IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE (first 86 chapters)
-after William Faulkner's 'As I
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-
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.
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
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.
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
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
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
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.
copyright jdb 1997
..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.
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.’
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
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.
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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.’
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
cups. ‘I’d say they’re good company now and again.’
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.
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
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
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.
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,
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
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,
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.
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
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
He sits at his desk, looking out at us all.'What do you want, Luke?'
'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
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
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
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
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
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
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?
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
chapter 10: LUKE
He has been to town this week. The amount of cups is both vast and disturbing. He has not
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.' This I hear as Mr. Matthew thinks. God knows
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
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,'
Matthew. 'The Eye Contagious and Molten.' God help him. A poet, and
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
mad as Mr. Matthew and as for Mr. John..'I'm a weather man,' he says.
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.
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
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
we'd ever done. Then he raises himself up, who has not shifted for
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
John looks down up at the back of the Warden's head framed
the window in the twilight. It is a framing of sacrosanct synergy
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
Then the Warden turns around.
'Well?' he says. 'Well? What have
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
'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
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.
near to the Warden, raising his hand, but then looks at the Nurse
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.
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
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.
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
'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
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
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
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
that hurts the ears and reeks of machismo. If only Luke would help
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
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
'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
arrange arrange for new and better things. We'll need to arrange
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.
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
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
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
The shadow walks around. Mr. Matthew's mind
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
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
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
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
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
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
'The Eye Portentous.
The Eye suffering and Molten. The
Eye Contagious and Rolling. The Eye of the Conspiring
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
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
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.
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
'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
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.
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.
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.
Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye Sulphuric and Contagious
But I cannot reach to rise above myself at all, just cannot seem to reach up to
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
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
that Matthew might hear.
'Why did you do it, Matthew? Why did you make Luke
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
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?
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.
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 made me leave, he made me -
Matthew made me leave, he made me -
Matthew -!- ..
chapter 21: THE WARDEN
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
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.
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
'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.
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 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,
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
'John!', Mark says. 'John! Is it time?' And I tell him the time has
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
revolving round Matthew's manic skill for telepathic doings and sayings.
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.
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
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.
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
chapter 27: THE WARDEN
chapter 28: LUKE
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1. Go mad.
2. Leave home.
3. Leave the asylum.
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
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
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
'The Eye, Luke. The Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye,
Luke. The Eye Sulphuric and Casual.'
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,
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
agony and the sadness that stretches out for ever, the hard, sharded masquerade
in which lie the outrageous depths of murder and murders done.
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?
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
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.
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
'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
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.
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.
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.
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
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,
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
'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.
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
'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
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
'The Eye,' Luke says, 'Is Infinite.'
chapter 33: LUKE
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1. Stare madness in the
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
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
It was as if we had looked up to the Cross, up out of the mire
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
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
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 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
behind in all her weeping voracity; only the Nurse is numbed to the words
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
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
the pinpoint of the Sulphurous, telekinetic dark Void.
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.
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.
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,'
'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,
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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,
'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
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
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
my Mother, No Man's Mother, Mother of Griefs and Servilities, MOTHER!'
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
sunrise of pure madness, and I could never have conceived or whilst either alive or
'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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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,
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
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
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.
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.
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
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
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
'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!'
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
my eyes blaring and my whole being suffused with a new and magic energy.
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
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,
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 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
'So, this is the doom devised for us. This is the madness that must become us,'
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
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
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.'
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
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
multitudinous as it is, plunges us collectively into the Void of deathless dark itself,
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
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.
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
And I heard the wide-eyed Lord sing and I heard the Lord hail and caress our mindless
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
'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 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
'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
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
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
YUM YUM YUM YUM! How it tastes is all a matter of scented space. We are masticating
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! -.-....
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
'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
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
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
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.'
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 =
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
'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
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
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
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
up. For Matthew had never been a Jew, nor had He ever celebrated a Jewish
had He ever shown the slightest bit of interest in the good old
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
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,
as might come to one who had deigned to walk the earth, if only for a little while,
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
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 =
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
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?'
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
reviled. 'I am the Lord who prays as He falls,' He said, looking at me as if I were a new
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
'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
'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.
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
held and all the madness John and Luke and Mark had held were now melded in Him
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
'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
make me wish I were back in a body again, all one and raving. For the Lord had dealt
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
of the horde He had slid that madness into the body of one who had lived with for so
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
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
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
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.
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
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
above must have been before He lost His ground Grail. And I know now that Matthew and
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
they spoke, their voices shrill and endearing; and it was then that their faces in my mind,
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
Gods who first made Christ, who once served sanity and churlish bible-caring.
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
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
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,
wept along my faith, devised and poor,
have ridden and broken my back like a slate.
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
please provide us.
Beneath the passions of midwinter, before the passions of
please provide us.
Beneath the palace of the Virgin, beneath the Idylls of
that we, your lonely servants, may curtail
each driving, hooving sin.
Disordered by the wrens,
we need your praise. They shall praise, and will
In every generation, there shall be fields -
grafts, films of some furious Word. Father,
through glory and derision, rite and burnished vein
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.
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
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
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.
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
'Why does it want us to die in a hideaway way, out of the sight and mind of
'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?'
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
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 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
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
'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
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
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
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
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
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.
face was once bearded, then it was illuminated and shaven, but now it is bearded
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
'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
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
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.
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 .-.
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
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
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
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
Heavens are black; black with the regimens of Portent and Sulphur I have ordained.
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
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
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
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.
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
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.
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
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
'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
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
Soul than I could ever hoped to have found. He had been the toy of de Countless Lord of
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.
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
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 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
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
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
bird must fall.'
'The coming is purely fatal. It shall cleanse you all as your madness has
now.' 'That sounds good,' I said. 'I may be excretia but I hear and obey.'
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
'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?'
'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
'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
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
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
indignity, and felt the victory of the Eye getting closer and closer to us all.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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 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
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
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
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
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?
copyright jdtb 1997.
....more chapters to be posted soon.
no. of pages in fulsome text: 278...it will take five entire weeks to post the whole novel.