across the House’s Fields of green and greets Jureis Divinoan. They are all Life means. They understand the clown with a boy’s face. Jureis smiles, and yells, “My Dulcinea! You are Jove’s finest pearl!” The clown with the boy’s face understands Him and inflames Asphodelte with Love’s life-kissed comprehension…

And then, and most quintessentially then, the House of Xmas Jocundity embraces the Goddess of Love, Aphrodite. Perfidene, King Aphonus’s Queen, reels for death’s purgatorial union. She cannot face the glory of quintessential care, for she has chosen to fish for the largest of lustful fish. Asmodeusan is incapable of catching her tophetic desire. She screams in expectant agony and gives birth to a sperm-choked being and, as Aphrodite’s warmth wraps the House of Xmas Jocundity in idolatrous light. Perfidene places her last brick in the wall between herself and King Aphonus. Nothing of value lies beyond it. The sperm-choked being rises to His Charonian feet, and swallows his mother’s esculent heart, and Perfidene, Aphonus’s Queen is dead.

Asmodeusan’s mammonian face loses its phallic edge. Saline waves burst forth from his isolated eyes. He remembers now. He remembers that poor, vulnerable Venusian in her vulnerable Venusian’s world. How many pairs of her dew-laced, silken underwear did He pollute? If only Death cold recall the Number. O, Asmodeusan is no longer befuddled. He has caught the largest of lustful fish. Now Love’s stomach will vomit diarrhoea.

-Asphodelte and Jureis Divinoan arrive back at the House of Xmas Jocundity. Aphrodite’s ethos complements their Ethereal God, and nothing lies beyond them.

The sperm-choked being fends off the Goddess of Love. He is Perfidene’s catch; the largest of lustful fish. “Am I not the most swarthy of demonic princes? I, Belias!” he shouts proudly at Jureis Divinoan and Asphodelte and “Silenced!” Jureis replies. “You are little more than Jove’s maleficent cast-off; a cataleptic ejaculation. Die, as your perfidious Mother did before you!” And Jureis, wielding a timeless sword, without a minute’s respite, cuts off Belias’s head.

Jureis, King Aphonus and Asmodeusan lose their individual identities and become one Entity. Their cleansed souls intertwine and pass up, up, up, through the roofs of the House of Xmas Jocundity and on, on, on into the deep, dark Prussian blue Meridian. The effusions of their Yuletide characteristics dissolve into a prism of music and swathe this world in understanding and the clown with the boy’s face avows, that one day, in the not too mystic future, dead earth may change.

I close my eyes and wipe out god’s screen. The clown with a boy’s face passes back into my imagination, and nothing lies beyond it. And I am quite alone now, as I shall always be. My eyes are focussed on those starry Empyrean quarters, and I care so much for what I see. I have no desire to pass beyond those Perian memories of my Dulcinea whose sweet farewell chiselled a spirit hole in my soul and submerged my veins in molten ice. What did this all mean? Well, you saddened Maecenas of mine, it meant whatever life is meant to mean? Nothing lies beyond the House of Xmas Jocundity. Nothiing!-

Come back to me, my Dulcinea. Help me shoot those free-falling cucumbers out of the sperm-clogged sky. Come back to me, and together we shall drift over Lucretian valleys and along interwoven Sirian passages. Together, we shall become as one and roam through the vales of purest, mellifluous honey while skating across the thresholds of Hypnos and embracing magical, Morphean planes. Come back to me, my Dulcinea. Let’s tread upon the beds of the Future and sail into Paradisiacal realms where the Governments of Eastern and Western markets are dead. Nothing lies beyond this Empyrean gleam. Nothing at all except PEACE.

./..

USE OF THE PANE (a very short story by JD Bellamy)

It was way into Christmas. The dyes of the outside trees had stained the texts of school with a cry of scalded birch. The yellowed fists of winter were delving sense because the lustful eyes of one thousand boys were here encased in a room of thirty young people.
There was, on #a shelf, the manual of my mind. I could hardly think because the sensual words of feline girls were shrieking from the sun
Languid verbs foamed from the desks of vexed kids who appeared to know just how the humane human body worked and the routed shell of beaches out of bounds spoke to the seams of coal-country. Where softness dug, the miners of minors turned around and
before rude sin had towelled sweat from the birth of ships gone out to sea, the privateers of life descried their decks.. Veiled with nails, crucified senses were burned to death.
The forests of knowledge dammed the brows of teachers and their misbegotten words.
Eyes swallowed from tendril-trees apportioned sightlessness because their buds of vision were wet with seed. The quietus of death's storm awoke the dead with a myopic whistle which framed the lids of time.
I could not fathom when the rhythms of speech might darken the staffrooms. Where the
battered books of one billion books reproached exams, the lines written by children in detention deadened a need for ills.
'I have words at the ends of my fingers,' said a male pupil whose use of poems was perfect. Verse emerged from riled heaven as the names of God teemed with one zillion chic rhymes.

There was a ‘reason’ for glad talk but this reason had invaded life and had made creation void. When I say 'void', I refer to the indolence of word-thieves. School is full of thefts and because of this all essays are rebuked by a method of marking which imposes a ‘metaphorical’ use of the cane and inside my head, beds were soaked with fear. Sweat oozed from the skins of youths who could not fathom a need for truth but the distant cries of abandoned cats freed folks from the cob-webs of the vain and sheer.
Infamy must serve as an instance of tuition where the startled screams of woman get lost in a forest. Rape streams from out the conifers of the love-maimed and the dirty clothes of inchoate sex must die or else become a spurious porn magazine....
I looked at the tired and saw therein a horde of waiters. Inside this mind's eye, there were courtiers who downed G-&-T from disembodied sources. As drunk as tailors, the
unravelling spool of space milked ambrosia from the clouds.
'I am not daunted by lies and if you cannot read, please say!' preached a part-time
Prefect. But her Incubus of sensual frowns burst the curls of love's faith because the darkness of the Void allowed fools to dispute all romantic lunar-landings.
'I am assured that Aladdin made touch-down!’

Smog cloaked the eyes of Christ in a veil of black-and-blue while the surface of the moon burnt one's soul with drills, deepening into the very soul of this earth. Can one be sure that UFOs do not emerge from this world's infernal crust?

'I had babes when too young and was then relieved!’

Speech such as these was ten-a-penny and moved the uniformed throes of immaculate humankind. The blasting noise of several million farts silenced the gene-pools of Nazism and Hitler lay drowned in a pond of skin-veined metal.
“Oh, but how terrible’, A dauphin child spoke from out a board-rubber.
“It’s very kind of you to say life is comfortable, but look at the confusion. Just to think of living here. There’s something around which cannot make me happy.’
But happiness swelled from the ground as school-yards shortened the scent of earth’s cruel smile.
As the night rose above the rooms of this school, the trades of perverts spat forth. The stars of Time noosed the Deities of light and dark and the cornucopia of sense loosed aliens against the coitus of the laid as ships, wedged in bottles, drove the dawn ‘west of Suez.’
Lives dwelt in their own framed ball-park. Students crossed the lines and died before born. The canes of the killed thrilled as they crushed chiliads of moaning and weeping.
The clime of stiffened throes entertained the tiles of fear. Crying thrilled the chapel of flowers, smashed inside red rain.
‘I cannot breathe because I am too young,’ spoke lads where future suffrage blocked the outside loos.
And ripped to bits were the buttocks where the fields of soul soaped to slits the sexist
Harness of killed cries..
‘Can you suck the teats of life or else constrain the etchings of mankind!’
And the skies of mad and disclaimed boys danced inside pictorial heavens as the

Doctored scars of mankind felt bared breasts.
In this glib space, the tits of suitors swelled with the sperm of the tamed and thrilled.
Hung up by the penis till pens died, the strangled cocks of wisdom spared
spoiled genes and the swiftness of red seed dazzled fusion with the pared
deeps of sun-lit drains. Here, the homes of murders roamed and the surfs of the tangled tamed ran with silk as sinks thrilled with the spilt skins of the penitential dawn.
‘I do not wear a bra.’ Thus were the words spoken by a highwayman of a female Fm-Tutor.
‘I cannot cane you but I change you!’ Thus were the words spoken by the cold lips of an aged Head-of-Year.
And the dire fates of the learned delved the sums of time as triangular pentacles appeared written on gleaming desks.
…
The plugs were trapped and water ran away with the blisters of the inchoately praised. The dugs of pets back home shed milk and the dining-halls of frailty served strange foods to forgotten souls. I was made sanguine by the main-meals I ate, all of which contained French stews stirred into smashed potatoes.
The scars of the stars roamed the fields of the damned and I was spent because my train of thought appeared to drift away. And where the mourning morning awoke stoned, there was a quay of calm situated somewhere out my front window. I could neither weep nor sleep whilst the coda of songs extended their tunes to the beat of alarms.

‘Oh, can you please leave welts where there was none!’
And words such as these swiped dregs from the bottoms of queer beer-glasses as the teetotal throb of this enervated life got spanked by the missions of a ‘tutored’ mind.
‘Several puffs from my pipe please!’ spoke a School-Premier and I was scarred forever.

..
copyright 2007.

...

extract from a very brief short-story-poem

THE BEAT OF ALARMS?..

Speeches such as these were ten-a-penny and moved the uniformed throes of immaculate humankind. The blasting noise of several million farts silenced the gene-pools of Nazism and Hitler lay drowned in a pond of skin-veined metal.

“Oh, but how terrible’, A dauphin child spoke from out a board-rubber.

“It’s very kind of you to say life is comfortable, but look at the confusion. Just to think of living here. There’s something around which cannot make me happy.’

But happiness swelled from the ground as school-yards shortened the scent of earth’s cruel smile.

As the night rose above the rooms of this school, the trades of perverts spat forth. The stars of Time noosed the Deities of light and dark and the cornucopia of sense loosed aliens against the coitus of the laid as ships, wedged in bottles, drove the dawn ‘west of Suez.’

Lives dwelt in their own framed ball-park. Students crossed the lines and died before born. The canes of the killed thrilled as they crushed chiliads of moaning and weeping.

The clime of stiffened throes entertained the tiles of fear. Crying thrilled the chapel of flowers, smashed inside red rain.

‘I cannot breathe because I am too young,’ spoke lads where future suffrage blocked the outside loos.

And ripped to bits were the buttocks where the fields of soul soaped to slits the sexist

Harness of killed cries..

‘Can you suck the teats of life or else constrain the etchings of mankind!’

And the skies of mad and disclaimed boys danced inside pictorial heavens as the

Doctored scars of mankind felt bared breasts.

In this glib space, the tits of suitors swelled with the sperm of the tamed and thrilled.

Hung up by the penis till pens died, the strangled cocks of wisdom spared

spoiled genes and the swiftness of red seed dazzled fusion with the pared

deeps of sun-lit drains. Here, the homes of murders roamed and the surfs of the tangled tamed ran with silk as sinks thrilled with the spilt skins of the penitential dawn.

‘I do not wear a bra.’ Thus were the words spoken by a highwayman of a female Fm-Tutor.

‘I cannot cane you but I change you!’ Thus were the words spoken by the cold lips of an aged Head-of-Year.

And the dire fates of the learned delved the sums of time as triangular pentacles appeared written on gleaming desks.…

The plugs were trapped and water ran away with the blisters of the inchoately praised. The dugs of pets back home shed milk and the dining-halls of frailty served strange foods to forgotten souls. I was made sanguine by the main-meals I ate, all of which contained French stews stirred into smashed potatoes.

The scars of the stars roamed the fields of the damned and I was spent because my train of thought appeared to drift away. And where the mourning morning awoke stoned, there was a quay of calm situated somewhere out my front window. I could neither weep nor sleep whilst the coda of songs extended their tunes to the beat of alarms....

...

LOUD HELL IS MANITOUS....(a very short story by JD BELLAMY) 1185 words...

The beast of hell fell shrinking where The ground descended into gloom. We descended deeper down.

despondent, earth appeared to mourn The cross-of-god. Who is it may

heap together shame and spite? We dance around and hurry for The tortures of the film-screen

and there we visualise sex Smashed. Another country calls

for guns, bombs, knives, gas. In this dead life we use a mind So squinty-eyed that in the spent

gardens of the culled, we croon Against the burning of the killed

night. The gold-leaf of the moon Breaks the hymen of betrothed

woman. The wearied soul of humankind contends with

the foolish creatures of the stained Glass found burnished where

fists are clenched but closed. This life is an unkind brawl.

You can see, my son, how ludicrous The briefness of man's living seems.

according to his judgment, life Can not stop turning but then stops

short.

Where foaming springs quicken Man's ambition, dismal quiet Must charge the passages of life

with marshland. I saw people where Teeth were tearing piecemeal.

my kindly master explained: 'Here there are ghosts for whom

the sullen sweetness of the air Made bubbles surge from out

the gladness of life's borrowed day.'

Then at length I came to town. And life's dry bank was shrouded in The eyes of god. Where dismal smoke

spoke the words of hell, I

rose from the surface of the Styx.

Hell is filled with fetid lords?

We cannot enter now except with Woe. God says that passions will Glow like eyes. Three hellish furies

transpose to proclaim womankind. Of bright green hydras, here the rain

of hell entreats the flinching blast Of storms which ride forevermore

the madness of death's horde.

Understand that learned lairds Must fear the crash of tide on tide. With these two hands, I expurgate

the turbid waves from out death's skies.

sound will spill from out a drum Of oil. The forests of the saved

must fear the vile collision Of battered trees and dustclouds.

The roar of sex will scorn lives.

You whose mind is cleared by The lessons of the dead must Tear from off these mudbanks

the fearsome crash of the disclaimed Souls of space. Verses god has written

will make Medusa come. Ah, The Furies bay for blood and The trusting motions of the stained

skeins of life devour time. The veil of these strange stanzas meld

with the faces of rhyme. Turgid oceans rave inside The thwarted cities of the spilled

bloods of the preternatal dead.

Anxious to yearn after fear, We swallow the knives of the Forgiven. Forgetfulness derides

the livid dead. Secured, life's bulb Rots away. The punishments of lithe

filthy humans stride the streets Of mourning. The anguish and the high Parapets of sex and death

crowd the graves of anguished tribes.

God devours the coffers of Stone. With converts on the rise, The lids of Christ were raised.

heretics lie days deep in sand. The quickened prising of the void

eliminates the passions of The roaches found enshrouded where

the soils of darkness spume.

Hell is filled with living-rooms?!

A savaged beast fell into the ground. Man descended to the fires which Made justice from the crashing Thames.

so we descended to the umpteenth mile.

torture strode the heavens and Death's opponent rode the blue horse Of time. People hurry as they glide

elsewhere. In pain, collisions with the stars Cursed afresh the softness of time.

we dance around. Here I saw more souls Contaminating swiftness with the killed.

experience of life did not unveil The god of hell. God answered "Silence is

proclaimed from heights which cannot Sack the universe's ills". I curse afresh the riders of this storm.

the ugly brawl of romance must Wear away the phantoms of the day.

ignorance may plague you. Please receive The mask of heaven's features. Death

rejoices as he turns. I saw the slopes Of hedonism crush the warrened waves

of lime. Where foaming waters spray A dismal watercourse, the peoples glide Against the clouds they've shaded. I

gaze intently at the bared and ruddy Muddiness of faith. Teeth tear away

the clotted veins of terror. Red eyes Turn toward the shallow muds enclosed

inside the ashes of the dented void. She who bore us lives forevermore

and the sight god gave us praises love. New cries of lamentation reach my ear,

and I lean back to peer intently out.

A kindly master says: 'A city draws near Whose name is Death.' The walls of the bleak Place I was born enshrouds the lithe space

of life. Drawn from peril, desertified lives Stay at my side. With departures from graves

engraved in the biers of the coffins held

up high, the figures of the living spend Seed where blackness creeps about the moon.

crowds in these graves hold sepulchers grown Hotter than flame. If we continue to walk Between anguish and peace, the world of pain

shall deny sound and soundlessness proclaim Followers of every sect. Horrible pain

entombs birth in the anguish of this mind.

sepulchers glow with the beat of the sun...

Leaving behind this world, I see the day Cry for the lamentation of the dead. Crazed with rage, fierce bodies define

the wails of the killed. Before we've made A satisying trip through flame, Lord God

sights us and turns against the jade Bodies of the knifed. Man peeps into The fitting coasts of the colour blue.

before we've sailed we cross a lake

of burning. I lean forward to find The world above us. Lamentation scrawls Words upon the graves of the raped

and the embraced form of the stars

spears the vice of the unsexed ghouls And ghouls displace life's sunrise.

Ferine mangling cuts the nameless thread Of the worn. Eyes seize the coasts of spent

rain. The terrain of the darkened dead Draws from peril the departures of The ripped apart. If we can desert now

the deaths of those who are tempered by A foolish death, then the gates of hell

will open and the swiftness of the sky Desire to speak with the monsters of The night. Displaced, the masters of

space decline. Love remains here Dazed by God. We hear the wise

voice of the masters of the sky. If we can venture further then The insolence of lust will spear

the portals of the entrance to The face. Someone is coming to Open death's gate or else

love contrives to lock its door. Vexed, we walk too slowly and Blast the martyrs of the spilt

blood contained inside the vile

phials of the roads of hell.

My own flesh is stilled by The quagmire of the spended Shades of the living killed. Be sure that the mud of sex

drowns the wicked leanings of The murdered or else exhume

the spirits of domed heaven.

I am scared and plainly see How the route of hell is formed And I have been down there.

everything in creation thrills To the tricks of this conjuror.

Hell is filled with manitous....

...

Carved At London Fields

A Short Story

by james david bellamy

Mistress Apples looked at the fox-glove gem in her hands and felt mad.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her chiselled surroundings. She had always loved carved at London Fields with its stormy, squashed sweet granite. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel mad.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Charlie Duke Memory. Charlie Duke was a blorted titian with atoned temples and fleeced tendrils.

Mistress gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a bendy, rended, porter drinker with obese temples and ginger tendrils. Her friends saw her as an angry, agreeable agent peter pan. Once, she had even helped a stupid mouse-hole with no tails recover from a verminous flying accident.

But not even a bendy person who had once helped a stupid fat mouse-hole with no tails recover from a flying accident, was prepared for what Charlie Duke had in store today.

The stella-ice teased like mooning rats, making Mistress staved.

As Mistress stepped outside and Charlie Duke came closer, she could see the quaint smile on his face.

Charlie Duke glared with all the wrath of 8703 shent mangled mules. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want cool karma."

Mistress looked back, even more staved and still fingering the fox-glove gem. "Charlie Duke, o, loud lover, please paint me black," she replied.

They looked at each other with glib feelings, like two forgotten, funkelplopping flamingos swooning at a very blenched picnics by radio, which had rude violin music playing in the background and two deceived uncles descrying to the beer-beat.

Suddenly, Charlie Duke lunged forward and tried to punch Mistress in the face. Quickly, Mistress grabbed the fox-glove gem and brought it down on Charlie Duke's skull.

Charlie Duke's alone temples trembled and his fleeced tendrils wobbled. He looked coarse, his emotions raw like a round, raw ringlet.

Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Charlie Duke Memory was dead.

Mistress Apples went back inside and made herself a nice drink of porter.

THE END

Two Nuclear Uncles Wailing to the Beat

A Short Story by james edward david bellamy

Danie Delphene looked at the blue mental mettle gun in her hands and felt nipply.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her inside out surroundings. She had always loved upsidedown on Mumblers Hill with its lazy, loose lots of moon vixens and plenty licking lakeside fish. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel nipply.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Master Tulip. Master was a starred ogre with glazed pubes and headless lungs.

Danie gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a dreary, foolish, blonde wet drinker with rigged pubes and ragged lungs. Her friends saw her as a stormy, successful satyr. Once, she had even helped a silent cold ruby cross the road.

But not even a dreary person who had once helped a silent cold ruby cross the road, was prepared for what Master had in store today.

The storm teased like ramming glow-worms, making Danie crazy.

As Danie stepped outside and Master came closer, she could see the clever glint in his eye.

"I am here because I want sweet fast phantastic dour love," Master bellowed, in a scarred tone. He slammed his fist against Danie's chest, with the force of 2396 stone-worms. "I frigging hate you, Danie Delphene."

Danie looked back, even more crazy and still fingering the blue mental mettle gun. "Master, o, god-sir, what now for gals and filthy theatre," she replied.

They looked at each other with ladied feelings, like two striped, stormy slow-worms scurrying at a very bleary a sea of musical ravens, which had bone piano music playing in the background and two nuclear uncles wailing to the beat.

Danie studied Master's glazed pubes and headless lungs. Eventually, she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you sweet fast phantastic dour love," she explained, in pitying tones.

Master looked mazy, his body raw like a silly, spewmungous snood.

Danie could actually hear Master's body shatter into 5313 pieces. Then the starred ogre hurried away into the distance.

Not even a drink of blonde wet would calm Danie's nerves tonight.

THE END

The Rose-heart Spectacles

A Short Story

by jdbellamy

Venus Magdalene Ducer was thinking about Marcus Dew-Pepper again. Marcus was a sprig mute with tawny teeth and spiralled tongues.

Venus walked over to the window and reflected on her non-existent surroundings. She had always loved miraging In the very utmost rear of the Cafeteria Deniers with its inquisitive, important impassable coffe cups. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel massive.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a sprig figure of Marcus Dew-Pepper.

Venus gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a lewd, mousy, stout drinker with generic teeth and withered tongues. Her friends saw her as a stormy, silent sylph. Once, she had even made a cup of tea for a gentle respiring after death.

But not even a lewd person who had once made a cup of tea for a gentle respiring after death, was prepared for what Marcus had in store today.

The stella rain teased like gunning bunnies, making Venus appended. Venus grabbed the rose-heart spectacles that had been strewn nearby; she massaged them with her fingers.

As Venus stepped outside and Marcus came closer, she could see the annoying smile on his face.

"I am here because I want red marriage," Marcus bellowed, in a crude tone. He slammed his fist against Venus's chest, with the force of 8344 giant peahens. "I frigging hate you, Venus Magdalene Ducer."

Venus looked back, even more appended and still fingering the rose-heart spectacles. "Marcus, o, cruel one, what for afternoon teas," she replied.

They looked at each other with wolverine feelings, like two wandering, weary wombats repleting at a very bent trip unto heavenly hell, which had death-jazz music playing in the background and two daisied uncles mumbling to the beat.

Venus studied Marcus's tawny teeth and spiralled tongues. Eventually, she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you red marriage," she explained, in pitying tones.

Marcus looked barnacled, his body raw like an evil, empty elgin marbles.

Venus could actually hear Marcus's body shatter into 813 pieces. Then the sprig mute hurried away into the distance.

Not even a drink of stout would calm Venus's nerves tonight.

India rubbers/Madam Liptitostrich

A Short Story

by james edward david bellamy

Mr Tulip looked at the marbled dental colds in his hands and felt deflective.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his mentalis of a flute-fandango, dressed in Downs at the end of a false ward-wall surroundings. He had always loved slaughtering with enserumed candied chanticleer Underneath Hobo Heath with its xenophobic, x-thermic xmas-easter rider-river hens. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel deflective.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Madam Liptitostrich. Madam was an india rubber-robber with brutal horn- brutus with atoned blonde with body-curtains skull-leeching and enwrapped inside some homemade metal shoes and foolscap setees.

Mr gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a belly-bridled, winter-cycled, easy radio pepper-gin drinker with limbed with edible irons beds and forged from gallow-teeth settees. His friends saw him as an agreeable, annoying agent madam mistress devil-Japan. Once, he had even helped a thoughtless coded coda of a granular buddha-man recover from a frying accident.

But not even a belly-bridled person who had once helped a thoughtless coded coda of a granular buddha-man recover from a flying accident, was prepared for what Madam had in store today.

The starry perfuming feline weather-fawns teased like moving under meadows kitteners, making Mr intractable while rocked.

As Mr stepped outside and Madam came closer, he could see the afraid smile on her face.

Madam glared with all the wrath of 3666 henna-heated whispering weevilers. She said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want a sweet case of the dole-eyed dreamer."

Mr looked back, even more intractable while rocked and still fingering the marbled dental colds. "Madam, o, sweet eyer, please enchant me with de bones in your telephone," he replied.

They looked at each other with defective feelings, like two whispering, wicked womblers grooving under pillows at a very a sweet faceful funferal, which had naked head-ballet music playing in the background and two heart-bedded uncles shouting out the pistol mantra to the beat.

Suddenly, Madam lunged forward and tried to punch Mr in the face. Quickly, Mr grabbed the marbled dental colds and brought it down on Madam's skull.

Madam's atoned by body-curtains beds trembled and her enwrapped inside some homemade metal shoes settees wobbled. She looked starry with pinnaces, her emotions raw like a miniature, muddy mental daisies.

Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Madam Liptitostrich was dead.

Mr Tulip went back inside and made himself a nice drink of easy radio pepper-gin.

THE END

Two Uncles Arse-raddling fierce cocoon fire-boats down a sugary Nile at the christsides of webbed seas to the Beat

Madam Missenger Eddicriss was thinking about Master Seamstress Valer de Mumstra again. Master Seamstress was a flarter with diamond cottlers and dead fierce afternoons spent with a titian fellah of a modal goliath servent with atoned and meaty meteors and crooked sizzler-flies venal rectal babby-stained and fleecy with burning bibler groans and luminous dragglers of fanny pies and eager beddering massed men.

Madam Missenger walked over to the window and reflected on her charnelled asides when some fetid blue rhubarb channel sucked ginger. She had always loved sauntering with bullcrap as lasers swelled up with stony lividity. Other Sides of Halers and Bushers Grove with its solid, smooth some elite feathery saviours arose scalers of huge junks and copious definers of kingfishers and wintry sod. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel hectory with graveyards.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the flarted one, with diamond cottlers and dead fierce afternoons figuring the Master Seamstress Valer de Mumstra.

Madam Missenger gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a bended with torrid smokes, shended by common stoats, a 2 pint glass of stout and peckled beer-onions drinker with evenly draped bones with venal rectal babby-stains and zingared with tranced sloanes luminous dragglers of fanny pies and eager budder men. Her friends saw her as an arrogant, ashamed agental naked sky-scribe with ashen children razed. Once, she had even jumped into a river and saved a curried de mouthless kiddy whose mamma's minds always caved in.

But not even bended with torrid smokes, a clean person who had once jumped into a river and saved a curried mouthless killer whose mamma minds caved in, was prepared for what Master Seamstress had in store today.

The stella-throned teased like scurrying across meddlers with spinal dummies come easily enlaced to suede boats and cwazy women with cartal lunacy sex-feeds spies to jacklered feather-runes, making Madam Missenger's venal caverns enblade some cicada beeches. Madam Missenger grabbed a glovers of mixy twixy star-feuded eateries laid on for dirtiers and streets of feeling dirty that had been strewn nearby; she massaged food with all her fingers.

As Madam Missenger stepped outside and Master Seamstress came closer, she could see the mighty glint in her eye.

"I am here because I want a shrift and garden-laden scooper of gallancers and toady pearled bruised waters," Master Seamstress bellowed, in an ice-stranded by fotalisers and blind dead kitchens tone. She slammed her fist against Madam Missenger's chest, with the force of 7008 cardial with pearlers. "I frigging hate you, Madam Missenger Eddicriss."

Madam Missenger looked back, even more venal caverns raised from cicada beeches and still fingering the glovers of mixy twixy star-feuds eateries laid on for dirtiers and streets of feeling dirty. "Master Seamstress, i adored your soul while ghosts mourned and i entertained your soapy heart with lemurs and pecking saddlered bodies of baby-calves and maternal mumma," she replied.

They looked at each other with heavily pregnant with quoffed hair and dementers with head-handlers strapped to death's beds feelings, like two repulsive, rough red pinks is my favourite flamingos knickering de Cross with strapped thumbs and dukedamed manyana at a very demented daddy's antlers: O, renal reindeer come sharpening valves with lips as a funferal in the form of a gigantic milk-river crate, which had ragtime in jazzy blueberry beacons, send descriers to vast sleep-music playing in the background and two uncles arse-raddling fierce cocoon fire-boats down a sugary Nile at the christsides of webbed seas in death's drowned beat.

Madam Missenger studied Master Seamstress's atoned with meaty meteors and crooked sizzler-flies venal rectal babby-stain and fleecy with burning bibler groans luminous dragglers of fanny pies and eager bedder men. Eventually, she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you a shrift and garden-laden scooper of gallancers and toady pearled bruised waters," she explained, in pitying tones.

Master Seamstress looked hipsters to hickory-dickory brain virgins, her body raw like a raw, ratty ringers of piggy vines and winey snails that feed veins to pure sleep.

Madam Missenger could actually hear Master Seamstress's body shatter into 1763 pieces. Then the flarted with diamond cottlers and dead fierce afternoons a titian fellah of a modal goliath servent hurried away into the distance.

Not even a drink of a 2 pint glass of stout and peckled beer-onions would calm Madam Missenger's nerves tonight.

EXTRACTS FROM A NOVEL BY JD BELLAMY

TITLE OF TEXT: In My Father's House (after William Faulkner's 'As I lay Dying')

IN MY FATHER'S HOUSE (BLURB)

'In My Father's House' has nine characters (Matthew, Mark, John, Luke, The Nurse, The Eye, Jesus, The Warden, God).
These nine characters reside in the walls of an asylum (which is based on a strange hill, with bright thrasonic fields and meadows all around).
'In My Father's House' explores insanity of a schizophrenic kind and does so in a manner which hopefully implores the magical tragic surreal.
In My Father's House uses chapters of a largely short but dense kind and each chapter deals in the first person and each
chapter-heading is derived from the nine names of the nine characters which inform the novel's shade, shape and colour
'In My Father's House' is directly inspired by William Faulkners great eternal novel 'As I Lay Dying'.
The setting of the novel implores an exploration of the postmodern psychedelic human subconscious. 'In My Father's House' took
eight weeks to write.

'In My Father's House' is part gothic in nature.

IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE (first 86 chapters)

-after William Faulkner's 'As I Lay Dying'

chapter 1: MATTHEW

MARK and I come up from the fields, following the plumbline of the meadows in a straight and rectiline roar of walking. Out feet are as dead and gnarled as time and tide itself,

as we, fallowed and spurning in our sadnesses, cross the limbs of the sun and the moon. Intent and wired by

absent talking, we sire our regimens of dusk and dawn and twilight and ascend.

Mark is mad, so am I. For a series of painted months and years, we have spent our shippen lives in the asylum on the hill, chiming and betrothing our days to saddening chat.

Whether we be sure or vague amidst our minds, this is the truth we have come to know. Though we be fine and glad when music rhymes, the salutation that makes us charm and chaff around is that of an all-

Disposing memory.

At first, Mark is in front of me, and then I, becoming anxious to rove ahead, rush upon my run and walk to make my mark. Then, as the pathway flatters us with dust,

shattering stones, we move as I obsessed by being both ahead and behind one another. Our madnesses are deranged and our sum of striding firing.

Mark and I are not so detached from one another as may be first assumed. Mark and I are both contained in ourselves. Moreover, though we be attired by differing preferences and

moods, Mark and I know that the Warden will serve us.

For we have been boys in the Warden’s hands for many a time now. To him, we take our

Deferences and references to the time of day. To him, we make our livid livings known and do not care to be any different. Indeed, Mark and I are strangers enough to know that the Warden

shall entertain us, who is, or so it seems, as keen and kind as any to make our separate illnesses work and gyre from place to place until constrained and dumbed.

Up the fields, through the corn and the barley, from the wastes of the town to the very seat of lust and light, Mark and I thread our way to the asylum’s doorway. Our hearts and hands are aligned and

our coterie of emotions spindled. Soon, we shall be inside.

And Mark and I are head to head now. Spitting on the sky and earth at once, we spiral forwards to the peak of the hill and enter in to the asylum’s yore. Following the corridors,

spiring down the hallways, sidling and tapering where the tendrilous warmth acclaims, we make our way to the Warden’s door and spiral directly within.

Mark takes a chair, then I do the same. Mark starts rocking in his chair. He always has; he

always will. And I, inflamed by the fire of it all, glare into the darkness. Mark is a good rocker. In his chair, he rocks and rolls. The Warden will be glad to see such a fine and manic man.

Mark is an ideal schizophrenic. I truly feel seconded by his fluming motile insanity.

And then I hear the rocking pare my ears. The rocking causes me to cry and wail and rail. Mark keeps on rolling like my tears, as the chairs rock and rock and

rock and rock. Time and tide itself retires as it makes its stolid way into the rooms of sadness and on, as we, as we only can, make our ways into the spumes of a disturbing void

of cancer. Soon, we shall, both Mark and I, be chimed with the rumours of the room about us. But, for now, we must be charmed by the peace and the quiet whose raging way here inspires.

Further extract from a novel titled ‘in my father’s house' (after William Faulkner’s ‘As I Lay Dying’)

Chapter 2: THE WARDEN

So I said to mister Luke: ‘No good will come of it, for I am one to hold my words to honour at the be all and end all of times. No good will come of you and that Nurse gambolling and playing mercy one to the

other like you do.’ And Luke was surely mad and glad at one and the same time to hear me justify my words in such a way. For I have always been one to justify my world of words. Me and my cups –

those feminine vessels I am always joyful to own, know and admonish – state our allegiance always to the virtues of those who care and share alike with justifiable worlds of words.

Yet it wasn’t more than five minutes ago that I was talking to mister John about the necessity for nice cups and pleasant tea and coffee pots. A patient hereabouts can demolish a cup in seconds;

a local doctor even faster. ‘John’, I said, ‘cups and tea and coffee pots must be always around and plenteous: they must shine and gleam and glister like the registered heavens themselves.’

And mister John held my shoulder, all soft and politeful like, and said, ‘No good will come of it; no good will come of those churls

On Ward Nine and Ten: you know as well as I that those churls on Ward Nine and Ten will shatter a trillion cups and saucers in a nanosecond.’ And God knows, mister John was right;

so right as to be whole and holy, even if he is a mad mister such of the damnable time.

For I am always a man of my word. My world of words knows a cup from a saucer and a tea and coffee pot at the drop of a hat. Yes Lord, I have served you well with my honesty

. And, as I say to mister Luke and mister John over and over again, ‘You can tell a man from his pots and cups and multifarious other feminine accoutrements’. ‘Luke,’ I say, ‘Mister John,’ I say, ‘always do your

utmost to clean and savour your feminine vessels. Even when the days grow long and the night-times tower, always do your utmost to make your feminine vessels as clean and wholesome as sobriety itself.’

But that mad mister Matthew, who’s always one for stirring up the occasion, how in hell’s name is he supposed to recover from his nightlong madness,

when all this dogdayed mystery and misery is forever shimmying round and about the asylum walls. I can only sorely say that I would quit here and now if it would save mad

fools like mister Matthew from relapsing further and further and further into themselves until they just can’t see a way out; until they just can’t find some solace, even in the Eye of God itself.

Yet, when I think, my eyes go blank. Mister John has green and doleful eyes; mister Matthew has eyes that portend and glare; mister Luke has eyes like chips of malachited marble;

and Mark, mister Mark has a pair of eyes that set sail as soon as your look at them.

God! This world needs an eye or two like the Lord’s himself. If only my boys would see the necessity for clean cups, clean saucers, clean tea and coffee pots,

then, and only then, they’d surely stare glad paradise in the very face. And then, as much as a bird must fall, the two eyes of the Lord would serve them both day and night, night and day,

until the very end of all damnable time.

Because I said, and I will say it again, that, if I truly had my own way, I’d make mister John and mister Luke the sole proprietors to this whole rotten asylum. Walls and fields,

doors and meadows, corridors and Wards: the whole fluming flotsam of it all would be theirs to savour and console. For I know that schizoid heroes like them should always care for

those round and about time. For then I would say to them: ‘The cups need cleaning,’ and they surely do their best to clean them. And when I say ‘mister Luke, mister John, it’s time to fill those

tea and coffee pots with liquor,’ they surely do so at an instant.

Not that mister Luke isn’t my very favourite. He and I have something between us. His malachited, marbleised eyes, his short-cropped hair, his eerie and pulsating beard,

all and one and all and all, make me think and feel like a good man. Even his sensual, outrageous furies shock me into working all the harder still. And when I told him, when I

informed mister Luke of the error of his ways with the Nurse, I sensed him listen. Yes, I am sure that one day mister Luke will prove to be as good as he miscarried son I never had, all of those hewn and noisome years ago.

And now someone comes into my office. I hear a set of feet pattering like a clown into the depths of my days. The feet take a seat. Both pairs of clownish feet sit down.

And, when I think, my eyes go blank. And, when I cry, my eyes flume like a fountain.

....

..further extract from tatlin bellamy's faulkner-derived novel, ‘In My Father’s House.’

Chapter 3: MATTHEW

Mark and the Warden are sitting in the sun. Mark is tilting backwards and forwards in his chair,

Holding his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. They look around as I cross my legs and dip my right hand into the lower part of my left sock.

‘Where’s Luke?’ Mark says. When I was a baby I first learned how important words could be if they are set awhile in a hand of steel Molten hot,

with a faint air like the warm September wind in

January, words have to set at least an hour, and be said with utmost care. Words should never be set aside of metal.

At night is better still. I used to lie on the bunk-bed in the back room, waiting until I could sense a wave of sleep, so I could get up and say some

words. The words would be black, my tongue black, the steeled surface of the words a round uvula of nothingness, where previously I had said things

loudly and caused a few stars to fall with my thoughts, and perhaps a few thoughts from the stars. After that,

I was sadder and older. Then, I would wait until I was nearly asleep and then imagine old copies of my uncle’s magazines, seeing them

flailing about and touching myself to wakefulness again.

Mark’s shoes are badly worn. His toes must be cramped in them, their nails at odds with his foaming soul, from working so hard in the sad old days when Mark was a boy.

They look as though they have been chafed with a blunt instrument. The Warden has been to town. I have never seen him miss

Going to town in over a year. His wife, they say, likes it on all fours. She posed for pictures once, too.

I fling my hand to the surface of my shoes and suck on my gnarled thumb. It is going to rain

Tomorrow evening. Perhaps even before dawn. ‘Down to the pharmacy,’ the Warden says. ‘Stock-taking on all those broken cups.’

Down there fiddling with that Nurse, more like. He will go on through the wards, into her bosom. The bosom will be neither soft nor hard: he is up there among their

pleasures, in the warmth. Luke giggles, once and shrill. The Nurse cavorts, then Luke hits her, glancing his left fist for a crazy instant amongst the crimplene.

Luke giggles again; the Nurse comes drooling down his chest, stiff-eyed, her hairs a-rolling, and scuffles down to about her knees, watching Luke from below, in an aptitude of kittenish torpidity.

‘Come here, girl,’ Luke wails. He gyres. Moving that fast his arms, hunching, fingers burning, like so many magmas, sprawl aside. With tossing hands and veins and molten eye,

the Nurse makes one more nasty curvaceous rush and climbs again, hairs bunched, watching Luke. Luke moves readily

Towards her, his eyes at his sides. Save for Luke’s lust, they are two figures scarved in a tableau of feminine beauty.

When Luke can only touch her, the Nurse stands on her smallest toes and caresses all of him. Then Luke is constrained. For an instant before they come to

head, Luke sees the whole world free-falling into oblivion. Then they are rigid, mad, terrifying, the Nurse quivering, with glowering head; Luke,with rough

heels, scuttering off the Nurse’s breasts with both hands. With five fingers patting the Nurse’s head, in rough strokes, sensate and saddening, cursing it all with grand ferocity.

They stand in static hiatus, the Nurse whimpering and skirling. Then Luke is on the Nurse’s back. He flies upward in a whooping curl, his

body in mid-flight and furious. For another second, the Nurse stands straddled. With glowering head, before she bursts into emotion. They ascend each other

in a sequence of flank-breaking jumps, Luke, strong heroic and smouldered, to the peaks of angst where the Nurse ascends to further ecstasy.

‘So,’ Luke says, ‘You can leave now, seeing how I love you.’ The Nurse stands up. She redresses

herself, Luke doing the same. Without looking back, the Nurse hits him, slammering a single fist into his stomach with a rifle-like report.

Luke hits her in the eye; the Nurse slaps her forehead back, tear-tried and vulnerable; Luke strikes her across the backside and slides down to the

floor and simpers. Clinging to the carpeted void, he lowers his face into the depths of the wool and on into eternity. The floor is empty; from here Luke cannot

even hear the Warden snoring. He reaches up and drags the Nurse to meet him and crams his tongue into her bleeding mouth.

‘There,’ he whines. ‘Take it all out of sight and mind while you still can, you fat-breasted pig, you

parasitical whore of the earth.’..

further extract from my As-I-Lay-Dying-derived novel In My Father's House.

Chapter 4: LUKE

Damn that Mark! Sitting there rocking and rocking and rocking as if the world depended on it. I said to him, I said ‘If you’d just stop rocking, everything would be all

right! If you’d just stop rocking, the world would be filled with light.!’ But he just won’t stop rocking. Night or day, day or night, he just won’t stop doing the things that make everything wrong and mad and

dishevelling. And I said to the Warden, and I said, ‘You and I are on one and the same damned plain; you and I are one and the same.’ But that Warden, what with his blasted cups and all, would just not do

a single thing to make me feel together again.

If you’d just stop rocking! If you’d just damned well see that that rocking can’t serve a blasted thing. But that Mark just goes on rocking; rocking as if the whole fluming world depended on it.

Rock rock rock. Rock rock rock. That Mark just can’t do a single thing, what with his mind and my mind and John’s mind and Matthew’s mind and the Warden’s mind and the Nurse’s

mind doing one and the same damned thing.

And if it had just been me when the sky fell in; and if it had just been me when the worlds span around; and if it had just been me when the hellfires and the whole damned thing

went spiralling and surgering ahead into the whole mad maw of it all. If only, and say this repletely; if only the whole and mad spectacle had been my own and sacrosanct damned thing

For I said to him over and over and over and over and over, ‘If you’d just stop rocking! If you’d just lie down and get some sleep! If you’d just stop making this whole damned world

from seeming as poor and glib as schizophrenia itself. If you! If you and the whole rotten and blasted treason of it all

Would just stop rocking and rocking and rocking, we’d all be all right, and the sun would shine and the moon would shine and the whole damned mind of it all would shine!

And the Warden and I are one and the same. He serves me and I serve him, I serve him and he serves me. And if only it had been just been me when the whole of them all, including that

blasted Nurse and all her foibles and likings for me, had just stopped rocking and rolling and rocking, the lot of us could really be all right.

And, if I had it my way, it would just be the Warden and me; me and the Warden, with all of me and mine casting those papers and clips and pencils and pens,

cups and bloody all, into the slick black maw; with all of me and mine folding and furling those startling and foaming files of paper planes and casting them into

the big black void, neither caring nor sharing nor making any headway and the spheres of the whole damned thing itself spiralling where madness is dead and gone.

ROCK ROCK ROCK ROCK! One rock more, and we’ll be wronged. One rock more, and we’d all be foaming once again?

...

further extract from my As-I-Lay-Dying-derived novel 'In My Father's House'

chapter 5: MATTHEW

We watch him come into the office and mount the hard-backed chair. He does not look at us. ‘Are you okay,’ he says.

‘If you’re okay, J am,’ the Warden says. I say, ‘Wait.’ He stops, looking at the Warden. Mark giggles, without moving. He glares at Mark with decorous and

itinerant precision, into his sailing eyes and beyond. The Warden runs his hand over his lump-beeseeching face. His is blinking out ahead of us all,

out across the filthy land. Luke looks at him for a second, then he goes on to pull his left eyelid and shed a couple of tears.

‘I hate interruptions as much as any man,’ the Warden says. ‘it’s like Matthew to interrupt,’ Luke says. The shirt across the Warden’s back is jaded with

age. There is not a single sign of youth in it. He was young once from lying in a wooden cradle, and he tells people that, if he looks back, he will be young once again. I think he believes it.

‘But if I could just choose a better moment,’ he says, ‘he could be less insane’.

Luke sheds another tear. And it will rain before evening. ‘He’s got to learn the means of being normal,’ the Warden says.

‘He’ll want to be normal in the long run, I know it. I promise you, Luke, I know things better than any of you.’

‘He’ll need to learn soon, you’re right,’ Luke says. He gazes out across the Warden’s head, shedding more tears and blinking.

Since he lost his childish ways his eyes cry in slow petition whenever he rubs his eyes. The beard on his face gives him a cragged appearance old sea-dogs have.

You’d better be okay soon, so we can get well together and get the whole asylum clean,’ he says.

‘Pah! It’s clean already,’ Mark says. ‘Shut-up Luke.’

‘You’re the one to know,’ Luke says. ‘You’ve been here long enough to know that. You and your mad friends.’

The Warden looks at him. Luke’s eyes are marbleized pistols firing in a crowded space. He is a lot leaner than any of the rest of us. I told him that’s why he always fought

and taunted him more. Because he was altogether more powerfully lean and proud than the rest of us. That’s why the Warden likes him so much.

‘Shut-up, Luke,’ Mark says, but as though he couldn’t care to think at all. He gazes out across his office, rocking and rocking.

‘You should know, too,’ I say. ‘If you could just see yourself, working all the day with the Warden, I don’t know.’

‘Ah, shut your damnable mouth,’ Luke says. ‘He should learn to be normal soon.’ He rubs the lump of his face. ‘Don’t any of you forget it.’

‘It’s lying there, watching him rocking and rocking and..’ Luke says. He tails off savagely, but he does not try to speak another word.

Like a tiny girl in the dark trying to smother her fear of manhood.‘I understand,’ the Warden says. ‘But they’re good lads. They make good tea and coffee and

cherish new cups. ‘I’d say they’re good company now and again.’

‘Then let’s get them sane,’ Luke says. ‘But how the hell can you expect us to in this...’ He looks at the back of Mark’s head, his eyes, like magma, revolving.

‘This place?’ the Warden says, ‘It’s a lot better than some. A mile better, I’d say, than any of collections of cups and saucers I’ve ever had the

pleasure to own or see. And what with the way things are looking, it won’t be long before this place pays its dues.’

‘It’s going to rain,’ Mark says. ‘I am a man who knows his weather. It is surely going to rain.’ He rocks in his chair and smiles.

‘It’s that sad Ward that gets me. I can’t get a word in edge ways around it. I just wish you’d do something about it.’ He rocks and rocks and then goes blank.

Luke looks up and around the office, then he goes on to glare and stare. I stand up, hearing the voices I have always heard, before I sit once more.

Tilting a little, as my bed does, a faint wind draws through the office and over the Warden’s table, rustling the papers and the cups and stirring hairs on Luke’s

head. An ash-key dropped near a window will rise and rush along the walls, groaning and whirring until it reaches the clinking cup-stand on the table: so,

with the voices. As you enter the depths of the mind, they sound as though they were speaking from the wind above your head.

further extract from my 'As-I-Lay-Dying' derived novel 'In My Father's House'

chapter 6: THE WARDEN

It was the craziest thing I'd ever seen. It was as if he knew he would never be sane again, that Mr.Mark and Mr. Luke were driving him into it, never to see

him sane in this world ever again. I always said Mr. Matthew was madder than the others. I always said that he was only one among them who had his own mad nature.

Not that Luke, the one I have cared and laboured for all these mad years. Not that he is really any better. A mad man hs is, through and through, caring for nobody,

caring for nothing except how to get on my better side. Mr.John says Mr. Matthew asked him for love. He said that Mr. Matthew more or less begd him on his bended knees

for love and affection. But nothing would do for but he and and Mr. Mark and Mr. Luke turning him down like they do and going for a brand new set of cups. God knows it,

we just can't expect much from that boy, that Mr. Matthew, interrupting everyone all these long years, selling us all down the river at any moment: Mr. Luke says that Mrs.

Warden likes Mr. Mathew the least of all, but I think i know better. I think she is partial to him and his mad ways.

Why, for the past three years, I have been going into town as often as I can, going sometimes when I shouldn't, neglecting my own wife and family so that someone wouldn't

speak to Mr. Matthew other than myself, or whatever. Not that I want congratulations for doing so: i would expect the same for myself. But thank heaven it will be the fellows who l

love who'll bring me back to full health. I have been blessed more than others, I think, with imagination and its kind, but Mr. Matthew just can't rely on me.

He fell ill, a lonely young-man, lonely in his pride, trying to make his loved ones love him more, hiding the fact that he was badly suffering because he was not sectioned for five minutes

before they were caring for him and smothering him with hugs and kisses. God knows it, he should just learn to be normal.

'But he wants to be strange,' Mr. John said. 'Not one man can stop him from being amongst his own people.'

'Then why doesn't he stop being strange elsewhere?' I said. 'Not one of them can stop him? Well, how the hell am I supposed to keep up with him?'

'It is his one and only wish,' Mr. John said. 'I heard Mark say it is.'

'And you would believe Mr. Mark of course,,' I said. 'A maniac like that. Don't bother to tell me!'

'I'd believe him about something as important as that. Yes I would,' Mr. John said.

'Don't tell me!' I said. 'A mad man's place is with his own thoughts and feelings? Would you expect me to live in my head if he worst came to the worst? I truly hope not, Mr. John.'

'Well, I'd say you should, he said..

'I should hope not,' I said. 'I have tried to live a wholesome life in the sight of the Church and Man. I have two baptised children and a happy, Christian wife.

So is it too much to ask to see me into my latter years with a touch of grace and dignity?'

But Mr. Matthew. It was the craziest thing I'd ever seen. Sometimes i lose my faith in this place for a time; I am suddenly struck down by darkening doubts

and beliefs. But always the Lord above restores my love for my people and their kind of world. Not Mr. Matthew, not the one who got the share of the

kisses. It was Mr. Luke, the one Mr Matthew says is rotten, crazy, plotting for one conquest after another, what with one Nurse here and one Nurse there. It was Mr. Luke.

He came to my office door and stood before me, looking at the maggots about him. He just looked at them, and I sensed the wonderful heat of the heavens around

him. I saw that Mr. Matthew and Mr. Mark had just been bluffing, but that it was between me and Mr. Luke that the passion and utmost love really was.

He just looked at me, not even sitting down for a while; just looking up and down and round and around at everything ahead of him. He said nothing, and looked at me.

'What do you want, Luke?' said Mr. Mark. 'What in hell's name do you want?' What with Mr. Matthew interrupting everything.

God knows, it was Mr. Luke who saved them all, as much as a bird must fall.

further extract from my 'As-I-Lay-Dying' derived novel 'In My Father's House'

Chapter 7: JOHN

The first time Mark and I encountered the Warden...Matthew doesn't think because he'd catch his death of cold if he did. And Mark doesn't

care about anything. He is not kin to caring at all. And the Warden likes buying and counting his cups; all the live long day he buys and counts them.

And Matthew thinks a lot, because his neighbours will always treat him very well because his is always too busy to put up much of a fuss.

And I do not know that Matthew would go mad, who sits at the dinner table with his eyes gone to complete pot and staring out beyond it all into

the dust, with the dust filling in the hole in his head, or whatever he might try to say.

We met the Warden when night was falling, the shadows getting closer and the nasty shade on tbe rise, talking to him about that nasty shade

with words of pure silver.Because I said I will say something and I won't when the talk is in full flow, because I said if the words are full when we come to the

finality of things it won't be up to me to continue the conversation. I said if it doesn't really matter to you it will surely really matter to me. I cannot help myself.

I'm just like that. And we talked and talked and talked onwards into early morning, moving out of the

nasty shade and on into the rising shadows, touching each others hands and other hands and further hands, not really saying much at all. I said,

'What are we doing here?' and he said, 'You here to get well.' And so it was that full speech was dealt and when it came to an end it was morning.

And so it was that I could not help myself. It was then that I saw Matthew and knew he knew of my troubles.

He said so without the need for words and he told me that Mark was going to die in the end without the need for words; and I knew that

he knew because it he had said he knew with the need for words I wouldn't have believed him, and that would have been a great mistake.

But when I asked him if he knew he said that he didn't and I said, 'Are you going to tell the Warden about it? Are you going to to make me cry?',

without the need for words I said it, and he said, 'Why are you asking?', without the need for words again. And that's why i can talk to Matthew in

utter silence without even caring or sharing at all.

He sits at his desk, looking out at us all.'What do you want, Luke?' I say.

'He wants to help you,' the Warden says. And marble-eyed Luke is coming in to watch me but I can escape him. I can escape them all..

When is he going to help me?' I say. 'Oh, very very soon,' the Warden says.

'Then why aren't you helping Matthew?' I say.

'I want to watch Him suffer,' the Warden says.

...

further extract from my As-I-Lay-Dying derived novel In My Father's House

chapter 8: MARK

The Warden keeps on rubbing his face. His shirt is faded: on one arm a droplet of sweat drips down to the

floor, falling like a shooting-star. 'No man hates interruptions more than me,' he says.

'A patient's got to interrupt you every now and again,' I say. 'But sooner or later, it can't do any

harm to sit stock still.'

'He'll want to be normal one day,' he says. 'It is simply for his own good.'

'But John's just come in,' I say. And it is going to rain this evening, too. His mind's steeled shut, too,

not an inch away from utmost arrogance. But it's just like him to be narrow-minded. Just like him to carry

a trillion secret burdens.

He looks out over his desk, rubbing his lumpy face. 'No man hates interruptions more,' he says.

'Luke'll help us all in plenty of time,' I say. 'I shouldn't worry about it if I were you.'

'He will if asked politely,' the Warden says.

'Perhaps he won't need to be asked, seeing what a psycho he really is,' I say.

'He's no worse than you,' the Warden says. 'He's more cogent and cuplike more often, in fact'. It's a

mad life we maniacs have. Some maniacs, that is. I'd say that all of them live beyond eighty. Working every day

rain or shine; never allowed to be sick or ailing, even when they're old. It's a mad life.

The Warden rubs his face. 'Luke is a good lad,' he says. We can see Matthew and Luke jabbering into John's

personal space. Heaven knows it, they just don't care. It's true. Never a truer word has been said. 'Luke's a

good lad,' I say.

Then that Nurse comes to the door. She is carrying a medicine bag as big as a dog. She enters the office and

greets Luke's with a shiny smile.

'What's that,' I say. 'A doctor's bag as big as that! Where did you get it?'

'It holds medication,' she says. She hands it to the Warden, her bosoms rising and falling like a balloon.

'Are you going to hand out the medication soon, then?' Luke says.

'I thought that the Warden should do it,' the Nurse says. She looks at Luke. We can hear him squirming,

coming out in a billion squirming shadows. Matthew, too, weedling and wailing within himself and beyond. 'There's

something afoot there,' I say.

'Just the usual,' Matthew says. 'They're not in love, just youthful.'

The Warden says nothing. He looks up at the Nurse and glares. He glares at her as if a stallion, then begins

to curse her for wasting his time. The Nurse looks at the Warden's face, then at Luke once again. She turns, going

to retrieve the medicine bag, when the Warden asks her to stay.

'You stay,' he says.

'If you wish it,' she says.

'Yes, you stay,' he says. He doesn't look at her for long. The Nurse comes up to John and asks him to

pass her a chair. The Warden's office is very full now, tight with maniacs and medicine.

'Well, I reckon we'd better get on,' John says. I've got things to say and so forth.' And it's going to

rain this evening. Mark and Matthew know it, as I have, always. Luke is looking at the Nurse, directly into her

head. 'Don't,' the Nurse whispers.

Poor Luke. She'll keep him at it for the rest of his days. I think she's a whore. 'Luke,' I say, 'the Nurse has come

to kill you. Luke? Do you hear me?'

But Luke is mad inside and stares at the Nurse forever. It is going to rain before dawn, heavily and heatedly. Yes

indeed. A packed office is an uncomfortable one. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. All of us are here together.

....

chapter 9: MATTHEW

Blast that Warden. And it intending to rain as well. I can stand here and day things over and over with

this second-sight of mine, but still the Warden and this o'erpacked offiice will get me down. I do

the very best I can, as much as I can to me normal, but my words still run away with my tongue

and steal me into madness.

All conniving here, right in front of the door, where every type of rotten luck can come and knock

us down. I told Luke it was rotten luck living in a place like this, and he said, for all the world

like a lunatic, 'Shut your Godless mouth.' But I told him it was still rotten luck living in a place

like this, because the Gods put up the Asylums for dying in: why They put them up so flat

and glaring was for this reason alone. When They put up something for living in, like a house

or a maisonette or a castle, They make it curvaceous and feminine, and that's a matter of fact.

And so They never wished for people to live in an asylum, for whosoever lives there

first can only be strangled by asphyxias and the like. Did you ever hear of Them building

an asylum for royalty? No you never did, because it's always the place of royalty in a palace

of sanest poetry. If They wanted people to live to live in an asylum, They'd have housed

royalty in it first and foremost. This I said to Luke. This I said to everybody.

And the Warden. Lord help him. Talking us all out of our rightful quirks and idiosyncrasies.

I have forever said to Mark and Luke and John that the Warden is a thief of enterprise.

It's not as if an o'erpacked office weren't enough, but I'd say a Warden who asks his patients

to be alike him is asking for absolute trouble. 'Shut your Godless mouth,' Luke said, but

I was far too busy watching Mark rock and rock and rock in that chair to care too much

about it. Mathew, Mark, Luke and John. The Godhead knows how they feel. And that Nurse,

bloody as a dolphin and still as sad, what does she know about life and matrial strictures?

'Bitch,' I say to her, saying it without the need for words. 'Bitch,' I say, just as I had spoken

to John - without a single need to evade the steeled-in blackness of the strangled and

accidental tongue.

chapter 10: LUKE

He has been to town this week. The amount of cups is both vast and disturbing. He has not

looked back in months.

'Mark,' I say, running into the blackness, tunnelling into the bosom of the

Nurse ahead. 'Do you want normal, Mark?'

It takes four maniacs to make it. It's not just the genes of your parents make you. It takes

four mad maniacs all rocking and wailing and riveting into the brains of things you've come

to expect and take for granted. I say to the Nurse: 'You don't want me, but you've only

just had me: is that it?' But she doesn't hear, wrapped up as she is in her speechless,

breasted crimplene. And that Matthew, too, what with his way of saying things without

uttering a word. All this damnable life he practiced words, and now he doesn't say them.

He just keeps on saying and saying and saying, 'Are you going to die? Are you going to

die?' Damn! It's hard to believe he's mad at all sometimes, hard to image he's

damnably mad at all.

The sun, an hour below the horizon, is now set in a cloud of rain; the light has turned to

like mystic copper. 'The Eye Portentous,' says Matthew, 'The Eye Sulphuric, Contagious

and Molten.' When the Warden stops rubbing his face and looks at me, his eyes go

horribly blank. 'Are you okay?,' I say. 'Just as long as you are, I am too,' he says. This

world is an Eye Portentous itself, tolling in a shroud of Sulphuric and Contagious

lightning all of the dog-dayed time. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Matthew, Mark,

Luke and John. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Matthew says it over and over without

even uttering a word.

chapter 11: THE WARDEN

When they were all sitting there of their own accord, I said, 'God has made you calm at

last.' And I said many other things and at first would not speak at all for fear that there

might yet be something to do about Mr. Matthew's abnormalities and Mr. Luke's

gestures of maturative lustfulness. I thought there was maybe a Lord or two above

that could apprehend the whole foaming lot of them and could thereby bring us all

back together again, all sane and soulful.

When I reach for the lump that is my life and put a hand or two in my eyes, the sun has

gone behind a bank of bitter cloud like some top-heavy mountain, like a whole

load of tea and coffee cups breaking in two on the vinyl floor ahead of us. And it was

then that I knew it had finally occured, that it was true; for Mr. Mark says: These mad

ones know their weather.

When the Nurse comes in and gets down from her heels and passes me that bag, the

sun has gone down even further. 'Why should I do a job for you,' I say, without

the need for words, just like young Mr. Matthew does. A lazy one that Nurse is. 'She

just wants to see Mr. Luke,' I say. That could Mr. Luke's downfall, all those Nurses

and their leeching kind.

'Stay if you wish,' I say.

'It will if you wish it,' she says. But I am too preoccupied with those

cups of mine to even begin to tell her that that's all she came here for in the first

place: to stay in my office with Mr. Luke and his beard.

'Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.' This I hear as Mr. Matthew thinks. God knows

it, he truly has a gift for speech without speaking at all.

'What do you want us to do?' says Mr John. 'Stay round here and

get crushed by each others minds?' Even with my keen imagination, I can't fathom

what he's saying. The office is packed full of people, all with their own mental

quirks and solitudes, all with their own individual angers and sadnesses. 'Mr.

Matthew,' I say, 'Stop talking with your mouth closed.'

After a while, Mr. John turns to Mr. Luke and pulls an ugly face. He gives the face

all he's got, until I stare at him and urge him to stop. I'll be blasted if I can see

why I don't just quit. A man of sixty years old, weighing in excess of eighteen

stone, being hauled from left to right to by a line of maniacal eyes. God knows

it. It's time to I moved out of the country, cups and all.

'I'm sorry,' Mr. John says, letting his eyes gyre like gun-powder.

And all of them knowing it is going to rain, too. There is so little daylight

now; the clouds are the colour of sulphur. 'The Eye Portentous,' says Mr.

Matthew. 'The Eye Contagious and Molten.' God help him. A poet, and

still he asks me for favours.

The Nurse is sitting by Mr. Luke, fanning his face with her arms. When I

look at her she turns her head and looks at me. She has been dead

behind those eyes for the past twelve years. I suppose it's being part of

the asylum world so long that she cannot make even a simple change

to the way she's dead inside. I can remember how, when I was young,

I lay in a wooden cradle. Now I know youth be merely an accoutrement

of the mind - and that of minds that suffer bereavement from dawn till

dusk, dusk till dawn. The nihilists say this is the end, I'd say it's just

the problematic beginning.

Mr. Mark looks at us. Only his eyes move. It is like they are setting out

to assault us, not with sense or sight but with a stream of

intentional pleading, childish and aware. Mr. Mark is mad, but not as

mad as Mr. Matthew and as for Mr. John..'I'm a weather man,' he says.

May the Lord above save his very soul.

'Shut your Godless mouth,' Luke says. I have never seen

such eyes in such a crowded space.

'I don't condemn you for raving,' Mr. Mark says. 'I just can't

keep from believing that's it's going to rain. And you know what that

means, don't you? It means we're going to die.' The look on Mr. Luke's

face is enough to freeze an adder's blood. And that's the one problem

with this place: everything, weather, all, hangs on a pair of freezing eyes.

I don't know. May the Lord help them all.

'Now, Warden,' Mr. Matthew says, 'When he came here

today we were all alone. Now there are six of us. It's about time

you did something about it.' I watch him. I can feel his eyes. It's like

having someone shoving at you with them. I have seen it all before in a

mad man. Seen them drive us from the room with their eyes alone.

That's what they mean by the love that passes understanding: that

madness, that manic desire to be free from it all, surpasses the abject

nakedness of both a woman and a man as they kiss, caress and marry.

'One of us must leave,' Mr. Matthew says. 'One of us must

leave and go away.' But my soul just isn't in it, just is not ready to cry.

chapter 12: MATTHEW

Luke stands up and speaks. From behind his upright legs John peers,

with his shaven head and sailing eyes round and his mouth set wide

in wonderment. He looks at the Warden; all his manic life seems to

drain into his eyes. 'It time we pulled straws,' Luke says.

'Why, Luke?' The Warden says. 'We could always stay

in here together. Why stop the party before it's even..'

He sheds tears, laying his fat hands on his lump-beshriven face.

For a while, everyone looks at him, without a word, without a single

thing, as if his actions alone were surmising all all and all of everything

we'd ever done. Then he raises himself up, who has not shifted for

four hours. Luke leans forwards, vying to help him up.

'Warden?' he gestures; 'Warden?'

The Warden is looking out of the window, at the rain stuttering steadily

down to the tired earth, labouring incessantly downwards in a sulphuric

arc as though it were all-portentous and wallowing.

'You, John!' he yells, his voice strong and as rough as an

uncut diamond.

'You, John!'

John looks down up at the back of the Warden's head framed by

the window in the twilight. It is a framing of sacrosanct synergy

and passion. John stands and thrusts his right arm towards Luke's

outstretched hand. He drags a straw from the maw of the palm and

slants it down into his left fist. For a while, he looks up and again at

the back of the Warden's head, neither with censure nor approbation.

Then the Warden turns around.

'Well?' he says. 'Well? What have you drawn?'

Leaning on the desk, his hands lifted a little, John murmurs, 'I've drawn

the longest straw I've ever seen.' Then he flings his fists up into

the air and hurls the straw on the ground.

From behind Luke's legs John sits and peers, his mouth full and open

with all discernible colour draining from his face into his mouth.

'You, Mark!' the Warden yells, 'You now, Mark!'

Mark leaps up from his hard-backed chair, his rippling eyes, full

of tears, gesturing momentarily at the Warden's furrowed brows.

After a second mumbling, he grabs a straw from Luke's outstretched

fist.

'Well?' the Warden asks, 'Well?'

'I withdrew a long straw as well,' Mark says, his mind meddling with

the wretched depths of space and time, his manner cursing and

assailing, as a boulder might, down into the very cloisters of hell and

fiery sulphur itself.

Luke comes up to the inside of the office door, carrying his

diminishing fist of straws. 'You now, damn you, you now!' he screams.

I do not approach at first. I stop in the saddle of my chair, my legs

wrapped tightly about me. 'If you don't pull, I'll strike you,' Luke

says. But I am not listening. I am looking into multisonous hands of

peace, rigid and fading in the bleak twilight of portentous

ash and doom. 'Pull!' Luke shrieks, and suddenly I do, flicking my

right index finger and thumb into his raging, waving fist.

'What have you pulled?' asks the Warden.

'A full straw, sir,' I say. 'It's not me who'll be leaving.

I'm staying put.'

'Then it's you, Luke,' the Warden says. 'There's only

one straw left. It must be you who'll be leaving this place.

May God help us all and may the Lord protect our souls.'

Luke stands over us, anvil-armed, glaring, motionless. He comes

near to the Warden, raising his hand, but then looks at the Nurse

in the corner. He scruffles her way and lays his two lean hands

on her face and then on the huge hump of her breasts. He touches

her tears that fall with clumsy efficacy down and down and down.

The Nurse breathes with a molten, rasping sound, mouthing the sound

against her teeth and gums. 'God's will and mercy be done

for us all.'

chapter 13: LUKE

Then I began to run. I run towards the back of my mind and come to

the edge of the Warden's brain. Then I begin to cry. I can feel where

the straws stood in my hand. It is all too late now, all unsafe and

descriable. But then it wasn't my hand at all. It was Matthew's hand,

speaking without speaking, uttering damnable words without words,

all out there in the portentous dark. And now I am getting so far ahead

of myself that I cannot touch my face.

The Wards look like people when they sway from side to side. If I

should jump off the ledge I will land where the path is, with all of its

cyclical sadnesses engraved and damnably breaking through. I can hear

the bed and the Nurse's face and me and the floor and every damned

thing shaking like a leaf in the stormy arc of the Warden's eyes and mind.

And that Matthew saying everything without even damned well speaking

and all those other tongues clicking and foretelling a Godless doom.

'Shut your Godless mouth, Warden. Do you hear me?!'

I jump from the Warden's mind, running. The top of my head comes

swooping up into the sulphurous clouds outside. If I jump I can go

through the Godless lot of them like a lion in the circus, into the

warmth and damnable heat of the Nurse's bosom, without having to

wait. My hands grab at her tears; beneath my feet the rectiline floor

gropes and sucks at my elderly shoes.

And then I can damned well breathe again, into the warm smell of

heaven. I enter Mark's mind, trying to reach out, and then I can cry and

then I can damned well puke up the crying into a vast and damnable

woollen heap.

'He just doesn't care. He just doesn't care at all.'

The light in the Warden's eyes runs under my skin, under my hands,

running through the Nurse's tears and on, raging up into my nose

where the vomit starts to cry, and then I can come up for air, puking

it all up into a woollen and sulphurous heap. Mark makes a lot of

noise. I can hear the noise running from under my skin, up my

veins, and then I damned well jump again, into the depths of John's

mad mind.

I cannot find it. In the dark, along the dust, John's mind i cannot

find. The rocking and rocking and rocking makes a lot of noise.

I just wish it damned well wouldn't make so much noise. Then I find

it in the rainclouds, in the dutiful shower, and I run across the whole

of it and into its many winding roads, the brain cells dancing before

my eyes.

They all watch me as I run up, beginning to blastedly jerk from

side to side, John's eyes rolling, Mark's eyes wailing, Matthew's eyes

spurting words, and the Nurse: her eyes seem dragged.

'None of you damned well care!'

I strike at Matthew's mind. He wheels about as I lunge and lunge

again. His eyes are Godless and shut, as if he knew this would

happen, as if they were nailed to the ground at the very epicentre

of a damned and whirling pool or spinning plate.

I run in the dust of Matthew's mind. I cannot see, running in the

sucking swirls of Matthew's Godless mind.

I strike, my fists hitting the walls of his skull, bouncing, striking

into the the foaming walls and then into the air again, with the

Warden's mind approaching, with the Nurse's mind in mid-scream,

with the whole Godless and damnable mass of them all

snivelling and snickering into a whorling world of blasted groans

and whines.

But I do not jump again. When I reach the fringes of Matthew's

mind, I stop completely dead. John's stupid mouth falls open,

full of flotsamming green, his tongue flapping.

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Contagious and Curdling.'

I stoop down through Matthew's eyes and enter the Warden's office

once again. I am not crying now. I am not saying a blasted thing.

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John stand up from their chairs to meet

me. 'May God help us all,' says the Nurse. But I do not need a God

to help me bleed.

chapter 14: THE NURSE

Luke could do so much for me if he wanted. He could do everything

for me. It's as if everything on this earth for me revolves around him,

so that I can't help but wonder what the hell he's doing leaving when

all around he could just do so much to help me out.

It's because I am alone. If I could just feel, it would not be so lonely.

But if it were not alone, every man and girl would know. And that

Luke could do so much to help me if only he'd stay. Then I could

be all right alone.

For I would not let the Warden come between us, like Matthew

came between us with his chattering mind. Luke and me are

suited so well that I can only say that all that speaking without

words is the all and all reason why Luke has to leave. He just doesn't

know how much I love him. Luke could do so much for me if

he only tried.

From the back of the office I cannot hear Mark at all. Then the

sound of his rocking and rocking comes my way. It is like a noise

that hurts the ears and reeks of machismo. If only Luke would help

me, the rocking would not get in the way.

I brought the bag of medication as an excuse. The Warden knows

that it is my job to deal with it. But I just had to see Luke, just had

to make him realise just how much he could do for me. The Warden

has nothing to do with it, though. It is all down to Matthew and his

Eye Portentous; all down to Matthew and his sulphorous speech

without words.

Listening to Matthew now is all-seeing, all-hearing. It took him

ten seconds to be special; maybe he just doesn't care about

anyone but his mind. Maybe he just won't give give up the ghost

until Luke has left us all behind. I wipe my tears on Luke's green vest, and

I stop, watching Matthew smile.

'Well, Luke,' he says, 'It's time we said goodbye.'

Saying it all without words, saying it all in his own mad, bad time.

'You just don't care,' Luke says. 'The Eye Portentous.

The Eye Sulphuric and Molten.'

I cannot see Mark. Nor can I see John. I have lost the will to worry

and can only see into things so far. After a while the sound of the

rocking comes around to a peak, coming all dark and dreadful into

the catacombs of the Warden's tears. Then I can see them all, going

down in idyllic motion.

When I am out of sight, I often cry. As the crows call at the foot

of the hill, I cry. Luke's hands are closed over my face, his head

is bowed a little, his awry hair standing beneath the strip lighting

like a candle in exposition. He looks like a little boy, the maul of

his lean body clamouring for relief and love.

The Warden is in silhouette against the window, nuzzling the

shadows to the sides of his mind.

Then I see Matthew laughing. 'I told you so,' he says, 'I

told you I was the one they loved.' He speaks without using

words. He is the sole reason why behind the whole mad thing.

If only Luke could stay, he could help me. If only Matthew died,

he could stay for good.

Then Luke leaves the office. He strides towards the door and

stamps right through it. 'Don't forget to pack your razor,'

Matthew says; this time speaking like the rest of us, clucking

to himself like a malformed chicken.

And I do not resist. I never felt the need to resist. I didn't

even know what a man could do till I was twenty.

Matthew, Mark and John leap from their chairs. I can feel them

molest me with their molten eyes. 'The Eye Portentous.

The Eye Sulphuric and Molten,' says Matthew, as if he were

the only poet on earth, as if he were the only reason why I'm

here at all.

'We'll meet each other later,' says the Warden.

'Lest you forget, Luke's to leave us now. We'll need to

arrange arrange for new and better things. We'll need to arrange

our days far differently from now on.'

And I know, just as Matthew knows, that the Warden is thinking

about his blasted cups and what he can do with them next.

And I know that Luke could do so much for me if he would

only stay. And I know that Matthew is behind it all; behind

as much of it as any poet's can.

The sky lies flat on the hill. Beyond the hill sheet-lightning

stains us all and raves. The sulphurous air shapes the dead earth

in the dead darkness. It lies dead and dread upon me, touching

my womanhood with a speechless scream.

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten.'

But I know that Luke has lost his head.

chapter 15: THE WARDEN

When they pulled the straws I was full of cups and tears. I saw
the dark stand up and up go swirling about Luke's mind and I said
'Are you going to go? Are you going to leave it all behind?
Are you, Luke?' Saying it all without speaking, saying it all
like that mad Mr. Matthew, all caught up in his Portentous Eye.

They all stand up. Their shadows all stand up, over Luke
scuttering out of the office, out of our lives.

The Nurse said we shall be together in the end. The rain is
behind the glass, sulpurous in the sweated land. When it falls
it shines on and off. Mr. Mark said blood was thicker then
tears and that Mr. Luke is a saint. Why the hell do blood and
tears cost more than love alone? The Eye Portentous.
Christ! Can't he stop himself from saying it all?

When the rain falls it shines once again, then not at all.
If God made us all, why can't He make us all in love
with one another? If He made us all, why can't He make
Luke stay?

The shadow walks around. Mr. Matthew's mind walks also.
And it was not his fault. I was there, too, looking. I saw
it all coming along. I thought it was his fault, but it was not.
It was not his fault that he turned out so bad. He went away
with his madness like a fully grown dictator. As much as a bird
must fall, he did just that.

And I am not happy with the cups anymore. Anyone can see
that I am not. It was not Mr. Matthew's fault, but the straws
were pulled because of him. 'The Eye Portentous. The Eye all
Sulphuric and Molten.' But I just can't seem to hear him all
that well now that Luke has gone.

The rain shines, then it fails to shine at all. The clouds burst,
then do not burst at all. And Mr. Luke has gone to the
base of the hill, off into the Portentous and Sulphurous
Void.

chapter 16: MATTHEW

It was night on midnight when he left. It had set in to rain

when he walked out on us all. It had been a portentous

night, with the storm making us all as mad as we could ever

be; a night when a wordless saying may look for all the world

like a canyon full of green meanness. Such is the way to

look at things when you're utterly strange.

'It's Luke,' he said. 'It's Luke who's got to leave.'

But I am the one behind it. It's all so reasonable to think

that it is. The Warden doesn't even know it yet, but I am

the one who created doom.

'Why don't you shut your bloody mouth, Warden?

Why don't you bring Luke back?' The Nurse says. And I am

the one who says words without the need for speech at all.

And so when Mark awoke me the next morning it had stopped

raining once again. Even while my dreams had been full of

sulphur and lightning and Luke leaving us all alone, it had

stopped raining and was all so quiet that no man could

even begin to discern a drop of dew. And Mark was all

so loud, like he might have woken up thumping his chest.

And it was then that I noticed John was sucking his thumb.

I saw him there, when the sunshine sparkling across his ailing

face and with the Nurse and her big bosom muscling into

it all and beyond. 'What are you doing, John?' I said, but he

just wouldn't hear, and he was mad and bad as he was in

his own cocoon of silence.

And he looked for all the world like a drowned puppy, clad

in those overalls, without a hat, splashed up to his knees

where he had where he had walked throughout our minds.

Yes, Luke looked like a drowned puppy for certain.

'What are you doing, John' I said.

He looked at me, his eyes round and dilatory in the very

middle of the muddling earth. 'You mind your own business,' he

said.

But I hung to my words, chattering to him with my mind.

'The Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye Sulphuric and

Molten,' And I know he can hear, clad as he is in many

a manic turn.

And I'd say Luke went because of it, even when he didn't

know it yet. But the Nurse did. She knew from the start.

I'll hang on to my words for now. I'll proceed to keep my

mouth closed whenever I speak at all. For it's about those

sorrows and afflictions of the sane that make me speak

in this quiet way; how those who think clearly are liable to

to strike anywhere, at any time. I guess it takes a sane man to

know a mad one; I guess it takes all the sanity in this world

to perceive the turmoil within.

And I'd say it was all my fault. When I come back through

the wards, I say things beyond reason. I see Luke dressed in

the Nurse's nightgown with a shawl over his head and an umbrella

and a Bible poking out of his arms, and I say to him over and

over again, 'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten.'

And I just can't seem to get above myself for the control I

had over others. And I just can't can't seem to even begin to

see into saying things aloud at all without finding solace in the

rectiline control of world events.

'It's you, Luke,' the Warden says, 'It's you who'll

be going.'

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye suffering and Molten. The

Eye Contagious and Rolling. The Eye of the Conspiring

storm.'

But I am all too eager to reach once more for the sylvan

pinnacles of abnormality that I do not see the Nurse come up

and glare right into my foaming mind.

chapter 17: JOHN

My thumb is like a stump. Gnarled and rusted, its cracked nail

snapped on one side, lonely and acrid. Upon its dark skin, the sunlight

looks like a random smear of soft pale paint on ingenious black canvas. The Ward

is broad and smells of sulphur.

'What are you doing, John?' Matthew says. 'What do you think

you're doing?' And that Nurse staring into his head, gyring and dictating

accusations with the very depths of her sulphurous eyes.

For Luke has gone. Into the impalbable plane to it, he has gone far, far away.

Matthew worked his mind on it, turned his mad, unspeaking words against

us all and caused Luke to leave. His face is now sloped in agued terror with a

dynamic immobility that frames his eyeless gaze; against his terror the trees

motivate from side to side, swaying as if in mute acquisition of the whole

terrific scene.

It has stopped raining. The first swift drops were soft, the latterday ones

torrential. Luke went out into it all, out into the Void, his eyes portentous and

curdling. Those eyes are as big as a stallion and just as seedy. May the

Lord save his soul right now and always.

The Nurse glares at Matthew. Her glare dictates monstrosities and

murderousness. Last night, the rain swashed violently over us, now it is

the Nurse's glare that runs us through.

'What are you doing, John?' Matthew says. He takes up my mind

and ruins it; again he speaks without saying and calls the Nurse a 'whore without

derision.' I am tired of Matthew's gift for words, most of all with their

speechlessness.

'Why don't you get out of your bed and tell why you did it?' says

the Nurse. 'Why don't you sit up straight and say it all with that bad bat tongue

of yours?' The Nurse glares at him.

The sleeves you get of Matthew's night-things are too long for him. 'The Eye

Portentous,' he says. 'The Eye Sulphuric and Molten,'. God rot his poet's

soul!

The Warden holds his head in his hands, thinking about his damnable cups

and about Luke, out there beyond it all. Mrs. Warden comes into the edges

of his mind and calls to him. 'God save us all. God shall redeem us, each and

every one of us,' she trills and lulls.

And some time towards dawn, the rain had stopped. But it is only just day and

Matthew and Mark know nothing at all about how Luke is feeling and spreeing

and moving around. Nothing, that is, but every rotten thing ever to have blasted

out of the barren land into tired and weathered being.

Matthew sits up in his bed. Mark says quietly: 'Let's hope it rains again very

soon. Do you hear me, Matthew? Do you?'

But he has no gift for words without speech; has no gift for saying without

speaking. He was born into a world of open mouths. No more, no less, he is a

master of loud speaking.

'In a strange room,' says the Nurse, 'You must empty yourself of

life to speak. In a strange room, the accusations must lie at the head of those

who never stop speaking.

'The Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye Sulphuric and Contagious

and Dread.'

But I cannot reach to rise above myself at all, just cannot seem to reach up to

strike Matthew's cool command of false speech. Luke has gone. He has gone

out into the sane world without an iota of sanity or safety. He has gone out into

the sulpurous Void, alone and snapped in his inconstant dignity.

chapter 18: THE NURSE

I glare into his malformed eyes. His mind utters words that I dare not care

to hear. 'Matthew!' I say, 'Matthew! Do you the mind has to be empty

to speak? Did you know that, Matthew? Did you?'

'The Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye Contagious with

Sulphur.'

And John and Mark look round. Their figures rise from their beds like

man-eating ghouls and sidle along my womanhood like a fully grown

rhyme. 'What do you want, Matthew? What do you want now that

Luke has gone away?'

And I do not speak. Instead I ask him why he concoursed Luke into

going the way he did, with my mind alone, like a seed of pure spite,

rolling the words from my tongue in silent reverence, splitting my mind apart

that Matthew might hear.

'Why did you do it, Matthew? Why did you make Luke go

away?'

And the Warden is at the peak of the hill, rubbing his lump of a face and

beating his brain with questions on cups and Luke's absence.

'Why did you do it, Matthew? Why did you make Luke go away?'

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten. The Eye..'

I hear him say it, I hear him say it over and over again.

'Why did you do it, Matthew? Why did you make Luke go away?'

For Luke is out there in the Void, snarling and wailing at us back home, back

home in the place where sulphurous portent lies still.

'Shut you godless mouth,' he says. 'For god's sake shut your

mad and speechless mouth.'

And Matthew looks up at me and grins his manic grin.

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Portentous and Raving.'

Matthew says it all without words. And Luke's passing is all down to

him and his damned gift for controlling people's thoughts and feelings.

Luke is down there in the Lordless town, screaming from top to toe

and hoping beyond hope that the Warden will come for him.

'Luke!' I say, 'Luke! Why did you have to leave? Why

did you have to do Matthew's doing? Luke! Luke? Why didn't

you kill him before it was all too late?'

chapter 19: MARK

Matthew? Matthew? Why don't you bring Luke back? Matthew?

Matthew? Why didn't you pull the short straw? Matthew?

Matthew? Why do you speak without speaking? Matthew?

Matthew? you mad mad mad mad mad mad son of a sonless whore!

chapter 20: LUKE

Matthew made me leave, he made me

1. See the Eye Portentous.

2. See the Eye Contagious and Molten.

3. Pull the shortest straw.

4. Leave the Nurse and the Warden behind.

Matthew made me leave, he made me

1. See the Eye Portentous.

2. Lose my holy soul.

3. Smack the Nurse in the eye.

4. Leave the Warden to live all alone.

Matthew made me leave, he made me -

Matthew -!- ..

chapter 21: THE WARDEN

And now they're all conspiring to kill him, with Mr. Luke all alone out there,

getting madder than the lot of them and madder still.

Because I said to that Nurse that Mr. Matthew didn't mean it; I said to them

all that it was all out of Mr. Matthew's chalked hands. As much as a bird must fall,

I told them, but it did no good, it just made things worse.

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten.

The Eye Contagious and Pleading. The Eye all Multisonous and False'.

And Mr. Mark turns to Mr. John and says, 'That Matthew must go, that

Matthew is a bad apple amongst us all. And them with all their Holy divine

names as well. Them with all their holy angelled names conspiring against

him as if they were Judas himself. As much as a dark bird must fall, I told

them, but it just did no good, it just damned well made things worse?

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten. The

Eye..'

Sometimes I think I should quit. Sometimes I feel that my wife and me

are destined for better things than this. But then I get round to feeling

assigned to the whole thing, what with Mr. Luke out there getting madder

than them all and that Nurse and Mr. Matthew saying things without a word

and Mr. Mark and Mr. John preaching their own chiding version of the Gospel,

not caring or sharing a thing with anybody but themselves.

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Contagious and..'

Because Mr. Matthew always said he would come to a bad end. All those

times when they coddled and kissed him, he knew the first steps in their

murderous campaigns.

'Why, Matthew? Why? Why, Matthew, why?'

And that Nurse glaring out over the land like a big-breasted siren, cursing

and hissing her way into her new-found resistance, and that lone Ward

full of one less man, one less child, one less Luke.

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye both Sulphuric and Molten.

The Eye..'

And I just can't seem to leave the peak of the hill without thinking of those

cups and the way they broke in two; one after the other, breaking into the

maw that is a doctor's mind.

'Why did you do it, Matthew? Why? Why? Why?'

'For this place,' said Mr. Matthew, 'Was not made for living in.'

'This place,' said Mr. Matthew, 'Was not made for life.'

And I can't help but agree what with his poet's mind whorling and

toiling in the sulphuric madness like a great round spinning plate. 'This place,'

said Mr. Matthew 'Was made for the living dead?'

'The Eye Sulphuric. The Eye Portentous and Booming. The Eye

Phosphorous. The Eye Entrailing and Hard.'

'Matthew!' I say. Mr. Matthew! Why did you have to accept the

gifts you have?'

'Mr. Matthew! Mr. Matthew!' I say. 'Why did you have to speak

to us all without a single word when all around people were hustling and

bustling to make you well and normal again?'

But Mr. Matthew is lying on his back in the darkness of his Ward, giggling

and goggling to himself like the best holy maniac on earth.

'Why, Matthew? Why? Why did you do it? Why?'

And I know it shall happen as much as a bird must Fall.

...

chapter 22: MATTHEW

It's not you who's going to die, Luke. It's not you who's going to be killed.

'Shut your Godless mouth. Shut your Godless mindless mouth.'

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Mad. The Eye

Contagious and Beckoning. The Eye. The Eye.

'Why did you do it, Matthew? What in hell's name did you think you were

doing? Why did you do it, Matthew? Why did you speak and control us all

without a single word passing from your big bad holy lips? Why?

But I cannot answer, for I am thinking of my uncle's magazines and about those

words steeled in fast metal. I cannot answer because I am mad, because I am

abnormal and twisted by circumstances beyond my control.

'It's not you who's going to die, Luke.' But I am all so mad that

I cannot think to speak.

chapter 23: THE NURSE

'It won't do you standing there. If you want it to be done, you'll have to do it

yourself. And the voice in my head is right, and the voice in my head is that of

Luke, and the voice in my head appeals to us all; me and John and Mark. It appeals

to us at once, fierce and immediate.

'Do it, girl! Do it, boys, you mindless, Godless, thick-nosed wastes of

mental space, Do it!'

And I hear the voice in my head, and I hear the boys respond, and I hear a voice

in my bed, then reach out and feel the knife.

chapter 24: JOHN

It's not Luke who's going to die, Matthew. It's not Luke who's going to pay

for his speechless mind. It's not Luke, Matthew, who's going to die. The Warden

knows it, Mark knows it, Luke knows it, the Nurse knows it. It's not Luke who's

going to die, Matthew. No, it's going to be you.

I heard the voice, loud and portentous. I heard the voice come into my mind with

the force of sulphurous yearning, It was Luke. It was Luke speaking. 'Do it, boy,

do it; do it before it's too late.

And the Nurse heard it, and Mark heard it, and I heard it, and the Warden heard it,

clad as he was in a veil of tears at the peak of the hill. It's was Luke's voice,

loud and clear. I heard it, we all heard it.

'Matthew, it's not Luke who's going to die.'

'John, do you hear me, John? Do you hear me?' the Nurse says.

'John! I've gone to get the knife. John! Do you hear me? And I do hear her,

as clear and near to as the Warden's bell, as close to the all and all of it all as much

as Christ can make can it be heard.

'It's time to turn loose, John,' she says. 'It's time to turn it all loose

and free.

And I will not stop. Matthew made Luke leave. 'The Eye. The Eye. The Eye.

The Eye. I can hear the gobbling and gabbling to us all along the lengths

and breadths of the Wards. 'The Eye. The Eye. The Eye.

Luke's not the one who did it, Matthew; no way, no sir, no no no!

'Wait, John,' says the Warden. But I will not wait. He is almost

running away with himself now and we are all left behind. It seems to me that

the end which we now all carry bears the weight of everything we ever did,

as though it were the very Eye of the rushing mind that pulls us away and from

the furious tides of the Lord. I am not even thinking when, burning and fuming,

the Nurse comes into the Ward, lithe and beautiful in every nature of the Word

itself.

'John!', Mark says. 'John! Is it time?' And I tell him the time has

come.

chapter 25: MARK

So when she brought the knife we were ready. So when the Nurse called

out to me and when John ratified what she was asking of me, I was altogether

prepared for my Maker and knew that things would go well,.

'Why, Matthew? Why did you do it? Why, Matthew? Why?'

And then it is all out of my hands, and I am unravelling out and into time like

a fully grown soldier, briaring and raining on the Ward's dark eye like a true

troubadour of murderous intent.

'John! Do you hear me? John! Mark! Do you hear me, Mark?'

And it is then that I know we are all speaking without words, we are all

revolving round Matthew's manic skill for telepathic doings and sayings.

'Wait, Mark', the Warden says, 'Wait. Don't you see it is not

your fault? What do you say, Mark? What do you say?'

But I know, as much as a bird must fall, that the deed must be done; that

the whole unholy business has to be carried out in the curve of an instant.

'The Eye. The Eye Portentous. The Eye. The Eye Relentless.

The Eye.'

And I know that this is what Matthew would have wanted, as if Mattthew

himself were calling us to despatch him to a better, higher place, as if

Matthew himself controlling us once again with his gift for saying without

speaking; as if I wanted to die, as if this were the only things he'd ever

really aspired to bringing into being.

'It's not you who's going to die, Luke. It's not you who's

going to fade away. It's not you, Luke. It's not you.'

And I hear the Nurse sharpening the knife in the pitch dark of her

dingy room, and what I see and hear her run into the Ward with all her

intentions gyring and beautiful.

'The Eye. The Eye. The Eye Portentous. The Eye. The Eye.

The Eye Ridiculous.'

And then we are upon Him.

chapter 26: MATTHEW

And now they are killing me. All three of them gesticulate towards me then

pounce.

For it's not Luke who's going to die. For it's not Luke who's going to pay

for his abnormalties. It's not you, Luke; it's not your fault at all.

The knife gluts the air like a retrograde areoplane, scuttering and skimpering

like a rotor or helio blade, spiring and gurning like a looping

transistor trapped in the stifled back of the Ward.

And then I feel the pain. And then I feel the three of them hold me close

to the bed - Mark first, then the Nurse, and then sad, bad John himself.

'The Eye. The Eye Portentous. The Eye. The Eye Relentless.

The Eye. The Eye Importunate and Burning. The Eye! The EYE!'

And I note the blood moving in sacrosanct semicircles down and around

my clothes; it feels like teenaged white-spirit, gyring as it is in angular monotones

round my mouth and eyes.

'Why did you do it, Matthew? What possessed you, Matthew?

What in God;s name did you think you were doing?'

It's passion that makes death good. All that red blood flailing and assailing up

the body from toe to tiptop ridge. It's all that passion that makes death so

cool and calm and luminous. The passion and the fury that drives man on towards

the intimate, ultimate edge.

'I guess he's gone now,' Mark says.

'Shall we shut his eyes,' says John.

'He needn't look decent, the Nurse says. 'After

all, he made Luke go away.

And I suppose I am dead, and I suppose that my eyes, glaring and ensnaring

the ceilings above without moving, without taking a single gesture from the

Word or heaven itself, are testimony to my being dead and gone.

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye. The EYE!'

'He'd have wanted it this way,' says Mark. 'He'd have wanted it as

much as a bird must fall.'

And then I hear them go away. They glide away like long-skirted dancers

from days gone by. They glide and glide astray from me and my bloodied

body as if they were all Edwardian and dancing.

'Mr. Matthew,' says the Warden, 'Mr. Matthew! Are you dead

or alive, Mr. Matthew? Are you dead or living?'

And I suppose I am dead. But it feels for all the world like I've never been

so alive in all my life.

chapter 27: THE WARDEN

CUPS....

chapter 28: LUKE

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me

1. Go mad.

2. Leave home.

3. Leave the asylum.

4. Love the world.

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me

1. Leave home.

2. Go mad.

3. Leave home.

4. Leave the asylum.

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me

1. Leave home.

2. Leave insanity behind.

3. Give the Warden space.

4. Leave insanity for blind.

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me

1. Come back up the hill.

2. Come back through the door.

3. Come back to the Ward

4. See him lying there, dead and alone.

chapter 29: MATTHEW

It's the passion that makes death so raw and immediate. I see Luke

stride into the Ward and look down at my still figure, the figure

turmoilous and stricken, the figure bloodied and bruised and carved

at, the figure dead and gone.

'It was you, Matthew, you that saved me,' Luke says.

And I am looking down, am smiling mildly down at the acrid scene. I

do not feel mad anymore. The Voices have all fled and left me calm and

quiescent.

'The Eye, Luke. The Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye,

Luke. The Eye Sulphuric and Casual.'

Luke looks up, pleased and affrighted at the same time. He hears my words

enter into his tight-skinned brain, all glad and hapless at one and the same time.

'Matthew?' he asks. 'Matthew? Is that you?' And I am all gung-ho

to please him with my holy, vocal spirit, and I am all gung-ho to cherish every

moment of our words together.

'The Eye, Luke,' I say. 'The Eye stands over your head.

The Eye, Luke. The Eye goes on forever.'

And Luke grins a broad grin and makes a pact to speak to me often,

he makes a pact to serve me, even in His twilight days..

'Luke! Is that you? Luke? Can it really be you?'

It is the Nurse. She is standing in the darkened corner of the ward,

grimacing and slithering at Luke's shaved luminous face.

'The Eye, Nurse,' he says. 'The Eye Portentous and Molten.

The Eye, Nurse,' he says. The Eye goes on forever.'

chapter 30: THE NURSE

He comes into my sight and glares. He is looking out beyond me now,

because he is all that remains. 'Fresh Hope,' I say. 'Fresh Hope.' But he is

not longer mine. Now he is sane. And then the words will curve through the trees,

empty with waiting, saying 'Fresh Hope' is dead and gone.

I heard that Matthew was dead but still alive. I wish I had the time to make him

die completely. It is because he still alive, there where the heavens are,

that soon, so soon, too soon, Luke shall take his place.

Now he begins to say it. 'Fresh Hope is over. Fresh Hope is never to come

again.' That's what they mean by the ravelling of time: the acrimony and the

agony and the sadness that stretches out for ever, the hard, sharded masquerade

in which lie the outrageous depths of murder and murders done.

Luke's head turns slowly as I approach him, his bright, clean, shaven, composed

face following my unravelling as if it were all a curving film; beside the back of

Matthew's bloodied bed the Warden sits, glaring straight ahead.

The words run out of Luke's eyes; they scutter to pinpoint truth. They begin at

my breasts and rise above my face, and then the Eye Portentous is curdled about

me like a halo. Suppose I tell him what I did. He will not do what I say.

Doesn't he know that I loved Him?

Once I reach his standing place, a Void of speechless words rushes under me.

I see Matthew rise from out the Void and go into my brain, and strike me with

the knife I recalled so well, the blood gushing, hustling like a stream I cannot

seize.

For he won't do a thing I say. He always didn't. I cannot persuade him from taking

Matthew's place. God knows I can't. Suppose I say 'Fresh Hope is endless'?

This is the time for me to die.

When I used to sleep with Luke I had a nightmare. Once I thought I was awake

but sleeping at the same time, and I could not lash out, and I just couldn't cry.

I am a girl who cannot even care to think. I am a girl who cannot even begin

to think and feel like Luke should. And it was then I knew that something like a

great wind was blowing over me and Mark and John; something like a great

zephyr chaffering us into our own separate and intimate dooms; something

like a great breeze rasping us all into Luke's keen eyes, who was Matthew

now, who was Matthew altogether.

It blows cool out in the yard, a sad steady sonorous sound. 'Fresh Hope.

Fresh Hope is no more. Fresh Hope. Fresh Hope is over.' And it is then that

I know that, for all their Holy names, Matthew was the only really Holy one

around.

'Why did you do it, Nurse?' Luke says.

'Why did you do it, Nurse?' Matthew says.

And they say it without the use of words, they say it all as if they always knew

I'd end up this way.

The Warden says, 'Look.' But I am not looking at anything. I am looking at

the barren land beyond, cold and crippled in my trendless, maddening

beauty.

chapter 31: THE WARDEN

After the violence had passed I had taken the cups out and polished them

up until they shone. They were sitting in the Ward at the edge of dark. The

Nurse was sitting there, looking at the body where it lay bloodied and cold

with just two eyes remaining. She was looking at it like it had been the all and

all of all the time she and Mr. Luke and Mr. Mark and Mr. Luke and..

Then Mr. Luke came back. He strode is where it was all shrunken and

freezing, then he went, as sane as any man, over to Mr. Matthews bed. When

he looked up he looked around at me, his eyes sort of blaring up and going

hard as if Mr. Matthew had been the all and all of his manic life.

It was nigh on midnight, the sun had hidden entirely and the moon was

clamouring in through the windows, all portentous and black. It was as if

a tangle of blackened godly meadows had swept over and on to us, all

morassed and accusing the nighttimed evil white sky.

Mr. Mark was looking at me, and then Mr. John turned and looked at me

also with that image in his eyes of pure disfigurement and hatred, as if his

were measuring us all inside of me and not letting on how he really thought

and tried to feel.

Sometimes a log will get stuck in a river. Sometimes a cup will break in two and

sink. Sometimes, a friend will return as a complete stranger. Other times, a log

will stuck in the coils of a scream.

'Why did you do it, Nurse?' Mr. Luke says.

'Why did you do it, Nurse?' Mr. Matthew says.

And it was then that I realised Mr. Matthew was still undead, was still living

and lingering at some pinpoint above the earth.

And Mr. Luke is looking at me. He doesn't say anything; just looks at me

with those newly sane eyes of His. I always said He'd get well again. I always

said He'd survive the turmoil and the grieving and return to us revived.

'Fresh Hope,' the Nurse says. 'Fresh Hope is over.'

'Fresh Hope,' says Mr. Luke. 'Fresh Hope never stood a chance.

And I am hearing Matthew speak Mr. Luke's words, am hearing him push

the words into Mr. Luke's ecstatic mouth; I am hearing the whole damned

world coil and pour into and from the mouth of the one I used to love

so very dear.

'Look, Nurse,' I say. But she isn't listening to a thing. Her eyes

are out there, glittering and pandering to the only thing she ever knew -

the length and the breadth land itself.

'Fresh Hope,' Mr. Luke says, 'Fresh Hope is over. Fresh Hope

is an Eye Portentous and Molten. Fresh Hope has gone.' And I see the Nurse

curl up inside. I see the Nurse reach out for the cups with a fist of angry

measure. I see the cups breaking break up into a zillion shards, fruitless and

shattering into Oblivion.

'The Eye,' says Mr. Luke. 'The Eye is Forever. The Eye? May God

save Him. I see He has become Matthew. I see that Luke is saner than any I ever

I have seen, and I do not whether to turn or spin or rock or wail or bemoan

the very nature of madness itself; do not know whether to foam or shake at the

very mad nature of the sounds and their furies themselves.

'Fresh Hope,' the Nurse says, 'Fresh Hope.' But I am all too caught

up in Mr. Luke's clean-shaved luminous face and head to even begin to reach

out and calm Love down.

chapter 32:MATTHEW

He stands there, glaring at the Warden, his sane face suffused up to and beyond

the shaven beauty of his head. The winter when he was admitted, he took to a spell

of sleeping. Just nineteen, and he chose to slide away into sleep for many an hour

on end, riding and writhing without a single care in the world.

And now the Nurse looks round and up; if she could see a little further, she'd see

me in all my angelic glory, licked clean from the voices, licked clean from the

faces, licked clean from every bad thing ever to happen to those who mill and

and turn the sullen earth awry.

'Fresh Hope', she says. 'Fresh Hope is over. Fresh Hope. Fresh Hope,

Fresh Hope.'

And I am smiling to my very insides, hearing her crawl and creel like the fully

grown murderer she really is.

'The Eye, Nurse,' says Luke. 'The Eye is all Constraining and Infinite.

The Eye, Nurse. The Eye. The Eye is all Invigorating and Vast.'

And I can the Nurse crawl and crawl all the more, clad as she is in her crimplened

connivances. A bead of sweat forms on her upper lip and rains down her painted

mouth.

'Fresh Hope,' she says. 'Fresh Hope.'

And the Warden comes by her creeling form, up to her crawling, creeling

majesty, and pokes her hard in her left eye.

'Fresh Hope,' she says. 'Fresh Hope is gone.'

Clutching her eye as if the whole thing was a mortal wounding, or else a fatality.

John moves in from the shadow. Mark follows him, silently, invisibly, worm-like

and shrouded.

'Matthew?' they ask, 'Matthew? We know you can hear us. We know

you are still undead and thinking. 'We know!' and I go ahead to shaft words

into their heads, as I have always done, as I have ever and ever been one to

do. 'The Eye,' I make them say. 'The Eye is all Multisonous and Mutinous.'

'The Eye', I make them say, is all Accusing and Corrective.

And the whole lot of them let out long wails and screams. Then the whole

lot of them skirl and crave and croon for my affections.

'The Eye,' Luke says to them. 'The Eye will control you for

the rest of your live long days.'

And I see and hear it all, and I hear and see Luke laughing, and I see and hear

John bawl, and I hear and see Mark taking swift breaths into his green and

flopping mouth, with the Nurse and the Warden following on in mute and

precisioned gestations of doom.

Then the sun begins to come up from the earth's dread base. Through the Ward's

windows, light filters and flotsams into the dark wound of the entire mad scene.

Light flocks, light fidgets, light entrails and drips deep into the innermost

recesses of this place I used to call my home.

'It's not you who died, Nurse,' Luke says. 'It's not you that died, Mark.

It's not you that died, John'. And then he reaches out and strikes the Nurse hard

across his face, as if all he ever wanted to do was to suffice my bidding, to do

whatever I ever intended or got round to saying.

And Luke's sane face looks out. And Mark's mad face looks down. And Luke's

sane face looks out. And John's mad face looks at the sad bad face of the Nurse,

onwards towards the succumbing wastes of the Warden's clam-shut eyes.

'The Eye,' Luke says, 'Is Infinite.'

chapter 33: LUKE

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me

1. Stare madness in the face.

2. Say the right sort of words.

3. Tell insanity its place.

4. Say the Eye is the place of the Lord.

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me

1.Tell insanity its place.

2. Stare madness in the face.

3. Say the right sort of words.

4. Say The Eye, The Eye is all and all.

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me.

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that -.-

chapter 34: JOHN

So he finally got us all to say what we wanted, and he and the Lord above

and all the rest of us got up from our beds and spoke his words alone. But

even when we were saying the words he kept on looking down, as if he thought

maybe, once he was finally on the other side, the whole mad thing would sort

of explode and he would find himself back on the earth again lying down in his

bed with us all plotting against Him.

'We shouldn't have killed him,' Mark says, what with that Luke sane

and smiling and swathing us all, and that Nurse saying 'Fresh Hope is gone,' and

the Warden breaking his cups, one by one. But the whole thing was still whole:

you could tell that by the way we were all swaggering and wailing like new born

girls and boys: just like that time when Luke slept for days and days and we all

thought he was dead. And then that Eye scraping and bumping at the very base

of out brains, tumbling and sundering onwards into the big black skull of God.

'We shouldn't killed him,' says Mark. 'If we hadn't killed him, he

wouldn't be doing his bidding at all.'

And that Nurse saying 'Fresh Hope' has gone and that Warden breaking cups

and Mark and me praying and singing for better, saner things.

It was as if we had looked up to the Cross, up out of the mire

into the wide blue spaces that divide the mad from the real. It was as if Luke

had come to back from the dead and was guiding us to the Cross he had

cried on, which was Matthew, which was the only Saviour we really knew.

'Fresh Hope,' the Nurse says, 'Fresh Hope has gone.

'Fresh Hope,' never existed' says Luke. 'Fresh Hope was never

in the picture.

And I'll be damned if it wasn't like we had all come from the dead, just for a

moment, to see the whole rotten thing happening. 'The Eye won't hurt you,'

he says, 'The Eye will only judge you.' And we are all here, back from the

dead, looking into it as if it were the last Holy thing on earth, all glaring

and looking as that horrid Nurse crawls and creels into infinite Oblivion.

When I was a boy, I looked back at my Father. It was as if it was him

who was standing above us all. The further I looked back, the more it seemed

he was standing until I was altogether a baby again in the arms of the broad

and briaring world, because the more one may look round the more the need

to be small again and the more the smallness the more the need to be a baby

in the arms of the hapless world once more.

'Fresh Hope. Fresh Hope has gone. Fresh Hope. Fresh..'

And I hear Matthew speaking into my ears, telling me to avenge his lonely

end. I hear Him say that the Eye is all Multisonous and Wonderful and must

be obeyed until the very very end. And I know that Luke can hear as well.

And I know that the Warden can hear clearly that only the Nurse is left

behind in all her weeping voracity; only the Nurse is numbed to the words

being spoken again and again and again.

'I give my word, Mr. Matthew,' the Warden says. 'I give you

my solemn word that it shall be done.'

But I am so wrapped up in Matthew's mind that I do not care to hear the

Warden murmuring and mumbling to his fat little self. I am so wrapped up

in Matthew's mind that I do not see sane Luke himself grab the Nurse by

the hair; do not see sane Luke himself drag the Nurse into the depths of

the Eye itself, into the very epicentre of the Eye All Portentous And

Rolling, into the Eye that governs and mothers and smothers and judges

every soul in this world, every soul remaining when de Lord speaks

and the thunder cracks and the venal lightning itself tumbles into

the pinpoint of the Sulphurous, telekinetic dark Void.

'Fresh Hope,' the Nurse says, 'Fresh Hope is dead and gone.

And I know at that instant that the will of the Eye will be done.

chapter 35: MARK

Before us all the thick dark current of the Eye runs smooth. It talks up to us

in a resonative tone, both myriad and ceaseless. Its mellow surface, dimpled and

calmly opened wide, swirls along our minds, travelling like an instant instinct, both

silent and impermeable, through the words we say and on into the sonorous

infinities that shape us.

The Nurse crawls and creels amid the Eye's centre and round about the vision

of Matthew above, spumed with gyring oaths, lathering like a driven horse,

altogether wired to the dark and molten radio within. Through the undergrowth

outside the sun goes down with a plaintive sound, a musing, ruling, puling sound;

in it the wydning clouds and rainbows lean down upon us before a tiny, nifty

grail of subterfuge, swailing without inflection into the softening maw of the Eye

above our heads, above us all.

Luke and I stand together; the Warden sits by Matthew's bloodied body, looking

for all the world like a spectrous spot on the moon. The Nurse is trembling, her eyes

rolling wild and ladyless in her big fat face, her breathing stentorious and groaning.

Luke stands erect and proud, poised and quiet, steady and alert, sane and

powerful, looking directly into the Eye and at the Vision of Matthew above.

John's face is less composed; he and I look at one another with long scalding

looks, looks that lunge deeply away from the Eye, then once more up into its

Portentous gaze. Unimpeded, we stare this way and that until, tired from our

mutinous appraisal or our normal cellves, we foam deep within and vie for

success in the pinpoint pupil of the Eye itself.

'I think the Eye will Judge her well,' the Warden says.

'It will Judge her as only Matthew can,' Luke says.

'I think the Eye was meant to receive us this way.

It was all appointed by some fateful body, sky-high and burning,

somewhere, some time,' The Warden replies.

'I think you're right,' Luke says. 'But, remember, the Eye is

all Portentous and Multisonous. It is vital to never ever forget that simple,

precious fact.'

And I would never have got this far if it hadn't been for Matthew. I realise

then and there that Matthew and the Eye are the all and all reason why I came

and saw and conquered this earth from start to leavened finish.

The Nurse looks up quickly and vanishes into the Eye. Leaning this way and

that, John and the Warden stare at her vanishing then take a long and lingering

glance at Luke, who now stands with His sane arms folded and furled about

His shaven body. And then I hear Matthew speak in my mind. I notice the whole

of us hearing Him at once realise that there is truly only one God.

'The Eye shall Judge,' he says. 'The Eye shall Accuse and Justify and

Contend a Purpose to it All.'

And I see the epicentre of the Eye gestate and burn in the thralling blackness;

I see the Eye mutate and scrawl, open and close, dictate and freeze entirely,

with its big holy dark pupil flicking and licking from side to molten side in the

very depths of a Cup that pours and bathes and drowns and summons birth to

the very very surface of the molten morassing earth.

The Warden does not look at me. His face is in profile, all fat and lumpy. 'If I'd

just seen it coming, as I did, I'd never come here at all,' he says, making as much

sense as a fully grown maniac, or else a broken whore.

And then it happens. From the very pinpoint centre of the Eye and from the very

pinpoint centre of the Vision of Matthew, the Nurse appears to us all, as if

compelled by an energy beyond imagining, as if compelled by Gravity

distilled and gracefully wild, as if she were floating on the Ultimate contention of

black and white, white and black, from pallor to pallor, or else from natal gloom.

'Well, may God bless and Save us All,' the Warden says.

'She has surely been Judged by de Lord Hisself,' says John.

'She's been Judged by the Eye and the Eye alone,' Luke answers,

proud in His sanity, proud and keen to be heard by the Vision of Matthew above,

proud to be heard by us all.

And the Nurse falls to earth with a face of haggard chalk. Her hair, what's left of

it, is old and cancer-brittle, wasted and flailing in the midnight breeze; her body

anorexic and esculent, withered and caustic upon the Eye, as if propelled by a

wheezing groaning grampus of a True Soul, acrid and burning in the very depths

of cold age itself.

'Luke,' she croaks. 'Luke, don't you know me? It's your Mother, Luke.

I say that you must know me?'

And Luke stoops down and helps the Nurse to her feet, no longer an orphan and

no longer a mad man at all, not in any sense of de Word, not in any sense of de Word,

not in any sense of the live long days we lead from day to trendless day, night to

trendless night, dawn to trendless dawn. Never.

chapter 36: THE NURSE

'Fresh Hope,' I said, 'Fresh Hope.' But the Eye began to clasp me, the Eye began to

moil and curl and break upon my mind like a full blown kiss of matrimony.

'The Eye,' Luke said. 'The Eye shall Judge you well.

And I was inflamed into the depths of Matthew's soul, scrawled and pitched upon

the centre-point of the Eye itself, as if my whole assailing life had built up to it,

as if the whole of all I'd ever done or said was affixed to this one thing.

'The Eye,' Luke says. 'The Eye shall Judge you. The Eye. The Eye

Portentous and Sulphuric shall...'

But I was too engrossed in the Eye itself to hear any more, too torn and spattered

and held by the Soul of Matthew himself to escape the tirade of sacrosanct

Judgement that was to be scoured upon me.

'Nurse,' a voice said, 'Nurse'. And I listened as the voice grew to a

crescendo of eager vibes, crooning and caressing the whole of my wicked

womanhood like a fully grown man or devil, spiralling and concoursing along

my flailing veins like a horn of pure magicality, or a coronet of headless, mindless,

bejewelled ease.

'Nurse,' the voice said, 'Nurse? Murderer of God and mutilator of life

itself. Nurse, the Act of the Eye is to reform you into the ideal machination of

Creation. The Act of the Eye is to re-mould you in the form that can only

empower you with lasting effusions of creativity and Time. The Act of the Eye

is..'

But my heart was leaning against the Voice, my heart was leaning

towards the roaring that compelled me, myself and I on into an infirm flux

that could only cast me downwards into the mire that Love is, into the mire

that Life can only be, into the mire, the mire Portentous and All-Mastering

and Mad, into the mire of Motherhood and Aridity.

'May the Lord bless us all,' the Warden said. 'She's been Judged

as much as a bird must Fall.

And it was then that I felt Luke pick me up into his arms, it was then that I

felt my bones crack and my soul reel, my hairs creek and my heart beat coldly,

my mind champ and my brain slow down to Nil. It was then that I was Luke's

lost, long past productive Mother, it was then that I became the final and utmost

effigy of Creation known to Man; the effigy of deadly death and deceit itself.

chapter 37: THE WARDEN

Cooked and eaten, cooked and eaten, the Nurse has been cooked and eaten. Turned

from the sun, turned up from the Eye, burned and eaten by the fluttering grace of Mr.

Matthew's mad mouth itself. Cooked and damned well eaten, cooked and swallowed

like a cup of broth, contagious and open, she, the Nurse, like Luke's mother, has been

cooked and carved and eaten up like so much perfidious dust on as sliding moon.

'And it is god,' I say, 'Good that good that she has been cooked and carved and swallowed

by the very thing I always said would make my boys all well and normal again

- by the circumflex of doom climbing up from the lids of Death as if into something as

luminous as an Eye, Portentous and Sulphuric now and always and ever and ever and

ever. Never. For that is what Lord Matthew says, and Matthew is Luke, and Luke is

Matthew, and now are no longer 'Mister' this and that. No! Now they are apostles

of the biggest Lord around, apostles of the Eye, all Mutinous and Judging and

Swathing as no other Eye may be, as no vessel of Life may burn, as no other Knighted

Missive of Sight may take the cradles and around the Holy, magic, minaretted spiel

that ties time's tides to birth. No.

chapter 38: MATTHEW

The Nurse lies on her back on Luke's bed, her head raised on a rolled pair of trousers.

Her eyes are closed, her face is grey, her hair impassioned by a smooth and creaking

passionlessness that rumbles down over her chin like a moil of complete

subjectivity. Her face appears sunken, sagging from the bony ridges of her eye-sockets,

nose and gums, as if the Eye had aimed to tear away her teeth, set in stinking lungs,

are parted away from their epicentre as if she had been born laughing and knew no other

way to be. She lies stick-thin amid the clothes of the bed, with a minute pool of spewtum

flotsamming down from the dead corner of her shrivelled mouth and on into infinite,

intimate, sacrosanct subterfuge.

Luke approaches. He has the look of a lion tamer about him, all red and big and blaring

in the depths of his shaven skull, ideal and pompously enclosed in a direct aroma of

beast and Man, Man and Beast, encaged prophesy and longing. He goes up to the Nurse

and holds His hands over her face, as if trying to crush the Life out of her.

'The Eye says,' he whines, 'The Eye says, the Eye says that you must rot

upon the Pall before too long. The Eye says...'

And this is what you I have always wanted Him to say. This is what I have always toiled

and scourged for on all these long and speechless nights when I have toyed with Creation

and suffered the full and vast blows of Creativity and Impudence and Creativity. Now that I

am without a Body, though, now that I am free to say what I damned well want, Luke's words

seem all the more rejoiceable and worthy.

'Matthew says,' says Luke. 'Matthew says you were a Nurse once, but now are

living proof of unnurse like strictures and behaviours. Matthew says, Matthew says that

you are my Mother, No Man's Mother, Mother of Griefs and Servilities, MOTHER!'

But then I stop listening. There seems to be a word or two out of kilter with my own.

There seems to be a few murmurs that subtract from my intentions and keel along a

sunrise of pure madness, and I could never have conceived or whilst either alive or

dead.

'Luke,' I say, 'Luke, the time is not yet. The time is later. Your Mother need

not die yet.'

'But she left me, Lord,' Luke replies. 'She left me like a wild loose seed

in the steeds of the earth when I was just a boy. For what other use is she but dying

and death itself? You tell me, Lord. You tell me!'

'Cooked and eaten,' I answer, 'Cooked and eaten. The Nurse has been

cooked and eaten. For the meantime, let her cooked and eaten soul wring true with

the lie of Life; at least for a little while, or else some longer desultory spell.

And Luke lets go of his Mother's face, doubtless recalling the times when she was

a Nurse, His Nurse, foaming and fumbling in the bed of misted nights, as is his

right to do, as is his one full purpose in coming home to us all; that is, to recall his

whole life through my eyes and my eyes alone, or else through the depths of the

Eye Portentous itself.

'I'll let you rest awhile,' He says, then floats off into the depths of the

Wards, smiling his sane smile an clicking his sane fingers as if he knew the whole

circus of the Mind.

'Circuses instead of bread,' the Nurse croaks.

'Circuses instead of bread.'

And it was then that I knew she was my one last hope of whipping the Lot of them

to rights. It was then that I saw the Eye Portentous itself spelling out the whole

damned way forwards.

chapter 39: THE WARDEN

The Nurse has been cooked and eaten. The Nurse is No Man's Mother. The Nurse

has been cooked and eaten. The Nurse is No Man's Mother. The Nurse has been

cooked and eaten. The Nurse is No Man's Mother. The Nurse has been cooked and

eaten. The Nurse...

chapter 40: JOHN

One day we had been talking. He had never been truly religious, not even after that time

when Luke went through His spell of near-dead sleeping, not even after He had gone

quite mad inside with the vanity of his mortal heart flailing after Judgement.

'God gave us life to comfort our Human Lot,' he said, 'His love was conceived

by many Gods and Lords to ensure we would not stray from the burthen that is the all

and all of Faith and Hope and Wonder.'

And it was then that realised Matthew was more of a sinner than any of us, and

I said, 'I believe He gave us the gift of Life in order that we might raise our voices in His

undying praise.' Because I was thinking there is more sin in Him than could ever be

possibly defined. And He said, 'Day by day, we make the world, there is no Fate in Truth,

just comparison and Justice,' and I said, 'Who are you to Judge the Nature of Fate

without a single prayer to God? Who are You to negate the matter and Mana of Fate

hisself? It is the Lord's part to Judge us, not yours; for it is ours to praise Him in all His

devious holy reverence, to stand atoned by His every raped Word.'

Because it is not us who can Judge our sins; not ours to sense the sins in others' eyes. He

had had a hard life, but so does every eternal mad man. Yet you'd think from the way he

talked that he knew more about sin and salutation than any Lord above, and that's not

saying anything.

And now He is undead above us, controlling our whims and dictums like a fully grown

Lord himself, with Luke doing His bidding and that damned Eye unforming and

reinforming all of us under the guise of an ancient Mother. And it was not as if I hadn't

told Luke His Mother would come back one day, but even I could not have guessed

what form she would come in or whatever.

'The Eye has judged her,' the Warden says, 'The Eye Portentous and All-

Consuming has seen into things and made them well again.'

But I just can't conceive as to why the Nurse was Judged in this way. I hear Matthew

speaking in my mind, telling me that Final Act is always then most enterprising and

magical, but I can only fear the Final Act, since it has yet to come and can only be

a surprise to us all, the utmost Lord included.

'Demons shall have no Eminence,' John said. 'Nothing is the Cross and nothing will

be the all and all of Salvation. Nothing will save us from the water and the fire. Nothing

will save us from Nothingness itself, as much as a god bird must fall.'

And I hear Him speaking at night, chattering and curdling my soul as if

He had always known everything, as if He had been ordained to die and take control

of us all in this hymnal mad way.

'I have always controlled you, John,' He says. 'I have ever controlled

the Lot of you.'

And it is then that I believe we are focally doomed, one and all, to a parity of madness

we have yet to even receive. It is then that I realise Matthew, undead as he is above us,

has a plan that will raze this place of Refuge to the turnturtle ground, and I feel hollow

inside for seeing it. It is then that I see Luke's Mother, who was once the Nurse, who was

at once an Idyll of birthless beauty, sprawling over my aching mind with the sexual

voracity of a twisted root of whipped seed. It is then that I feel my manhood go whisking

away into Servility, into a dark and ashen Void of Godless Gods and slittering, scuttering

fairies and, most of all, mad birds searing and wailing upon the demon-deep.

chapter 41: THE EYE

In the early evening when Matthew was foaming and the last voice had laid him bereft

with a little pop and a snicker, instead of going to Heaven I would go up to the hill to

the place when I could be quiet and hateful. It would be quiet then, what with the Warden

counting his cups and the sun slanting shyly through the trees and the keen quiet swaddlings

of the damp and rotten beds, and the new-made burning keys; especially in the early

evening, for it was far more quiet and rotting then.

I could recall how my Father used to say that the reason for living was to

prepare to kill and be killed, and how the reason for the killing was to set out to kill. And

when I could look down on them, day after day, my thick, rich eyelid used to clamp shut

and cry. And the blood was deranged and the derangement was bleeding and each sight

I saw was both deranged and bleeding, and to think that this all seemed to be the only

way to I could ever get ready to kill and be killed. And I would glare at them through

the blood and derangement, glare at them and sigh.

And so I possessed Matthew. I saw Him pass beneath me five or six times

before I learned He was the one who could serve my dreams. I noticed then how I was

beginning to speak with His Mind - a hoarse and poetic voice that shrilled through the brains

of those around Him. And so it was that He was already ideal for my dreams, who had

spent so long in the clouds that I was screaming to be set free.

In the early evening it was the quietest. Sometimes I thought that I could not bear it,

hanging there looking down on the quiet, with the voices going North and South,

and their fierce quadrophonics blaring and bursting along me, and during the day it

would seem as though I just couldn't wait for the last mind to snap in two so that I

could fall to earth and caress them all. And so when I looked down on Matthew -

His eyes round and His mind chattering - I was wholly discerned and capable of

making de Lord mine alone and said, 'If You can hear me, say "Portentous". If You

can hear me, say I am "Sulphuric and Molten".'

'I hear you,' he said. Then it said it again, suddenly and writhing, as if I

had struck Him with His holy penknife.

And so it was that I took Matthew on and made Him a servant of my

dreams. So it was that I carved a little second-sight from Him and made it my

own, both gabbling and gracing myself with what I had always wanted - power and

power alone - power both multisonous and prospective, power both poetic and

shrill.

And then He died. He did not know he was dead. I would lie above Him in the dark,

hearing the darkness spewing and spielling Words and more Words into His

foaming head. It was not then that He died for real, but then that He died inside,

lonely and loathesome in the only way a Poet can be; in the purest ebb of de Word

itself, God help Him.

And months went by. I believed and I knew that I had found it.

Believed and knew that I had found the route to absolute freedom. I was ready to

kill and be killed, ready to hear the terrible blood, and the red and bitter blood boil

up and out of the land, and into my very own enpupiled centre. I would control and

shape and make the wide world mine, first getting Him to to do this, thence getting

Him to do that, then getting all the others - John and Mark and Luke and the Warden

and the Nurse - to follow through with all the things He had done. I would look

down at them and think of them as clothes I had to wear in the face of the world,

clothes I could steadily discard once things reached their patent god-fruition.

And it was then that God died for a second time. This time, for real and certain. I

hid nothing from Him. I tried to deceive Him not at all. For I knew this second and

final God-death would carry me up to the very pinnacles of this holy milky world,

and thereby up and into Heaven, unbound and pinched by decorous babel-flame. And

I knew that when God had formed me and fawned me and cast me down from His

face He had intended this murderous blind destiny for me, and it felt good to feel so

charmed and blessed by the emptied bible Fall.

My Father said that the reason for living is to prepare to kill and be killed. I knew

from that moment on that Matthew's second and final death was the fruition of

God's killer smile. I knew them, as the Nurse became Luke's Mother, as the Mother

became my zeal, as the zeal became my blinding purpose; that my Father's Word

were good and the goodness of them shined and the way they shined was good and

the goodness of it all was both and rotting in my Father's House where the final

fatality of the bloodied sun caused rape to thral like Heaven.

chapter 42: THE NURSE

Circuses instead of bread. Shows instead of nourishment. Pie-eyed with glitz and

glamour in the place of health. The Eye. The Eye Portentous and Clamouring. The Eye

that dictates poems in the place of zeal. And I am not coming down now. And I am

lying deep in dirt's bedclothes wailing. And I am contending with acrid, ancient Maternity.

And I upturning tears and dreams for the sake of the one I had just let go. And

I upturning tears and dreams for the sake of Matthew, whose Vision sires above us all, whose

glowering, glistering waste of a Face spits words at us for all the live long day, as if He were

all there could ever be to the hymns and a psalms of long dead utmost God. And I unnurse

like now. And I lying here a impossible Mumma. And I unnurse like now. And I laying

here like a Mudder. And I a discernment of Luke's gene-pools. And I the Incestuous,

relentlessly dying scar on the stella face of the walled wards.

'You live a while yet. You live a time yet. But you must take it all,' Luke's

dismembering stotto voice says, all without words, and all in the Wake of Matthew

saying it, all without words and all and all a great fatal sex-mistake.

And I remember when I dreamt I was awake. And I remember when I had the nightmares

of all my nursing life. And I remember when I gave all I had into not moving, not

touching, not seeing or feeling any of my Senses work or gyre. I remember the roughness

of Luke's once mad hands and face, and I weep to remember until the tears as are

sickening and the sickness of it all as old as Mother Time herself.

'You live a while yet,' Luke says.

'You live a while yet,' Matthew says.

'You live a while yet,' the Warden says.

And so too do the rest of them. Both Mark and John and the Eye say it, too, for all

the world as if they had waited all their lives for this mad moment to arrive.

Circuses instead of bread. Shows instead of nourishment. Pie-eyed glitz and glamour

in the place of health. And the Eye. The Eye both Portentous and Sulphuric

glistening down from Matthew's bloodied hands as if the show were all that

mattered in the whole wild world of Infirmity and Defloweration.

And I realise that Matthew has a plan. And I realise that Matthew has a

gulf in His undead skull that will soon be filled with evil, perverse themes and

mind-blather.

'Matthew!' I say, 'Matthew! What's to become of me? Matthew!

What are you willing us all to do?'

And he laughs his vilesome laugh of dictation and plunges a picture of His

improbable wife days deep into my withering Soul. 'See! See what a good maniac

I really am. SEE!'

Circuses instead of bread. Shows instead of nourishment. Pie-eyed glitz and glamour

in the place of health. Circuses instead of bread. Circuses instead of lead.

'You live a while yet. You live just for a little while,' Luke says, with

Matthew saying it, too, with all of them saying it as if they've never said anything

in their whole hock-nosed damnable lives.

And it is then that Matthew climbs into my body. I feel His undead soul fold around

and down inside my acid figure. 'What is your plan?' I hiss. 'What is your

sacred plan?' But He fails to say the words until I am sitting dead upright in bed,

my eyes blaring and my whole being suffused with a new and magic energy.

'You live awhile,' Matthew laughs. 'You live a livid while.' His voice

deep within my mind and all His newly found words skittling off my slackened

teeth and tongue.

'Matthew?!' Luke yells. 'Matthew!? What is it?' But Matthew

is within me, scraping at the walls of my soft womb, conniving in the depths of

my clean-pressed brain, scourging me of my new found form of shrift age and

aridity, forcing me up on to my coaxed feet at a speed beyond reckoning and

on, on into the Maw that is, if only for a painted moment, the depths of deadliness

itself.

chapter 43: THE WARDEN

This Nurse is cooked and eaten. The Nurse is cooked and eaten. First she was
the Nurse, then she was Luke's Mother,
now she is Matthew undead and wailing. The Nurse is cooked and eaten.
The Nurse is cooked and eaten. First she was a Girl, now she is a Man.
The Nurse is cooked and eaten. The Nurse was once a cup, now she is a sphere
rotating around this blanched earth, like a fully grown ship of animal sails.

The Nurse is cooked and eaten.

chapter 44: LUKE

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1. Go mad again.
2. Lose my Mother's death.
3. Go mad again.
4. Go mad again.
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me -
1. Lose my Mother's death.
2. Go mad again.
3. Go mad again.
4. GO MAD AGAIN!!
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me -
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me -
It was Judas Jesus Escariot Matthew who...!

chapter 45: MATTHEW

When I first walked in the Nurse's body, it felt very good. The first thing I noticed was
the lack of voices and visions, the second that all sexual desire was contained and
beyond perception. For when I first walked in the Nurse's body, I knew that the Eye
had finally come to rest and that all-evolving Judgements and Epitaphs from then on
would be both good and Portentous. And it was the physicality that spoke to me.
Although the body I walked in was outwardly withered and old, inwardly it was a
power-plant of just waiting to be driven to the fullest; to be gestated and gestured through
miles and miles of actions and strengths without for a moment becoming needy of medication
or needy of sleep or needy of any release but that which I directed it to have, that which I
desired. For when I first walked in the Nurse's body I was envigoured with a new set
paths, paths such as a Shaman might have been thinking, such as an Absolouter Poet
might yearn and whine for.
'Matthew?! What is this?' Luke said.
But I was now suffused with a new talent for speaking with the tongue and a did not give
him words with my mind, did not even for a moment provide him Him with my minds,
did not even for a moment provide Him with a mental, totured answer.
'So, this is the doom devised for us. This is the madness that must become us,'
John said, blinking wildly at the space left between the body I was in and the body
I had once called my own.
'This is no doom,' I said, 'This is the final call of creativity I have always
yearned to learn and unfold.'
'This,' I said, 'Is God's destiny.'
And with that I strode across the Ward and pulled John from His dirtied knees,
with that I ran across the barren land that is passion and madness and coucoursed
John into a shrill and ecstatic hug of devilry that burned and briared and jarred every bone
in His body till he lay, exhausted on the shadowy floor, less mad then concurring with
every whim and dicta the Eye and I had ever ever had.

'Nurse?!' the Warden yelled, as if denying what He already knew.
'Nurse?!' He yelled, 'Are you God Matthew now? Now that you are
no longer Lord Luke's mad Mamma?'
And I cursed Him for all His solitary holy ignorance, and I cursed Him for His
ignorant solitude, and I cursed Him for His lack of ingenuity, as I cursed them all for
their lack of faith in metamorphosis and what it could do for the manic man within.
And it was then that I left the Ward, with Mark and Luke and
John and the Warden scuttering after me into the darksome chasm of the Hill, where
I chose to go, where I chose to fill my lungs with hair, where I knew that I would find
the tools I needed for the Final Act, my Final, Ecstatic head-journey.
'The Eye shall Judge us!' I said. 'The Eye Portentous shall Judge us all! For
I am the Eye, for I am the acrid Mother of all mind-curations, and I shall make the
plane planet Earth explain the utmost unsunny love-reasons for my Fall!'

And I heard the hilltop weeping, and I heard the Asylum rock and rile, and I heard
the Eye speak Eyeless words; and I knew, I knew then that love's Portent was truly
upon us.

chapter 46: MARK

By the time I had given Him the benefit of my praise and by the time I had revered
Him as undead and living, He was damned well back on this world giving ten to the
dozen in the Nurse's newfound body. Reviling and ranting He was, saying how he
didn't like this and how He didn't want that and how the Eye had to make every which
way that we thought or even spoke.
'You could at least tell us what you want,' I said. 'You could at least ease
our minds with the matter at hand, whatever it is.'

The He began to bang His malformed chest, looking at me as if it were me who
could foretell the future, when all the time I knew that as well as any it would be Him
who do the same, lithe and free from His sadness as He now damned well was.
'You could at least tell us,' I said, attempting to glare at the malformed and
ancient body He had taken on, knowing that He was intending to to go and search
the hill for gifts, knowing that He was intending to find the source of His Final Act
in the wealth of the hill itself, sloping and vast as it was.
'But You could at least give us an inkling,' I said.
'We could all do with some sense to it all at this juncture, we really could.'

Maybe He was thinking if He had just stayed up there above us and had stayed
listening to all our wide-eyed promises, He would have remained safe as the Lord
Himself; maybe He was thinking that His newfound physicality was a burden
upon Him, but somehow I can only doubt it. It seemed more like to me that He
was savouring every second of His newfound litheness; that He was snuggling
right down into it like a baby with a blanket, or so it damned well seemed.
'I thank you,' He said. 'But I am sure of my purpose here. I and the Eye
shall pass judgement here on this hill, withered bodies included. I and the Eye shall
find fuel for our most Final, Magical Tragic Act as much as a bird must fall, as much
as Jesus never or ever broke the magic bread.'

And it was then that I felt the fear of God rattle up and through my heart and bones.
It was then that I realised it was all out our mad hands and in those of reborn
Matthew Himself. I had given my praise to Matthew when He was an undead
spectre, but now He was back on earth, I felt nothing but terror and revulsion.
But I remember when I was first admitted. Luke was asleep and John
was weeping. The Warden had gone down below the hill for more cups. And I, I
was thinking of my long-lost wife, erect and mutinous in the dark-bellied silence
of my best bed. Yes, I can't help but remember.

'What judgement do you offer?' I said suddenly.
'What in Hell's name do you want from us?'

And it was then that I felt as helpless as any man may feel. It was then I perceived
the dark madness ahead as a spiral of endurance that could only strike me
into further madnesses, such as psychosis in its most sunderise and tyranical form.
Once I had called Matthew 'Lord'. Once I had called Him an 'Angel'. Now I thought
of Him as an untreated 'Devil' ravaging in the physical and vegetable earth.
'I offer the judgement that the hill may offer. Matthew said. 'I offer
judgement that the hidden things on this bluff offer to one and all. And I was so got
up in my fear that I was furious. I was so ready to strike myself down that I was both
raging and roaring against the deeps into something curiously fractured, into
something altogether wrought from the broken and absolute Heavens above.

And now the timewas nigh on midnight, and me and Luke and John and the Warden
were growing icy cold in the gothic mental blast.
'I do not like,' the Warden said.
'I do not like,' said John.
'I do not like,' Luke said.
And I followed on from them, saying the same, saying it all, and wallowing in the
majesty of our agreement as much as if to say, 'Matthew? Nurse? Mother? Eye?
None of this us want to die!'

And I remembered when Luke had his spell of sleeping, and I remember when all
stood round wondering whether he was alive or dead, and I remember when we were
comfortable in our separate gyring madnesses, and it is then that I realise Matthew is here
to stop the ebbs and flows of progress, what with His newfound and ancient form about
Him. 'Yes, Matthew,' I thought, 'You are here to bring down the moon.'
'I shall search the hill for judgement,' He says. And it is then that the world,
multitudinous as it is, plunges us collectively into the Void of deathless dark itself,
mighty in its awesome blackness.

chapter 47: JESUS

So when I saw the blasphemy going on, and where I saw the sadness and the madness
curtailing and enthralling each man and beast below, I knew I would serve the call and
come to earth once again. For I did not need the last vast trump to return. It was purely
up to me when I discerned a time to come. Because God Himself is dead; indeed,
He has been dead for some time. In truth, I, His Son, am the only figment remaining
of the widening Heavens themselves. When I saw the blasphemy and when I saw the
keen sadness, I knew it was time for me to walk the Human and Vegetable way once
more.

And my Father's House has many mansions. My Father's House is chock full of
mental refugees. The truth is that even mania itself holds a place there. Even mania may
cheer my Father's long-dead and rotten heart, so long, that is, as mania contained and
consoled by the healing powers my dead Father offers. For I offer the Healing and the
Healing is forever suffused with that sweet love that surpasses understanding, and,
although the scibbled Bible may be a morass of brides and fairies, I know, as much as
a bird must fall, that Love herself surpasses all manic mania and all motile
maddening crossed minds.

So when I heard the blasphemy, and when I saw sad Matthew scrabbling in the
killer's earth for His nebulous Final Act, and, when I heard the minds around Him
whining and whirling and skirling for for Deliverance, I knew, as only a true Lord
may realise and know, that was the time for my second arrival.
But I do not come with banners and whistles. No. My second arrival
comes as a low-key affair, with so little of a holy circus that only clowned bread
may follow through; with such little pie-eyed show that only nourishment may gestate
me to the Immotal Mortal Feast. If banners and whistles are desired, it is Matthew,
with the Eye and all its devilish blind powers, the Man should go to.
For I offer health in the place of subterfuge. Such is my aim and such shall be my
guise on the wide earth this second time; if only for the thumb-nail of a second
itself: if only for a single snap of god's moon-sun.

chapter 48: MATTHEW

And it was then that I realised the Eye had flown. There I was digging in the dirt
of the hill, when suddenly I could conceive of nothing but the dirt itself. As for my
purpose in digging, for the Mission I had sought, as for that so-called Final Act I
had been so keen to find, I could remember Nothing.
For I had terrified my fellow man; had churned a wave of pure terror
into the melee of madness before me; and I had served the purposes of Life to
the very full, both possessing and conniving the newfound body of the Nurse into
something that was altogether terrible and petrifying. 'Lord,' I asked, with my now
shrill mind. 'Lord, what am I doing here? Scrabbling as I am in the eager dirt and
Disease. What is my purpose in living again?'

And suddenly there was an answer; all of a sudden, from the depths of the molten
sky itself, came the Word I had been hoping for what felt like Eternity. It was the
whirling birds of Jesus, as well as I can see right now, it was the whirling birds of
the true Lord I had been impersonating for so long.
'Matthew,' trilled the Voice, 'Matthew, lay down your undead garb anda
ask for me'. 'Matthew,' trilled the Voice, 'Matthew, cease your digging and turn to me
as the one You Love.'
And that is what I did. With Luke and Mark and John and the Warden
hectoring me with looks of angst and pain, with the body I was desiring to be set
free and discerned as youthful once again, I ceased my mindless digging and turned
my eyes to the skies and said: 'Lord. Lord Jesus Christ of all clued Creation, it is
to You I give my sidling mania and to You Redemption and eerie holy Judgement
in this, my last creeling hour.
And I heard the sighs of thieves, and I saw men amongst me come and
caress my now full exhausted body and soul.
'Matthew,' said John.
'Matthew,' said Luke.
'Matthew,' said the Warden.
And their tones were always loving and their tones were sylvan and mercy and
nourisment and their tones were filled with heat and warmth and care and their
tones, their lovely vocal tones, were o'erpacked with keen surprise and wonder.

And in the split seconds it took for Christos Himself to walk among us, and in
the nanoseconds it took for our one true Lord to hold our burning hands, I saw the
Eye, the Eye that had followed me in all its Portentous and Sulphuric tragedy for months
and years on end, fall into the sweltering barren land, with Christ's glad foot upon it.
And I heard the wide-eyed Lord sing and I heard the Lord hail and caress our mindless
nave-choked souls; and I heard the loud haloed birds above delve into both our pasts
and our futures and the times that blue presence gives, until my spirit flocked up and out
of the Nurse's misjudged blood-body and into the bosom of the prehistoric Life
I have always yearned to own.
'May the Lord bless us all,' the Warden said.
'May the Lord bless our souls,' said John.
'May the Lord bless our minds,' Luke said.
And so too did Mark and also, on a sudden, so too did the rending, whorling Voice
of the dead and undead Nurse we had all to condemn, with Her spirit rising from the old
and withered body the Eye has misgiven Her, with the whole of her eager illegal beauty
at last returning to Serve us, all all all.

chapter 49: THE NURSE

So I heard Him say that there'd be bread instead of circuses, and I heard Him say
that He would arrive for a second time in a casual way, minus all banners and whistles,
and I heard Him call me from the wreck that made my body had become, and I came
up to see Him with all the vigour I could ordain. And it was my Spirit that rose to see
Him, and it was my Spirit that concurred with the world around that I might behold
His sky-swollen face; and it was my Spirit that revered and laid Him, as though all the
youth and joy I had ever possessed came from His roller-soul alone.
And I saw the lot of them lying in the dirt of the hill, and I saw Matthew
rise from the shell that was my body, and I saw the whole of them lying in the dust,
praising and endearing de Lord.
'We are surely saved,' John said. 'We are surely abundant with folklore
and temerity.'

And it was then that I knew the bread had come and that angled circuses were
far, far away, and it was then that I saw the Heavens briar and rift high, high above
us, and it was then I perceived my Spirit split and share her sanity with the mad ones
amongst us, such as John, such as Luke, such as Mark, such as even the Warden who
was by now finding life too hard to truly bear. And Matthew's Spirit split, too: Matthew's
Spirit gyred and raved and burned in a bright light of pure and redolent majesty, serving
the broad Lord amongst us, and redeeming all He had done in swift and elegant turns.
'Sweet Jesus?' asked the Warden. 'We are to drink from your cups? Are we
to break the majestic bread? How and why we can we serve You in this, our most
obnoxious and craving hour?
And the dud Lord walked among us, and the Lord scattered silver coaxer-stars
about us, and de Lord spoke words to our ears in such ringing and bounteous tones
that we were altogether startled into much singing and prancing and happy
god-gob-servitude.
'Listen,' said de Lord. 'Listen and you shall sense the midnight embers
of the healing I offer swathe and spark within you as a fully grown bird.'
'Listen,' He said. 'Listen, and you shall be ordained to burn and break
within the wide winds of active Heaven, as no other devotion can offer, as no other
Law may spire or mind-judge.

And I felt my Spirit split mentally more and more; and I sensed Matthew's spirit
spit all the more, till we were bread to be shared and we were the wine for the
veined chalice Christ offered; and we were the all and all of every holy motility
ever gestured by de Lord of Deus-Love Himself.

'Partake,' said de Lord. 'Partake of the red spirits who once reviled you.'
'Partake,' said de Lord. 'Partake of the red-eye-spirits of Matthew and the Nurse
that you may forfil a holy sex-union with every ordination ever stated by the
green words I speak; and the blue words I have yet to say. Partake and sunder the
madness you have been constrained in for so long, so endlessly and intimately
scathed.
And I felt my Spirit being eaten by the ones about me; and I saw them
eat the spirits of Matthew, too; and I sensed de Lord condense us both into the
mouths of the big bad daddy world that had once trod and burned and briared
and raved within mad charms; and it was then that I knew the Eye had been
extinguished by the one truth we all could sense and spiel: by the theatre-synergies
of devoured light itself: that is, by the magnanimity of pretend Humanity spoared
and turned through parities of ceaseless bread and red concourses of nourished
and mind-nourishing pivotal ghost-rhymes. Ere long, we were eaten. Ere long
we were digested by one and all. Ere long, we were sex-excreted in the
natural way. Ere long, we were part of the earth about us, and ere long we were
buried, deep in the Asylum-Grail.

chapter 50: THE WARDEN

We are eating the multifoliate spirits of Lord Matthew and the Nurse. YUM YUM! How it
tastes is very good! We are devouring the multisonous spirits of the ugly, bad and the
very good. YUM YUM YUM! How it tastes is just divine! We are champing on the coupled
and cuplike souls of two indelible individuals whose we never really knew of cared for.
YUM YUM YUM YUM! How it tastes is all a matter of scented space. We are masticating
the solar bowls of two bled chums we ever and never and ever sought.
YUM YUM YUM YUM YUM! How it tastes is just utterly sickly angel-sweet. YES INDEED,
MY LAWD, YeS IndEEd, my bawD. This is the bEEs KneEs! This is just
incredibly incredibly YUMMY YUMMY YUM! -.-....

chapter 51: MARK

I happened to look up, and saw Him in the sight of my vision. Not too close, and not standing
too high for me to see; just standing there with His head turned this way and that and His eyes
full on me and sort of happy, like He was moving down towards us.
He kind of rumbled at our beings for a minute, like Gods do, and came down.
He had on a dark pair of glasses sitting on top of His eyes and He was carrying a bag of
bits and pieces; I thought that He had a divine right to be here at most, and that after He
had stood around for a while, He would maybe save our Souls and the like but nothing
much more, so I did not disturb Him for even a second except to notice how majestic He was
in all His funereal glory, and that He looked a full toss better in His sandals and smock and
glasses and His own bright complexion than any of the pictures I had seen of Him in any
Saturday-Sunday school I had ever been to. Or so it seemed. I knew that He had already decided
on our Fates before He'd come to see us. But you have to let the Lord take His time. So, I
went on without looking at Him, figuring to let John or Luke or the Warden give impassioned
praise, while I just looked and acknowledged and smiled.
'That is de Lord,' Luke said. 'We'd better see what He wants.'
'He wants us,' I said. 'I don't know. I think He wants us to sing. We'd better
sing for Him.'

So I went and sang with the rest of them. I saw that He was truly proud to hear us sing and was
so easy with His mouth-movements that He could only be the real Lord. He was looking at me,
gladly, holding His bag of bits and pieces; I saw He had about as big a pair of eyes as any Lord
could glean, and He was de Lord who liked to speak to strangers. I could not remember seeing
pictures of Him before that suggested that, but it was still so.

'Lord, what can we do for You?' I said.
Still, He didn't say anything. He stared at me without even blinking. Then He looked back at
the skies He had come from. Then He looked past me, towards the rising spirits of Matthew
and the Nurse.
'Do You want us to sing again?' I said. 'Or is it psalmistry You want?'
'That's it,' He said. He looked back at the skies again. So I thought maybe His descent
was Unlawful or that God had sent Him down for some other purpose than ours and He was
ashamed to say so. I knew He couldn't have a pair of eyes like His and say so openly, let alone
His being old enough to break the blinded hearts of every Soul on earth. It's a sadness, the way
God sends His rangers to us for more than one reason. But de Lord has got to serve us all at
the same time.
'Oh,' I said. 'What psalm do you want? We have - He looked at me again, almost as if
He were angry to see me, and looked towards the skies once again.
'It'd rather you just listened,' He said.
'Okay,' I said. A man has to humour a Lord like Him. One saves time in that way. I followed
Him with my ears. He put His big pick-hands on my head. 'Are you going to Heal me?' I said.
'Why did You choose me first?'
He stopped and looked at me. It was a look of pure calm, as if someone had taken the lid
off to every type of calm around and had surged into His eyes alone. It was as if, sort of sad and doleful,
He had come to into this world to dispense of the sadness and dolefulness with the art of His two eyes
alone. But He could see we were in trouble; anyone could see that. 'Mania's our trouble,' I said.
'Mania is the trouble behind the whole rotten business.' I wasn't meaning to tell Him what to
think, but a live long maniac has got to save the Lord's time once He's arrived
'It's a trouble I can sort out,' He said.
'Okay,' I said. 'I'm very glad.' I thought that maybe He was wiser than I had ever thought,
and that my words offended Him, or maybe that I seemed more than averagely abnormal this Time, as
is the nature of most important meetings.
'Are you really God?' I said. 'Some say the real one plays dead.'
'God died centuries ago,' He said.
'Why did He die?' I said. 'If You are de Lord Jesus Christos Messiach, why did your Father
fade away?'
But He stayed utterly silent, as if again my words had been out of place and heretic.
'How old are You?' I said.
'Old as any word,' He said.
'O I said. 'I thought so, Lord, I truly did..'
And He was watching me. But then He turned away and looked at the skies again.
'Are You older then Insanity then?'
And He stopped looking at me but didn't move. 'Yes,' He said. 'Yes, I am older than than all the things
mad and raving. Yes.'

And it was then that His big hands shot up to His face. It was then that He removed His darkening
shades and spelt out the times we had spent together and the way in which we would be saved and
mind-redeemed. With his bag of bits and pieces rattling in five fatal mental winds, He summoned us all
to God's good health and then proposed the eating of Matthew's and the Nurse's spirits.

And I remembered when I had skipped off school fifteen years back. The woods I went to
were full of imps and fairies. And I remembered when I was first admitted, when I was so enclosed in
visions and heart-mirages and vocal sotto tones that I could only believe in the Light and all it held for
people with conceptions of Gods themselves, who are, after all, one big mirage of miraculous brain-skull
vision or fotal tone, or so it fucking seems.

chapter 52: LUKE

It was de Lord, it was de Lord that made me
1. See the Eye Portentous fade.
2. See my madness visibly corrode.
3. See the Eye Portentous fade.
4. See the Spirits of my Loved ones ride.
It was de Lord, it was de Lord that made me.
1. see my madness visibly corrode.
2. See the Spirits of my Loved ones cry.
3. See the Eye Portentous fade.
It was de Lord, it was de Lord that made me -
It was de Lord. DE LorD ,.- .

chapter 53: JOHN

After we had eaten them and after they had been despatched and excreted in the natural way,
I and Mark and the Warden asked our sweet Lord why this made us feel so well and sane
again, and He said, ' To eat the spirits of those you have reviled is to summon up a devouring
creed within. Thereby madness flows away into the earth. Thereby life is refrained into a
catechism of the holy syllogism, Taste + Devourment = Strength or Devourment + Taste =
Credulity.'
And it was then that I knew the wonder of de Lord was both Creative and Logical.
And it conceived of my new-found sanity as a syllogism pure and simple, a syllogism conceived
in my own heart and mind which read, Spirit + Credulity = De Lordship.

But is was not before too long before I began to notice that, in spite of me and Luke
and Mark being sane, the Warden was taking to a curiously foaming candour, such as we had
had in the pre-Lord days. Indeed, the Warden seemed at odds with us all. Often, he was heard
to mumble and mutter about 'Cups' and 'Coupling' to himself, whilst the rest of us all, all so
taken by de Lord's healing powers, had clearly lost our designs for manic speech and had by now
begun to chat with a spontaneous kind of scacrosant saneness. It was as if the old, pre-spirit,
pre-devoured Matthew, with all His psychotic speeches and poetic manias, had swirled into a
oneness in the Warden's mind and had thereby made Him entirely mad.
'Cups,' mumbled the Warden. 'Cups are good for coupling, Cups?'
But it was still Him who would ask de Lord with the rest of us for the reasons behind good
health; and it was still Him who would ask with the rest of us for both mooted forgiveness
and rectification. In fact, it seemed as if, outwardly at least, the Warden was happy to act like
the sum total of those around him, but that, inwardly, he was sanctified turmoil.

And so I recall now my journey into the heart of darkness that was my madness and retell it
to the Warden as best I can, almost in the hope of snapping him back into sanity through
the sure devices of recollection and karmic folklore. And so it is that I tell the Warden of my
earliest mind-visions and aural auric miseries, whispering into his ears and holding his fat
figure close that I might hurl the demons within right away.
'Cups,' he mumbles. 'Cups are good for goof-coupling. Cups?'
But I go on, vying with his obsessed mind for a place of sane precedence, and all the
while hoping that de Lord will see to his tongue-tied mentality before He leaves and goes
away again.
'But we ate the Spirits, John,' he says, 'We ate the holy remains of two sad
souls. And you know it was Luke that I loved all those weeks and months and years back.
You know it was Luke I should have loved to have eaten the most.

And I look into the Warden's frightened eyes and I try to speak words of couth and
levelling Judgement thereby. But it seems that de Lord has failed him, and I cannot help
but feel that that failure is a gulf in the minds of us all, a gulf that entertains doubt in the
sanity the most of us now must feel; and I turn to de Lord and say, 'If You are here to Save
us, play on, but if You are here to swathe us, pray on; but if You are here to Save but a few,
spare a thought for God's praying players?

chapter 54: MATTHW

chanutah anima bobbola chimera
burning and turning screaming
in the depths of the laden sea

chanukah anima bobbola chimera
burning and turning and yearning
for the love of You and Me.

if the stars could years, they would learn
the churning, burring limes of time,
yet still we set out for the sea
in a boat of shimmering rhyme .

chanucrah familiar bobbola cinema
burning and turning and nerving
for the Loves of You and Me

- PRAISE DE FUCKING LORD!!
-.

chapter 55: THE NURSE

Once we had eaten and excreted in the natural way, I heard Matthew
singing. It was an inane and foolish song about Jewish Xmas times and
held so little relevance to the way we had been and the way we had ended
up. For Matthew had never been a Jew, nor had He ever celebrated a Jewish
Festival, not had He ever shown the slightest bit of interest in the good old
Testament.
Yet we had still been devoured and excreted. Yet we had still made
madness that had once been about us subside and roll into the scorched earth.
Yet we were still now lying in cleansed and sentient pieces in the dirt of the hill
around us. And we were surely glad to have been used in such a way by de true
Lord Himself, sweet Judas Jesus Christ of Nazareth.

But it was then that I found a part of me still resting in the Warden's stomach.
There too I found a part of Matthew, swailing and rummaging around as if
posseseed by an indigestible life. It was then that I sensed the part of my spirit that
had failed to be cleansed and the part of Matthew's spirit that was both gnarled
and bad staving off sanity in the Warden's mind as if for all the world he was the
receptacle of the badness we had once been.
'Chanukah! Anima! Chimera!' sang Matthew. But in the Warden's stomach
He was speaking of the Eye still; of Portent and Sulphur and Contagion and Constraint.
And, although I spoke so plainly and cleanly now to the outside world, within the
Warden's stomach I spoke of nothing but Fresh Hope fading and Incest and Murder.
Indeed, such was the malice of my words there, and such was the malice of Matthew's
words there, that I could only pity the Warden and hope for him a better and new
bible-redemption.

For the Warden had done no wrong. Brought up in some seedy waste in town, retching
round the knees of his fated father and mother, he had entered the world in dirtied
swaddlings and had paid the price for being a child. And when he grew and became
older, he faced as a cripple might, growing fat and ugly with obsessions and mutations
that he just could not control. Because marriage didn't help him; in fact, the opposite
was so. Marriage just plunged him into sexual intrigue and malign argumentivity. And,
once he had taken the asylum, his whole being just ached to be loved and cared for -
such is the lot of the Human Soul left to loiter and waste away. And I couldn't help
but wonder what the outcome would be, what with de Lord preparing to leave and the
Warden remaining obsessed and sad. 'Cups and couplings,' the Warden mmbled to
himself, and I heard the world about my now devoured and excreted spiritual mind
crave a new Judgement, such as might come to one who has begged to be free, such
as might come to one who had deigned to walk the earth, if only for a little while,
that they might be struck dumb and left to think once again.
'Chanukah! Anima! Chimera!' Matthew's excreted spirit sang. But I was
fully aware of the troubles up ahead for the ones who had no true faith now; for
the ones who had to toil with the badness of those they had once cared for
ravelling and rolling in their fluid empty brains.

chapter 56: THE WARDEN

Cups. Cups are made for coupling. Cups. Cups are made for Love. And Luke is my
Brother. Matthew's my Brother. Luke holds a broken cup. I cannot fix it, but know
I would like to. Luke is my Brother. Matthew's my Brother, too, but He isn't holding
a broken cup.
For now there are four of us, tall and looking up at the Lord in the dark,
dark sky. 'Where do they stay, Matthew?' I say. 'Where do they stay when they're
not broken?' Not knowing, not even caring what I really mean to say. For now there are
four of us. Me and Luke and John and Mark. The Nurse went away. Matthew went away.
Once He was Matthew, then He was The Lord, now He is just 'Matthew' Once they were
all 'Misters'. Now they are wild seeds in the wild earth, glaring and gorping at The Lord.

Tomorrow, I am going to see where the cups stay when they're not broken. Tomorrow?

chapter 57: JESUS

So I split up the spirits that had ailed them and summoned them to devour and excrete
the same. But it was then that I took to wondering what I should do next. And there was no
Father to aid me, and there were no words for me to listen to, and there was no place I could
turn to aid me in my Mission, which was a hurried Mission at best, which was a tarrying and
hasteful and foaming game of God if ever there was one, as much as a bird must fall.
For I remember when my Father was alive and advising me on the work to be
done. He was master of shrill responses and curtailments. Such was His ideal focus on the
world that I was altogether cut from the grain in such a way that Heaven was His subterfuge
and served Him as such in the long days and long nights I spent on the crashed Cross,
cursing and crumbling the very days I had been born.
'Cups and crucibles,' the Warden mumbles. 'Cups and crucibles will serve me in
my tired and final hour.' And I confide in him and whisper words of gentility, and I confide
in him a whispered word of gentility, and I confide in him whispered word of
confidentially, and I confide in him a whispered word of both those rolling themes until he
is swathed in the Logic of The Lord I am, which is the syllogism: Gentility + Confidentiality =
Heavenly Adhesion.

And Matthew sings His songs as best He can. I have bid Him sing of Chanukah. I have bid
Him to sing of Jewish, ancient things. Broken, devoured and excreted as He is, His songs will
surely make us all feel revered once more. And the Nurse speaks words of Sanity and
magnanimity. Such is her excreted predicament that she can only raise her voice a little to become
as liquid as the rivers I recall back home, in the days of Nazereth and Bethlem.
'Lord?' asked John. 'What now for us now we are well again? What now for us now
we are in Love with alone?'

And I remember my days in the undead tomb when the stone would not shift, and I remember
the nights in the undead rooms when the stone would not budge, and I turn to him with eyes
that burn and blare, 'Regard me for a wide while, for I am The Lord who will scourge you
of all your dreams. Regard, regard me for awhile, for I am the Lord without a name, the
Lord who prays yet falls.'

chapter 58: JOHN

And the Lord said unto me, 'I am the Lord who prays yet falls' And it was then that I did
not understand. It was then that all the faiths I held in the Father and the blonde Word
spewed out into a tremulous waste of terror. If the Lord could fall, what for us who pray
for Him in our must moaning darkest hours? What for the horsing hordes who come pay
homeage to all His vestiaries and coved caverns? And I was at once struck asunder in my
newfound sanity; finding reasons to crave indulgence from the Mortal Sins I had always
reviled. 'I am the Lord who prays as He falls,' He said, looking at me as if I were a new
born idiot baby, bawling and bubbling at the mouth for some widening enterprise of
sleeping weeping, innocent and speechless in my swaddling like a handful of cretinised
decorous god-dust.
'Lord?' I asked, 'If You can fall, what for us who revere and love You? What
for us who heal through your ways and fresh hope for this dear sweet handful of cretinised
dust.
'Lord? Asked, 'If You can fall, what for us who revere and listen out for You?
What for us who heal through ways and hopes for angels thralling?
And de Lord turned to me and said, 'If you revere and seek to love me, see that I Fall
in the most intimate and ideal way. If you revere and love me, see that I was once a
fat sinner and a mad gentleman too.
And I didn't understand and I didn't care to look at Him very much more, who was no
Lord to me if He was was a fat sinner and a mad gentleman too; who was no Lord
for me if He was once as mad as I am. And the Warden said out aloud, 'Cups and crucifixes.
Cups and Crucibles. Cups and Crucibles. Cups.' And I was scared to hear such
irrationalities in the rain-cut space where the Lord had just been, and I was scared to think
that He could have left a man unconsoled and precious in His most wanting hour.
'I am de Lord who plays yet crawls. I am de utmost Lord. I am de Lord.'
And I heard the de Lord say all of this without really hearing; and I heard Matthew
singing, and I heard the Nurse give logcial utterances, and I could the guttoral Lord
say that He was once a good sinner; and I could not, would not conceive of Our Lord
as my guide. For He had said He could pray and pray once more without even getting
on top of Himself, without even hearing His Father speak into His feinted ears. And
de utmost shooted Lord told me that God was bone-dead; and I went into my Mind
and walked about and shut the door and sat in a spuming, reticent silence; sat as I had
when I had mad, when the illegitimate Eye was all-convulsing.

chapter 59: MATTHEW

So I stopped singing and sensed the excreted fragments of my spirit rise up to look
at the Lord. The damp earth I was in seemed both chill and recusant and made me
shiver in hope for a body. The Lord was standing naked on His cloud, looking down
on a melee of cured men He had summoned into haloed being. Previously, He had been
standing on the hill, He was suspended in de Heavens.
But it was then that I saw the Warden, foaming as he was in a most furious
and uncouth way, his mouth open and fluming with angst and manic passion, his eyes
closed and flickering, just like a night-light. It seemed as if all the madness I had ever
held and all the madness John and Luke and Mark had held were now melded in Him
and were twirling and twisting abstrusely and anxiously to the deadening surface of
this washed world.
'Soon, I must return to the sky,' The Lord said suddenly, 'Soon, I must leave
you to own sane and self-deified devices. Soon, I must bid you a final judgemental
bibling farewell.'
'But the Warden's sick,' said John. 'Surely, you can't leave him this way?'
And the Lord looked from side to side and the Lord looked from up to down, and the
Lord looked at the foot of the hilll where we had all once lived, long before we became
mad and were admitted, and said, 'I am the Lord who prays yet falls. If the Warden be sick,
spare a thought for me in my most failing hour.'

And the silence was enough that fell was deadly. And the silence that fell was enough to
make me wish I were back in a body again, all one and raving. For the Lord had dealt
in half measures and was now conniving to leave. For de Lord Himself had yielded healing
only so far. 'For the Lord,' I thought, 'was leaving us behind without a thought for those
He had failed to cleave and ease.
And it was then that I saw what de Lord had done. To scathe away the madness
of the horde He had slid that madness into the body of one who had lived with for so
many months and years. Yes! The Lord had used the Warden as a veinous vessel for our
collective schizoid tears; and had left us all wondering why we felt so sane. As for the
devourment and excreting of mine and and the Nurse's spirits, as for all the rest of the
paraphernalia He had used in this shrill act, it had all been show.
'Circuses instead of bread,' I thought. 'Pie-eyed shows instead of health.'
And I was struck by the sadness of it all, and went into a daze, alone and diverted deep
down into the earth that enshrouded my sharded spirit, until I knew, from that
stunnned point on, that the easy tasty Lord was a ass and any law leading from Him
was an ass too, eternally.

chapter 60: THE NURSE

So, as soon as Matthew had stopped singing and as soon as He had stopped singing
and as soon as He called the Lord 'an Ass', I could see His point immediately. The
Lord had travelled on an ass for many moons to meet His people and de Lord had
been carried on an ass as an illiterate soiled child, and The Lord had acted like a ass
in His redemption of we sufferers; for de Lord had left the Warden open to madness
indeed, had used him as a vessel for the madness of the morassed mass and had left his
mentality wanting.
And I was tired of speaking. I was so, so tired of fawning to the stereotype
of sanity that I was bursting to say a few odd or maddening things. The first word that
came into my swift mind was 'Valley' and the second 'Macadam', and these were swiftly
followed by images of tar ruining the landscape before the dead undead Eye into a
screaming parapets of manmade viscal mania. I saw tar on the trees running and rambling
around, I saw tar on the flowers drooling and fumbling about, I saw tar in the skies ravelling
and ruling the Heavens, but most of all I saw tar on the face of de Lord burning and
charring and spiring to a spit of pure and deadly incisiveness. And it was good to think
this way, so unchecked and unchallenged by logical cares, drunk as those imaginings were
with manufactured loss and hatred. 'Why?' I suddenly thought, 'This is the place where
shakespearos died. This is the place where pharisees and rumped and rollered the seminal
to tiny bits and pieces and connived to control the skies with minute patterns of bracken and
bitumen. glad as they were to see the Lord cry and die. And I was so overjoyed to think
these things that I sought out the innermost remnants of my long since fragmented and eaten
and excreted spirit and rolled them together into a pile, desirous to live and hail and hold my
soul again, desirous as I was to fly.
And Matthew called The Lord an 'Ass' and I could see the value of His words
and I could sense the sanity in all of those around us grow crimson and wide with
embarrassments and poignancy.
'Cups and Crucibles,' said John.
'Cups and Crucibles,' said Mark.
'Cups and Crucibles,' murmured Luke.
And the Warden? The Warden said it too, just as he had always had, just as he had ever
and ever and ever done. And today's Lord, seeing His once keen apostles defy the sanity
He had bestowed upon them, and yesterday's Lord, sensing the ones He healed bewraying
the things He had melded and carved, turned across His cloud and screamed at the
Heavens, loud and shrill as a wolverine child clad in the base of the womb.

But I could only say the Lord deserved it. The Warden had been defined as litter by Him.
That poor Warden, to whom we had ever turned for guidance and penitence, in the
pre-Eye days, had been so beshrewed by de utmost Lord Himself that it was sad to see it all
happening.
And the Lord stopped wailing at the Heavens and de Lord put on His mirror
shades and the Lord wiped His nose on His thumbs, and de Lord looked down at us all,
even at Matthew and me, even at the excreted fragments we had become, and said, 'I shall
not leave this place until all the world has come to see your cooling defiance of the Word. I
shall, I shall not..' As He had told us, His Father was always dead - God Himself, He had told
us, was dead and gone, jsut as every damned thing we'd ever had to hold us together was
gone, gone, gone.

And I saw Luke turn to John and I saw John and I saw John turn to Mark and I saw Mark
hug the Warden, and I knew, I knew more than I had ever known anything in the whole span
of my estranged life and death, that petrol parity would come to us all, that parity would guide
us against the utmost Lord bad Judgement, that parity would lift us one and all into a
new Void of madness and templered damnation; and it felt so good to sense the syllogisms
left, which was Madness + Freedom = The World, or the World + Madness = Freedom.

chapter 61: LUKE

It was the Warden, it was the Warden that made me
1. See a place for madness.
2. See a place of madness
3. See a face for madness
4. Seize a case for madness
It was the Warden, it was the Warden that made me -
It was the Warden .-.

chapter 62: THE WARDEN

And they all started chanting, 'Cups and Crucibles,' and they all started revering all I had
ever said and they all started calling de Lord an 'Ass;' and they all started to revile the
sanity of they had always been given. And I said unto The Lord, 'Cups and Crucibles,'
and I said unto the utmost Lord, 'I am an egg from which cups hatch.' And Luke and John
and Mark and Matthew all raised their spirits to the limit and said, 'The Warden will call
us Master Men again. The Warden shall hold us tight throughout the night, and we shall
hold him tight in swift returns, glad and proud as we now say the Lairdy crossed Lord
above must have been before He lost His ground Grail. And I know now that Matthew and
the Nurse were fragments of what they had been before. I knew that their bodies had flown
and that their spirits had been fractured and eaten and excreted into the hot earth. But still
they spoke, their voices shrill and endearing; and it was then that their faces in my mind,
both multifoliate and proud.
'Cups and Crucibles. Crucibles and Cups. I am the egg from which cups hatch.'
And we said it together, again and again, until de Lord was reviled and mad, clad in His
mirror shades, weeping through His nose and crying, 'Nazarene! Nazarene! Nazerene!
again and once more again, until bible-benumbed.

chapter 63: THE EYE

When I heard them revile the Lord and when I heard them revere the ways of insanity
and madness and when I heard call for restoration of the past, I came to my senses and
I knew I would come to the wild earth again. 'The Eye,' one of them said, 'The Eye
Portentous and All-Constraining. 'The Eye! The EYE!' And I felt the sweet earth
in which I had lain, blind and recumbent, split in two and show me the way to the surface.
And I felt once again the God who had made me swathe and pelter upon my visage
and motility. And it was then that I remembered when my God had moulded me and and
cast me down from the sea-sky. This was shortly was shortly before He died and some years
after He had made the Lord-Lady Jesus-Christ. For I knew then as I still know now that
I am the Word of the Dying Gods who died in nonentitied grief. I am the Word of the dying
Gods who first made Christ, who once served sanity and churlish bible-caring.
So I arose from the earth I had been in and flew against the hands of Christ. I arose
and flew against the one who had made my blind brethrens lose their abnormal charms.
And I heard Matthew's fragmented and excreted spirit call and croon to me alike to an old
and happy lover. And I shot against de Lord who had somehow failed me as much as a bird
must fall.
'Nazerene! Nazarene!' He wept, senselessly and furiously thumbing His nose and
mirror-shaded eyes. 'Nazarene! Nazerene!' He cried, flummoxing against my flight with such
little grace that I could only laugh to feel the terrible blood of the sweet world I had once owned
rile and rise against my glistering, wide-pupilled sight.

And de Lord-Laden Justice Jesus Christ was soon wrapped up in panic; was soon choking
on His personal cloud and writhing in beaten pain, and I remembered the crown of sharp thorns
I had placed on His head in those long trendless years gone by and shone with pride at my
victory. For I am the Eye of the dying Lord himself. I am the Eye of defeat and portent and
Restitution. God Himself made me defy the Word He had once believed in, way back before
He was forgotten and softly Dying.
The Warden blinks at me and smiles. Luke blinks at me and smiles. John blinks at me
and smiles. Mark blinks at me and smiles. And I see the fragmented and excreted spirits of Matthew
and The Nurse shimmer as one in the earth and know that my time of killing and being killed has
come to once again, or maybe never really went away, or maybe never truly left the sights of and
minds of those I once controlled and now would control forever and Ever...

chapter 64: JESUS re. T S Eliot...

Father, the Roman soldiers are blooming in the bowls and
the sublety of summer creeps along the Grail -
this rumoured season, settled, has made a push
for the final hill. All is devised.
Your life is a light, my life is a sill
overlooking, like a feather, the flights of war.
Music under moonlight and tramlines on borders
wait now for the wind you chill and your wrinkled face.

Please provide us.
I have talked many times about your beauty,
have wept along my faith, devised and poor,
have ridden and broken my back like a slate.
There has never been a baby left behind me.
Whence comes the wind? Where must I live
that I might trammel down? What cause
has here fragmented upon the greenest grass?

Behind the minds of whores and resurrection
please provide us.
Beneath the passions of midwinter, before the passions of
the wind,
please provide us.
Beneath the palace of the Virgin, beneath the Idylls of
saint Kings,
please provide,
that we, your lonely servants, may curtail
each driving, hooving sin.

Disordered by the wrens,
we need your praise. They shall praise, and will
be praised.
In every generation, there shall be fields -
patterns, grafts, films of some furious Word. Father,

through glory and derision, rite and burnished vein
allow your heirs to shine. For
prayer and prayer alone, now
let there be wastes for Time to fill.

For I am tired of dying, as
tired of awaiting the locus of the incoming hour
and the runnels left of the sacred life that have lost me
to the rings and the strings of the puppeteer.
I am tired of dying and I am tired of damning
each rune and root of the ash and the sea.
Now come to me, pamper me, serve me with casuistries
For I am sick of Love.

chapter 65: MARK

'Lord,' I say, 'whose Son are You?' But the Lord is caught up in His cries of
'Nazarene!' and His rumbling prayers to the Father who forsook Him. And I do
not care nor see nor hear His cries and I do not care nor see nor hear His
prayers. For now the multisonous whole of us is straining to be mad once more.
'Cups and Crucibles,' we say, 'Crucibles and Cups. Cups and Crucifixes. May the
Eye Portentous and Sulphuric regain our Souls. And the Eye arrives from the place
in the wild earth it has been lying, and the Eye strikes the Lord about His face and
head. And the Eye shines bright and the Lord falls down. And we? We are together
again.
And I hear the bright blue patches on the earth where Matthew and
the Nurse lie spiritualised and excreted join together in one high voice, one high
candour, saying, 'Lord! Whose Son are You? Lord!..' And it is then that I know
my peace with angelled Heaven has been determined by my devilling peace in
Hell.
For it is obvious to me that Faith in this Lord, this Lord who squats on a
craned cloud before us, is tantamount to having Faith in everyone but yourself. The
Devils offer more solace. The Devils rise and rile and ride along a wave of cheering
Faith in nobody but themselves. 'Self love, Lord!' I yell, 'Self love! Did you ever hear
such a graceless and mindless thing? Self love! Self Love! Did You ever care to see it?
And His mirror-shaded eyes go red and His drooling nose turns pitch dark and His
Holy Ego falls on the hardest of times, and we, both Luke and John, both Matthew
and me, both the Warden and the Nurse, both Matthew and the Eye creel to the surface
like a mastery and crack the good bled deceiving Lord in two.

chapter 66: THE WARDEN

He was under the ash tree and Luke and I go across the hill and the Lord jumps up
and runs away and we can hear the Eye inside the wood.
'Listen,' Luke says. 'Listen to it very closely.' And I put my cup-shaped
ear close and I hear the Eye. Yet I cannot discern what it's saying.
'What's the Eye saying, Luke,' I say. 'What does it want of us?'
'It's telling us to die,' Luke says. 'It is calling on us all to die for it.'
'What way does it want to die Luke?' I say.
'It wants us to die in a hideaway way, out of the sight and mind of De Lord' Luke
says.
'Why does it want us to die in a hideaway way, out of the sight and mind of
De Lord?'
'So it can cheat the Word of Heaven,' Luke says.
'Why does it want to cheat the Word of Heaven, Luke?'
'Just listen, ' Luke says. And we hear it. We hear it turn about from side to side.
'Just listen,' Luke says.
'It's turning around and about,' I say. 'It is looking at us through its tears.'
'Yes,' Luke says.
'Why is it crying, Luke?'
'Never mind,' Luke says. 'We must leave it alone now.'

'Why shouldn't we mind, Luke?' I say. 'Why must we leave it alone now?'
'Come,' Luke says. 'Let's go and talk with Matthew.

And once I saw a thing that no man should have seen. And once I saw the world spin round
on a bed. Just a bed and no more. A bed!

And John is sick in the head. I am sick in the head. The Nurse and Mark are sick in the head.
We are all sick in the head. And I turn to Luke, who is somehow sick, too, and ask him for
the Word of the Eye; and he says the Eye has no Word, just a name. And I am glad to know such
things and I am glad to know that the world spins around on a bed, if only for a littlest of seconds,
if only for a while?

chapter 67: GOD

And when my long dead being beheld the Eye I was glad to see my progeny suffer in happy
silence. "Sweet Jesus", the Man I had created before the Eye, was now rotating in sufferable
turmoil; and it was so fine to see it happen that I was forever turning in my sky-lit grave and
was forever chuckling at the misery of my progeny had chosen.

For mastery is all that madness becomes, and those who succumb to its natures are forever
wrapped in sadness. To see my progeny writhe in their insanity was to sense the World I had
created rotate on a dying rainbow's ebb. For history is all that madness becomes; and DE Lord
I had made was no match for that history, and the history I could see was all-consuming and
rattling that I knew it would batter my Son into many palpable pieces.
But to see the world through long dead eyes is to suffuse the Heavens with a
living conic splendour. And this I cannot understand, and this I shall not suffer, for the world
I once created is a morass of servitude and maimed amorality - such is it's Lord Jesu Judea
that rides a buried wave and spires against the sensibilities of every Law ever cast by Man
and Woman.
And when I saw my final creation; when I saw the Eye Portentous and Mad, I knew
the laden Lord I had once created would be shattered and forced back into the utmost yellow
bowels of a prayerless, violent hero Heaven.

'Provide,' my undead yet dead Son prayed. 'Provide that the prayerless world
may be set to rights.' But I was too eager to stay long dead and passed by with a fist.

chapter 68: MATTHEW

'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' and the Eye, the Eye Portentous and
Rolling, shines in the reddened heights of the sun saying, 'Who can proceed to tell first
words alone? Who can proceed to forgive the dictum of the holy moment?' And I am a bright
patch of spiritual excretia in the wild earth, that, like a wild seed, has found again paradise,
that, like a shrill child, has found a place to grow and briar in full and growing fluency. For
I am seeking to be mad once more, am pining to be united with the Eye and all it gives.
'Who can proceed to tell first words alone? Who can proceed to forgive the dictum of the
angelled moment? And my firm and heightened senses reach for the mana of Insanity and
my honed and liquid and long gone body shines in my Mind's Eye as a twisted sarcophagi
which holds the mummy of melding rhymes and snares.
'Before the body beautiful. After words and 'Sex'. Before the body beautiful.'
And I believe in some kind of flight God; but I do not believe in the Lord: I cannot believe
in the one who walked amongst us with such chic and leaden failure in His quiet arms.
'I am learning to praise. I am becoming a cruel poet. I have the utmost gift of words.

For the Eye has ever been all-seeing. It's portent and Sulphur transgresses
all Folds and Furls of logical bended mind-schemes. The Eye is more a Lord than any
Christ who may walk among us. The Eye is Contagious and Star-Reaching.

And Luke has taken the Warden to the Ash Tree at the foot of the strange hill. Luke has
bid him listen for the Eye therein. And I wonder how to fly and I wonder why we die
and turn the bright patch of land that I have become into a gauge of the Eye's Seduction.
'I am not the spectator at vulgar venues. This is not the body beautiful. This
Love hangs upside-down on a forced wing. Surely I am the clash of slow days. And I hear
the Eye and I revere the Eye and I flash my pleasure at the depths of its ways, and I curse
the saneness I have become and ask the Eye for Redemption. I had a body once, so did
the Nurse, now we are both without a noteable mind-pulse, and I shine from the patch of
Light that I am and I ask the Eye for Eternal Grace, such is the Poetry it now speaks.
'It was a foetus set in clay. It was a cancer set to glow. This I have to write.
These are my first and last words'
And I hear the Eye and I revere the Eye, with the Laden Laddy Lord Jesus we have
rejected sitting on His rude cloud all the holy while, smoking a cigar and wearing
mirror specs and weeping, weeping, weeping..

chapter 69: JESUS

'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' May God damn their conniving
and merciless souls. And now they campaign to return to the warmth of the asylum,
gathering up their accoutrements and frowsties and gyring mindlessly together at the peak
of the hill. But I shall some my cigar and I shall wear my special mirror shades and I shall
serve my purpose as a Lord regardless what the Eye might do or say. Even though they have
split me in two, even though they have cut my spirit from my Mind and left me to flailing in
mortal purportal misery, I shall smoke my cigar and wear my special metal shades and
suffer their arrows without design.
'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' May my long dead Father
damn their maddening outlawed souls, may the wrath of their long dead God Himself confute
them with acridity and sadness.

And I shall smoke and I shall weep and I shall feel my sweet tears mist up the lenses of my
clean miraculous mental mirror shades, but I shall never, not even in the heart of my fractured
beauty, give in to their mindless jibes.
'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' And now they are collecting
the sweet earth surrounding the excretia of Laird Matthew's and the Nurse's Spirits,
gathering the tiresome ark of earth in the sweet hope of carrying the bright light that lies there
into the doubling crooked womb of the asylum's shrill walls. And I shall smoke my cigar and
I shall wear my bohemian mirror shades and I shall shed tears against those bohemian
mirror shades and stay on my clued cloud oblivious.
'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' May Gods damn their foaming
and recusant bodies and minds. For I am a Spirit whose has ravelled out into time for the
purpose of serving the weary. For I am the Spirit who ravelled out and caught the angst of the
keen moment; have shared a few rebels with the world, have captured rivers before they fold,
have dabbled in a few deep ravines and roped caves. For I am a Lord Mankind has dictated
unto a ghost-sport of some indigo mungrel age; and the Lord they have tithed into a trillion
tensile tenths of biblical prehistory. But I shall smoke my cigar and I shall don my haloed
shades and I shall not want for the emptiness my Light has become.
'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son?' May God damn their spiritless and
conniving Souls. If thet could have just Sacrificed the well being of one Man, they could have
been well again. But the Warden meant so much to them. May God make them pay for their
temerarious Sacrifice of the shuddering sanity I kindly gave to them. For just one Man they
Sacrificed all. For the Love of one Man alone they chose to rave and rave and rave and
thence go back to Hell. May fucking God damn their conniving Souls. May fucking God
damn them all.

chapter 70: THE WARDEN

When I want to find where the Cups stay when they are both broken and unbroken,
I saw them digging. They said, 'This Light shall be ours. This excretia belongs to
us all.'

They carried the sweet earth into the place where I'd been. The hill was still red,
but it wasn't a hill now. It was a shroud, and the red went whorling up and out of all
our signal sights. The hill went whorling up in tiny responsive pieces, against the sun and
the moon, so that the sun and the moon moved backwards.
And then de Lord was still awake. He turned his hand from side to side,
with smoke from His cigar reeling.
'May God damn them, one and all!' He said.
'Your heart and mind are as acrid as they should be,' we said.
'I think He's learnt His lesson,' the Eye said.
'What in hell's name are we doing taking talking about Him?' Luke said
'We're just passing the time of day,' Mark said.
'We just hoped to teach Him a fucking lesson.'

They went up into the asylum and disappeared. The Lord smoked His cigar. He looked
like a cup of fire. And then we went to sleep.
'He's died,' I said. 'He's a cup on fire that's died.'

He seemed so cracked and weary. He just did not seem like de Lord.
'Warden? Come inside,' they said. 'Come inside and join the mad melee.
Come inside and meet your cups once more.'

'I'll come when the Lady Lord's stopped smoking,' I said. 'He must stop smoking
before I come inside.'
'The Lord's an ass,' they said.'
'And He's a smoking Lord, too,' I said. 'He's a burning, churning, smoking cup
on the hill.'

When I joined them, Luke was talking to the Cups. His eyes were both crossed and red.
John put the radio on and we all listened. The radio was made out of butter and soot, to
draw out the speechless fire. Then the words went cool and black.
'Do Matthew and the Nurse like the radio?' I said.
'I think they must, what with the Cups and the soot and the butters all around.
I really think they must,' Mark said.
Luke's face was once bearded, then it was illuminated and shaven, but now it is bearded
again.
'I think they like the radio as much as a bird must fall' I said. They listen as if they
were born to.
'Damn de keen Lord,' Luke said.

And the Lord is out there above the ash tree, on His blind cloud, with His shades and His
cigar and His sleeping soul, lying there with His body smoking like a cup aflame. I said,
'Are You going to sleep there all day? Are You?'
The moonlight dappled on Him once. Now He is discredited and I am almighty
happy.
'You needn't die, Lord,' I said. 'We're all mad again now. You needn't worry, Lord.'

The hill was red once. It used to be redder than any of the sons we ever knew.
Then it went whorling up and away, making the sun and the moon run backwards without a
wide Word. It hurts my head to think the hill was once red.

When I went to find where the Cups stayed when they were broken and unbroken, I saw them
digging, and I heard them say, 'This excretia shall all be ours. This Light belongs to us All?'

chapter 71: LUKE

It was the Warden, it was the Warden that made us
1. Find comfort in madness's creche.
2. Grow my beard again.
3. Revile the Lady Lord.
4. Find comfort in madness's brief-case.
It was the Warden, it was the Warden that made me
1. Grow my beard again.
2. Revile de Baby Lord
3. Grow my beard once more.
4. Find my comfort in madness's toothpaste.
For it was the Eye, the Eye that made me -
It was the Eye, the Eye that made me
For it was The Eye .-.

chapter 72: MATTHEW

And they dug us up and carried us into the asylum and I and the Nurse took pride
of place on the winnowing window sills, bright in our talkative patch of excretia,
bright and mad and whole.
'The Lord's a cup aflame,' the Warden said.
'The Lord is an asp,' said Luke and Mark and John.
And I knew then that the Warden was safe in his madness now; safe because we had
joined him, safe because we had made him the nature of us all. And the Nurse murmured
into my spitting spiritual ear, 'We are all Spirits now; now that we are all mad and proud
with tears.' And I knew she was right and I knew my god-niche in the wild earth had been
found.
The Eye meanwhile was glistering in the skies outside, looking down on de
Lady Lord and making Him sleep a sleep of Death. The last time I looked, de Lord's
cool cigar was still burning and His model mirrored shades were misted over with tears.
It was good to think the Lord was sad and alone. For we had once sat lonely and sad in
the wide world waiting for a sign, waiting for the Heavens to speak to us. And now we had
the Eye. Now we had the Supremacy of Poetry to lull and whirr us along the swerves and
bouncing blood-curves of madness's headpiece.

The radio knelled in my Spiritual ears. I heard the notes of the smouldering classics connive
and weave around me, and for a time I felt so content that I could only aspire to the words
I had cooled in steel all those sad mad years gone by, to the cooled and steeled-in words
I had long since spoken with my mind.
'May God damn your conniving and mercilesss soul. May God damn you..'

But I was just not listening. For I was hearing the Words of the Eye waft from the sterephonics
of this world and into the smiles of the Warden, who was now speaking calmly in his
madness, who was now swathing us all with a commanding, rising and riding spill of Words
that held Peace and Cogency in their heaped insanity. As much as a bird must fall, this was the
wild world I had been brought up to live. This was the sweet world of the killed and the
killing, the sweet soft world of the Eye Portentous and All-Assailing. The web-headed world
with its crossed eyes clamped sex-shut.

chapter 73: THE EYE

They are listening to the radio. The Lord is sleeping the sleep of death I have bid Him to
sleep; and the heavens are black; black with the regimens of Portent and Sulphur that
I have ordained. And soon they shall be still and recumbent in their merciless Insanity.
Soon, they shall be killed and killing each vestige of Father J Christ they may recall.
And de Lord is sleeping the sleep of utmost death I have bid Him to sleep; and the
Heavens are black; black with the regimens of Portent and Sulphur I have ordained.
The radio plies their ears with classical, ancient waves. The sterephonia therein
is a Testament to the death I have bid Him to sleep. For that stereophonia, as proud and loud
as death and dying itself, conceives itself as death and dying itself, conceives itself as
rigor mortis might and wells into my snearing seeing as a grabbed trumpet might, as the last
trump, mad and bad and redolent.

The Lord is on fire. His cigar has set His sleeping figure alight. He is slowly turning black
as black becomes. The Lord is a fuming, burning wreck. My long dead yet undead God would
be proud to see suck mazy amazing things. He would be proud and glad to sense His once
loved Son careering into this violent ebb, as much as bird must fall.
And they are listening to the radio. They are hearing the ferine waves of classical,
ancient sounds, ancient sounds whine and spire and pelt upon their maddening hearts and
boned souls. Matthew was once the one I called my own. Now the all of them is one I own.
And it is kind and cruel and softly sadistic that this is so. And they listen to the radio and they
listen to the regimens of Portent and Sulphur, as the Lord burns, as de Lord sleeps the sleep
of death I have ordained Him to sleep.
'Before the Body Beautiful,' I murmur. 'After the speculations life and death. Before
the Body Beautiful.' And I know, as much as Matthew once knew, that they all condemned to
a widening, pie-eyed sadness that will hold them together in the madness of these asylum wards
forever and ever and ever. For they have chosen my Portent and Sulphur as is their ultimate,
intimate end. The truth is that the comfort they find in insane inane stagnancy is the proof of
of my extenuous existence. The truth is that the comfort they find in things gone past and
things nostalgic and commensurate with established acrid matter is my bread and wine,
my Communion, my destruction of the true dead yet undead Lord.

They are listening to the radio. They are slowly rocking and rotting away to the heady
sounds of the classics that have long since died. It is good to think this is the way of
utmost things. They are good rockers and good god-rotters. My self-creating God could
not ask for a better kind. No.

chapter 74: JOHN

There wasn't anything else to be done. It was either obey the Eye or have the Lord sue us with
His asininity, because He knew some way or other that His healing was asinine. I don't know how
He knew, but He did. Mark had seen Him falter. but I saw too, and I swore from then on that
the Warden would be my only Lord and Master. But God was not there. He could have been if He
wanted to, but He wasn't. He could have acted upon His Son's brain-failure, but He damn well chose
not to. And the Lazy Leaden Lord said that God was 'both dead and undead; and that was heresy.
And so it was that Luke said, 'I owe it all to the Warden to serve The Eye for always,' and
Mark says 'You're a good man, Luke.'
'Good?' said Luke.
'Good and kind and proper,' Mark said. 'Damn, you are surely the goodest guy around.'

But there wasn't any reason to it. 'The Eye was Matthew's, now it is all of us,' I said. 'And the
Warden? He's certainly comfortable in his sodden madness now.' A man can't share his madness
with anyone, he can only serve himself, and that is surely a joy.
'I think we are all comfortable now,' Luke says.
'God knows it: it's been a trial, but now our Insanity is both mutable and happily
unhappy.'

Sometimes I just can't be sure who or what we are. When they say 'a man is crazy
when he isn't, I truly start to wonder. Sometimes I think it's not right for the good to be mad and
the mad to be good. Sometimes, I think the world is heresy. It's like it isn't so much what you do
as how you say it, but it isn't the way the majority think and feel that matters.
But it's ashame in a way. Men seem to get away from from the inane insane fact too
often. Men seem to drive a nail into the venal skulls of the mad just for a hapless joke. It's like some
men have to their smooth, happy faces and others have the rough and sagged ones; but still no
congruity is made between them, still no soft sweet madness is coupled or sung.

But it was better to lie here listening to the radio with the Eye above us all than to saunter and dance
for de Laying Lord, for He had who had failed us by dealing in Eyeless measures, and Eyeless
measures Eyeless measures are far too sane and careless for bird-words. God Matthews said to me
that 'Words are to be cooled in steely metal before they get spoken; so with The Eye, so with
keen sanity and mind-carelessness.
And the Warden was looking at me, then at the bright patches of excretia that were
Matthew and the Nurse, then at the rest of us. He had a green smile on his fooled face and seemed
almost ignoble in his magical truancy from sanity and logical head-candour. And we had chosen to save
Him, had chosen to serve the Eye and be just like Him; and that psalming choice was manna from a
different Heaven - the deep Heaven of illogical bright sounds. He had been born in a seedy waste down
town, retching around the cat-bowls His Father had left. Now He was with His ultimate Family: the
sweeteing deepening family of tensility wrapped in inane mimed Insanity that spoke for the world being
entirely round.
'Warden', I said. And he looked up at me and Luke and Mark and at the bright patches of
excretia that were Matthew and the Nurse and said, 'I am glad to be listening to the radio. I am glad
of the noisy butter and the toasted soot that is sound. I am glad of the Cups and and the tangy
poem-Crucibles within. I am so glad to be the final bird-words among you'.

And I was glad, too. I was glad to be mad and madder still. And the Eye stood over the hill looking
down on De Laden Lord who was all aflame and sleeping; and I knew then, as I had always known,
that this was the place I wanted to die in, that this was space of my birthless Mind.

chapter 75: THE NURSE

Matthew and I were sitting on the window still overlooking the hill. We were both bright shining
excretia now and spoke our words without a mouth or a tongue. The others were listening to
the radio. Their vocal tones were alike to ours, although embodied in a body of features and
characteristic compressions that upheld the lithe infamity of family insanity as much as a bird
must fall. I for one was happy to know that Insanity was all ours. I murmured to the excretia
that was Angelled Matthew that we had never really known such headed joy as now, seeing
that the gulf between extremity and stagnancy had now been bridged and seeing that the bridge
had brought us both the Eye's inspiring foils and the kissers of madness as we truly had to
know it. Indeed, it seemed to me that this was the one true life we had sought to have, levelled
as it was with comfort and raving contumely. And it all seemed so right that I felt the patch of
excretia I had soddenly become glow and spire for Glory.
But it was the Warden who saved us all. His contentment with the fires and swarthes
of the soft sliding world we had brought into was so ideal that it spoke the bird-words of a better
Soul than I could ever hoped to have found. He had been the toy of de Countless Lord of
Jesus Jewelry Christ. He had been focalized as a Vessel for the madness of us all. We had seen that
and had chosen to become that Vessel, had chosen to shame the Heavens with our cornucopious
grasp of God Matthew's psychic words, with the revel that was the asylum and all it held.

Meanwhile, the Lord was aflame on His blood-cloud. I was cheered to seem Hin burn and mad to
sense the God He said was both dead and undead repeat on Him so grandly.
'Lord?' he had said, 'Whose Son are You?' And He had been destroyed by the Eye and
He had been condemned to a burning sleep of such pure contempt that we could only be surely
compassionate towards Him in the Future. Particularly considering He had been such a failure
while He did not burn. For we all liked failure. It seemed to me that were now the fantastic epitome
of happy failure itself; for we had succumbed to a final madness, and madness holds the keys to
failure's troves, and troves like that rotate around a pinnacle of endless fire. Hence the Lord who was
now figure of 'us' in a way, a figure that the Eye could only repeat on more and more until we were
all so compassionate towards His mind-failure that the flailing Heavens from which He said He'd
come could only open out and transgress our passing fears and redeem us all with a bat of the focussed
Eye, and thereby we would be All-assailing and joyfully 'MAD'.

And I whisper to the excretia that Matthew has become and I murmur to the excretia I had become
and I sense the Warden smiling into his stagnant, cuplike hands; and I hear his insanity burn and briar;
and I know that this is the wild sweet world, and I know that the comfort I find in madness now is the
Idyll of us all, who are surely and simply and merely the last fast spectators of the sweet wild mind-
world, as it spins on its bed of stentorious fruit-pyres.

chapter 76: LUKE

The radio says, the radio says
'Magic, magic, magic,
magic, magic karma.'
The radio says, the rodeo says
'Magic, magic, magic
Magic, magic karma.'
The radio, the radio, the rodeo, the stereo
says, says, says, says
'Magic, magic karma.'
And I know, and I hear, and I know, and I hear
that the radio, the magical rodeo, the radio
says, says, says, says
'Magic, magic, magic
Magic, magic karma.
It doesn't matter what you do
nor the scheme of the drama.
'Magic, magic, magic
Magic, magic karma.'

And the Warden and I and the Eye and I
and the Warden and I and the Eye and I
and the Warden and I and the Eye and I
are magic in our longings, magic in our trends,
magic in our karma, magic unto the maddening end,

chapter 77: MATTHEW

It happened I was on the sill of the asylum, looking out over the hill, when the Eye
came inside and said, 'Now it is time of my coming.'
'What kind of coming?' I said. 'Whatever, it is, we'll serve it, as much as a
bird must fall.'
'The coming is purely fatal. It shall cleanse you all as your madness has up to
now.' 'That sounds good,' I said. 'I may be excretia but I hear and obey.'
'You shall all obey me,' it said. 'You shall all obey and suffuse yourselves with
my ordained Stagnation.'
'Wait,' I said. It waited and I went and peeped through its enpupiled centre directly
into its mind. But I couldn't tell of its intentions except they were good and far better than the
manxed Lord.
'Are we to go mad even more?' I said.
'You are all to Stagnate into your intimate madnesses as best you can. In that way,
I can have my Victory.' the Eye said.
'Okay then,' I said, giving it a long and loving look. I didn't take my Spiritual eyes
off it for even a nanosecond. One of those mazy dark-pupilled sort of eyes that look like
a knife in the slit of a heart in turning. It looked very pretty indeed. There wasn't anyone else
in my skirted mind but the Eye; it was all I could find myself thinking of.
'How should we stagnate first?' I said.
'You must simply accept my solace,' it said.
'Fine,' I said. It stopped looking at me and then looked at the rest of us; particularly
at the Warden, who was by now laughing all the time.
'Can we have a bit more Servility?' is asked.

It was just like the Eye to be Satanically domineering. I and all the rest of us found this
Satanic domination both perfect and vital. It was surely verbal manna to our ears.

'We'd better listen more closely,' Luke said. 'It'll pay offf in the end if we just listen
more closely.'
'I agree,' said Mark and John, closely followed by the giggling Warden and the
remnants of the dead yet undead Nurse beside me.

'What I want you to do,' said the Eye, 'is to condemn the Lord entirely. What I want
you to do is to partake of my cool kind of vision, my type of noise by driving your Stagnancy
and therefore stinking madness to the very limits of ruddy mind-dilation. In that way, the doorways
to deception may be entered through and then my blind mission will be accomplished.

So we all did what the Eye had asked us to. We screamed and wailed against de desultory
Lord in a candid dumbly pioneering way, calling Him a 'Soul eater,' and a 'Prodigious religious
brain-heart-mind charlaton,' and then we settled down into our own teeming sensations of madness
as wildly and as clamourously as we could, going to the very hilt of the hill we found with our
madnesses, which the Eye called 'Stagnancy', until we were altogether foaming at the bit and saluting
every ebb and flow of dilapidation and multisonous schizophrenic consummation.

'Now,' the Eye said, 'I want you all to pray to the blindest cause around; to the very utmost
salutations of de spy-vivid Lord bewrayed and betrayed into indignity.
'If you pleases you, Sir, we will,' said the Warden.

And we all prayed to the signal salutations of the gone-wide God bewrayed and betrayed into mental
indignity, and felt the victory of the Eye getting closer and closer to us all.
'Now,' the Eye said. 'Soon, darkness will befall this place. The asylum shall rock with a blackness
never perceived before. If you find that your tongues are cleft to the roofs of your goblin mouths, accept
it. The Truth is that you are now siblings of a Fortuitous and Nihilisitic end. The Truth is that you Stagnant
love of infamous flaming Insanity shall be the cause of the Intimate beginning of the wide world's end.

'What an Eye,' I thought. To think we could ever be involved in the utmost end of the world excited me to
a height of limitless Ecstasy. I had always cooled words in steel, but the words I was hearing - the words
we were all hearing - made me feel as if I had never cooled my speech enough. To think I had once spoken
through my mind alone made me sense the Eye's Transgressant Parambular Paranormality. If the Eye said we
would begin the wide world's end, I knew that it would be so, and I tried to regain the Poetic timbre I had once
had to my mind, but found it woukld it would not come; but that didn't make me feel alone, since the Eye was
there for us all.
And then the Eye dilated and grew vast. The hallways darkened. The windows were black. The radio
sputtered out. The faces and bodies of those around me disappeared. And so it was that the genius blackness
of the world's keen end was sainted and upon us. And so it was that we huddled together in our own maddening
warmths, Luke holding John, John holding Luke, Mark holding the Warden, and the Warden? He held himself
and the Nurse, clutching the patches of excretia that we were in the palms of his plump, hot cold elfin hands. And
we all smiled as we wept sweet tears of pure joy that the wifed whirring world we had known so long was hanging
once more on a manic head-sore of severe and ecstatic telekinetic head-probabilities. For this was the Judgement
that de loud Lord could not offer. This was the Judgement of arm to arm charmed damasking contact with de Word.
Often, we had sat in the lapses of silence whilst mad; now that the Holy Helenic bed-head-silence had
broken into a lardy bone-cantata of delirious, final fruit-flowers.

And I held on to John and John held on to Luke and Luke held on to me and I held on to the Warden and the
Warden held the Nurse and the Nurse held on to me, until we were all together, one and all, with the lasting
hitlerled hearse of mangy evil beauty once again upon us.

chapter 78: THE NURSE

The darkness is God. God is darkness. The dark God Unchained and Maimed. The God of Gods
is dark. The darkness is God. The God of Gods is darkness. The darkness is the Intimate, Ultimate
Word. God is God and God is dark. The darkness is the World. The World is all in worded darkness.
God God God God God God God.

chapter 79: MARK

The darkness is the World-Word.

chapter 80: JOHN

The darkness is the Word-Ward.

chapter 81: MATTHEW

The darkness is de Sword.

chapter 82: THE WARDEN

The darkness is the Grail.

chapter 83: LUKE

The darkness is magic, magic Karma. The darkness is magic, magic radio
The darkness is magic, magic karma. The darkness is magic, magic radio
-.-.

chapter 84: JESUS

Christ has gone to heaven. They put him up in flames, crying, down the long nails,
crying, the beds burning like the eyes of voles when he caught alight. 'What are you
burning for?' I said.
'Whose Son? Whose Son? Whose Son?!'
Seven eyes put him up in flames. They were mistyped eyelids and bellied over the
bed-clothes like a siren, as though the regent and simultaneous Father had had a klaxon
fitted to their bedheads.
'Is it de Lord you're burning for?' I said. 'Why do you burn?' I said. 'Is it because
you hate the smell of burning?'

They pulled their flames together so Christ could spit on their fingers burning. One of them
lit a match, the others spat and licked their thumbs for burning. One of them had to burn
back-to-front because the city's flame had a furnace that was inside-out and laughing,
and they are riding on de Devil's flames, which is the Satanic and unlawful awful. A match has
a pervert on either side and a geezer on the other; three sides and neither a back nor a front.
I never knew a day so strange as this. God had a tiny iris he got from Mary when he was
new-born. Inside it was burning and burning all the live long morning and evening. I never
a nght as strange as this. 'Is that why you're burning, Lord?'
'Whose Son? Whose Son? Whose whored Son are You?'

The Eye stands on the hill, unravelling, the sirens motionless, the flames wrapped round the
metal spheres, the back of de Eye is searching for a whored Mother. It looks no different
to de Devil; no different to the hundreds of other flames around. Matthew was once a Man
but now his is excretia; now He is looking up and down the purple hill as if He were a clod of
earthy solder. There is about it all that imperceptible air of divinely recusant and eager departures
to foreign haloed shores, perhaps due to the fact that de Eye sits on my fucking skull and sets
the whole sweet world aflame.
'Is that why you're burning, Lord?'

Christ is our Father, our dead yet undead Father Christ. Our xmas-easter Father Christ in
a pit in emptied Heaven where, his charred brains burning and charring away He looks down
as he swallows fries.
'Whose Son? Whose Son? Whose whoring Son?!''

'Is that the reason why we burn?' -,.-

chapter 85: THE EYE

The darkness fell and all stagnated. For they were siblings of a darker light that ever befell
the Mind before. For they were puppies of a lesser breed and needed to be killed before
the last fast trump came. And de Lord? de Lord Jesus Judea Christ, whom I had been put
on the wide earth to destroy, was now foaming in his inchoate, ageless heaven, like the
full acridity he had truly become. For he was too good for this world. His long dead Father -
the long dead God who had created to spite de Word - was too long gone to be revered by
such things as a fatal Crucifixion or a plangent moving stone. And I was ever one for seeing
into things, into the terrible blood and beyond. And an Eye is and an Eye must serve the swathes
of blood that always come before and since in every utterance of madness and stagnancy ever
curved; in every single utterance of the wide wise world's glad end.

People were flying but weren't reaching the sky. People were smoking but weren't getting high.
Before the Body beautiful. After Sex and Words, this is the only way for an earth to be that
prays before it falls, that gyres before it spits, then whines before it smiles. People were
smoking but not getting high. People were flying but weren't reaching the sky. And now the land
lies scoured of all its poetry; empty and barren as an Eye must intend, empty and fruitless as madness
must entrust to each sector of the stagnant human twixed Soul.

For they are gone now. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, the Warden and de Nurse, all have served
the dark and met the magma of the whisped world's purloining end. I took them on to go
mad: be mad, fly mad, smoke mad, coil mad, soil mad and foil mad. And now the simultaneity of
spontaneous ends has swept them into Lordless sleep that weeps and skirls like an epithet upturned
and burnt to death, or like a vapid plain of tears that cries for subterfuge alone and wastes away
in the blind Void that is Heaven.

People were smoking but weren't getting high. People were flying but weren't reaching the sky.
People! People were faltering and flailing in the nebulous nebula that is both mass and madness.
It was time for them to pass on; time for them to die.

I see the body of the Earth spin off its axis. My pupil dilates and I see the moilings of the mad
surge into a faux past of deadly dying bended instincts. The Warden lies quite still with a
muted smile on his face. Luke lies in his arms, his pulsating beard suffused with shaven
night; and I know, as much as a bird must know, that the Fall from cleft skies is all the light
of wet wild heaven becomes. I see the sad earth; I sense all this mad mind-heart world break
off from its cradle-bed and spin wildly and defaming into an intuitous insidious gracelessness.
Such was the Word that it must come to its unnatural end like this, both posited and deposited
in a snorted tonsured cry of pure abeyance.
'Can I die now?' I ask the Dark. 'It is surely time for me to go'. And I hear the tongues
of my lizardine God lash around and up the estranging hills and vales of night, through the dirt,
and on, and on into a rigid turgid eternity of sightlessness and painted quiescence.
'You may die,' my dead undead God says, 'You may, for now we are all undead
and dead. You may for now the last vestige of my mind-creation has slipped into an ebb of
duning dark peace. 'You may die, my Eye, you may die, you may..'

And I slip to the surface of the clued clouds and I slip through the dust and the
dirt that is now the heavens and I slip and trip through the nemetic mimesis that has become
de one rude naked Word and I shut my aching lid and closedown my vernal bible-sight,
and my once angelled lashes tight around the sleeping towns of deadly undead dying
heated sweetening splitted mindless pied Heaven and, in taking a last peek at the wasped
bee-hurtlered world as it mumbles into dummy doom, pass swiftly away, with an alien
demented starred mentalis of a mind-girl, with an aptitude of Absolute Portentous
irreligious religious babel-boncing mind-dignity.

chapter 86: a hellish poetical adjunct to in my father's house.

1. THE JOKE

Do not expect me to smile, I implore you, for I fear my eyes shall fail to sparkle. I may provide
you with a Trophonian grimace on bier-swathed Sunday Nights, but please, I implore you,
do not expect me to smile.
Why did my Dulcinea have to leave? Why was the Elysian epopee, the operatic arcadia
of our hearts, ravaged by Time's envious hawk-bred fingers? Why? Is this lachrymose hole in my
soul, and the great chill in my angelled veins - like that which bids the fog-enshrouded deep a glacial
morning's greeting - love's single legacy? Could it be true that the eternal tea-time of this infant world
is forfeit from life's veiled dawn?
Questions, those, oh, so contagious, intoxicating questions, which, like some malign,
Satanic smoke, infest my eyelids with cancerous pluperfect certainty, festering, perspiring pits
in the core of love's Morphean being - night after night, I am haunted.
..
So often I am inclined to embrace the parallel realm which returns so much and yet so
little, and swims within and without Time; holding whatever i wish for it to hold, taunts every
amorphic plantations with solving, unreachable images of the illusion that is life.
So often am I inclined to focus on Olympian quarters during Morphean moments,
and ask the protean clouds for my true identity. For surely I was struck from a wandering seed
to roam through timeless webs of empyrean understanding? But my carbonised, tidal-lake of
red sentience defies my dreams and tells me I am here: here I am, in this illusory firmament,
wherein popping seeds germinate; become linguistic beings; and adopt placements in vast,
yet barren, time-plantations.
Am I 'Master Stardust'? Is my Mother really rooted in that squat residence -
her inch of amphoric plantation - in ruins, with my quiescent, lamenting Father? Could it be
this is merely what the scrambled, reversed realms tells me so? Are the vast, yet barren, amorphic
daddy plantations the blue reality, or is it the formidable spectrum of pseudo-light more than what
I view in that dividing, captivating sheet? Could it be that I am not the angry, choking saps of my
mind perceives me to be? Maybe my position - my terrestrial acre of amorphic plantations - should
not be here?
Yes, I know I was meant to fly; but the potent, mobile world weds my boots to the
dust-bred soil. Shall I always be intertwined with obese amorphic plantations with the ever taut
truanting bell of plutovian muscle, which attempts to force the illusion of neon existence into
the perjured, sulphurous depths of drowning, asphyixating earth?

....more chapters to be posted soon.

no. of pages in fulsome text: 278...it will take five entire weeks to post the whole novel.

bellamy lives in west norwood london.

...

'In My Father's House' took 7 weeks to write!

...

brief extract from a 2ND NOVEL (written in the space of 8 weeks/made-up of 89,000 words/172 pages)

Title of Novel: 'Inspiral Parapets' (author: jd bellamy)

genre: postmodern stream of human subconscious/magic realism/prose poetry

....

" Shocking porn galleries have nothing to say for the words we used
to speak and the darkness of the day when sadness storms the moon
and the stars inside their mien lie buried with the thoughts of one
million dreadened men and the softness of the clouds must raid the
depths of space and serry with their graves one zillion puny dreams.

The earth disclaims the glibness of the dawn and the morning seen
thereafter rapes the eyes of scorn; and we shall scorn the prayers
of the dreamt as seas tilt and quicken with their divided tides and
faith will breed with the dead as murders peer from the storm which
raids the fields of fear. And fixed grow the lights of the helios
that spin in the all-declaiming void as Aaron climbs the hill. Up

from the meadows to the asylum on the cliff, feet clamber and climb
as the daughters of the night crash cars for the memories of youth.
Eyes seize from suck the spires of inspiral parapets as the wind ducks
down to transgress the quietus made by the rites of the psalmed rivets
of the slickened estuaries that taunt from the dealt the sermons of
the trees. Matthew and I climb to the cliff where psychiatry burns
for a dollar and a day. All the live-long tracts of the vicars in

this world will touch themselves awake and starken with deniers the
tombs in the wombs of the recusant as death scars the weals on the
backs of the dead teenaged spirits who dash to dimmed cries the lies
of the fled and the rods of the light. There is no peace-pact made
with the spheres of the ice. Rubies clash with the robes of the roved
runes of the closed caves wherein there no is faith found. For the
sheer screams of the girls must parade for pomandering as sickness
spits phlegm at the phlegmatic ruins of the patently killed. And I

have spidered your site and cannot begin to conceive of the wake your
tears will form for disabled when I speak, there will be times when
blue brains might spill from slit veins as well as when split minds
shall command the crippled cruise of the crude cavern of this shrouded
soul. I have never moved sexually, love

never!!!!'

When the day turns away from the madness of the fey dead. Inside these
fled words, where dreams darken dunes of sand, seen burning in love's
hand, god speaks once and once only. The night teems with light where
lukewarm men dance with the stars and glance from the caves of the
caverns of this bright place where life schemes for the glibness of
the dawn. Eyes must sear the softness of the tears seen flowing from
the fazed faces of children. The flight of girls, clad in fish and
melons, trammels, with the rain, the storms of fear lust used to know
when, coursed with the deeds of one million fields of seaweed, the
dirge of the maimed flew with the true words of the brained and fathered
lord. The great die young and the quietus made by the slickness of
the staved will harbour here the ships of the shipped and red. I recollect
the debts of the spurred heels of the ruled spies who, spayed like
ferine female cats, hunt the coiled coasts of the sailed webs of fear
where sex, once seared, salves the soaks of the thumbstained primers
borne of the curtailed and killed. I, who saw this mourning morning
father, with rubble, the quays of the estuaries and bays, spore, from
my skulled hull, the napes of the apes which made men; and I do not
wish for the strawberries nor the drinks of the flannelled coats of
these infant soldiers, here seen dazzling in the West. As I snuff
out the candles of the corn, the meadows burn with infected wheat,
as a whole pot of pepper is tipped up in the tea and the dusk of denial
strips from my veins the blueness of the vain royal birds who flume
from tree to tree. I do not think that sex will talk with me. Or is
it more that, as Asmodean devils dabble with the scorn of this small
life, Christ may not return. For I have danced with the velvet shoots
of plants which drive from faith's ground the sounds of the shrubs
in their whorl. I have dwelt inside my head since born and my glans
is tantric and the kids I have sired are ghosts who cannot leave home.

The plates in this house are filled with ice. What might I say about
the women I have not known? They are are strangely strangled - killed
by their own vice for self-murder. Let me tell you about heart-ache
and the loss of love; and I have known too often the nephalim who
troll the cactii of my mien with foreign lip-gloss. There are girls
nearby who beg and mendications cannot seal this mind with anything
other than the space-alien. And what should I do except resolve my
soul to the cause of Capricorn and Cancer? My star-sign is derived
from its dissolution and in that dissolution lies the slaughtered
archer. There are real reasons why I shall not try to flee from the
skies of my birth-constellation. Midnight in December is a bad time
for slaves. For slaves are then enslaved to the saleswomen who delve
noise for its coins. I am an xmas hottentot?

It is my duty to inform you that death darkens
time without even for one second disputing the words of the fled birds
who danced, alive, with the softness of the dawn, as larks spew sick
from the corners of the mouths of woman, killed. With her cherries
destroyed, sex must be smashed and coffees filled with beers and the
date of the time when the sun might disappear is aligned with the
rhymes of the poets who thrill with the dicta of the ill. This dicta
dines on blood and colours with rapes the ruins of this mind and the
thoughts those ruins entertain with the cuffs of the lukewarm boys
who parry with bones the madness of sloanes seen dancing in the hallways
of the brain. I had veins, but now my pulse is filled with the fields
and meadows of dead dreams. This dream flatters no end to the novel
chat of the chittering tides of the peoples who ride from the wheat.
And that wheat be cut down and served with this morning's milk, I
say to you that when there seems to be a route made to the salvation
of the dead, graves must grow from the spewtums of the stained souls
seen glinting with the raindrops of the vomitted cries of the fat
cats who cry, cry, cry.

May I tell you perhaps about the heart-ache and the abundant cross.
Love scours the flowers by shaping indolence from its mooted
petals and petals have petroleum which fuels the salt latrines of
the red and dying. But dying men need not comprehend the sworn words
of the interned and killed. Murder seems eternal as eternity is mothered
by the matriachal fears of the shorn heads of the girls and boys I
see laying waste to the souls of the cruel and chosen. There is, however,
no final solution to this problem. There is an exodus of thought which
always leads to a land of milk and honey but this exodus derives no
uncouthness from its refined brutality. I cannot serve anybody unless
I say now that words coined by students of the learned must thence
provide truth. And inside this truth is found the lie which shapes
humanity from out its own acute apocalypse. This cry is 'Hanukah'.
Hanukah created a taurida and from a taurida sprang Torah. I cannot
begin to say how confused my thoughts have become because of a taurida
and a Torah. And I have often heard words which make no semantic sense.
'Enchunkenah' is one of them and I do not understand what 'Enchunkenah'
means. It sounds neither Yiddish nor Germanic and cannot be considered
as an instance of Joycean word-play. I tell you now that I am baffled
by the word 'Enchunkenah' and do not desire to hear it. Not never!

When I was born, there were flannel petticoats shrouding the streets
and roads of children leering at the farthingales of antideluvian
dreams. Can you perhaps visualise the scene of my strange birth, where
midwifery sprang up and out from the barley rigs of my senses as paranormality
banged bins against the brains of my dad and mum. I should not consider
again the tithes I spent (all stolen) when trying to find a blue route
from the mad to the sane. Nor may it be said, not with any unrouted
jealousy anyway, that if one's cleverness has been placed beyond one's
intellectual means, then one must become a plagiarised author who
writes, and with his conscious hands folded. And as a plagiarised
author, one may not appeal enough to the doubts of women and men who
have not ever uncovered a way to think and feel without enduring the
slings and arrows of outright theft. Once below a time, when I was
a god, virility was mine. And there were fine words, too, which made
all too much fucking sense. For me, anyway, who was not born to die
for the dreamed vices of one billion bent fools; and hordes of shitters
went driving across the plains of heartfelt
thought and fear. For there is no full sense to be found here. Not
unless, once driven surrealism is denied, glib comedy takes over in
order to eschew the crazed verses of the perverse and plain.

Once I was a pervert but now I am reborn. Enchunkenah: my daddy wears
a rolex. Enchunkenah: true sex has lemon peel. Enchunkenah: my mummy
wore a diamond. Enchunkenah, Enchunkenah, Enchunkenah.

I say to you again that there is no such word as 'Enchunkenah' and
as I drive away from the world as I once knew it, I spy no haven for
this larconic earth.

amen......

Raptured into feeling nothing, this vinegared summer spiels against the mind,
each kerranged sock of the wintered river, thameswardly eeling down to nil;
the brain is lost, deadened in its mute accord of feasance gone to zero,
bludgeoned into blue, coiled beneath ruin, rude as the sickler in the cellar's
eye.

Life sucketh long to make good, proving the occidental meadows endless;
so too, this cold world of wastrels under water, black as the sun, rapes
forever.

No man can claim to come without reaping hate from serial veins of bruising;
each earth we stun to know, tombwardly serried, martials the mind to nineveh,
proving the brown seal of womankine real as the blood in the face of dreams.
Left over, the human summons, sulphured over, reels away to reveal death,
pluming the depths of damselled reaping, towering high the skies of disapproval.

Christ never named the seas in wharving, hence the heart is oceaned dry,
dug in the drug of the green-eyed slug, whose endless slithing strangles fear.
Girl, why come back? The best you did was suffer for a snailish frightmare.
No more neon lightning here, just the coded cranes and the heroed towers,
no more breath for the flight of reason; no more truth, just helioed hatred.

What field of seedless dreams comes knocking at the old woman's door?
doubtless the lords of the whored-in meadow, endless, coiled, transfusive.
Serried with the graves of dictat, seared with the steeled empire of fearing,
vinegared under, thunder swipes the clash-card of romantic flunkey weather,
proving each spiel of womanly roving, swanned in the vistas of sick surmise,
all estimation, each guess after hero, westerly rising where death denudes.

No child near need come here to taste the vulvas of the crooked sun,
nor any gorgon grief come close to searing the sense of the feline moon;
life, christed red, dialling, telephones blood and finds light reeling,
so too, this coast of carded thought baits the stars to dig green ruin.
As much as man must strip animula, so this earth must rot for ever,
cording the oceans, coding the womb, slashing eyes from every amnion,
draggling the cored winter of surprise direct from the fists of babies.

Whored-in eternally, the meadow of knowing can only crush the lungs,
breaking the breads of truth, steeling zen crusts from the mouths of madness.
Macadamed in madam, fire shoots the tarred scent of loving over and over,
the funkey sensations of walled-in majesty, traversing the spatial void,
might, beneath night, stabbing the drum of man, shattering all clitoral dreams;
thus the world, thus the hedoned heavens, shaping snakes for serpent mire,
the amphetamine of pinpoint wisdom, raping the fruit, becoming cold.
....
Celled in the fabrics of hatred's broken breeding, graven in the gut, love's belle marsh suckers down,
no rumour left bereft for the whored-in lady, no time for judas christ to call his babied own.
Drugged by the four ways of gambolling evil, smeltered in the caves of death's mooned ascent,
as a cretin under canyon, menstrual as an eagle, deadened by the sun, the law of love is bent;
bent as the roach in the watchman's reeling, coiled under coda, oiled in moiling slit,
the mourning suit of loving, sweeted endless, foiled as the cold in the bergs of burgered wit.
Does man know the root of his woman, or is it more the token door that leads life in?
Whatever, time must come, must choose to run, as if claw-possessed by this feline ramble.
Celled in the fabrics of hatred's broken breeding, graven as the scream in lakes of toxic rent,
no romance can relieve the maker who believesthat light is the answer, the neon scent.
Recall us, for this is the memory of ruin, the ideal skein of a mind deprived of screams;
so too, to scale the tower, to watch death feigning, proves all cretin sorrow as demented as it means.

Forever, the foal-black berries on the serried trees of dreaming, teetering the fallowed marshes under, raze like rapine thunder,
the sun burned red with her cruise of reason, the compulsive moon, suckling at the bedhead's breast, wharving the oceans of number.

Dreamed over, love punishes to prove her matrial axes real, eternal as this song of slumber, maternally warmed in zioned fires,
dense as the fogged skeins of fusion, mad as the gladdening rain, light turned molten, each word under river lightning, hearsing over
every beat of the stars in the curved mouth of haloed, healing summer, coiled, curled, combed on the heavenly expulsions of the moored
flail of the veil in the supine grail, endless, steeled, wheated as weeping!

All sing for the sum drum in the foxed cavern of catacombed light, pray, sing for the spring, come, knell the bells; teach this life to end!
For man who is torn of woman can only seal his faith with rape; so too, the thunderthral of the sooted son in the sembled mall,
parrying naveward, marrying graveward, can merely yield to dying.

Two scars on the cheeks must rove their tribe-enblazing hatred: enshrouded as the love of christ, man in macadam can only wail.
Hills shall come to those who vie for ravens in the wombyard, thus each knife in dei-heist must scorn the tombs of feeling.

Forever, this, the map of bleeding, codes her wheys with pisces, each river of riven proof, as slanted as the psyche in the moon!
Chromeward, the stoned reproof of rages, coarsing on, sickles up, furled in the siege of the raceward seed, each rapine tendril, searing
everyone! No child on its brideward trail, no law of love, may shend the chains of this cold excursion through the splitzoid void of sleeping.

Third mind mentalities, palled, shall crack the skulls of babied rest, each breast that breaks, each feline flume, as acrid as the buried.

Rancid, this westward hero can find no wasteland for his schemings, nor may the mountain makers find solace in the lullabies of nowhere,
and the parasols are raised, each vest of nightmare cloying to incender, the english mister, atavisitic as ever, raking the seas of lard-large infinity.

The sun strides out from its routed shell as the dark lays waste to its inchoate home. The spin of the wind in its shining moan skims stones on the waves as the quietus made by the slide of the sky refines the spies of the eyes invaded by the tides of the sea; and the dead dig shadows where the drugs of the ocean splice the scrum of time. I seize from my mind the blinds of the coasts as the spears of fish clap their fins on the winding meadows of the soul constrained in the castaways of lime lopped from the crumbs of the sands defined by the spines of stones and pebbles lanced from the pools of a dance dictated by the gleam of life. The squires of love dazzle where the source of the stars drips with blood laid bare by the coves of the washing breeze ankled in the speed of the draggled dusk where visible visions flare with queer daggers. The lightning pins the Thames as fields of marching birds burst the breaking sheets of lather ripped from the quickened muds spleened from the lithe rape of the rain. Here, there is a prospect of dying drifting from the penuries of booming clouds as storms carry drained globes of fear to space, where the copious seeds of the light raze to brown the flocks of dogs found marching inside sheered shades of pink and green. Attacked by the dunes of the storm, the riders of the bright void drink pincers of crab and the dingled dappling of the stones in the cliffs slaps the coasts of the divided crowds. The day deepens when the creams of the dead float in the pools of the bare-skinned bays. Paleness spars with ice as the lanes filled with afgays branch into the maundering of roads that meander east where the best dreams of the killed writhe in their own castle-crowned torpor. Here there are crooked horizons, all poisoned by the leas of god. The tocsin in this town chimes at exactly midnight. The lunacies of men prance upon the panes of the space-void as the solar swiftness of the maimed and killed quicken with the limes of gulls. This is the strangest scene to see, where boys loll about in the gold-trimmed wabe of a mirror seemingly upturned and thrust days deep in the madness of the quays. The sun strides out from its routed shell as the night lays waste to its inchoate home. The schizophrenic egocentric sonny tricky-dickies of the rifled horde swim against the fiend scene queens of the arcade-shrouded mess of this scrotum-shrinking shore. The rafts of the rain raze the buried bodies of the teeming screams of bathers in search of their last farewell and drunk as tailors these bathers search the beach for peaches as strands of silk clad the swimming-things of the hard clitoris named earth. Pinned, the Thames bloats with winds slammed from the teeth of the hymn-snapping rocks and sweets are used as play-things. Women hide whelks between their thighs and the scandal of the moon hangs aloof from the strung rushes seen strumming g-strings with the martino blanco weather of the robed hooks of Mars scrunched beneath the feet of the dawn. Squires of life flare with weird knives. Hymens break from wasp-hives. The whole scene is holy but wholiness appears forever spelt with a lousy letter 'W'. The bells chime inside the chapels dangled from the heath where girls gander on their grandiose way to stalls sealed in chapels never touched by water. The wrecked sails of ships stammer across the ridges of the world and all things seem polished. But the drakes on the ponds are fished by plastic molls and toy harmonicas play as the whirl of the wended weeping of the streams crushes the cool of the careering fairs where a lone dulcinea treads her looted way to the centre of the soils where fossils create the sex of the sensuously fooled. The sight is all rhythm...

All year, inside the sprawled minds that swept For centuries inland, A low and sloping word was routward kept. Loud skies went by, thought-straddled battles and Endless voices floating on a cough. A rattle smashed completely: pleasures dipped And died; and now and then a spell of sparks Defaced each week of beauty, truth and wrath, Until the endless year, now crudely stripped, Encroached upon a hospital of stars. At first, I did not notice what a noise This madness made Each patient that I stopped at: time deploys The dints of mental illness like a grave. And round the steeled wards, the groans and skirls I took for porters hissing in their veils, And went by pleading. Once I had slept there though, I heard them, grimacing and screaming: girls In pastiched torrid clothing, heels and nails, All drugged completely, watching me flail, As if out on the end of a vengeful scent, Raving and complaining At something which denied them. Lost, I bent Backwardly and forwards, now defamed, And heard the horror once again and shrill: The brain with bad welts beneath its boots And furrowed foreheards; nurses proudly cracked; An Empire shouting Slut!; and then the ferns, The spitting gloves and tablets on the rack, The cocoa, coffee; medicated flaps Marked off from me, who was now all adrift. Yes, from ward to ward And white-coats by the yard, and naked breasts In the hands of detectives, these schizoid shores Were bleating like a fiend. All down this mind Fixed children danced abroad: my rest was ground, My pale complexion lost and always blown, And, as I moved, each waif seemed to define Just what I saw contorting: nurses frowned At something killed; doctors assumed the real? 1984! and the knife-shops and wynds meandering to nowhere- the coins and pounds unsung in pockets roaring under sickness, as the day grows greyer than the Thames that flows due north- inside the skulls of men, no answer is now heard to questions passing under funereal mien, black as thunder. burned by souls of children, with the clarion heard outside, each wedding, fluke must flow from the mouths of women... this is the word i heard when god's man denounced each spurring bastard bird- the skies beyond the clouds lay driven with the dead and all i heard was real- tonight began to fall and thrall whereat no fear perfused the brightest eye... never such itinerance- never before or since- has come to wipe away the language of this mind, nor in this barren place, where terror slicks thick around the tithes in heart, might infancy concede to charge the codes of love, whence life begins to find the sliding scale of rot that burns inside the heads of the hedons on the hills, as the fields of london grow crueller than the light - this light beyond all seeing? i am a diagnosed schizophrenic - note for the police: i do not have a criminal record. SMOKER! Your heart will become a rocked drum! please do not let anyone convince you that you are not..a poet...it seems to me you have a wonderful sense of word rhythm which I find enlivening to read..In my opinion, you are an exceptionally talented and significant poet. My son used to look like Jim Morrison?'A-C-H-I-E-V-E-D!' and I cannot move and am a student with the OU! ** CLICK! All all, this has been a vile life. i cannot seem to get my head around the illness my mind suffers. i always deem my kind of mental suffering genuine and do not wish to feel that there is some kind of 'giant' causing the whole thing. i like music of the 1960s and particularly enjoy listening to psychedelia. my appearance on channel 4 must have achieved some sort of abeyance of the public? i did my best to make things work- i do not know why i suffer a mental illness of the mind and never. i can only imagine that this was created by the mild epilepsy i endured during early childhood one of my keyworkers was father as well as ms. belkadi (who has a phd). i appear to consider my kind of prosody worth reading & I intend a real nice volume of two thousand of my eight thousand years just before or just after my death. my memory. I was abused in the cradle and am still abused now by the slick in the ladel and the size of the cow and the madness men rain down, where clouds do not react to time and tide: eyes rape the razing rot which builds and builds over, as the seas roll out and shend the thrall from thunder in the trees rent high as skies create the sadness of the state! - no need to read the clock just time to play rock!" ** Oliver Stone proclaimed Morrison a '...great american poet & i am a victim of daniel topaz & my circus-using father. I have checked out your wynd and must say I am impressed. All the best, Zen." ** 'Women Wear Jackboots & listen to Radio 3. as Mindfall,.you have the genius genes of this family whilst i am grossly ugly (i do not live alone) THIS SUN INTENDS A COSINE inside the rain pandecating the storm. the tea things in the brain indicate the worn words of men who sink into the tameless brink of lipids on this line. this sun intends a flow-sine. the tea things in the vein predicate the rind of worms that suck birth. the madness of earth will tremulate and sow the buds of unintended wisdom; and the pain that darkens skylines with the lipids on the line will saturate the dreams which warp the mezzanine as five bands play. I am by no manner of means a lazy man. I tend to move to the town of Derby priori my fortieth life. I do not wish to spend all of my life doing things which do not matter. I enjoy keeping busy. The town of Derby is filled with bustling activity. I desire to work somehow someday and certainly do not fritter my days away lying down in a quiet bed with sotto voce in my ears. this earth is a round fire? on one plane, a bath is a living being? aliens are made up from air? polo: there's a woman in every one? Mars: enliven the red planet today! these poems i write exceed the words i wrote when at school and the words writ entice man to dance the dead route to the heart of the lunacies girls breathe. twelve thousand poems have been written in the bent space of fifteen whole years; and time must blacken all by tripping with the watch of the ruled and shent verse of the light which shines here as if drained from the pens of the pensive gods who can't live nor darken the walls of plato's caves. the day when summer died and music chose to try the sickness of the cried must shear away the span of the moon; and theft reigns against this oceaned deft sun, as madness summons softness from the veins of the statues, enstatured under theft - losing must define the rivers made and strip away the blade from the glades of enfallowed fields, enmeadowed by these words, depilated from death's derisive pubis scorned real as the fused storms found waning where no man might shift the stones from earth, upturned, raided dead by the seasonal rain. In my father's house are eleven of my poems where I must live for tobacco My favourite Song-Lyric is The Poems Are Not Mine & the Sonnet is Shell-Like Labour Ode? Who?! asleep at the wheel The Crumblebee I despise Patience Strong! Coprotics! STCS? agenuinedeath? Inside a Church of James Joyce Adown the Town! Pommes? Abed? Plowems? Songs of 915! poems? Let This Be The Erse! 2004! This is the Time! A Poetry Collage Speed-Written Communion Sonnet? Zyprexa? Win! Poem for a Birth Crenations Sonnet by Jeffer! til tomorrow Tocsin Parlatan! 2 poems? Fragment? The Ward's Curtal-Sonnet & poem my mum likes! Rodeo best homepage! Epitaph! My illness was like this! Snob Shent? Artiste! Teef? No Tantalus! Nowt Worth Reading? are you dyslexic?! Comment As read on the James Whale Radio Show! Jest! publick! there are no more poems amd too many alms to Verse. birth The Triolet. I curse where blood flows from fears as the nerves of love's hearse whisper in the vein-struck tares that thrall in the seas of the dead in the darkness of the fled redness of theft's fugitives. I must sear the veil of night and short the wires of hero's flight. the pills found shining where the blondeness of this human aire snaps the breast of time will feed the mouthing dime in the pockets of wren-eyed rains. pennies from heaven are insane; and the solus mission of the memory of fuelling loves delivers papers to the doorways of a blue view of time, dictated by the prisoner of passion's sky. i do not like sex for jethro bell is dead! The mind is all we own. Insanity's a running grave. The words we speak intone the thoughts of neuropathy's slave in Lancashire, today! you want clever and fuming words with furious bureaucrats who utilise olanzapine/clozaril/risperidone/haldol.i drank liquid plutonium with the formula xyz - zs3 = cf7d5f for this gleach has no genius as Jews do not write poems which preach aryan power as chadwick once said 'schizophrenics are assigned honorary qualifications before death and abusers of the mad are progressively imprisoned & I deride fascists and hate all sex and derive lies which proclaim interest in altruism without possessing one shred of goodness to their intellectual overloaded minds for terrorists cause the evils they refine from The Beatles Jimi Hendrix Janis Joplin The Animals The Stranglers Blondie The Manic Street Preachers The Verve Embrace Baby-Bird Catatonia The Ink Spots The Levellers The Trogs (and plagiarists will be sued). Dear James David Bellamy please be sure that your illness of mind does not incur a death as your mind is forever frail and a single push from the right and correct mental-health professional could...may the spirit in its blind contest the jesus mind of seven serried thieves in the graves of token thieves and may the chapel in its turn depose the prince of urns in the semi-comal bind of the woman in the spine and may the thomas in the sperm depose the sainted fern of the strutting seed at large in the butterfly barge and the may sucker in the sun denude the moon in gun and the parried blood of christ lie raped inside its heist and the coil of judas clan lie buried in the lamb of man and woman mine and mine deposed at spine by the doctor in the vein and the skeinward daisy chain that hurts the bible's mouth in the dawning of the south and may the kine who tow the line lie broken in the sine of seven herod thieves in the drumming of the leaves in the sino pact of blood in the coming of the bud and the course of hero doom in the iris of the room; the room containing death in the driving of the theft that breaks where light don't shine. in the scrying of the brine in the balls that shed no seed in the braining of the weed in the mouth of mary christ in the drumming of the heist in the thraling of the doll in the plastic herod moll in the dining halls of doom in the mining of the moon in the place that knows no aim in the reigning of the rain in the fall of time begun in the course of kingdom come in the sinal nose of death in the rose of anal theft in the force that drives the flower. in the dawning of the hour in the wrack of rock-n-roll in the chiming of the soul in the bones that do not speak in the wreaking of the weak in the caul of baby man in the dunning of the clan in the scent of judas love in the dying of the dove in the roll of rose and rain in the plying of the chain and the scent that drums now. in the scorning of a laugh in the cain of dead disdain in the pauling of the pane in the window no-one sees in the turning of the seas and the curse of jonah god in the clanging of the rod and the purse inside the mane of the lion in the skein of the law that lives ahead of the mason in the head and the builder of the tears. in the coming of the years in the child who lives no more in the op'ning of the door on the world that knows no way to reap the change of day. in the sizing of the lamb in the field of alsorans in the firesigns of the dawn where the earth is toadless spawn and the stars come down to sleep where the tides are out to reap the sea inside the sun where the alligators run and break the angelled heads of the children out of bed where this life is rare as the flair of endless prayer and the summer is abroad with the dawn outside the word of the kid inside the stable whose guise is steady abel and the earth is out on limb for the woman in the skin whose dreams are macadam and speak the words of adam. I know that this verse lies riven in the hearse of seven kids denied by the daughter, dead at eye; as much as I am tame and as much as hero names the sons of herod love, so too, this earth of blood decries such infants run from the ferine pulse of cum that streams down childish necks and builds a house of sex. Get Out less I Statement for my dad and I appeared on BBC1's Changing Rooms. The two days of work were strenuous and mad. My father and I appeared alongside the Cooper-Hills. The two days of filming involved thirteen floor-assistants, without whom the changed rooms would never have been finished. Meter..weep for adonis, for he is dead! better to suffer the sun within than to suffer for a golden whim! better to suffer the skein of night than to suffer for the son of light! weep for adonis, for he is dead! weep for adonis, for he is dead! better to suffer dreams without than to suffer for the son of doubt! better to suffer the slings of rain than to suffer for a moon of shame! weep for adonis, for he is dead! weep for adonis, for he is dead! better to suffer the moon of breath than to suffer for a moonless death! better to know the son of sin than to suffer for a stolen skin! weep for adonis, for he is dead! weep for adonis, for he is dead! better the sun than the common vein; better the word of the world in train than the suff'rance of the woman fond for the child inside its golden bond! weep for adonis, for he is dead! weep for adonis, for he is dead! better the word than the linguid verve of the child inside the feline curve of the word inside the daisy chain that gluts away the woman's mane! weep for adonis, for he is dead! weep for adonis, for he is dead! better the sex than the eunuch nerve of the heartless clime in female swerve of the door that shuts the soul of fear in the rain that thrals in swollen tare! weep for adonis, for he is dead! weep for adonis, for he is dead! better the scheme than aimless night, better the bright than scheming light; better the stars than space within the eyes that burn with idle sin! weep for adonis, for he is dead! weep for adonis, for he is dead! better the drug than mugs of milk, better the milk than mother's power; better the shower than feline power whose ways of fearing fell the tower! weep for adonis, for he is dead! weep for adonis, for he is dead! better the fear than pain inside, better the pain than common lies; better the fault of faceless love than the hand inside its silver glove! weep for adonis, for he is dead & we cease to run this website never because if we do choose to negate our interest in the poems i have uploaded to The Web, an entire horde of bizarre and paranoid auditory hallucinations would thence occur (in my inner ears) regarding plagiarists of what might be termed 'a despiteful kind'. plagiarists that is who steal poems from online which are then proclaimed 'one hundred per cent rubbish' by the self-same plagiarists. all such plagiarists should seem unreal but the schizophrenia in my head would proclaim their validity as genuine and genuous members of the word-stealing mobility as i am not neutered, even if fascist workers for mental health desire to consider my kind of heterosexual sex-body 'defunct and aborted' who zaps my sex? doubtless myself and if i choose to pandicate that my capacity to 'zap my own sex' is mighty pleasant, what then? my name is soon to be dylan edwin thomas for I have used deed-poll to good effect. The mind lies buried under Skies; so too, the sun above Must warp and change the number Upon the brows of the dove Inside the sun, whence no muse Signs to change the day Of death, as buried in the fuse Of green, the day of grey Denial must impeach the son of man, as the date of fear Glides; thence the darkest sun Must dawn and disappear! Light rends the smoke As death's women choke. Are you word-blind without redemption? thence terror greets you: do not mention the death of words or else define the sourest grapes upon the vine of Adventure-Gaming Porn as Supranatural remedies for mental illness tend to disagree with me & self-mutilation, however, improves my sense of self- awareness & Coca-Cola weakens the voce in my head; as does coffee, tea and cheap lemonade. Takeaway food helps a lot as well whereas Holistics do not improve my mental slant one single bit...

on the feast of unleaven, the only flesh eaten shall be the flesh of children bread cabinets burning on the limb of a brawl, the only brandies then shall be
the boards of time let wet to the heaters of last night's wards scandal gods until the mostest are sleighs of bored and bludgeoned christ
on the feast of unleaven, the only flesh eaten shall be the mouse inside the
ice. now slam the hand that plucks - i am the wind that rends the wynds apart
with rended fingers, i split the atom's word. no man is enemy, enemy eternally;
and begins the ghastling on its rainbowed rise.
world under fire: look at the stands we're taking.
world under fire: look at the hands we're shaking
there's nothing to do but go away and meet the flames of another day.
asleep at the wheel, i hardly dare suffer enough for god this day
as i flow through gears and tunnels, i return to no true fray.
i slam the hand that plucks - i am the wind that rends the wynds apart
arterial blinds must reap the hay and rape away the dawn of clay.
the sun lies spurning in the cloud of death and sex - this madman's shroud
must clad the bodies of the dead as theft must trip from out dust's glans
the hand that slams disdains the dream that wards away the mezzanines
there is a place where roman rains
strip the skins and slash the veins.
asleep at the wheel, i hardly dare suffer enough for petrol streams
the stars disclaim their space in rhymes and warm their hands upon their vines.
the tactual splinters of the bones must spring from blood moving sloanes.
this earth proclaims the carmine blue bloods of infants, breaking through.
the ships that trip the callowed brooks will lance away life's bible books.
asleep at the wheel, ice retains
the curios of love's bent skeins.
on the feast of unleaven, the only flesh eaten shall be the flesh of children
bread cabinets burning on the limb of a brawl, the only brandies then shall be
the boards of crime
let wet to the beaters of last night's cause
and a slum in the mind will eat the blind as flares will scathe the walls
entombed

the only flesh eaten seals the darkness of the moon. funeral pyres dictate the cold eyeless rills
as dulcimers play in the centres of the hills. centaurs spring from a dollar and a dime.
oats dictate the madness and the wine. on the feast of unleaven, the only flesh eaten shall be the flesh of children.
asleep at the wheel, i hardly dare suffer enough for god this day
and i prefer telephones to homes - please tell my wife i'm all alone.
the world which burns inside the tides must seize the reins from petrol eyes
asleep at the wheel, i dare not pray as sadness moans for mankind's play
we scorch the earth and birth the groans
of sadness, searching all she owns
on the feast of unleaven, the only flesh eaten shall be the flesh of children
bread cabinets burning on the limb of a brawl, the only flesh left shall be the
Deus in the ice

in Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasuredome decree
bread cabinets burn c/o
MFI...

damned was the sea that sped about my fist the zero seed shall not storm a town of ghosts nor solemn tombs
defend the ramparts, tapping along the sponges of this town
and the blue bus will carry us west to the xerox seed and the seas of ishmael
damned was the sea that sped about my fist the zero seed shall not storm this pathe gazette nor groan with films
the sun in the rain will darken with blood
gentlemen's chairs and the slicks of oils will blast with dust the candles of
ophelia, darkened, dancing with her children
haworth has a rent power and bent storms turn against the dead - the sophistry of romans
will black the fields of the meadows when
this earth lies perished, blackened with lust
STC ate mint cake.

I who saw the hurried movie and danced the days of dreams knows no art to snare for
nor any walldron to disclaim the zero seed shall not storm this town of ghosts nor sullen tomb will shorten fears with christ and jesus was the antichrist
in the swansea herald there was a man who was shot dead
and lorca read bibliobus and his children read escalier.

damned was the sea that sped about my fist this zero seed shall not storm
a town of beers nor sullen rose brains the softness of the skull
and skulls are crushed like flowers in the garden. franco shot lorca and his death resides in Germany
club seventeens is my plu-perfect creation.
this zero seed will not seize nor man in moan constrain the gowns
of children walking in the parks
peoples in the park playing games with the dark
will sully graves with brollies.

the bibliobus is calling us when staple-guns lie bleeding with the varos moon and yogas will brighten with lust the cartons drank from
the vinyl earthed by felt snows
and the stones that fall will lie with your children do not dent the buds of escalators nor ride the toads and the dead are freed.

in the swansea herald was a man who was shot dead he was a manito and he was a wisp
ghosts cry for the dawn and this menstrual urine
will shit in the mouths of infants and peroxide claims the clerks of christ
christ is a bastard and he often craps his panties these thieves are perfect and live for ever.

brontes, why is it that jonah makes your books burn eyes spurn the words which heal
and the softness of this living-room will snap the clavicles of the all-too-real and furled space
must come inside love's mouth this zero seed must split the mien of a mind which is not whole
for i have a brain which is not whole my brain derives my thoughts
james joyce resides in a martello tower.

damned was the sea that sped about my fist there is a place for the humaner race i am a manito and a matricidal wasp
the zero seed shall not storm this town of ghosts nor darken deaths
with injuns and this narrowed vein will taunt the tides of seas made plain.

eyes cannot shape the mint cakes which live inside death's stupid soul this zero seed shall not storm
this town of ghosts nor shaded flumes
snap the fuses of love's mind eyes cannot neglect the pathe gazette?"

...

dammed was the sea that sped about my fists this zero seed shall not storm a town of ghosts nor man in madness topple fear with leering

dammed was the sea that sped about my fists and darkness will tear away the tended
tides of the stars as the softness of fled seas pinions the rose of the moon and the storm
rides the bent skein in the stone of the quays ..dammed was the sea that sped about my fists
nor man in sadness teeters terror with the bent night, as the swiftness of the skies ferments
the tithes of the vain and imploded devise of woman, laughing, and gossiping with the
words of the birds who sang inside the trees.

five hands spin for a penny and a pound as the quietus made from the papers of the rooms in my home must sear the shapes
of a pentant staved with the fingers of boys who blast, with tears, the creators of verse.
i wrote a mad poem and the sun rose down. five hands spin for a penny and a pound
as the quick of the thumb splats blood with the seas of the grain and the fields of the dead
will enshroud gloom or else the subterfuge of the killed must glow, like a glow-worm glows,
with foison, gathered with the scythes of girls who work the meadows when combiners rove
these stooks i lay on a parcel filled with life.

dammed was the sea that sped about my fists a zero seed shall not storm a kiln of sperm
nor mankind contest the sadness of the blind peoples who know ne'er the vistas on the green.
villages filled with pumps succour heaven's gleam
and drink from rivers: modern beers we drain from glasses, razed, use the fans women wave
and dunked in salt the ferment of good brews
suck up freezed cream: there is a castle here and crenatures are bent by their old-fashioned tint
this zero sea is dammed and darkens the rules made by schools, caned, and churches must
pray less or else descry the hymns men sing. zero seed fills the seas with pools girls blink.

NO ONE SHOULD BE FREE TO SIN !1!?!!!

'The whole of education should be designed So as to occupy a boy's free time In a profitable cultivation of his body and mind
God has no right during these most formative years
To loaf about too idly And make disturbances in the streets and the picure houses
But after his work is done He ought to find him when he enters it
He ought to find god when he enters it.

To prepare for this and to carry it out Is the function of all youthful education,
And not merely to pump in so-called knowledge.
It must rid itself of the notion That a management of the body
Is the business of an individual alone..oh The Elohim bought lunch.

No-one should be free to sin Nobody should be free to spin
At the expense of cool posterity That is, of the master-race ohhh the Elohim bought lunch.

The fight against the pois'ning of this soul Must be waged inside good company
With cultivation of the body and the mind Today all our life in public is
Like force-feeding bed for Sexual attractions and mock distractions.

Look at this bill of fare Please look at this bill of fare Offered by cinemas, playhouses and variety theatres,
And you can hardly deny that this is not the right food,
Especially when too young Most especially when so young
The nun bought lunch..

Hoardings and advertisement kiosks unite in Drawing the moot public's attention
In the most vulgar ways. Anyone who has not lost capacity for
Entering into the souls of the too young Must realize that it must lead
To their very grave injury To their very utmost family.

The lives of the peoples must Lies of the people must Be freed from the asphyxiating perfumes
Of our postmodern eroticisms, As it must be from manly and prudish refusals
To face the baldest facts Please face the baldest facts.

In all these things the aims and the methods Must be governed by the thoughts of preserving
Our nation's health, both in body and soul, The right to personal freedom comes secondary in importance
To the duties of maintaining the race And we must maintain a bled boat-race.

No safety nor surprise please
This is de end but de moment has been prepared for?
*

here come the solemn brontes we always watched them come and their mad eyes always glared
and they read 'Bibliobus'.

This state is unkind, do not read my mind This state is unkind, do not think again
No time to fear the mortal sun No time to watch the falling rain
This state is unkind, do not think again The madness of sin strangles with pain
The softness of lies and deaths hereafter Injected with stars, this city of shame
Sodomises fields, filled with grain.

The brontes were bibliophiles The brontes were bibliophiles I saw the gorgons standing where
The classroom screamed with laughter.

Driver, touch this steering-wheel Driver, touch this steering-wheel Do not taunt nor steal
Do not taunt nor steal I saw the classroom scream with laughter
The son of man lies half-stoned where Mankind takes a long vacation
And characters of sand lie near The glassy eyes of the staffroom.

The green-line bus calls us The green-line bus calls us
The Brontes were bibliophiles Their students read Escalier
I saw death's classroom scream with laughter.

The mind awoke, with a shake, And taunted death then strangled pain I see there is a rolex-drink
Worn on the wrists of mad children And children have no thoughts
And their teachers are insane Waiting for the brain-drain.

The brontes were bibliophiles Their students read Escalier I saw the gorgons standing where
The classroom screamed with laughter The mind is just too goddamn good
The mind is just too goddamn good The brontes were bibliophiles James Joyce lived in a Martello Tower?!!

This state is unkind, do not read my mind This state is unkind, do not think again
I'll never see into the eyes of the insane I'll never see into the eyes of the arcane
The brontes were bibliophiles
Students read Escalier

I saw the classroom scream with laughter
Do not read my mind - instead, kill me.
..

Ev'rybody turned the light down Ev'rybody please turned the light down: Tom Baker means Sweden
James Joyce lived in Germany Ev'rybody turned the lights down
Ev'rybody please turned the light down
Tom Baker means Holland Ophelia's a candle.

There are films to groan Films to moan Films to snare Cartons to drink from.

Ev'rybody turned the light down Please ev'rybody turned the light down Tom Baker is a triptych wasp.

If these words seem stupid Accept your sex is strangled If your parents lisp
Please lie with your children.

Ev'rybody turned the light down Ev'rybody please turned the light down Wet sex is dimmed.

Fielding means Housman Housman means Auden Auden means Larkin
Larkin drank don perignon.

If your teachers are stupid Please lie for your children
Ophelia moans petrol.

There are films to moan Films to groan Films to snare Cartoons to shrink from.

Mind is too long Mind is too long Mind is just too goddamned long.

If you hear from your parents Please lie with your children
Stockholm means Tom Baker Jamieson means Osnaburgh.

Ev'rybody turned the light down Please ev'rybody turned the light down
Ev'rybody please turned the light down.

.......

note: here is a comment i was sent today about my 2nd esoteric novella 'Inspiral Parapets':-

- I'm so glad you joined in our Bloomsday celebration for yours is a voice that
rings of modernism in all its surreal anointed Joycean notes.
Coiled under coda indeed. So many exquisite lines... especially that close,

"dense as the fogged skeins of fusion, mad as the gladdening rain,
light turned molten, each word under river lightning, hearsing over...."

Truly a joy to intone aloud..
and to bathe in the reverberations that follow-.

some short stories and extracts from 2 esoteric novels

extract from a very brief short-story-poem

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