photo of the late great Nobel Prize winning author-genius William Faulkner.

James Edward David Bellamy's ' In My Father's House' (after William Faulkner's 'As I lay Dying')


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

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


IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE (all 133 chapters)
-after William Faulkner's 'As I Lay Dying'


chapter 1: MATTHEW

MARK and I come up from the fields, following the plumbline of the meadows in a straight and rectiline roar of walking. Out feet are as dead and gnarled as time and tide itself,
as we, fallowed and spurning in our sadnesses, cross the limbs of the sun and the moon. Intent and wired by
absent talking, we sire our regimens of dusk and dawn and twilight and ascend.

Mark is mad, so am I. For a series of painted months and years, we have spent our shippen lives in the asylum on the hill, chiming and betrothing our days to saddening chat.
Whether we be sure or vague amidst our minds, this is the truth we have come to know. Though we be fine and glad when music rhymes, the salutation that makes us charm and chaff around is that of an all-
Disposing memory.

At first, Mark is in front of me, and then I, becoming anxious to rove ahead, rush upon my run and walk to make my mark. Then, as the pathway flatters us with dust,
shattering stones, we move as I obsessed by being both ahead and behind one another. Our madnesses are deranged and our sum of striding firing.

Mark and I are not so detached from one another as may be first assumed. Mark and I are both contained in ourselves. Moreover, though we be attired by differing preferences and
moods, Mark and I know that the Warden will serve us.

For we have been boys in the Warden’s hands for many a time now. To him, we take our
Deferences and references to the time of day. To him, we make our livid livings known and do not care to be any different. Indeed, Mark and I are strangers enough to know that the Warden
shall entertain us, who is, or so it seems, as keen and kind as any to make our separate illnesses work and gyre from place to place until constrained and dumbed.

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

And Mark and I are head to head now. Spitting on the sky and earth at once, we spiral forwards to the peak of the hill and enter in to the asylum’s yore. Following the corridors,
spiring down the hallways, sidling and tapering where the tendrilous warmth acclaims, we make our way to the Warden’s door and spiral directly within.

Mark takes a chair, then I do the same. Mark starts rocking in his chair. He always has; he
always will. And I, inflamed by the fire of it all, glare into the darkness. Mark is a good rocker. In his chair, he rocks and rolls. The Warden will be glad to see such a fine and manic man.
Mark is an ideal schizophrenic. I truly feel seconded by his fluming motile insanity.

And then I hear the rocking pare my ears. The rocking causes me to cry and wail and rail. Mark keeps on rolling like my tears, as the chairs rock and rock and
rock and rock. Time and tide itself retires as it makes its stolid way into the rooms of sadness and on, as we, as we only can, make our ways into the spumes of a disturbing void
of cancer. Soon, we shall, both Mark and I, be chimed with the rumours of the room about us. But, for now, we must be charmed by the peace and the quiet whose raging way here inspires.

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

Chapter 2: THE WARDEN

So I said to mister Luke: ‘No good will come of it, for I am one to hold my words to honour at the be all and end all of times. No good will come of you and that Nurse gambolling and playing mercy one to the
other like you do.’ And Luke was surely mad and glad at one and the same time to hear me justify my words in such a way. For I have always been one to justify my world of words. Me and my cups –
those feminine vessels I am always joyful to own, know and admonish – state our allegiance always to the virtues of those who care and share alike with justifiable worlds of words.

Yet it wasn’t more than five minutes ago that I was talking to mister John about the necessity for nice cups and pleasant tea and coffee pots. A patient hereabouts can demolish a cup in seconds;
a local doctor even faster. ‘John’, I said, ‘cups and tea and coffee pots must be always around and plenteous: they must shine and gleam and glister like the registered heavens themselves.’
And mister John held my shoulder, all soft and politeful like, and said, ‘No good will come of it; no good will come of those churls

On Ward Nine and Ten: you know as well as I that those churls on Ward Nine and Ten will shatter a trillion cups and saucers in a nanosecond.’ And God knows, mister John was right;
so right as to be whole and holy, even if he is a mad mister such of the damnable time.

For I am always a man of my word. My world of words knows a cup from a saucer and a tea and coffee pot at the drop of a hat. Yes Lord, I have served you well with my honesty
. And, as I say to mister Luke and mister John over and over again, ‘You can tell a man from his pots and cups and multifarious other feminine accoutrements’. ‘Luke,’ I say, ‘Mister John,’ I say, ‘always do your
utmost to clean and savour your feminine vessels. Even when the days grow long and the night-times tower, always do your utmost to make your feminine vessels as clean and wholesome as sobriety itself.’

But that mad mister Matthew, who’s always one for stirring up the occasion, how in hell’s name is he supposed to recover from his nightlong madness,
when all this dogdayed mystery and misery is forever shimmying round and about the asylum walls. I can only sorely say that I would quit here and now if it would save mad
fools like mister Matthew from relapsing further and further and further into themselves until they just can’t see a way out; until they just can’t find some solace, even in the Eye of God itself.

Yet, when I think, my eyes go blank. Mister John has green and doleful eyes; mister Matthew has eyes that portend and glare; mister Luke has eyes like chips of malachited marble;
and Mark, mister Mark has a pair of eyes that set sail as soon as your look at them.

God! This world needs an eye or two like the Lord’s himself. If only my boys would see the necessity for clean cups, clean saucers, clean tea and coffee pots,
then, and only then, they’d surely stare glad paradise in the very face. And then, as much as a bird must fall, the two eyes of the Lord would serve them both day and night, night and day,
until the very end of all damnable time.

Because I said, and I will say it again, that, if I truly had my own way, I’d make mister John and mister Luke the sole proprietors to this whole rotten asylum. Walls and fields,
doors and meadows, corridors and Wards: the whole fluming flotsam of it all would be theirs to savour and console. For I know that schizoid heroes like them should always care for
those round and about time. For then I would say to them: ‘The cups need cleaning,’ and they surely do their best to clean them. And when I say ‘mister Luke, mister John, it’s time to fill those
tea and coffee pots with liquor,’ they surely do so at an instant.

Not that mister Luke isn’t my very favourite. He and I have something between us. His malachited, marbleised eyes, his short-cropped hair, his eerie and pulsating beard,
all and one and all and all, make me think and feel like a good man. Even his sensual, outrageous furies shock me into working all the harder still. And when I told him, when I
informed mister Luke of the error of his ways with the Nurse, I sensed him listen. Yes, I am sure that one day mister Luke will prove to be as good as he miscarried son I never had, all of those hewn and noisome years ago.

And now someone comes into my office. I hear a set of feet pattering like a clown into the depths of my days. The feet take a seat. Both pairs of clownish feet sit down.
And, when I think, my eyes go blank. And, when I cry, my eyes flume like a fountain.


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.

‘Where’s Luke?’ Mark says. When I was a baby I first learned how important words could be if they are set awhile in a hand of steel Molten hot,
with a faint air like the warm September wind in
January, words have to set at least an hour, and be said with utmost care. Words should never be set aside of metal.

At night is better still. I used to lie on the bunk-bed in the back room, waiting until I could sense a wave of sleep, so I could get up and say some
words. The words would be black, my tongue black, the steeled surface of the words a round uvula of nothingness, where previously I had said things
loudly and caused a few stars to fall with my thoughts, and perhaps a few thoughts from the stars. After that,
I was sadder and older. Then, I would wait until I was nearly asleep and then imagine old copies of my uncle’s magazines, seeing them
flailing about and touching myself to wakefulness again.

Mark’s shoes are badly worn. His toes must be cramped in them, their nails at odds with his foaming soul, from working so hard in the sad old days when Mark was a boy.
They look as though they have been chafed with a blunt instrument. The Warden has been to town. I have never seen him miss
Going to town in over a year. His wife, they say, likes it on all fours. She posed for pictures once, too.

I fling my hand to the surface of my shoes and suck on my gnarled thumb. It is going to rain
Tomorrow evening. Perhaps even before dawn. ‘Down to the pharmacy,’ the Warden says. ‘Stock-taking on all those broken cups.’

Down there fiddling with that Nurse, more like. He will go on through the wards, into her bosom. The bosom will be neither soft nor hard: he is up there among their
pleasures, in the warmth. Luke giggles, once and shrill. The Nurse cavorts, then Luke hits her, glancing his left fist for a crazy instant amongst the crimplene.
Luke giggles again; the Nurse comes drooling down his chest, stiff-eyed, her hairs a-rolling, and scuffles down to about her knees, watching Luke from below, in an aptitude of kittenish torpidity.

‘Come here, girl,’ Luke wails. He gyres. Moving that fast his arms, hunching, fingers burning, like so many magmas, sprawl aside. With tossing hands and veins and molten eye,
the Nurse makes one more nasty curvaceous rush and climbs again, hairs bunched, watching Luke. Luke moves readily
Towards her, his eyes at his sides. Save for Luke’s lust, they are two figures scarved in a tableau of feminine beauty.

When Luke can only touch her, the Nurse stands on her smallest toes and caresses all of him. Then Luke is constrained. For an instant before they come to
head, Luke sees the whole world free-falling into oblivion. Then they are rigid, mad, terrifying, the Nurse quivering, with glowering head; Luke,with rough
heels, scuttering off the Nurse’s breasts with both hands. With five fingers patting the Nurse’s head, in rough strokes, sensate and saddening, cursing it all with grand ferocity.

They stand in static hiatus, the Nurse whimpering and skirling. Then Luke is on the Nurse’s back. He flies upward in a whooping curl, his
body in mid-flight and furious. For another second, the Nurse stands straddled. With glowering head, before she bursts into emotion. They ascend each other
in a sequence of flank-breaking jumps, Luke, strong heroic and smouldered, to the peaks of angst where the Nurse ascends to further ecstasy.

‘So,’ Luke says, ‘You can leave now, seeing how I love you.’ The Nurse stands up. She redresses
herself, Luke doing the same. Without looking back, the Nurse hits him, slammering a single fist into his stomach with a rifle-like report.
Luke hits her in the eye; the Nurse slaps her forehead back, tear-tried and vulnerable; Luke strikes her across the backside and slides down to the
floor and simpers. Clinging to the carpeted void, he lowers his face into the depths of the wool and on into eternity. The floor is empty; from here Luke cannot
even hear the Warden snoring. He reaches up and drags the Nurse to meet him and crams his tongue into her bleeding mouth.

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

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

Chapter 4: LUKE

Damn that Mark! Sitting there rocking and rocking and rocking as if the world depended on it. I said to him, I said ‘If you’d just stop rocking, everything would be all
right! If you’d just stop rocking, the world would be filled with light.!’ But he just won’t stop rocking. Night or day, day or night, he just won’t stop doing the things that make everything wrong and mad and
dishevelling. And I said to the Warden, and I said, ‘You and I are on one and the same damned plain; you and I are one and the same.’ But that Warden, what with his blasted cups and all, would just not do
a single thing to make me feel together again.

If you’d just stop rocking! If you’d just damned well see that that rocking can’t serve a blasted thing. But that Mark just goes on rocking; rocking as if the whole fluming world depended on it.
Rock rock rock. Rock rock rock. That Mark just can’t do a single thing, what with his mind and my mind and John’s mind and Matthew’s mind and the Warden’s mind and the Nurse’s
mind doing one and the same damned thing.

And if it had just been me when the sky fell in; and if it had just been me when the worlds span around; and if it had just been me when the hellfires and the whole damned thing
went spiralling and surgering ahead into the whole mad maw of it all. If only, and say this repletely; if only the whole and mad spectacle had been my own and sacrosanct damned thing
For I said to him over and over and over and over and over, ‘If you’d just stop rocking! If you’d just lie down and get some sleep! If you’d just stop making this whole damned world
from seeming as poor and glib as schizophrenia itself. If you! If you and the whole rotten and blasted treason of it all
Would just stop rocking and rocking and rocking, we’d all be all right, and the sun would shine and the moon would shine and the whole damned mind of it all would shine!

And the Warden and I are one and the same. He serves me and I serve him, I serve him and he serves me. And if only it had been just been me when the whole of them all, including that
blasted Nurse and all her foibles and likings for me, had just stopped rocking and rolling and rocking, the lot of us could really be all right.

And, if I had it my way, it would just be the Warden and me; me and the Warden, with all of me and mine casting those papers and clips and pencils and pens,
cups and bloody all, into the slick black maw; with all of me and mine folding and furling those startling and foaming files of paper planes and casting them into
the big black void, neither caring nor sharing nor making any headway and the spheres of the whole damned thing itself spiralling where madness is dead and gone.
ROCK ROCK ROCK ROCK! One rock more, and we’ll be wronged. One rock more, and we’d all be foaming once again?


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

chapter 5: MATTHEW

We watch him come into the office and mount the hard-backed chair. He does not look at us. ‘Are you okay,’ he says.
‘If you’re okay, J am,’ the Warden says. I say, ‘Wait.’ He stops, looking at the Warden. Mark giggles, without moving. He glares at Mark with decorous and
itinerant precision, into his sailing eyes and beyond. The Warden runs his hand over his lump-beeseeching face. His is blinking out ahead of us all,
out across the filthy land. Luke looks at him for a second, then he goes on to pull his left eyelid and shed a couple of tears.

‘I hate interruptions as much as any man,’ the Warden says. ‘it’s like Matthew to interrupt,’ Luke says. The shirt across the Warden’s back is jaded with
age. There is not a single sign of youth in it. He was young once from lying in a wooden cradle, and he tells people that, if he looks back, he will be young once again. I think he believes it.

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

Luke sheds another tear. And it will rain before evening. ‘He’s got to learn the means of being normal,’ the Warden says.
‘He’ll want to be normal in the long run, I know it. I promise you, Luke, I know things better than any of you.’

‘He’ll need to learn soon, you’re right,’ Luke says. He gazes out across the Warden’s head, shedding more tears and blinking.
Since he lost his childish ways his eyes cry in slow petition whenever he rubs his eyes. The beard on his face gives him a cragged appearance old sea-dogs have.
You’d better be okay soon, so we can get well together and get the whole asylum clean,’ he says.

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

‘You’re the one to know,’ Luke says. ‘You’ve been here long enough to know that. You and your mad friends.’
The Warden looks at him. Luke’s eyes are marbleized pistols firing in a crowded space. He is a lot leaner than any of the rest of us. I told him that’s why he always fought
and taunted him more. Because he was altogether more powerfully lean and proud than the rest of us. That’s why the Warden likes him so much.

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

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

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

‘It’s lying there, watching him rocking and rocking and..’ Luke says. He tails off savagely, but he does not try to speak another word.
Like a tiny girl in the dark trying to smother her fear of manhood.‘I understand,’ the Warden says. ‘But they’re good lads. They make good tea and coffee and
cherish new cups. ‘I’d say they’re good company now and again.’

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

‘This place?’ the Warden says, ‘It’s a lot better than some. A mile better, I’d say, than any of collections of cups and saucers I’ve ever had the
pleasure to own or see. And what with the way things are looking, it won’t be long before this place pays its dues.’

‘It’s going to rain,’ Mark says. ‘I am a man who knows his weather. It is surely going to rain.’ He rocks in his chair and smiles.
‘It’s that sad Ward that gets me. I can’t get a word in edge ways around it. I just wish you’d do something about it.’ He rocks and rocks and then goes blank.

Luke looks up and around the office, then he goes on to glare and stare. I stand up, hearing the voices I have always heard, before I sit once more.
Tilting a little, as my bed does, a faint wind draws through the office and over the Warden’s table, rustling the papers and the cups and stirring hairs on Luke’s
head. An ash-key dropped near a window will rise and rush along the walls, groaning and whirring until it reaches the clinking cup-stand on the table: so,
with the voices. As you enter the depths of the mind, they sound as though they were speaking from the wind above your head.


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

chapter 6: THE WARDEN

It was the craziest thing I'd ever seen. It was as if he knew he would never be sane again, that Mr.Mark and Mr. Luke were driving him into it, never to see
him sane in this world ever again. I always said Mr. Matthew was madder than the others. I always said that he was only one among them who had his own mad nature.
Not that Luke, the one I have cared and laboured for all these mad years. Not that he is really any better. A mad man hs is, through and through, caring for nobody,
caring for nothing except how to get on my better side. Mr.John says Mr. Matthew asked him for love. He said that Mr. Matthew more or less begd him on his bended knees
for love and affection. But nothing would do for but he and and Mr. Mark and Mr. Luke turning him down like they do and going for a brand new set of cups. God knows it,
we just can't expect much from that boy, that Mr. Matthew, interrupting everyone all these long years, selling us all down the river at any moment: Mr. Luke says that Mrs.
Warden likes Mr. Mathew the least of all, but I think i know better. I think she is partial to him and his mad ways.

Why, for the past three years, I have been going into town as often as I can, going sometimes when I shouldn't, neglecting my own wife and family so that someone wouldn't
speak to Mr. Matthew other than myself, or whatever. Not that I want congratulations for doing so: i would expect the same for myself. But thank heaven it will be the fellows who l
love who'll bring me back to full health. I have been blessed more than others, I think, with imagination and its kind, but Mr. Matthew just can't rely on me.

He fell ill, a lonely young-man, lonely in his pride, trying to make his loved ones love him more, hiding the fact that he was badly suffering because he was not sectioned for five minutes
before they were caring for him and smothering him with hugs and kisses. God knows it, he should just learn to be normal.
'But he wants to be strange,' Mr. John said. 'Not one man can stop him from being amongst his own people.'
'Then why doesn't he stop being strange elsewhere?' I said. 'Not one of them can stop him? Well, how the hell am I supposed to keep up with him?'
'It is his one and only wish,' Mr. John said. 'I heard Mark say it is.'
'And you would believe Mr. Mark of course,,' I said. 'A maniac like that. Don't bother to tell me!'
'I'd believe him about something as important as that. Yes I would,' Mr. John said.
'Don't tell me!' I said. 'A mad man's place is with his own thoughts and feelings? Would you expect me to live in my head if he worst came to the worst? I truly hope not, Mr. John.'
'Well, I'd say you should, he said..

'I should hope not,' I said. 'I have tried to live a wholesome life in the sight of the Church and Man. I have two baptised children and a happy, Christian wife.
So is it too much to ask to see me into my latter years with a touch of grace and dignity?'

But Mr. Matthew. It was the craziest thing I'd ever seen. Sometimes i lose my faith in this place for a time; I am suddenly struck down by darkening doubts
and beliefs. But always the Lord above restores my love for my people and their kind of world. Not Mr. Matthew, not the one who got the share of the
kisses. It was Mr. Luke, the one Mr Matthew says is rotten, crazy, plotting for one conquest after another, what with one Nurse here and one Nurse there. It was Mr. Luke.

He came to my office door and stood before me, looking at the maggots about him. He just looked at them, and I sensed the wonderful heat of the heavens around
him. I saw that Mr. Matthew and Mr. Mark had just been bluffing, but that it was between me and Mr. Luke that the passion and utmost love really was.
He just looked at me, not even sitting down for a while; just looking up and down and round and around at everything ahead of him. He said nothing, and looked at me.

'What do you want, Luke?' said Mr. Mark. 'What in hell's name do you want?' What with Mr. Matthew interrupting everything.
God knows, it was Mr. Luke who saved them all, as much as a bird must fall.

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

Chapter 7: JOHN

The first time Mark and I encountered the Warden...Matthew doesn't think because he'd catch his death of cold if he did. And Mark doesn't
care about anything. He is not kin to caring at all. And the Warden likes buying and counting his cups; all the live long day he buys and counts them.
And Matthew thinks a lot, because his neighbours will always treat him very well because his is always too busy to put up much of a fuss.
And I do not know that Matthew would go mad, who sits at the dinner table with his eyes gone to complete pot and staring out beyond it all into
the dust, with the dust filling in the hole in his head, or whatever he might try to say.

We met the Warden when night was falling, the shadows getting closer and the nasty shade on tbe rise, talking to him about that nasty shade
with words of pure silver.Because I said I will say something and I won't when the talk is in full flow, because I said if the words are full when we come to the
finality of things it won't be up to me to continue the conversation. I said if it doesn't really matter to you it will surely really matter to me. I cannot help myself.
I'm just like that. And we talked and talked and talked onwards into early morning, moving out of the
nasty shade and on into the rising shadows, touching each others hands and other hands and further hands, not really saying much at all. I said,
'What are we doing here?' and he said, 'You here to get well.' And so it was that full speech was dealt and when it came to an end it was morning.

And so it was that I could not help myself. It was then that I saw Matthew and knew he knew of my troubles.
He said so without the need for words and he told me that Mark was going to die in the end without the need for words; and I knew that
he knew because it he had said he knew with the need for words I wouldn't have believed him, and that would have been a great mistake.
But when I asked him if he knew he said that he didn't and I said, 'Are you going to tell the Warden about it? Are you going to to make me cry?',
without the need for words I said it, and he said, 'Why are you asking?', without the need for words again. And that's why i can talk to Matthew in
utter silence without even caring or sharing at all.

He sits at his desk, looking out at us all.'What do you want, Luke?' I say.
'He wants to help you,' the Warden says. And marble-eyed Luke is coming in to watch me but I can escape him. I can escape them all..

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

'Then why aren't you helping Matthew?' I say.
'I want to watch Him suffer,' the Warden says.


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

chapter 8: MARK

The Warden keeps on rubbing his face. His shirt is faded: on one arm a droplet of sweat drips down to the
floor, falling like a shooting-star. 'No man hates interruptions more than me,' he says.
'A patient's got to interrupt you every now and again,' I say. 'But sooner or later, it can't do any
harm to sit stock still.'
'He'll want to be normal one day,' he says. 'It is simply for his own good.'
'But John's just come in,' I say. And it is going to rain this evening, too. His mind's steeled shut, too,
not an inch away from utmost arrogance. But it's just like him to be narrow-minded. Just like him to carry
a trillion secret burdens.

He looks out over his desk, rubbing his lumpy face. 'No man hates interruptions more,' he says.
'Luke'll help us all in plenty of time,' I say. 'I shouldn't worry about it if I were you.'
'He will if asked politely,' the Warden says.
'Perhaps he won't need to be asked, seeing what a psycho he really is,' I say.
'He's no worse than you,' the Warden says. 'He's more cogent and cuplike more often, in fact'. It's a
mad life we maniacs have. Some maniacs, that is. I'd say that all of them live beyond eighty. Working every day
rain or shine; never allowed to be sick or ailing, even when they're old. It's a mad life.

The Warden rubs his face. 'Luke is a good lad,' he says. We can see Matthew and Luke jabbering into John's
personal space. Heaven knows it, they just don't care. It's true. Never a truer word has been said. 'Luke's a
good lad,' I say.

Then that Nurse comes to the door. She is carrying a medicine bag as big as a dog. She enters the office and
greets Luke's with a shiny smile.
'What's that,' I say. 'A doctor's bag as big as that! Where did you get it?'
'It holds medication,' she says. She hands it to the Warden, her bosoms rising and falling like a balloon.
'Are you going to hand out the medication soon, then?' Luke says.
'I thought that the Warden should do it,' the Nurse says. She looks at Luke. We can hear him squirming,
coming out in a billion squirming shadows. Matthew, too, weedling and wailing within himself and beyond. 'There's
something afoot there,' I say.
'Just the usual,' Matthew says. 'They're not in love, just youthful.'

The Warden says nothing. He looks up at the Nurse and glares. He glares at her as if a stallion, then begins
to curse her for wasting his time. The Nurse looks at the Warden's face, then at Luke once again. She turns, going
to retrieve the medicine bag, when the Warden asks her to stay.
'You stay,' he says.
'If you wish it,' she says.
'Yes, you stay,' he says. He doesn't look at her for long. The Nurse comes up to John and asks him to
pass her a chair. The Warden's office is very full now, tight with maniacs and medicine.
'Well, I reckon we'd better get on,' John says. I've got things to say and so forth.' And it's going to
rain this evening. Mark and Matthew know it, as I have, always. Luke is looking at the Nurse, directly into her
head. 'Don't,' the Nurse whispers.

Poor Luke. She'll keep him at it for the rest of his days. I think she's a whore. 'Luke,' I say, 'the Nurse has come
to kill you. Luke? Do you hear me?'
But Luke is mad inside and stares at the Nurse forever. It is going to rain before dawn, heavily and heatedly. Yes
indeed. A packed office is an uncomfortable one. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. All of us are here together.

chapter 9: MATTHEW

Blast that Warden. And it intending to rain as well. I can stand here and day things over and over with
this second-sight of mine, but still the Warden and this o'erpacked offiice will get me down. I do
the very best I can, as much as I can to me normal, but my words still run away with my tongue
and steal me into madness.

All conniving here, right in front of the door, where every type of rotten luck can come and knock
us down. I told Luke it was rotten luck living in a place like this, and he said, for all the world
like a lunatic, 'Shut your Godless mouth.' But I told him it was still rotten luck living in a place
like this, because the Gods put up the Asylums for dying in: why They put them up so flat
and glaring was for this reason alone. When They put up something for living in, like a house
or a maisonette or a castle, They make it curvaceous and feminine, and that's a matter of fact.
And so They never wished for people to live in an asylum, for whosoever lives there
first can only be strangled by asphyxias and the like. Did you ever hear of Them building
an asylum for royalty? No you never did, because it's always the place of royalty in a palace
of sanest poetry. If They wanted people to live to live in an asylum, They'd have housed
royalty in it first and foremost. This I said to Luke. This I said to everybody.

And the Warden. Lord help him. Talking us all out of our rightful quirks and idiosyncrasies.
I have forever said to Mark and Luke and John that the Warden is a thief of enterprise.
It's not as if an o'erpacked office weren't enough, but I'd say a Warden who asks his patients
to be alike him is asking for absolute trouble. 'Shut your Godless mouth,' Luke said, but
I was far too busy watching Mark rock and rock and rock in that chair to care too much
about it. Mathew, Mark, Luke and John. The Godhead knows how they feel. And that Nurse,
bloody as a dolphin and still as sad, what does she know about life and matrial strictures?
'Bitch,' I say to her, saying it without the need for words. 'Bitch,' I say, just as I had spoken
to John - without a single need to evade the steeled-in blackness of the strangled and
accidental tongue.

chapter 10: LUKE

He has been to town this week. The amount of cups is both vast and disturbing. He has not
looked back in months.
'Mark,' I say, running into the blackness, tunnelling into the bosom of the
Nurse ahead. 'Do you want normal, Mark?'

It takes four maniacs to make it. It's not just the genes of your parents make you. It takes
four mad maniacs all rocking and wailing and riveting into the brains of things you've come
to expect and take for granted. I say to the Nurse: 'You don't want me, but you've only
just had me: is that it?' But she doesn't hear, wrapped up as she is in her speechless,
breasted crimplene. And that Matthew, too, what with his way of saying things without
uttering a word. All this damnable life he practiced words, and now he doesn't say them.
He just keeps on saying and saying and saying, 'Are you going to die? Are you going to
die?' Damn! It's hard to believe he's mad at all sometimes, hard to image he's
damnably mad at all.

The sun, an hour below the horizon, is now set in a cloud of rain; the light has turned to
like mystic copper. 'The Eye Portentous,' says Matthew, 'The Eye Sulphuric, Contagious
and Molten.' When the Warden stops rubbing his face and looks at me, his eyes go
horribly blank. 'Are you okay?,' I say. 'Just as long as you are, I am too,' he says. This
world is an Eye Portentous itself, tolling in a shroud of Sulphuric and Contagious
lightning all of the dog-dayed time. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Matthew, Mark,
Luke and John. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Matthew says it over and over without
even uttering a word.

chapter 11: THE WARDEN

When they were all sitting there of their own accord, I said, 'God has made you calm at
last.' And I said many other things and at first would not speak at all for fear that there
might yet be something to do about Mr. Matthew's abnormalities and Mr. Luke's
gestures of maturative lustfulness. I thought there was maybe a Lord or two above
that could apprehend the whole foaming lot of them and could thereby bring us all
back together again, all sane and soulful.

When I reach for the lump that is my life and put a hand or two in my eyes, the sun has
gone behind a bank of bitter cloud like some top-heavy mountain, like a whole
load of tea and coffee cups breaking in two on the vinyl floor ahead of us. And it was
then that I knew it had finally occured, that it was true; for Mr. Mark says: These mad
ones know their weather.

When the Nurse comes in and gets down from her heels and passes me that bag, the
sun has gone down even further. 'Why should I do a job for you,' I say, without
the need for words, just like young Mr. Matthew does. A lazy one that Nurse is. 'She
just wants to see Mr. Luke,' I say. That could Mr. Luke's downfall, all those Nurses
and their leeching kind.
'Stay if you wish,' I say.
'It will if you wish it,' she says. But I am too preoccupied with those
cups of mine to even begin to tell her that that's all she came here for in the first
place: to stay in my office with Mr. Luke and his beard.
'Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.' This I hear as Mr. Matthew thinks. God knows
it, he truly has a gift for speech without speaking at all.

'What do you want us to do?' says Mr John. 'Stay round here and
get crushed by each others minds?' Even with my keen imagination, I can't fathom
what he's saying. The office is packed full of people, all with their own mental
quirks and solitudes, all with their own individual angers and sadnesses. 'Mr.
Matthew,' I say, 'Stop talking with your mouth closed.'

After a while, Mr. John turns to Mr. Luke and pulls an ugly face. He gives the face
all he's got, until I stare at him and urge him to stop. I'll be blasted if I can see
why I don't just quit. A man of sixty years old, weighing in excess of eighteen
stone, being hauled from left to right to by a line of maniacal eyes. God knows
it. It's time to I moved out of the country, cups and all.
'I'm sorry,' Mr. John says, letting his eyes gyre like gun-powder.
And all of them knowing it is going to rain, too. There is so little daylight
now; the clouds are the colour of sulphur. 'The Eye Portentous,' says Mr.
Matthew. 'The Eye Contagious and Molten.' God help him. A poet, and
still he asks me for favours.

The Nurse is sitting by Mr. Luke, fanning his face with her arms. When I
look at her she turns her head and looks at me. She has been dead
behind those eyes for the past twelve years. I suppose it's being part of
the asylum world so long that she cannot make even a simple change
to the way she's dead inside. I can remember how, when I was young,
I lay in a wooden cradle. Now I know youth be merely an accoutrement
of the mind - and that of minds that suffer bereavement from dawn till
dusk, dusk till dawn. The nihilists say this is the end, I'd say it's just
the problematic beginning.

Mr. Mark looks at us. Only his eyes move. It is like they are setting out
to assault us, not with sense or sight but with a stream of
intentional pleading, childish and aware. Mr. Mark is mad, but not as
mad as Mr. Matthew and as for Mr. John..'I'm a weather man,' he says.
May the Lord above save his very soul.
'Shut your Godless mouth,' Luke says. I have never seen
such eyes in such a crowded space.
'I don't condemn you for raving,' Mr. Mark says. 'I just can't
keep from believing that's it's going to rain. And you know what that
means, don't you? It means we're going to die.' The look on Mr. Luke's
face is enough to freeze an adder's blood. And that's the one problem
with this place: everything, weather, all, hangs on a pair of freezing eyes.
I don't know. May the Lord help them all.
'Now, Warden,' Mr. Matthew says, 'When he came here
today we were all alone. Now there are six of us. It's about time
you did something about it.' I watch him. I can feel his eyes. It's like
having someone shoving at you with them. I have seen it all before in a
mad man. Seen them drive us from the room with their eyes alone.
That's what they mean by the love that passes understanding: that
madness, that manic desire to be free from it all, surpasses the abject
nakedness of both a woman and a man as they kiss, caress and marry.
'One of us must leave,' Mr. Matthew says. 'One of us must
leave and go away.' But my soul just isn't in it, just is not ready to cry.

chapter 12: MATTHEW

Luke stands up and speaks. From behind his upright legs John peers,
with his shaven head and sailing eyes round and his mouth set wide
in wonderment. He looks at the Warden; all his manic life seems to
drain into his eyes. 'It time we pulled straws,' Luke says.
'Why, Luke?' The Warden says. 'We could always stay
in here together. Why stop the party before it's even..'
He sheds tears, laying his fat hands on his lump-beshriven face.
For a while, everyone looks at him, without a word, without a single
thing, as if his actions alone were surmising all all and all of everything
we'd ever done. Then he raises himself up, who has not shifted for
four hours. Luke leans forwards, vying to help him up.
'Warden?' he gestures; 'Warden?'

The Warden is looking out of the window, at the rain stuttering steadily
down to the tired earth, labouring incessantly downwards in a sulphuric
arc as though it were all-portentous and wallowing.
'You, John!' he yells, his voice strong and as rough as an
uncut diamond.
'You, John!'

John looks down up at the back of the Warden's head framed by
the window in the twilight. It is a framing of sacrosanct synergy
and passion. John stands and thrusts his right arm towards Luke's
outstretched hand. He drags a straw from the maw of the palm and
slants it down into his left fist. For a while, he looks up and again at
the back of the Warden's head, neither with censure nor approbation.
Then the Warden turns around.
'Well?' he says. 'Well? What have you drawn?'
Leaning on the desk, his hands lifted a little, John murmurs, 'I've drawn
the longest straw I've ever seen.' Then he flings his fists up into
the air and hurls the straw on the ground.

From behind Luke's legs John sits and peers, his mouth full and open
with all discernible colour draining from his face into his mouth.
'You, Mark!' the Warden yells, 'You now, Mark!'

Mark leaps up from his hard-backed chair, his rippling eyes, full
of tears, gesturing momentarily at the Warden's furrowed brows.
After a second mumbling, he grabs a straw from Luke's outstretched
'Well?' the Warden asks, 'Well?'
'I withdrew a long straw as well,' Mark says, his mind meddling with
the wretched depths of space and time, his manner cursing and
assailing, as a boulder might, down into the very cloisters of hell and
fiery sulphur itself.

Luke comes up to the inside of the office door, carrying his
diminishing fist of straws. 'You now, damn you, you now!' he screams.
I do not approach at first. I stop in the saddle of my chair, my legs
wrapped tightly about me. 'If you don't pull, I'll strike you,' Luke
says. But I am not listening. I am looking into multisonous hands of
peace, rigid and fading in the bleak twilight of portentous
ash and doom. 'Pull!' Luke shrieks, and suddenly I do, flicking my
right index finger and thumb into his raging, waving fist.
'What have you pulled?' asks the Warden.
'A full straw, sir,' I say. 'It's not me who'll be leaving.
I'm staying put.'
'Then it's you, Luke,' the Warden says. 'There's only
one straw left. It must be you who'll be leaving this place.
May God help us all and may the Lord protect our souls.'

Luke stands over us, anvil-armed, glaring, motionless. He comes
near to the Warden, raising his hand, but then looks at the Nurse
in the corner. He scruffles her way and lays his two lean hands
on her face and then on the huge hump of her breasts. He touches
her tears that fall with clumsy efficacy down and down and down.
The Nurse breathes with a molten, rasping sound, mouthing the sound
against her teeth and gums. 'God's will and mercy be done
for us all.'

chapter 13: LUKE

Then I began to run. I run towards the back of my mind and come to
the edge of the Warden's brain. Then I begin to cry. I can feel where
the straws stood in my hand. It is all too late now, all unsafe and
descriable. But then it wasn't my hand at all. It was Matthew's hand,
speaking without speaking, uttering damnable words without words,
all out there in the portentous dark. And now I am getting so far ahead
of myself that I cannot touch my face.

The Wards look like people when they sway from side to side. If I
should jump off the ledge I will land where the path is, with all of its
cyclical sadnesses engraved and damnably breaking through. I can hear
the bed and the Nurse's face and me and the floor and every damned
thing shaking like a leaf in the stormy arc of the Warden's eyes and mind.
And that Matthew saying everything without even damned well speaking
and all those other tongues clicking and foretelling a Godless doom.
'Shut your Godless mouth, Warden. Do you hear me?!'

I jump from the Warden's mind, running. The top of my head comes
swooping up into the sulphurous clouds outside. If I jump I can go
through the Godless lot of them like a lion in the circus, into the
warmth and damnable heat of the Nurse's bosom, without having to
wait. My hands grab at her tears; beneath my feet the rectiline floor
gropes and sucks at my elderly shoes.

And then I can damned well breathe again, into the warm smell of
heaven. I enter Mark's mind, trying to reach out, and then I can cry and
then I can damned well puke up the crying into a vast and damnable
woollen heap.
'He just doesn't care. He just doesn't care at all.'

The light in the Warden's eyes runs under my skin, under my hands,
running through the Nurse's tears and on, raging up into my nose
where the vomit starts to cry, and then I can come up for air, puking
it all up into a woollen and sulphurous heap. Mark makes a lot of
noise. I can hear the noise running from under my skin, up my
veins, and then I damned well jump again, into the depths of John's
mad mind.

I cannot find it. In the dark, along the dust, John's mind i cannot
find. The rocking and rocking and rocking makes a lot of noise.
I just wish it damned well wouldn't make so much noise. Then I find
it in the rainclouds, in the dutiful shower, and I run across the whole
of it and into its many winding roads, the brain cells dancing before
my eyes.

They all watch me as I run up, beginning to blastedly jerk from
side to side, John's eyes rolling, Mark's eyes wailing, Matthew's eyes
spurting words, and the Nurse: her eyes seem dragged.
'None of you damned well care!'

I strike at Matthew's mind. He wheels about as I lunge and lunge
again. His eyes are Godless and shut, as if he knew this would
happen, as if they were nailed to the ground at the very epicentre
of a damned and whirling pool or spinning plate.

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

I strike, my fists hitting the walls of his skull, bouncing, striking
into the the foaming walls and then into the air again, with the
Warden's mind approaching, with the Nurse's mind in mid-scream,
with the whole Godless and damnable mass of them all
snivelling and snickering into a whorling world of blasted groans
and whines.

But I do not jump again. When I reach the fringes of Matthew's
mind, I stop completely dead. John's stupid mouth falls open,
full of flotsamming green, his tongue flapping.
'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Contagious and Curdling.'

I stoop down through Matthew's eyes and enter the Warden's office
once again. I am not crying now. I am not saying a blasted thing.
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John stand up from their chairs to meet
me. 'May God help us all,' says the Nurse. But I do not need a God
to help me bleed.

chapter 14: THE NURSE

Luke could do so much for me if he wanted. He could do everything
for me. It's as if everything on this earth for me revolves around him,
so that I can't help but wonder what the hell he's doing leaving when
all around he could just do so much to help me out.

It's because I am alone. If I could just feel, it would not be so lonely.
But if it were not alone, every man and girl would know. And that
Luke could do so much to help me if only he'd stay. Then I could
be all right alone.

For I would not let the Warden come between us, like Matthew
came between us with his chattering mind. Luke and me are
suited so well that I can only say that all that speaking without
words is the all and all reason why Luke has to leave. He just doesn't
know how much I love him. Luke could do so much for me if
he only tried.

From the back of the office I cannot hear Mark at all. Then the
sound of his rocking and rocking comes my way. It is like a noise
that hurts the ears and reeks of machismo. If only Luke would help
me, the rocking would not get in the way.

I brought the bag of medication as an excuse. The Warden knows
that it is my job to deal with it. But I just had to see Luke, just had
to make him realise just how much he could do for me. The Warden
has nothing to do with it, though. It is all down to Matthew and his
Eye Portentous; all down to Matthew and his sulphorous speech
without words.

Listening to Matthew now is all-seeing, all-hearing. It took him
ten seconds to be special; maybe he just doesn't care about
anyone but his mind. Maybe he just won't give give up the ghost
until Luke has left us all behind. I wipe my tears on Luke's green vest, and
I stop, watching Matthew smile.
'Well, Luke,' he says, 'It's time we said goodbye.'
Saying it all without words, saying it all in his own mad, bad time.
'You just don't care,' Luke says. 'The Eye Portentous.
The Eye Sulphuric and Molten.'

I cannot see Mark. Nor can I see John. I have lost the will to worry
and can only see into things so far. After a while the sound of the
rocking comes around to a peak, coming all dark and dreadful into
the catacombs of the Warden's tears. Then I can see them all, going
down in idyllic motion.

When I am out of sight, I often cry. As the crows call at the foot
of the hill, I cry. Luke's hands are closed over my face, his head
is bowed a little, his awry hair standing beneath the strip lighting
like a candle in exposition. He looks like a little boy, the maul of
his lean body clamouring for relief and love.

The Warden is in silhouette against the window, nuzzling the
shadows to the sides of his mind.

Then I see Matthew laughing. 'I told you so,' he says, 'I
told you I was the one they loved.' He speaks without using
words. He is the sole reason why behind the whole mad thing.
If only Luke could stay, he could help me. If only Matthew died,
he could stay for good.

Then Luke leaves the office. He strides towards the door and
stamps right through it. 'Don't forget to pack your razor,'
Matthew says; this time speaking like the rest of us, clucking
to himself like a malformed chicken.

And I do not resist. I never felt the need to resist. I didn't
even know what a man could do till I was twenty.

Matthew, Mark and John leap from their chairs. I can feel them
molest me with their molten eyes. 'The Eye Portentous.
The Eye Sulphuric and Molten,' says Matthew, as if he were
the only poet on earth, as if he were the only reason why I'm
here at all.
'We'll meet each other later,' says the Warden.
'Lest you forget, Luke's to leave us now. We'll need to
arrange arrange for new and better things. We'll need to arrange
our days far differently from now on.'

And I know, just as Matthew knows, that the Warden is thinking
about his blasted cups and what he can do with them next.
And I know that Luke could do so much for me if he would
only stay. And I know that Matthew is behind it all; behind
as much of it as any poet's can.

The sky lies flat on the hill. Beyond the hill sheet-lightning
stains us all and raves. The sulphurous air shapes the dead earth
in the dead darkness. It lies dead and dread upon me, touching
my womanhood with a speechless scream.
'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten.'

But I know that Luke has lost his head.

chapter 15: THE WARDEN

When they pulled the straws I was full of cups and tears. I saw
the dark stand up and up go swirling about Luke's mind and I said
'Are you going to go? Are you going to leave it all behind?
Are you, Luke?' Saying it all without speaking, saying it all
like that mad Mr. Matthew, all caught up in his Portentous Eye.

They all stand up. Their shadows all stand up, over Luke
scuttering out of the office, out of our lives.

The Nurse said we shall be together in the end. The rain is
behind the glass, sulpurous in the sweated land. When it falls
it shines on and off. Mr. Mark said blood was thicker then
tears and that Mr. Luke is a saint. Why the hell do blood and
tears cost more than love alone? The Eye Portentous.
Christ! Can't he stop himself from saying it all?

When the rain falls it shines once again, then not at all.
If God made us all, why can't He make us all in love
with one another? If He made us all, why can't He make
Luke stay?

The shadow walks around. Mr. Matthew's mind walks also.
And it was not his fault. I was there, too, looking. I saw
it all coming along. I thought it was his fault, but it was not.
It was not his fault that he turned out so bad. He went away
with his madness like a fully grown dictator. As much as a bird
must fall, he did just that.

And I am not happy with the cups anymore. Anyone can see
that I am not. It was not Mr. Matthew's fault, but the straws
were pulled because of him. 'The Eye Portentous. The Eye all
Sulphuric and Molten.' But I just can't seem to hear him all
that well now that Luke has gone.

The rain shines, then it fails to shine at all. The clouds burst,
then do not burst at all. And Mr. Luke has gone to the
base of the hill, off into the Portentous and Sulphurous

chapter 16: MATTHEW

It was night on midnight when he left. It had set in to rain
when he walked out on us all. It had been a portentous
night, with the storm making us all as mad as we could ever
be; a night when a wordless saying may look for all the world
like a canyon full of green meanness. Such is the way to
look at things when you're utterly strange.
'It's Luke,' he said. 'It's Luke who's got to leave.'

But I am the one behind it. It's all so reasonable to think
that it is. The Warden doesn't even know it yet, but I am
the one who created doom.
'Why don't you shut your bloody mouth, Warden?
Why don't you bring Luke back?' The Nurse says. And I am
the one who says words without the need for speech at all.

And so when Mark awoke me the next morning it had stopped
raining once again. Even while my dreams had been full of
sulphur and lightning and Luke leaving us all alone, it had
stopped raining and was all so quiet that no man could
even begin to discern a drop of dew. And Mark was all
so loud, like he might have woken up thumping his chest.
And it was then that I noticed John was sucking his thumb.
I saw him there, when the sunshine sparkling across his ailing
face and with the Nurse and her big bosom muscling into
it all and beyond. 'What are you doing, John?' I said, but he
just wouldn't hear, and he was mad and bad as he was in
his own cocoon of silence.

And he looked for all the world like a drowned puppy, clad
in those overalls, without a hat, splashed up to his knees
where he had where he had walked throughout our minds.
Yes, Luke looked like a drowned puppy for certain.
'What are you doing, John' I said.

He looked at me, his eyes round and dilatory in the very
middle of the muddling earth. 'You mind your own business,' he

But I hung to my words, chattering to him with my mind.
'The Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye Sulphuric and
Molten,' And I know he can hear, clad as he is in many
a manic turn.

And I'd say Luke went because of it, even when he didn't
know it yet. But the Nurse did. She knew from the start.

I'll hang on to my words for now. I'll proceed to keep my
mouth closed whenever I speak at all. For it's about those
sorrows and afflictions of the sane that make me speak
in this quiet way; how those who think clearly are liable to
to strike anywhere, at any time. I guess it takes a sane man to
know a mad one; I guess it takes all the sanity in this world
to perceive the turmoil within.

And I'd say it was all my fault. When I come back through
the wards, I say things beyond reason. I see Luke dressed in
the Nurse's nightgown with a shawl over his head and an umbrella
and a Bible poking out of his arms, and I say to him over and
over again, 'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten.'
And I just can't seem to get above myself for the control I
had over others. And I just can't can't seem to even begin to
see into saying things aloud at all without finding solace in the
rectiline control of world events.
'It's you, Luke,' the Warden says, 'It's you who'll
be going.'

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye suffering and Molten. The
Eye Contagious and Rolling. The Eye of the Conspiring

But I am all too eager to reach once more for the sylvan
pinnacles of abnormality that I do not see the Nurse come up
and glare right into my foaming mind.

chapter 17: JOHN

My thumb is like a stump. Gnarled and rusted, its cracked nail
snapped on one side, lonely and acrid. Upon its dark skin, the sunlight
looks like a random smear of soft pale paint on ingenious black canvas. The Ward
is broad and smells of sulphur.

'What are you doing, John?' Matthew says. 'What do you think
you're doing?' And that Nurse staring into his head, gyring and dictating
accusations with the very depths of her sulphurous eyes.

For Luke has gone. Into the impalbable plane to it, he has gone far, far away.
Matthew worked his mind on it, turned his mad, unspeaking words against
us all and caused Luke to leave. His face is now sloped in agued terror with a
dynamic immobility that frames his eyeless gaze; against his terror the trees
motivate from side to side, swaying as if in mute acquisition of the whole
terrific scene.

It has stopped raining. The first swift drops were soft, the latterday ones
torrential. Luke went out into it all, out into the Void, his eyes portentous and
curdling. Those eyes are as big as a stallion and just as seedy. May the
Lord save his soul right now and always.

The Nurse glares at Matthew. Her glare dictates monstrosities and
murderousness. Last night, the rain swashed violently over us, now it is
the Nurse's glare that runs us through.
'What are you doing, John?' Matthew says. He takes up my mind
and ruins it; again he speaks without saying and calls the Nurse a 'whore without
derision.' I am tired of Matthew's gift for words, most of all with their
'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.

And some time towards dawn, the rain had stopped. But it is only just day and
Matthew and Mark know nothing at all about how Luke is feeling and spreeing
and moving around. Nothing, that is, but every rotten thing ever to have blasted
out of the barren land into tired and weathered being.

Matthew sits up in his bed. Mark says quietly: 'Let's hope it rains again very
soon. Do you hear me, Matthew? Do you?'

But he has no gift for words without speech; has no gift for saying without
speaking. He was born into a world of open mouths. No more, no less, he is a
master of loud speaking.
'In a strange room,' says the Nurse, 'You must empty yourself of
life to speak. In a strange room, the accusations must lie at the head of those
who never stop speaking.

'The Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye Sulphuric and Contagious
and Dread.'

But I cannot reach to rise above myself at all, just cannot seem to reach up to
strike Matthew's cool command of false speech. Luke has gone. He has gone
out into the sane world without an iota of sanity or safety. He has gone out into
the sulpurous Void, alone and snapped in his inconstant dignity.

chapter 18: THE NURSE

I glare into his malformed eyes. His mind utters words that I dare not care
to hear. 'Matthew!' I say, 'Matthew! Do you the mind has to be empty
to speak? Did you know that, Matthew? Did you?'
'The Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye Contagious with

And John and Mark look round. Their figures rise from their beds like
man-eating ghouls and sidle along my womanhood like a fully grown
rhyme. 'What do you want, Matthew? What do you want now that
Luke has gone away?'

And I do not speak. Instead I ask him why he concoursed Luke into
going the way he did, with my mind alone, like a seed of pure spite,
rolling the words from my tongue in silent reverence, splitting my mind apart
that Matthew might hear.
'Why did you do it, Matthew? Why did you make Luke go

And the Warden is at the peak of the hill, rubbing his lump of a face and
beating his brain with questions on cups and Luke's absence.
'Why did you do it, Matthew? Why did you make Luke go away?'

'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten. The Eye..'

I hear him say it, I hear him say it over and over again.
'Why did you do it, Matthew? Why did you make Luke go away?'

For Luke is out there in the Void, snarling and wailing at us back home, back
home in the place where sulphurous portent lies still.
'Shut you godless mouth,' he says. 'For god's sake shut your
mad and speechless mouth.'

And Matthew looks up at me and grins his manic grin.
'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Portentous and Raving.'

Matthew says it all without words. And Luke's passing is all down to
him and his damned gift for controlling people's thoughts and feelings.

Luke is down there in the Lordless town, screaming from top to toe
and hoping beyond hope that the Warden will come for him.
'Luke!' I say, 'Luke! Why did you have to leave? Why
did you have to do Matthew's doing? Luke! Luke? Why didn't
you kill him before it was all too late?'

chapter 19: MARK

Matthew? Matthew? Why don't you bring Luke back? Matthew?
Matthew? Why didn't you pull the short straw? Matthew?
Matthew? Why do you speak without speaking? Matthew?
Matthew? you mad mad mad mad mad mad son of a sonless whore!

chapter 20: LUKE

Matthew made me leave, he made me
1. See the Eye Portentous.
2. See the Eye Contagious and Molten.
3. Pull the shortest straw.
4. Leave the Nurse and the Warden behind.
Matthew made me leave, he made me
1. See the Eye Portentous.
2. Lose my holy soul.
3. Smack the Nurse in the eye.
4. Leave the Warden to live all alone.
Matthew made me leave, he made me -
Matthew made me leave, he made me -
Matthew made me leave, he made me -

Matthew -!- ..

chapter 21: THE WARDEN

And now they're all conspiring to kill him, with Mr. Luke all alone out there,
getting madder than the lot of them and madder still.

Because I said to that Nurse that Mr. Matthew didn't mean it; I said to them
all that it was all out of Mr. Matthew's chalked hands. As much as a bird must fall,
I told them, but it did no good, it just made things worse.
'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten.
The Eye Contagious and Pleading. The Eye all Multisonous and False'.

And Mr. Mark turns to Mr. John and says, 'That Matthew must go, that
Matthew is a bad apple amongst us all. And them with all their Holy divine
names as well. Them with all their holy angelled names conspiring against
him as if they were Judas himself. As much as a dark bird must fall, I told
them, but it just did no good, it just damned well made things worse?
'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Molten. The

Sometimes I think I should quit. Sometimes I feel that my wife and me
are destined for better things than this. But then I get round to feeling
assigned to the whole thing, what with Mr. Luke out there getting madder
than them all and that Nurse and Mr. Matthew saying things without a word
and Mr. Mark and Mr. John preaching their own chiding version of the Gospel,
not caring or sharing a thing with anybody but themselves.
'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Contagious and..'

Because Mr. Matthew always said he would come to a bad end. All those
times when they coddled and kissed him, he knew the first steps in their
murderous campaigns.
'Why, Matthew? Why? Why, Matthew, why?'

And that Nurse glaring out over the land like a big-breasted siren, cursing
and hissing her way into her new-found resistance, and that lone Ward
full of one less man, one less child, one less Luke.
'The Eye Portentous. The Eye both Sulphuric and Molten.
The Eye..'

And I just can't seem to leave the peak of the hill without thinking of those
cups and the way they broke in two; one after the other, breaking into the
maw that is a doctor's mind.
'Why did you do it, Matthew? Why? Why? Why?'

'For this place,' said Mr. Matthew, 'Was not made for living in.'
'This place,' said Mr. Matthew, 'Was not made for life.'
And I can't help but agree what with his poet's mind whorling and
toiling in the sulphuric madness like a great round spinning plate. 'This place,'
said Mr. Matthew 'Was made for the living dead?'
'The Eye Sulphuric. The Eye Portentous and Booming. The Eye
Phosphorous. The Eye Entrailing and Hard.'

'Matthew!' I say. Mr. Matthew! Why did you have to accept the
gifts you have?'
'Mr. Matthew! Mr. Matthew!' I say. 'Why did you have to speak
to us all without a single word when all around people were hustling and
bustling to make you well and normal again?'

But Mr. Matthew is lying on his back in the darkness of his Ward, giggling
and goggling to himself like the best holy maniac on earth.
'Why, Matthew? Why? Why did you do it? Why?'

And I know it shall happen as much as a bird must Fall.


chapter 22: MATTHEW

It's not you who's going to die, Luke. It's not you who's going to be killed.
'Shut your Godless mouth. Shut your Godless mindless mouth.'
'The Eye Portentous. The Eye Sulphuric and Mad. The Eye
Contagious and Beckoning. The Eye. The Eye.

'Why did you do it, Matthew? What in hell's name did you think you were
doing? Why did you do it, Matthew? Why did you speak and control us all
without a single word passing from your big bad holy lips? Why?

But I cannot answer, for I am thinking of my uncle's magazines and about those
words steeled in fast metal. I cannot answer because I am mad, because I am
abnormal and twisted by circumstances beyond my control.
'It's not you who's going to die, Luke.' But I am all so mad that
I cannot think to speak.

chapter 23: THE NURSE

'It won't do you standing there. If you want it to be done, you'll have to do it
yourself. And the voice in my head is right, and the voice in my head is that of
Luke, and the voice in my head appeals to us all; me and John and Mark. It appeals
to us at once, fierce and immediate.
'Do it, girl! Do it, boys, you mindless, Godless, thick-nosed wastes of
mental space, Do it!'

And I hear the voice in my head, and I hear the boys respond, and I hear a voice
in my bed, then reach out and feel the knife.

chapter 24: JOHN

It's not Luke who's going to die, Matthew. It's not Luke who's going to pay
for his speechless mind. It's not Luke, Matthew, who's going to die. The Warden
knows it, Mark knows it, Luke knows it, the Nurse knows it. It's not Luke who's
going to die, Matthew. No, it's going to be you.

I heard the voice, loud and portentous. I heard the voice come into my mind with
the force of sulphurous yearning, It was Luke. It was Luke speaking. 'Do it, boy,
do it; do it before it's too late.

And the Nurse heard it, and Mark heard it, and I heard it, and the Warden heard it,
clad as he was in a veil of tears at the peak of the hill. It's was Luke's voice,
loud and clear. I heard it, we all heard it.

'Matthew, it's not Luke who's going to die.'
'John, do you hear me, John? Do you hear me?' the Nurse says.
'John! I've gone to get the knife. John! Do you hear me? And I do hear her,
as clear and near to as the Warden's bell, as close to the all and all of it all as much
as Christ can make can it be heard.
'It's time to turn loose, John,' she says. 'It's time to turn it all loose
and free.

And I will not stop. Matthew made Luke leave. 'The Eye. The Eye. The Eye.
The Eye. I can hear the gobbling and gabbling to us all along the lengths
and breadths of the Wards. 'The Eye. The Eye. The Eye.

Luke's not the one who did it, Matthew; no way, no sir, no no no!

'Wait, John,' says the Warden. But I will not wait. He is almost
running away with himself now and we are all left behind. It seems to me that
the end which we now all carry bears the weight of everything we ever did,
as though it were the very Eye of the rushing mind that pulls us away and from
the furious tides of the Lord. I am not even thinking when, burning and fuming,
the Nurse comes into the Ward, lithe and beautiful in every nature of the Word
'John!', Mark says. 'John! Is it time?' And I tell him the time has

chapter 25: MARK

So when she brought the knife we were ready. So when the Nurse called
out to me and when John ratified what she was asking of me, I was altogether
prepared for my Maker and knew that things would go well,.
'Why, Matthew? Why did you do it? Why, Matthew? Why?'

And then it is all out of my hands, and I am unravelling out and into time like
a fully grown soldier, briaring and raining on the Ward's dark eye like a true
troubadour of murderous intent.
'John! Do you hear me? John! Mark! Do you hear me, Mark?'
And it is then that I know we are all speaking without words, we are all
revolving round Matthew's manic skill for telepathic doings and sayings.
'Wait, Mark', the Warden says, 'Wait. Don't you see it is not
your fault? What do you say, Mark? What do you say?'

But I know, as much as a bird must fall, that the deed must be done; that
the whole unholy business has to be carried out in the curve of an instant.
'The Eye. The Eye Portentous. The Eye. The Eye Relentless.
The Eye.'

And I know that this is what Matthew would have wanted, as if Mattthew
himself were calling us to despatch him to a better, higher place, as if
Matthew himself controlling us once again with his gift for saying without
speaking; as if I wanted to die, as if this were the only things he'd ever
really aspired to bringing into being.
'It's not you who's going to die, Luke. It's not you who's
going to fade away. It's not you, Luke. It's not you.'

And I hear the Nurse sharpening the knife in the pitch dark of her
dingy room, and what I see and hear her run into the Ward with all her
intentions gyring and beautiful.
'The Eye. The Eye. The Eye Portentous. The Eye. The Eye.
The Eye Ridiculous.'

And then we are upon Him.

chapter 26: MATTHEW

And now they are killing me. All three of them gesticulate towards me then

For it's not Luke who's going to die. For it's not Luke who's going to pay
for his abnormalties. It's not you, Luke; it's not your fault at all.

The knife gluts the air like a retrograde areoplane, scuttering and skimpering
like a rotor or helio blade, spiring and gurning like a looping
transistor trapped in the stifled back of the Ward.

And then I feel the pain. And then I feel the three of them hold me close
to the bed - Mark first, then the Nurse, and then sad, bad John himself.
'The Eye. The Eye Portentous. The Eye. The Eye Relentless.
The Eye. The Eye Importunate and Burning. The Eye! The EYE!'

And I note the blood moving in sacrosanct semicircles down and around
my clothes; it feels like teenaged white-spirit, gyring as it is in angular monotones
round my mouth and eyes.
'Why did you do it, Matthew? What possessed you, Matthew?
What in God;s name did you think you were doing?'

It's passion that makes death good. All that red blood flailing and assailing up
the body from toe to tiptop ridge. It's all that passion that makes death so
cool and calm and luminous. The passion and the fury that drives man on towards
the intimate, ultimate edge.
'I guess he's gone now,' Mark says.
'Shall we shut his eyes,' says John.
'He needn't look decent, the Nurse says. 'After
all, he made Luke go away.

And I suppose I am dead, and I suppose that my eyes, glaring and ensnaring
the ceilings above without moving, without taking a single gesture from the
Word or heaven itself, are testimony to my being dead and gone.
'The Eye Portentous. The Eye. The EYE!'

'He'd have wanted it this way,' says Mark. 'He'd have wanted it as
much as a bird must fall.'

And then I hear them go away. They glide away like long-skirted dancers
from days gone by. They glide and glide astray from me and my bloodied
body as if they were all Edwardian and dancing.
'Mr. Matthew,' says the Warden, 'Mr. Matthew! Are you dead
or alive, Mr. Matthew? Are you dead or living?'

And I suppose I am dead. But it feels for all the world like I've never been
so alive in all my life.

chapter 27: THE WARDEN


chapter 28: LUKE

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1. Go mad.
2. Leave home.
3. Leave the asylum.
4. Love the world.
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1. Leave home.
2. Go mad.
3. Leave home.
4. Leave the asylum.
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1. Leave home.
2. Leave insanity behind.
3. Give the Warden space.
4. Leave insanity for blind.
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1. Come back up the hill.
2. Come back through the door.
3. Come back to the Ward
4. See him lying there, dead and alone.

chapter 29: MATTHEW

It's the passion that makes death so raw and immediate. I see Luke
stride into the Ward and look down at my still figure, the figure
turmoilous and stricken, the figure bloodied and bruised and carved
at, the figure dead and gone.
'It was you, Matthew, you that saved me,' Luke says.

And I am looking down, am smiling mildly down at the acrid scene. I
do not feel mad anymore. The Voices have all fled and left me calm and
'The Eye, Luke. The Eye Portentous and Molten. The Eye,
Luke. The Eye Sulphuric and Casual.'

Luke looks up, pleased and affrighted at the same time. He hears my words
enter into his tight-skinned brain, all glad and hapless at one and the same time.
'Matthew?' he asks. 'Matthew? Is that you?' And I am all gung-ho
to please him with my holy, vocal spirit, and I am all gung-ho to cherish every
moment of our words together.
'The Eye, Luke,' I say. 'The Eye stands over your head.
The Eye, Luke. The Eye goes on forever.'

And Luke grins a broad grin and makes a pact to speak to me often,
he makes a pact to serve me, even in His twilight days..
'Luke! Is that you? Luke? Can it really be you?'

It is the Nurse. She is standing in the darkened corner of the ward,
grimacing and slithering at Luke's shaved luminous face.
'The Eye, Nurse,' he says. 'The Eye Portentous and Molten.
The Eye, Nurse,' he says. The Eye goes on forever.'

chapter 30: THE NURSE

He comes into my sight and glares. He is looking out beyond me now,
because he is all that remains. 'Fresh Hope,' I say. 'Fresh Hope.' But he is
not longer mine. Now he is sane. And then the words will curve through the trees,
empty with waiting, saying 'Fresh Hope' is dead and gone.

I heard that Matthew was dead but still alive. I wish I had the time to make him
die completely. It is because he still alive, there where the heavens are,
that soon, so soon, too soon, Luke shall take his place.

Now he begins to say it. 'Fresh Hope is over. Fresh Hope is never to come
again.' That's what they mean by the ravelling of time: the acrimony and the
agony and the sadness that stretches out for ever, the hard, sharded masquerade
in which lie the outrageous depths of murder and murders done.

Luke's head turns slowly as I approach him, his bright, clean, shaven, composed
face following my unravelling as if it were all a curving film; beside the back of
Matthew's bloodied bed the Warden sits, glaring straight ahead.

The words run out of Luke's eyes; they scutter to pinpoint truth. They begin at
my breasts and rise above my face, and then the Eye Portentous is curdled about
me like a halo. Suppose I tell him what I did. He will not do what I say.
Doesn't he know that I loved Him?

Once I reach his standing place, a Void of speechless words rushes under me.
I see Matthew rise from out the Void and go into my brain, and strike me with
the knife I recalled so well, the blood gushing, hustling like a stream I cannot

For he won't do a thing I say. He always didn't. I cannot persuade him from taking
Matthew's place. God knows I can't. Suppose I say 'Fresh Hope is endless'?
This is the time for me to die.

When I used to sleep with Luke I had a nightmare. Once I thought I was awake
but sleeping at the same time, and I could not lash out, and I just couldn't cry.
I am a girl who cannot even care to think. I am a girl who cannot even begin
to think and feel like Luke should. And it was then I knew that something like a
great wind was blowing over me and Mark and John; something like a great
zephyr chaffering us into our own separate and intimate dooms; something
like a great breeze rasping us all into Luke's keen eyes, who was Matthew
now, who was Matthew altogether.

It blows cool out in the yard, a sad steady sonorous sound. 'Fresh Hope.
Fresh Hope is no more. Fresh Hope. Fresh Hope is over.' And it is then that
I know that, for all their Holy names, Matthew was the only really Holy one
'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.

Sometimes a log will get stuck in a river. Sometimes a cup will break in two and
sink. Sometimes, a friend will return as a complete stranger. Other times, a log
will stuck in the coils of a scream.
'Why did you do it, Nurse?' Mr. Luke says.
'Why did you do it, Nurse?' Mr. Matthew says.
And it was then that I realised Mr. Matthew was still undead, was still living
and lingering at some pinpoint above the earth.

And Mr. Luke is looking at me. He doesn't say anything; just looks at me
with those newly sane eyes of His. I always said He'd get well again. I always
said He'd survive the turmoil and the grieving and return to us revived.
'Fresh Hope,' the Nurse says. 'Fresh Hope is over.'
'Fresh Hope,' says Mr. Luke. 'Fresh Hope never stood a chance.
And I am hearing Matthew speak Mr. Luke's words, am hearing him push
the words into Mr. Luke's ecstatic mouth; I am hearing the whole damned
world coil and pour into and from the mouth of the one I used to love
so very dear.
'Look, Nurse,' I say. But she isn't listening to a thing. Her eyes
are out there, glittering and pandering to the only thing she ever knew -
the length and the breadth land itself.
'Fresh Hope,' Mr. Luke says, 'Fresh Hope is over. Fresh Hope
is an Eye Portentous and Molten. Fresh Hope has gone.' And I see the Nurse
curl up inside. I see the Nurse reach out for the cups with a fist of angry
measure. I see the cups breaking break up into a zillion shards, fruitless and
shattering into Oblivion.

'The Eye,' says Mr. Luke. 'The Eye is Forever. The Eye? May God
save Him. I see He has become Matthew. I see that Luke is saner than any I ever
I have seen, and I do not whether to turn or spin or rock or wail or bemoan
the very nature of madness itself; do not know whether to foam or shake at the
very mad nature of the sounds and their furies themselves.

'Fresh Hope,' the Nurse says, 'Fresh Hope.' But I am all too caught
up in Mr. Luke's clean-shaved luminous face and head to even begin to reach
out and calm Love down.

chapter 32:MATTHEW

He stands there, glaring at the Warden, his sane face suffused up to and beyond
the shaven beauty of his head. The winter when he was admitted, he took to a spell
of sleeping. Just nineteen, and he chose to slide away into sleep for many an hour
on end, riding and writhing without a single care in the world.

And now the Nurse looks round and up; if she could see a little further, she'd see
me in all my angelic glory, licked clean from the voices, licked clean from the
faces, licked clean from every bad thing ever to happen to those who mill and
and turn the sullen earth awry.
'Fresh Hope', she says. 'Fresh Hope is over. Fresh Hope. Fresh Hope,
Fresh Hope.'

And I am smiling to my very insides, hearing her crawl and creel like the fully
grown murderer she really is.
'The Eye, Nurse,' says Luke. 'The Eye is all Constraining and Infinite.
The Eye, Nurse. The Eye. The Eye is all Invigorating and Vast.'

And I can the Nurse crawl and crawl all the more, clad as she is in her crimplened
connivances. A bead of sweat forms on her upper lip and rains down her painted
'Fresh Hope,' she says. 'Fresh Hope.'
And the Warden comes by her creeling form, up to her crawling, creeling
majesty, and pokes her hard in her left eye.
'Fresh Hope,' she says. 'Fresh Hope is gone.'
Clutching her eye as if the whole thing was a mortal wounding, or else a fatality.

John moves in from the shadow. Mark follows him, silently, invisibly, worm-like
and shrouded.
'Matthew?' they ask, 'Matthew? We know you can hear us. We know
you are still undead and thinking. 'We know!' and I go ahead to shaft words
into their heads, as I have always done, as I have ever and ever been one to
do. 'The Eye,' I make them say. 'The Eye is all Multisonous and Mutinous.'
'The Eye', I make them say, is all Accusing and Corrective.

And the whole lot of them let out long wails and screams. Then the whole
lot of them skirl and crave and croon for my affections.
'The Eye,' Luke says to them. 'The Eye will control you for
the rest of your live long days.'

And I see and hear it all, and I hear and see Luke laughing, and I see and hear
John bawl, and I hear and see Mark taking swift breaths into his green and
flopping mouth, with the Nurse and the Warden following on in mute and
precisioned gestations of doom.

Then the sun begins to come up from the earth's dread base. Through the Ward's
windows, light filters and flotsams into the dark wound of the entire mad scene.
Light flocks, light fidgets, light entrails and drips deep into the innermost
recesses of this place I used to call my home.
'It's not you who died, Nurse,' Luke says. 'It's not you that died, Mark.
It's not you that died, John'. And then he reaches out and strikes the Nurse hard
across his face, as if all he ever wanted to do was to suffice my bidding, to do
whatever I ever intended or got round to saying.

And Luke's sane face looks out. And Mark's mad face looks down. And Luke's
sane face looks out. And John's mad face looks at the sad bad face of the Nurse,
onwards towards the succumbing wastes of the Warden's clam-shut eyes.
'The Eye,' Luke says, 'Is Infinite.'

chapter 33: LUKE

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1. Stare madness in the face.
2. Say the right sort of words.
3. Tell insanity its place.
4. Say the Eye is the place of the Lord.
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1.Tell insanity its place.
2. Stare madness in the face.
3. Say the right sort of words.
4. Say The Eye, The Eye is all and all.
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me.
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that -.-

chapter 34: JOHN

So he finally got us all to say what we wanted, and he and the Lord above
and all the rest of us got up from our beds and spoke his words alone. But
even when we were saying the words he kept on looking down, as if he thought
maybe, once he was finally on the other side, the whole mad thing would sort
of explode and he would find himself back on the earth again lying down in his
bed with us all plotting against Him.
'We shouldn't have killed him,' Mark says, what with that Luke sane
and smiling and swathing us all, and that Nurse saying 'Fresh Hope is gone,' and
the Warden breaking his cups, one by one. But the whole thing was still whole:
you could tell that by the way we were all swaggering and wailing like new born
girls and boys: just like that time when Luke slept for days and days and we all
thought he was dead. And then that Eye scraping and bumping at the very base
of out brains, tumbling and sundering onwards into the big black skull of God.
'We shouldn't killed him,' says Mark. 'If we hadn't killed him, he
wouldn't be doing his bidding at all.'

And that Nurse saying 'Fresh Hope' has gone and that Warden breaking cups
and Mark and me praying and singing for better, saner things.
It was as if we had looked up to the Cross, up out of the mire
into the wide blue spaces that divide the mad from the real. It was as if Luke
had come to back from the dead and was guiding us to the Cross he had
cried on, which was Matthew, which was the only Saviour we really knew.
'Fresh Hope,' the Nurse says, 'Fresh Hope has gone.
'Fresh Hope,' never existed' says Luke. 'Fresh Hope was never
in the picture.
And I'll be damned if it wasn't like we had all come from the dead, just for a
moment, to see the whole rotten thing happening. 'The Eye won't hurt you,'
he says, 'The Eye will only judge you.' And we are all here, back from the
dead, looking into it as if it were the last Holy thing on earth, all glaring
and looking as that horrid Nurse crawls and creels into infinite Oblivion.

When I was a boy, I looked back at my Father. It was as if it was him
who was standing above us all. The further I looked back, the more it seemed
he was standing until I was altogether a baby again in the arms of the broad
and briaring world, because the more one may look round the more the need
to be small again and the more the smallness the more the need to be a baby
in the arms of the hapless world once more.

'Fresh Hope. Fresh Hope has gone. Fresh Hope. Fresh..'

And I hear Matthew speaking into my ears, telling me to avenge his lonely
end. I hear Him say that the Eye is all Multisonous and Wonderful and must
be obeyed until the very very end. And I know that Luke can hear as well.
And I know that the Warden can hear clearly that only the Nurse is left
behind in all her weeping voracity; only the Nurse is numbed to the words
being spoken again and again and again.
'I give my word, Mr. Matthew,' the Warden says. 'I give you
my solemn word that it shall be done.'
But I am so wrapped up in Matthew's mind that I do not care to hear the
Warden murmuring and mumbling to his fat little self. I am so wrapped up
in Matthew's mind that I do not see sane Luke himself grab the Nurse by
the hair; do not see sane Luke himself drag the Nurse into the depths of
the Eye itself, into the very epicentre of the Eye All Portentous And
Rolling, into the Eye that governs and mothers and smothers and judges
every soul in this world, every soul remaining when de Lord speaks
and the thunder cracks and the venal lightning itself tumbles into
the pinpoint of the Sulphurous, telekinetic dark Void.
'Fresh Hope,' the Nurse says, 'Fresh Hope is dead and gone.
And I know at that instant that the will of the Eye will be done.


chapter 35: MARK

Before us all the thick dark current of the Eye runs smooth. It talks up to us
in a resonative tone, both myriad and ceaseless. Its mellow surface, dimpled and
calmly opened wide, swirls along our minds, travelling like an instant instinct, both
silent and impermeable, through the words we say and on into the sonorous
infinities that shape us.

The Nurse crawls and creels amid the Eye's centre and round about the vision
of Matthew above, spumed with gyring oaths, lathering like a driven horse,
altogether wired to the dark and molten radio within. Through the undergrowth
outside the sun goes down with a plaintive sound, a musing, ruling, puling sound;
in it the wydning clouds and rainbows lean down upon us before a tiny, nifty
grail of subterfuge, swailing without inflection into the softening maw of the Eye
above our heads, above us all.

Luke and I stand together; the Warden sits by Matthew's bloodied body, looking
for all the world like a spectrous spot on the moon. The Nurse is trembling, her eyes
rolling wild and ladyless in her big fat face, her breathing stentorious and groaning.
Luke stands erect and proud, poised and quiet, steady and alert, sane and
powerful, looking directly into the Eye and at the Vision of Matthew above.
John's face is less composed; he and I look at one another with long scalding
looks, looks that lunge deeply away from the Eye, then once more up into its
Portentous gaze. Unimpeded, we stare this way and that until, tired from our
mutinous appraisal or our normal cellves, we foam deep within and vie for
success in the pinpoint pupil of the Eye itself.
'I think the Eye will Judge her well,' the Warden says.
'It will Judge her as only Matthew can,' Luke says.
'I think the Eye was meant to receive us this way.
It was all appointed by some fateful body, sky-high and burning,
somewhere, some time,' The Warden replies.
'I think you're right,' Luke says. 'But, remember, the Eye is
all Portentous and Multisonous. It is vital to never ever forget that simple,
precious fact.'

And I would never have got this far if it hadn't been for Matthew. I realise
then and there that Matthew and the Eye are the all and all reason why I came
and saw and conquered this earth from start to leavened finish.

The Nurse looks up quickly and vanishes into the Eye. Leaning this way and
that, John and the Warden stare at her vanishing then take a long and lingering
glance at Luke, who now stands with His sane arms folded and furled about
His shaven body. And then I hear Matthew speak in my mind. I notice the whole
of us hearing Him at once realise that there is truly only one God.
'The Eye shall Judge,' he says. 'The Eye shall Accuse and Justify and
Contend a Purpose to it All.'

And I see the epicentre of the Eye gestate and burn in the thralling blackness;
I see the Eye mutate and scrawl, open and close, dictate and freeze entirely,
with its big holy dark pupil flicking and licking from side to molten side in the
very depths of a Cup that pours and bathes and drowns and summons birth to
the very very surface of the molten morassing earth.

The Warden does not look at me. His face is in profile, all fat and lumpy. 'If I'd
just seen it coming, as I did, I'd never come here at all,' he says, making as much
sense as a fully grown maniac, or else a broken whore.

And then it happens. From the very pinpoint centre of the Eye and from the very
pinpoint centre of the Vision of Matthew, the Nurse appears to us all, as if
compelled by an energy beyond imagining, as if compelled by Gravity
distilled and gracefully wild, as if she were floating on the Ultimate contention of
black and white, white and black, from pallor to pallor, or else from natal gloom.
'Well, may God bless and Save us All,' the Warden says.
'She has surely been Judged by de Lord Hisself,' says John.
'She's been Judged by the Eye and the Eye alone,' Luke answers,
proud in His sanity, proud and keen to be heard by the Vision of Matthew above,
proud to be heard by us all.

And the Nurse falls to earth with a face of haggard chalk. Her hair, what's left of
it, is old and cancer-brittle, wasted and flailing in the midnight breeze; her body
anorexic and esculent, withered and caustic upon the Eye, as if propelled by a
wheezing groaning grampus of a True Soul, acrid and burning in the very depths
of cold age itself.
'Luke,' she croaks. 'Luke, don't you know me? It's your Mother, Luke.
I say that you must know me?'
And Luke stoops down and helps the Nurse to her feet, no longer an orphan and
no longer a mad man at all, not in any sense of de Word, not in any sense of de Word,
not in any sense of the live long days we lead from day to trendless day, night to
trendless night, dawn to trendless dawn. Never.

chapter 36: THE NURSE

'Fresh Hope,' I said, 'Fresh Hope.' But the Eye began to clasp me, the Eye began to
moil and curl and break upon my mind like a full blown kiss of matrimony.
'The Eye,' Luke said. 'The Eye shall Judge you well.
And I was inflamed into the depths of Matthew's soul, scrawled and pitched upon
the centre-point of the Eye itself, as if my whole assailing life had built up to it,
as if the whole of all I'd ever done or said was affixed to this one thing.
'The Eye,' Luke says. 'The Eye shall Judge you. The Eye. The Eye
Portentous and Sulphuric shall...'
But I was too engrossed in the Eye itself to hear any more, too torn and spattered
and held by the Soul of Matthew himself to escape the tirade of sacrosanct
Judgement that was to be scoured upon me.

'Nurse,' a voice said, 'Nurse'. And I listened as the voice grew to a
crescendo of eager vibes, crooning and caressing the whole of my wicked
womanhood like a fully grown man or devil, spiralling and concoursing along
my flailing veins like a horn of pure magicality, or a coronet of headless, mindless,
bejewelled ease.
'Nurse,' the voice said, 'Nurse? Murderer of God and mutilator of life
itself. Nurse, the Act of the Eye is to reform you into the ideal machination of
Creation. The Act of the Eye is to re-mould you in the form that can only
empower you with lasting effusions of creativity and Time. The Act of the Eye
But my heart was leaning against the Voice, my heart was leaning
towards the roaring that compelled me, myself and I on into an infirm flux
that could only cast me downwards into the mire that Love is, into the mire
that Life can only be, into the mire, the mire Portentous and All-Mastering
and Mad, into the mire of Motherhood and Aridity.
'May the Lord bless us all,' the Warden said. 'She's been Judged
as much as a bird must Fall.

And it was then that I felt Luke pick me up into his arms, it was then that I
felt my bones crack and my soul reel, my hairs creek and my heart beat coldly,
my mind champ and my brain slow down to Nil. It was then that I was Luke's
lost, long past productive Mother, it was then that I became the final and utmost
effigy of Creation known to Man; the effigy of deadly death and deceit itself.

chapter 37: THE WARDEN

Cooked and eaten, cooked and eaten, the Nurse has been cooked and eaten. Turned
from the sun, turned up from the Eye, burned and eaten by the fluttering grace of Mr.
Matthew's mad mouth itself. Cooked and damned well eaten, cooked and swallowed
like a cup of broth, contagious and open, she, the Nurse, like Luke's mother, has been
cooked and carved and eaten up like so much perfidious dust on as sliding moon.
'And it is god,' I say, 'Good that good that she has been cooked and carved and swallowed
by the very thing I always said would make my boys all well and normal again
- by the circumflex of doom climbing up from the lids of Death as if into something as
luminous as an Eye, Portentous and Sulphuric now and always and ever and ever and
ever. Never. For that is what Lord Matthew says, and Matthew is Luke, and Luke is
Matthew, and now are no longer 'Mister' this and that. No! Now they are apostles
of the biggest Lord around, apostles of the Eye, all Mutinous and Judging and
Swathing as no other Eye may be, as no vessel of Life may burn, as no other Knighted
Missive of Sight may take the cradles and around the Holy, magic, minaretted spiel
that ties time's tides to birth. No.

chapter 38: MATTHEW

The Nurse lies on her back on Luke's bed, her head raised on a rolled pair of trousers.
Her eyes are closed, her face is grey, her hair impassioned by a smooth and creaking
passionlessness that rumbles down over her chin like a moil of complete
subjectivity. Her face appears sunken, sagging from the bony ridges of her eye-sockets,
nose and gums, as if the Eye had aimed to tear away her teeth, set in stinking lungs,
are parted away from their epicentre as if she had been born laughing and knew no other
way to be. She lies stick-thin amid the clothes of the bed, with a minute pool of spewtum
flotsamming down from the dead corner of her shrivelled mouth and on into infinite,
intimate, sacrosanct subterfuge.

Luke approaches. He has the look of a lion tamer about him, all red and big and blaring
in the depths of his shaven skull, ideal and pompously enclosed in a direct aroma of
beast and Man, Man and Beast, encaged prophesy and longing. He goes up to the Nurse
and holds His hands over her face, as if trying to crush the Life out of her.
'The Eye says,' he whines, 'The Eye says, the Eye says that you must rot
upon the Pall before too long. The Eye says...'
And this is what you I have always wanted Him to say. This is what I have always toiled
and scourged for on all these long and speechless nights when I have toyed with Creation
and suffered the full and vast blows of Creativity and Impudence and Creativity. Now that I
am without a Body, though, now that I am free to say what I damned well want, Luke's words
seem all the more rejoiceable and worthy.
'Matthew says,' says Luke. 'Matthew says you were a Nurse once, but now are
living proof of unnurse like strictures and behaviours. Matthew says, Matthew says that
you are my Mother, No Man's Mother, Mother of Griefs and Servilities, MOTHER!'

But then I stop listening. There seems to be a word or two out of kilter with my own.
There seems to be a few murmurs that subtract from my intentions and keel along a
sunrise of pure madness, and I could never have conceived or whilst either alive or
'Luke,' I say, 'Luke, the time is not yet. The time is later. Your Mother need
not die yet.'
'But she left me, Lord,' Luke replies. 'She left me like a wild loose seed
in the steeds of the earth when I was just a boy. For what other use is she but dying
and death itself? You tell me, Lord. You tell me!'
'Cooked and eaten,' I answer, 'Cooked and eaten. The Nurse has been
cooked and eaten. For the meantime, let her cooked and eaten soul wring true with
the lie of Life; at least for a little while, or else some longer desultory spell.
And Luke lets go of his Mother's face, doubtless recalling the times when she was
a Nurse, His Nurse, foaming and fumbling in the bed of misted nights, as is his
right to do, as is his one full purpose in coming home to us all; that is, to recall his
whole life through my eyes and my eyes alone, or else through the depths of the
Eye Portentous itself.
'I'll let you rest awhile,' He says, then floats off into the depths of the
Wards, smiling his sane smile an clicking his sane fingers as if he knew the whole
circus of the Mind.
'Circuses instead of bread,' the Nurse croaks.
'Circuses instead of bread.'
And it was then that I knew she was my one last hope of whipping the Lot of them
to rights. It was then that I saw the Eye Portentous itself spelling out the whole
damned way forwards.

chapter 39: THE WARDEN

The Nurse has been cooked and eaten. The Nurse is No Man's Mother. The Nurse
has been cooked and eaten. The Nurse is No Man's Mother. The Nurse has been
cooked and eaten. The Nurse is No Man's Mother. The Nurse has been cooked and
eaten. The Nurse...

chapter 40: JOHN

One day we had been talking. He had never been truly religious, not even after that time
when Luke went through His spell of near-dead sleeping, not even after He had gone
quite mad inside with the vanity of his mortal heart flailing after Judgement.
'God gave us life to comfort our Human Lot,' he said, 'His love was conceived
by many Gods and Lords to ensure we would not stray from the burthen that is the all
and all of Faith and Hope and Wonder.'
And it was then that realised Matthew was more of a sinner than any of us, and
I said, 'I believe He gave us the gift of Life in order that we might raise our voices in His
undying praise.' Because I was thinking there is more sin in Him than could ever be
possibly defined. And He said, 'Day by day, we make the world, there is no Fate in Truth,
just comparison and Justice,' and I said, 'Who are you to Judge the Nature of Fate
without a single prayer to God? Who are You to negate the matter and Mana of Fate
hisself? It is the Lord's part to Judge us, not yours; for it is ours to praise Him in all His
devious holy reverence, to stand atoned by His every raped Word.'

Because it is not us who can Judge our sins; not ours to sense the sins in others' eyes. He
had had a hard life, but so does every eternal mad man. Yet you'd think from the way he
talked that he knew more about sin and salutation than any Lord above, and that's not
saying anything.

And now He is undead above us, controlling our whims and dictums like a fully grown
Lord himself, with Luke doing His bidding and that damned Eye unforming and
reinforming all of us under the guise of an ancient Mother. And it was not as if I hadn't
told Luke His Mother would come back one day, but even I could not have guessed
what form she would come in or whatever.
'The Eye has judged her,' the Warden says, 'The Eye Portentous and All-
Consuming has seen into things and made them well again.'

But I just can't conceive as to why the Nurse was Judged in this way. I hear Matthew
speaking in my mind, telling me that Final Act is always then most enterprising and
magical, but I can only fear the Final Act, since it has yet to come and can only be
a surprise to us all, the utmost Lord included.

'Demons shall have no Eminence,' John said. 'Nothing is the Cross and nothing will
be the all and all of Salvation. Nothing will save us from the water and the fire. Nothing
will save us from Nothingness itself, as much as a god bird must fall.'
And I hear Him speaking at night, chattering and curdling my soul as if
He had always known everything, as if He had been ordained to die and take control
of us all in this hymnal mad way.
'I have always controlled you, John,' He says. 'I have ever controlled
the Lot of you.'

And it is then that I believe we are focally doomed, one and all, to a parity of madness
we have yet to even receive. It is then that I realise Matthew, undead as he is above us,
has a plan that will raze this place of Refuge to the turnturtle ground, and I feel hollow
inside for seeing it. It is then that I see Luke's Mother, who was once the Nurse, who was
at once an Idyll of birthless beauty, sprawling over my aching mind with the sexual
voracity of a twisted root of whipped seed. It is then that I feel my manhood go whisking
away into Servility, into a dark and ashen Void of Godless Gods and slittering, scuttering
fairies and, most of all, mad birds searing and wailing upon the demon-deep.

chapter 41: THE EYE

In the early evening when Matthew was foaming and the last voice had laid him bereft
with a little pop and a snicker, instead of going to Heaven I would go up to the hill to
the place when I could be quiet and hateful. It would be quiet then, what with the Warden
counting his cups and the sun slanting shyly through the trees and the keen quiet swaddlings
of the damp and rotten beds, and the new-made burning keys; especially in the early
evening, for it was far more quiet and rotting then.
I could recall how my Father used to say that the reason for living was to
prepare to kill and be killed, and how the reason for the killing was to set out to kill. And
when I could look down on them, day after day, my thick, rich eyelid used to clamp shut
and cry. And the blood was deranged and the derangement was bleeding and each sight
I saw was both deranged and bleeding, and to think that this all seemed to be the only
way to I could ever get ready to kill and be killed. And I would glare at them through
the blood and derangement, glare at them and sigh.
And so I possessed Matthew. I saw Him pass beneath me five or six times
before I learned He was the one who could serve my dreams. I noticed then how I was
beginning to speak with His Mind - a hoarse and poetic voice that shrilled through the brains
of those around Him. And so it was that He was already ideal for my dreams, who had
spent so long in the clouds that I was screaming to be set free.

In the early evening it was the quietest. Sometimes I thought that I could not bear it,
hanging there looking down on the quiet, with the voices going North and South,
and their fierce quadrophonics blaring and bursting along me, and during the day it
would seem as though I just couldn't wait for the last mind to snap in two so that I
could fall to earth and caress them all. And so when I looked down on Matthew -
His eyes round and His mind chattering - I was wholly discerned and capable of
making de Lord mine alone and said, 'If You can hear me, say "Portentous". If You
can hear me, say I am "Sulphuric and Molten".'
'I hear you,' he said. Then it said it again, suddenly and writhing, as if I
had struck Him with His holy penknife.
And so it was that I took Matthew on and made Him a servant of my
dreams. So it was that I carved a little second-sight from Him and made it my
own, both gabbling and gracing myself with what I had always wanted - power and
power alone - power both multisonous and prospective, power both poetic and

And then He died. He did not know he was dead. I would lie above Him in the dark,
hearing the darkness spewing and spielling Words and more Words into His
foaming head. It was not then that He died for real, but then that He died inside,
lonely and loathesome in the only way a Poet can be; in the purest ebb of de Word
itself, God help Him.
And months went by. I believed and I knew that I had found it.
Believed and knew that I had found the route to absolute freedom. I was ready to
kill and be killed, ready to hear the terrible blood, and the red and bitter blood boil
up and out of the land, and into my very own enpupiled centre. I would control and
shape and make the wide world mine, first getting Him to to do this, thence getting
Him to do that, then getting all the others - John and Mark and Luke and the Warden
and the Nurse - to follow through with all the things He had done. I would look
down at them and think of them as clothes I had to wear in the face of the world,
clothes I could steadily discard once things reached their patent god-fruition.

And it was then that God died for a second time. This time, for real and certain. I
hid nothing from Him. I tried to deceive Him not at all. For I knew this second and
final God-death would carry me up to the very pinnacles of this holy milky world,
and thereby up and into Heaven, unbound and pinched by decorous babel-flame. And
I knew that when God had formed me and fawned me and cast me down from His
face He had intended this murderous blind destiny for me, and it felt good to feel so
charmed and blessed by the emptied bible Fall.

My Father said that the reason for living is to prepare to kill and be killed. I knew
from that moment on that Matthew's second and final death was the fruition of
God's killer smile. I knew them, as the Nurse became Luke's Mother, as the Mother
became my zeal, as the zeal became my blinding purpose; that my Father's Word
were good and the goodness of them shined and the way they shined was good and
the goodness of it all was both and rotting in my Father's House where the final
fatality of the bloodied sun caused rape to thral like Heaven.

chapter 42: THE NURSE

Circuses instead of bread. Shows instead of nourishment. Pie-eyed with glitz and
glamour in the place of health. The Eye. The Eye Portentous and Clamouring. The Eye
that dictates poems in the place of zeal. And I am not coming down now. And I am
lying deep in dirt's bedclothes wailing. And I am contending with acrid, ancient Maternity.
And I upturning tears and dreams for the sake of the one I had just let go. And
I upturning tears and dreams for the sake of Matthew, whose Vision sires above us all, whose
glowering, glistering waste of a Face spits words at us for all the live long day, as if He were
all there could ever be to the hymns and a psalms of long dead utmost God. And I unnurse
like now. And I lying here a impossible Mumma. And I unnurse like now. And I laying
here like a Mudder. And I a discernment of Luke's gene-pools. And I the Incestuous,
relentlessly dying scar on the stella face of the walled wards.
'You live a while yet. You live a time yet. But you must take it all,' Luke's
dismembering stotto voice says, all without words, and all in the Wake of Matthew
saying it, all without words and all and all a great fatal sex-mistake.

And I remember when I dreamt I was awake. And I remember when I had the nightmares
of all my nursing life. And I remember when I gave all I had into not moving, not
touching, not seeing or feeling any of my Senses work or gyre. I remember the roughness
of Luke's once mad hands and face, and I weep to remember until the tears as are
sickening and the sickness of it all as old as Mother Time herself.
'You live a while yet,' Luke says.
'You live a while yet,' Matthew says.
'You live a while yet,' the Warden says.

And so too do the rest of them. Both Mark and John and the Eye say it, too, for all
the world as if they had waited all their lives for this mad moment to arrive.

Circuses instead of bread. Shows instead of nourishment. Pie-eyed glitz and glamour
in the place of health. And the Eye. The Eye both Portentous and Sulphuric
glistening down from Matthew's bloodied hands as if the show were all that
mattered in the whole wild world of Infirmity and Defloweration.
And I realise that Matthew has a plan. And I realise that Matthew has a
gulf in His undead skull that will soon be filled with evil, perverse themes and
'Matthew!' I say, 'Matthew! What's to become of me? Matthew!
What are you willing us all to do?'
And he laughs his vilesome laugh of dictation and plunges a picture of His
improbable wife days deep into my withering Soul. 'See! See what a good maniac
I really am. SEE!'

Circuses instead of bread. Shows instead of nourishment. Pie-eyed glitz and glamour
in the place of health. Circuses instead of bread. Circuses instead of lead.
'You live a while yet. You live just for a little while,' Luke says, with
Matthew saying it, too, with all of them saying it as if they've never said anything
in their whole hock-nosed damnable lives.

And it is then that Matthew climbs into my body. I feel His undead soul fold around
and down inside my acid figure. 'What is your plan?' I hiss. 'What is your
sacred plan?' But He fails to say the words until I am sitting dead upright in bed,
my eyes blaring and my whole being suffused with a new and magic energy.
'You live awhile,' Matthew laughs. 'You live a livid while.' His voice
deep within my mind and all His newly found words skittling off my slackened
teeth and tongue.
'Matthew?!' Luke yells. 'Matthew!? What is it?' But Matthew
is within me, scraping at the walls of my soft womb, conniving in the depths of
my clean-pressed brain, scourging me of my new found form of shrift age and
aridity, forcing me up on to my coaxed feet at a speed beyond reckoning and
on, on into the Maw that is, if only for a painted moment, the depths of deadliness

chapter 43: THE WARDEN

This Nurse is cooked and eaten. The Nurse is cooked and eaten. First she was
the Nurse, then she was Luke's Mother,
now she is Matthew undead and wailing. The Nurse is cooked and eaten.
The Nurse is cooked and eaten. First she was a Girl, now she is a Man.
The Nurse is cooked and eaten. The Nurse was once a cup, now she is a sphere
rotating around this blanched earth, like a fully grown ship of animal sails.

The Nurse is cooked and eaten.

chapter 44: LUKE

It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me
1. Go mad again.
2. Lose my Mother's death.
3. Go mad again.
4. Go mad again.
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me -
1. Lose my Mother's death.
2. Go mad again.
3. Go mad again.
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me -
It was Matthew, it was Matthew that made me -
It was Judas Jesus Escariot Matthew who...!

chapter 45: MATTHEW

When I first walked in the Nurse's body, it felt very good. The first thing I noticed was
the lack of voices and visions, the second that all sexual desire was contained and
beyond perception. For when I first walked in the Nurse's body, I knew that the Eye
had finally come to rest and that all-evolving Judgements and Epitaphs from then on
would be both good and Portentous. And it was the physicality that spoke to me.
Although the body I walked in was outwardly withered and old, inwardly it was a
power-plant of just waiting to be driven to the fullest; to be gestated and gestured through
miles and miles of actions and strengths without for a moment becoming needy of medication
or needy of sleep or needy of any release but that which I directed it to have, that which I
desired. For when I first walked in the Nurse's body I was envigoured with a new set
paths, paths such as a Shaman might have been thinking, such as an Absolouter Poet
might yearn and whine for.
'Matthew?! What is this?' Luke said.
But I was now suffused with a new talent for speaking with the tongue and a did not give
him words with my mind, did not even for a moment provide him Him with my minds,
did not even for a moment provide Him with a mental, totured answer.
'So, this is the doom devised for us. This is the madness that must become us,'
John said, blinking wildly at the space left between the body I was in and the body
I had once called my own.
'This is no doom,' I said, 'This is the final call of creativity I have always
yearned to learn and unfold.'
'This,' I said, 'Is God's destiny.'
And with that I strode across the Ward and pulled John from His dirtied knees,
with that I ran across the barren land that is passion and madness and coucoursed
John into a shrill and ecstatic hug of devilry that burned and briared and jarred every bone
in His body till he lay, exhausted on the shadowy floor, less mad then concurring with
every whim and dicta the Eye and I had ever ever had.

'Nurse?!' the Warden yelled, as if denying what He already knew.
'Nurse?!' He yelled, 'Are you God Matthew now? Now that you are
no longer Lord Luke's mad Mamma?'
And I cursed Him for all His solitary holy ignorance, and I cursed Him for His
ignorant solitude, and I cursed Him for His lack of ingenuity, as I cursed them all for
their lack of faith in metamorphosis and what it could do for the manic man within.
And it was then that I left the Ward, with Mark and Luke and
John and the Warden scuttering after me into the darksome chasm of the Hill, where
I chose to go, where I chose to fill my lungs with hair, where I knew that I would find
the tools I needed for the Final Act, my Final, Ecstatic head-journey.
'The Eye shall Judge us!' I said. 'The Eye Portentous shall Judge us all! For
I am the Eye, for I am the acrid Mother of all mind-curations, and I shall make the
plane planet Earth explain the utmost unsunny love-reasons for my Fall!'

And I heard the hilltop weeping, and I heard the Asylum rock and rile, and I heard
the Eye speak Eyeless words; and I knew, I knew then that love's Portent was truly
upon us.


chapter 46: MARK

By the time I had given Him the benefit of my praise and by the time I had revered
Him as undead and living, He was damned well back on this world giving ten to the
dozen in the Nurse's newfound body. Reviling and ranting He was, saying how he
didn't like this and how He didn't want that and how the Eye had to make every which
way that we thought or even spoke.
'You could at least tell us what you want,' I said. 'You could at least ease
our minds with the matter at hand, whatever it is.'

The He began to bang His malformed chest, looking at me as if it were me who
could foretell the future, when all the time I knew that as well as any it would be Him
who do the same, lithe and free from His sadness as He now damned well was.
'You could at least tell us,' I said, attempting to glare at the malformed and
ancient body He had taken on, knowing that He was intending to to go and search
the hill for gifts, knowing that He was intending to find the source of His Final Act
in the wealth of the hill itself, sloping and vast as it was.
'But You could at least give us an inkling,' I said.
'We could all do with some sense to it all at this juncture, we really could.'

Maybe He was thinking if He had just stayed up there above us and had stayed
listening to all our wide-eyed promises, He would have remained safe as the Lord
Himself; maybe He was thinking that His newfound physicality was a burden
upon Him, but somehow I can only doubt it. It seemed more like to me that He
was savouring every second of His newfound litheness; that He was snuggling
right down into it like a baby with a blanket, or so it damned well seemed.
'I thank you,' He said. 'But I am sure of my purpose here. I and the Eye
shall pass judgement here on this hill, withered bodies included. I and the Eye shall
find fuel for our most Final, Magical Tragic Act as much as a bird must fall, as much
as Jesus never or ever broke the magic bread.'

And it was then that I felt the fear of God rattle up and through my heart and bones.
It was then that I realised it was all out our mad hands and in those of reborn
Matthew Himself. I had given my praise to Matthew when He was an undead
spectre, but now He was back on earth, I felt nothing but terror and revulsion.
But I remember when I was first admitted. Luke was asleep and John
was weeping. The Warden had gone down below the hill for more cups. And I, I
was thinking of my long-lost wife, erect and mutinous in the dark-bellied silence
of my best bed. Yes, I can't help but remember.

'What judgement do you offer?' I said suddenly.
'What in Hell's name do you want from us?'

And it was then that I felt as helpless as any man may feel. It was then I perceived
the dark madness ahead as a spiral of endurance that could only strike me
into further madnesses, such as psychosis in its most sunderise and tyranical form.
Once I had called Matthew 'Lord'. Once I had called Him an 'Angel'. Now I thought
of Him as an untreated 'Devil' ravaging in the physical and vegetable earth.
'I offer the judgement that the hill may offer. Matthew said. 'I offer
judgement that the hidden things on this bluff offer to one and all. And I was so got
up in my fear that I was furious. I was so ready to strike myself down that I was both
raging and roaring against the deeps into something curiously fractured, into
something altogether wrought from the broken and absolute Heavens above.

And now the timewas nigh on midnight, and me and Luke and John and the Warden
were growing icy cold in the gothic mental blast.
'I do not like,' the Warden said.
'I do not like,' said John.
'I do not like,' Luke said.
And I followed on from them, saying the same, saying it all, and wallowing in the
majesty of our agreement as much as if to say, 'Matthew? Nurse? Mother? Eye?
None of this us want to die!'

And I remembered when Luke had his spell of sleeping, and I remember when all
stood round wondering whether he was alive or dead, and I remember when we were
comfortable in our separate gyring madnesses, and it is then that I realise Matthew is here
to stop the ebbs and flows of progress, what with His newfound and ancient form about
Him. 'Yes, Matthew,' I thought, 'You are here to bring down the moon.'
'I shall search the hill for judgement,' He says. And it is then that the world,
multitudinous as it is, plunges us collectively into the Void of deathless dark itself,
mighty in its awesome blackness.

chapter 47: JESUS

So when I saw the blasphemy going on, and where I saw the sadness and the madness
curtailing and enthralling each man and beast below, I knew I would serve the call and
come to earth once again. For I did not need the last vast trump to return. It was purely
up to me when I discerned a time to come. Because God Himself is dead; indeed,
He has been dead for some time. In truth, I, His Son, am the only figment remaining
of the widening Heavens themselves. When I saw the blasphemy and when I saw the
keen sadness, I knew it was time for me to walk the Human and Vegetable way once

And my Father's House has many mansions. My Father's House is chock full of
mental refugees. The truth is that even mania itself holds a place there. Even mania may
cheer my Father's long-dead and rotten heart, so long, that is, as mania contained and
consoled by the healing powers my dead Father offers. For I offer the Healing and the
Healing is forever suffused with that sweet love that surpasses understanding, and,
although the scibbled Bible may be a morass of brides and fairies, I know, as much as
a bird must fall, that Love herself surpasses all manic mania and all motile
maddening crossed minds.

So when I heard the blasphemy, and when I saw sad Matthew scrabbling in the
killer's earth for His nebulous Final Act, and, when I heard the minds around Him
whining and whirling and skirling for for Deliverance, I knew, as only a true Lord
may realise and know, that was the time for my second arrival.
But I do not come with banners and whistles. No. My second arrival
comes as a low-key affair, with so little of a holy circus that only clowned bread
may follow through; with such little pie-eyed show that only nourishment may gestate
me to the Immotal Mortal Feast. If banners and whistles are desired, it is Matthew,
with the Eye and all its devilish blind powers, the Man should go to.
For I offer health in the place of subterfuge. Such is my aim and such shall be my
guise on the wide earth this second time; if only for the thumb-nail of a second
itself: if only for a single snap of god's moon-sun.

chapter 48: MATTHEW

And it was then that I realised the Eye had flown. There I was digging in the dirt
of the hill, when suddenly I could conceive of nothing but the dirt itself. As for my
purpose in digging, for the Mission I had sought, as for that so-called Final Act I
had been so keen to find, I could remember Nothing.
For I had terrified my fellow man; had churned a wave of pure terror
into the melee of madness before me; and I had served the purposes of Life to
the very full, both possessing and conniving the newfound body of the Nurse into
something that was altogether terrible and petrifying. 'Lord,' I asked, with my now
shrill mind. 'Lord, what am I doing here? Scrabbling as I am in the eager dirt and
Disease. What is my purpose in living again?'

And suddenly there was an answer; all of a sudden, from the depths of the molten
sky itself, came the Word I had been hoping for what felt like Eternity. It was the
whirling birds of Jesus, as well as I can see right now, it was the whirling birds of
the true Lord I had been impersonating for so long.
'Matthew,' trilled the Voice, 'Matthew, lay down your undead garb anda
ask for me'. 'Matthew,' trilled the Voice, 'Matthew, cease your digging and turn to me
as the one You Love.'
And that is what I did. With Luke and Mark and John and the Warden
hectoring me with looks of angst and pain, with the body I was desiring to be set
free and discerned as youthful once again, I ceased my mindless digging and turned
my eyes to the skies and said: 'Lord. Lord Jesus Christ of all clued Creation, it is
to You I give my sidling mania and to You Redemption and eerie holy Judgement
in this, my last creeling hour.
And I heard the sighs of thieves, and I saw men amongst me come and
caress my now full exhausted body and soul.
'Matthew,' said John.
'Matthew,' said Luke.
'Matthew,' said the Warden.
And their tones were always loving and their tones were sylvan and mercy and
nourisment and their tones were filled with heat and warmth and care and their
tones, their lovely vocal tones, were o'erpacked with keen surprise and wonder.

And in the split seconds it took for Christos Himself to walk among us, and in
the nanoseconds it took for our one true Lord to hold our burning hands, I saw the
Eye, the Eye that had followed me in all its Portentous and Sulphuric tragedy for months
and years on end, fall into the sweltering barren land, with Christ's glad foot upon it.
And I heard the wide-eyed Lord sing and I heard the Lord hail and caress our mindless
nave-choked souls; and I heard the loud haloed birds above delve into both our pasts
and our futures and the times that blue presence gives, until my spirit flocked up and out
of the Nurse's misjudged blood-body and into the bosom of the prehistoric Life
I have always yearned to own.
'May the Lord bless us all,' the Warden said.
'May the Lord bless our souls,' said John.
'May the Lord bless our minds,' Luke said.
And so too did Mark and also, on a sudden, so too did the rending, whorling Voice
of the dead and undead Nurse we had all to condemn, with Her spirit rising from the old
and withered body the Eye has misgiven Her, with the whole of her eager illegal beauty
at last returning to Serve us, all all all.

chapter 49: THE NURSE

So I heard Him say that there'd be bread instead of circuses, and I heard Him say
that He would arrive for a second time in a casual way, minus all banners and whistles,
and I heard Him call me from the wreck that made my body had become, and I came
up to see Him with all the vigour I could ordain. And it was my Spirit that rose to see
Him, and it was my Spirit that concurred with the world around that I might behold
His sky-swollen face; and it was my Spirit that revered and laid Him, as though all the
youth and joy I had ever possessed came from His roller-soul alone.
And I saw the lot of them lying in the dirt of the hill, and I saw Matthew
rise from the shell that was my body, and I saw the whole of them lying in the dust,
praising and endearing de Lord.
'We are surely saved,' John said. 'We are surely abundant with folklore
and temerity.'

And it was then that I knew the bread had come and that angled circuses were
far, far away, and it was then that I saw the Heavens briar and rift high, high above
us, and it was then I perceived my Spirit split and share her sanity with the mad ones
amongst us, such as John, such as Luke, such as Mark, such as even the Warden who
was by now finding life too hard to truly bear. And Matthew's Spirit split, too: Matthew's
Spirit gyred and raved and burned in a bright light of pure and redolent majesty, serving
the broad Lord amongst us, and redeeming all He had done in swift and elegant turns.
'Sweet Jesus?' asked the Warden. 'We are to drink from your cups? Are we
to break the majestic bread? How and why we can we serve You in this, our most
obnoxious and craving hour?
And the dud Lord walked among us, and the Lord scattered silver coaxer-stars
about us, and de Lord spoke words to our ears in such ringing and bounteous tones
that we were altogether startled into much singing and prancing and happy
'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
mouths of the big bad daddy world that had once trod and burned and briared
and raved within mad charms; and it was then that I knew the Eye had been
extinguished by the one truth we all could sense and spiel: by the theatre-synergies
of devoured light itself: that is, by the magnanimity of pretend Humanity spoared
and turned through parities of ceaseless bread and red concourses of nourished
and mind-nourishing pivotal ghost-rhymes. Ere long, we were eaten. Ere long
we were digested by one and all. Ere long, we were sex-excreted in the
natural way. Ere long, we were part of the earth about us, and ere long we were
buried, deep in the Asylum-Grail.

chapter 50: THE WARDEN

We are eating the multifoliate spirits of Lord Matthew and the Nurse. YUM YUM! How it
tastes is very good! We are devouring the multisonous spirits of the ugly, bad and the
very good. YUM YUM YUM! How it tastes is just divine! We are champing on the coupled
and cuplike souls of two indelible individuals whose we never really knew of cared for.
YUM YUM YUM YUM! How it tastes is all a matter of scented space. We are masticating
the solar bowls of two bled chums we ever and never and ever sought.
YUM YUM YUM YUM YUM! How it tastes is just utterly sickly angel-sweet. YES INDEED,
MY LAWD, YeS IndEEd, my bawD. This is the bEEs KneEs! This is just
incredibly incredibly YUMMY YUMMY YUM! -.-....

chapter 51: MARK

I happened to look up, and saw Him in the sight of my vision. Not too close, and not standing
too high for me to see; just standing there with His head turned this way and that and His eyes
full on me and sort of happy, like He was moving down towards us.
He kind of rumbled at our beings for a minute, like Gods do, and came down.
He had on a dark pair of glasses sitting on top of His eyes and He was carrying a bag of
bits and pieces; I thought that He had a divine right to be here at most, and that after He
had stood around for a while, He would maybe save our Souls and the like but nothing
much more, so I did not disturb Him for even a second except to notice how majestic He was
in all His funereal glory, and that He looked a full toss better in His sandals and smock and
glasses and His own bright complexion than any of the pictures I had seen of Him in any
Saturday-Sunday school I had ever been to. Or so it seemed. I knew that He had already decided
on our Fates before He'd come to see us. But you have to let the Lord take His time. So, I
went on without looking at Him, figuring to let John or Luke or the Warden give impassioned
praise, while I just looked and acknowledged and smiled.
'That is de Lord,' Luke said. 'We'd better see what He wants.'
'He wants us,' I said. 'I don't know. I think He wants us to sing. We'd better
sing for Him.'

So I went and sang with the rest of them. I saw that He was truly proud to hear us sing and was
so easy with His mouth-movements that He could only be the real Lord. He was looking at me,
gladly, holding His bag of bits and pieces; I saw He had about as big a pair of eyes as any Lord
could glean, and He was de Lord who liked to speak to strangers. I could not remember seeing
pictures of Him before that suggested that, but it was still so.

'Lord, what can we do for You?' I said.
Still, He didn't say anything. He stared at me without even blinking. Then He looked back at
the skies He had come from. Then He looked past me, towards the rising spirits of Matthew
and the Nurse.
'Do You want us to sing again?' I said. 'Or is it psalmistry You want?'
'That's it,' He said. He looked back at the skies again. So I thought maybe His descent
was Unlawful or that God had sent Him down for some other purpose than ours and He was
ashamed to say so. I knew He couldn't have a pair of eyes like His and say so openly, let alone
His being old enough to break the blinded hearts of every Soul on earth. It's a sadness, the way
God sends His rangers to us for more than one reason. But de Lord has got to serve us all at
the same time.
'Oh,' I said. 'What psalm do you want? We have - He looked at me again, almost as if
He were angry to see me, and looked towards the skies once again.
'It'd rather you just listened,' He said.
'Okay,' I said. A man has to humour a Lord like Him. One saves time in that way. I followed
Him with my ears. He put His big pick-hands on my head. 'Are you going to Heal me?' I said.
'Why did You choose me first?'
He stopped and looked at me. It was a look of pure calm, as if someone had taken the lid
off to every type of calm around and had surged into His eyes alone. It was as if, sort of sad and doleful,
He had come to into this world to dispense of the sadness and dolefulness with the art of His two eyes
alone. But He could see we were in trouble; anyone could see that. 'Mania's our trouble,' I said.
'Mania is the trouble behind the whole rotten business.' I wasn't meaning to tell Him what to
think, but a live long maniac has got to save the Lord's time once He's arrived
'It's a trouble I can sort out,' He said.
'Okay,' I said. 'I'm very glad.' I thought that maybe He was wiser than I had ever thought,
and that my words offended Him, or maybe that I seemed more than averagely abnormal this Time, as
is the nature of most important meetings.
'Are you really God?' I said. 'Some say the real one plays dead.'
'God died centuries ago,' He said.
'Why did He die?' I said. 'If You are de Lord Jesus Christos Messiach, why did your Father
fade away?'
But He stayed utterly silent, as if again my words had been out of place and heretic.
'How old are You?' I said.
'Old as any word,' He said.
'O I said. 'I thought so, Lord, I truly did..'
And He was watching me. But then He turned away and looked at the skies again.
'Are You older then Insanity then?'
And He stopped looking at me but didn't move. 'Yes,' He said. 'Yes, I am older than than all the things
mad and raving. Yes.'

And it was then that His big hands shot up to His face. It was then that He removed His darkening
shades and spelt out the times we had spent together and the way in which we would be saved and
mind-redeemed. With his bag of bits and pieces rattling in five fatal mental winds, He summoned us all
to God's good health and then proposed the eating of Matthew's and the Nurse's spirits.

And I remembered when I had skipped off school fifteen years back. The woods I went to
were full of imps and fairies. And I remembered when I was first admitted, when I was so enclosed in
visions and heart-mirages and vocal sotto tones that I could only believe in the Light and all it held for
people with conceptions of Gods themselves, who are, after all, one big mirage of miraculous brain-skull
vision or fotal tone, or so it fucking seems.

chapter 52: LUKE

It was de Lord, it was de Lord that made me
1. See the Eye Portentous fade.
2. See my madness visibly corrode.
3. See the Eye Portentous fade.
4. See the Spirits of my Loved ones ride.
It was de Lord, it was de Lord that made me.
1. see my madness visibly corrode.
2. See the Spirits of my Loved ones cry.
3. See the Eye Portentous fade.
It was de Lord, it was de Lord that made me -
It was de Lord. DE LorD ,.- .

chapter 53: JOHN

After we had eaten them and after they had been despatched and excreted in the natural way,
I and Mark and the Warden asked our sweet Lord why this made us feel so well and sane
again, and He said, ' To eat the spirits of those you have reviled is to summon up a devouring
creed within. Thereby madness flows away into the earth. Thereby life is refrained into a
catechism of the holy syllogism, Taste + Devourment = Strength or Devourment + Taste =
And it was then that I knew the wonder of de Lord was both Creative and Logical.
And it conceived of my new-found sanity as a syllogism pure and simple, a syllogism conceived
in my own heart and mind which read, Spirit + Credulity = De Lordship.

But is was not before too long before I began to notice that, in spite of me and Luke
and Mark being sane, the Warden was taking to a curiously foaming candour, such as we had
had in the pre-Lord days. Indeed, the Warden seemed at odds with us all. Often, he was heard
to mumble and mutter about 'Cups' and 'Coupling' to himself, whilst the rest of us all, all so
taken by de Lord's healing powers, had clearly lost our designs for manic speech and had by now
begun to chat with a spontaneous kind of scacrosant saneness. It was as if the old, pre-spirit,
pre-devoured Matthew, with all His psychotic speeches and poetic manias, had swirled into a
oneness in the Warden's mind and had thereby made Him entirely mad.
'Cups,' mumbled the Warden. 'Cups are good for coupling, Cups?'
But it was still Him who would ask de Lord with the rest of us for the reasons behind good
health; and it was still Him who would ask with the rest of us for both mooted forgiveness
and rectification. In fact, it seemed as if, outwardly at least, the Warden was happy to act like
the sum total of those around him, but that, inwardly, he was sanctified turmoil.

And so I recall now my journey into the heart of darkness that was my madness and retell it
to the Warden as best I can, almost in the hope of snapping him back into sanity through
the sure devices of recollection and karmic folklore. And so it is that I tell the Warden of my
earliest mind-visions and aural auric miseries, whispering into his ears and holding his fat
figure close that I might hurl the demons within right away.
'Cups,' he mumbles. 'Cups are good for goof-coupling. Cups?'
But I go on, vying with his obsessed mind for a place of sane precedence, and all the
while hoping that de Lord will see to his tongue-tied mentality before He leaves and goes
away again.
'But we ate the Spirits, John,' he says, 'We ate the holy remains of two sad
souls. And you know it was Luke that I loved all those weeks and months and years back.
You know it was Luke I should have loved to have eaten the most.

And I look into the Warden's frightened eyes and I try to speak words of couth and
levelling Judgement thereby. But it seems that de Lord has failed him, and I cannot help
but feel that that failure is a gulf in the minds of us all, a gulf that entertains doubt in the
sanity the most of us now must feel; and I turn to de Lord and say, 'If You are here to Save
us, play on, but if You are here to swathe us, pray on; but if You are here to Save but a few,
spare a thought for God's praying players?


chapter 54: MATTHW

chanutah anima bobbola chimera
burning and turning screaming
in the depths of the laden sea

chanukah anima bobbola chimera
burning and turning and yearning
for the love of You and Me.

if the stars could years, they would learn
the churning, burring limes of time,
yet still we set out for the sea
in a boat of shimmering rhyme .

chanucrah familiar bobbola cinema
burning and turning and nerving
for the Loves of You and Me


chapter 55: THE NURSE

Once we had eaten and excreted in the natural way, I heard Matthew
singing. It was an inane and foolish song about Jewish Xmas times and
held so little relevance to the way we had been and the way we had ended
up. For Matthew had never been a Jew, nor had He ever celebrated a Jewish
Festival, not had He ever shown the slightest bit of interest in the good old
Yet we had still been devoured and excreted. Yet we had still made
madness that had once been about us subside and roll into the scorched earth.
Yet we were still now lying in cleansed and sentient pieces in the dirt of the hill
around us. And we were surely glad to have been used in such a way by de true
Lord Himself, sweet Judas Jesus Christ of Nazareth.

But it was then that I found a part of me still resting in the Warden's stomach.
There too I found a part of Matthew, swailing and rummaging around as if
posseseed by an indigestible life. It was then that I sensed the part of my spirit that
had failed to be cleansed and the part of Matthew's spirit that was both gnarled
and bad staving off sanity in the Warden's mind as if for all the world he was the
receptacle of the badness we had once been.
'Chanukah! Anima! Chimera!' sang Matthew. But in the Warden's stomach
He was speaking of the Eye still; of Portent and Sulphur and Contagion and Constraint.
And, although I spoke so plainly and cleanly now to the outside world, within the
Warden's stomach I spoke of nothing but Fresh Hope fading and Incest and Murder.
Indeed, such was the malice of my words there, and such was the malice of Matthew's
words there, that I could only pity the Warden and hope for him a better and new

For the Warden had done no wrong. Brought up in some seedy waste in town, retching
round the knees of his fated father and mother, he had entered the world in dirtied
swaddlings and had paid the price for being a child. And when he grew and became
older, he faced as a cripple might, growing fat and ugly with obsessions and mutations
that he just could not control. Because marriage didn't help him; in fact, the opposite
was so. Marriage just plunged him into sexual intrigue and malign argumentivity. And,
once he had taken the asylum, his whole being just ached to be loved and cared for -
such is the lot of the Human Soul left to loiter and waste away. And I couldn't help
but wonder what the outcome would be, what with de Lord preparing to leave and the
Warden remaining obsessed and sad. 'Cups and couplings,' the Warden mmbled to
himself, and I heard the world about my now devoured and excreted spiritual mind
crave a new Judgement, such as might come to one who has begged to be free, such
as might come to one who had deigned to walk the earth, if only for a little while,
that they might be struck dumb and left to think once again.
'Chanukah! Anima! Chimera!' Matthew's excreted spirit sang. But I was
fully aware of the troubles up ahead for the ones who had no true faith now; for
the ones who had to toil with the badness of those they had once cared for
ravelling and rolling in their fluid empty brains.


chapter 56: THE WARDEN

Cups. Cups are made for coupling. Cups. Cups are made for Love. And Luke is my
Brother. Matthew's my Brother. Luke holds a broken cup. I cannot fix it, but know
I would like to. Luke is my Brother. Matthew's my Brother, too, but He isn't holding
a broken cup.
For now there are four of us, tall and looking up at the Lord in the dark,
dark sky. 'Where do they stay, Matthew?' I say. 'Where do they stay when they're
not broken?' Not knowing, not even caring what I really mean to say. For now there are
four of us. Me and Luke and John and Mark. The Nurse went away. Matthew went away.
Once He was Matthew, then He was The Lord, now He is just 'Matthew' Once they were
all 'Misters'. Now they are wild seeds in the wild earth, glaring and gorping at The Lord.

Tomorrow, I am going to see where the cups stay when they're not broken. Tomorrow?

chapter 57: JESUS

So I split up the spirits that had ailed them and summoned them to devour and excrete
the same. But it was then that I took to wondering what I should do next. And there was no
Father to aid me, and there were no words for me to listen to, and there was no place I could
turn to aid me in my Mission, which was a hurried Mission at best, which was a tarrying and
hasteful and foaming game of God if ever there was one, as much as a bird must fall.
For I remember when my Father was alive and advising me on the work to be
done. He was master of shrill responses and curtailments. Such was His ideal focus on the
world that I was altogether cut from the grain in such a way that Heaven was His subterfuge
and served Him as such in the long days and long nights I spent on the crashed Cross,
cursing and crumbling the very days I had been born.
'Cups and crucibles,' the Warden mumbles. 'Cups and crucibles will serve me in
my tired and final hour.' And I confide in him and whisper words of gentility, and I confide
in him a whispered word of gentility, and I confide in him whispered word of
confidentially, and I confide in him a whispered word of both those rolling themes until he
is swathed in the Logic of The Lord I am, which is the syllogism: Gentility + Confidentiality =
Heavenly Adhesion.

And Matthew sings His songs as best He can. I have bid Him sing of Chanukah. I have bid
Him to sing of Jewish, ancient things. Broken, devoured and excreted as He is, His songs will
surely make us all feel revered once more. And the Nurse speaks words of Sanity and
magnanimity. Such is her excreted predicament that she can only raise her voice a little to become
as liquid as the rivers I recall back home, in the days of Nazereth and Bethlem.
'Lord?' asked John. 'What now for us now we are well again? What now for us now
we are in Love with alone?'

And I remember my days in the undead tomb when the stone would not shift, and I remember
the nights in the undead rooms when the stone would not budge, and I turn to him with eyes
that burn and blare, 'Regard me for a wide while, for I am The Lord who will scourge you
of all your dreams. Regard, regard me for awhile, for I am the Lord without a name, the
Lord who prays yet falls.'

chapter 58: JOHN

And the Lord said unto me, 'I am the Lord who prays yet falls' And it was then that I did
not understand. It was then that all the faiths I held in the Father and the blonde Word
spewed out into a tremulous waste of terror. If the Lord could fall, what for us who pray
for Him in our must moaning darkest hours? What for the horsing hordes who come pay
homeage to all His vestiaries and coved caverns? And I was at once struck asunder in my
newfound sanity; finding reasons to crave indulgence from the Mortal Sins I had always
reviled. 'I am the Lord who prays as He falls,' He said, looking at me as if I were a new
born idiot baby, bawling and bubbling at the mouth for some widening enterprise of
sleeping weeping, innocent and speechless in my swaddling like a handful of cretinised
decorous god-dust.
'Lord?' I asked, 'If You can fall, what for us who revere and love You? What
for us who heal through your ways and fresh hope for this dear sweet handful of cretinised
'Lord? Asked, 'If You can fall, what for us who revere and listen out for You?
What for us who heal through ways and hopes for angels thralling?
And de Lord turned to me and said, 'If you revere and seek to love me, see that I Fall
in the most intimate and ideal way. If you revere and love me, see that I was once a
fat sinner and a mad gentleman too.
And I didn't understand and I didn't care to look at Him very much more, who was no
Lord to me if He was was a fat sinner and a mad gentleman too; who was no Lord
for me if He was once as mad as I am. And the Warden said out aloud, 'Cups and crucifixes.
Cups and Crucibles. Cups and Crucibles. Cups.' And I was scared to hear such
irrationalities in the rain-cut space where the Lord had just been, and I was scared to think
that He could have left a man unconsoled and precious in His most wanting hour.
'I am de Lord who plays yet crawls. I am de utmost Lord. I am de Lord.'
And I heard the de Lord say all of this without really hearing; and I heard Matthew
singing, and I heard the Nurse give logcial utterances, and I could the guttoral Lord
say that He was once a good sinner; and I could not, would not conceive of Our Lord
as my guide. For He had said He could pray and pray once more without even getting
on top of Himself, without even hearing His Father speak into His feinted ears. And
de utmost shooted Lord told me that God was bone-dead; and I went into my Mind
and walked about and shut the door and sat in a spuming, reticent silence; sat as I had
when I had mad, when the illegitimate Eye was all-convulsing.


chapter 59: MATTHEW

So I stopped singing and sensed the excreted fragments of my spirit rise up to look
at the Lord. The damp earth I was in seemed both chill and recusant and made me
shiver in hope for a body. The Lord was standing naked on His cloud, looking down
on a melee of cured men He had summoned into haloed being. Previously, He had been
standing on the hill, He was suspended in de Heavens.
But it was then that I saw the Warden, foaming as he was in a most furious
and uncouth way, his mouth open and fluming with angst and manic passion, his eyes
closed and flickering, just like a night-light. It seemed as if all the madness I had ever
held and all the madness John and Luke and Mark had held were now melded in Him
and were twirling and twisting abstrusely and anxiously to the deadening surface of
this washed world.
'Soon, I must return to the sky,' The Lord said suddenly, 'Soon, I must leave
you to own sane and self-deified devices. Soon, I must bid you a final judgemental
bibling farewell.'
'But the Warden's sick,' said John. 'Surely, you can't leave him this way?'
And the Lord looked from side to side and the Lord looked from up to down, and the
Lord looked at the foot of the hilll where we had all once lived, long before we became
mad and were admitted, and said, 'I am the Lord who prays yet falls. If the Warden be sick,
spare a thought for me in my most failing hour.'

And the silence was enough that fell was deadly. And the silence that fell was enough to
make me wish I were back in a body again, all one and raving. For the Lord had dealt
in half measures and was now conniving to leave. For de Lord Himself had yielded healing
only so far. 'For the Lord,' I thought, 'was leaving us behind without a thought for those
He had failed to cleave and ease.
And it was then that I saw what de Lord had done. To scathe away the madness
of the horde He had slid that madness into the body of one who had lived with for so
many months and years. Yes! The Lord had used the Warden as a veinous vessel for our
collective schizoid tears; and had left us all wondering why we felt so sane. As for the
devourment and excreting of mine and and the Nurse's spirits, as for all the rest of the
paraphernalia He had used in this shrill act, it had all been show.
'Circuses instead of bread,' I thought. 'Pie-eyed shows instead of health.'
And I was struck by the sadness of it all, and went into a daze, alone and diverted deep
down into the earth that enshrouded my sharded spirit, until I knew, from that
stunnned point on, that the easy tasty Lord was a ass and any law leading from Him
was an ass too, eternally.

chapter 60: THE NURSE

So, as soon as Matthew had stopped singing and as soon as He had stopped singing
and as soon as He called the Lord 'an Ass', I could see His point immediately. The
Lord had travelled on an ass for many moons to meet His people and de Lord had
been carried on an ass as an illiterate soiled child, and The Lord had acted like a ass
in His redemption of we sufferers; for de Lord had left the Warden open to madness
indeed, had used him as a vessel for the madness of the morassed mass and had left his
mentality wanting.
And I was tired of speaking. I was so, so tired of fawning to the stereotype
of sanity that I was bursting to say a few odd or maddening things. The first word that
came into my swift mind was 'Valley' and the second 'Macadam', and these were swiftly
followed by images of tar ruining the landscape before the dead undead Eye into a
screaming parapets of manmade viscal mania. I saw tar on the trees running and rambling
around, I saw tar on the flowers drooling and fumbling about, I saw tar in the skies ravelling
and ruling the Heavens, but most of all I saw tar on the face of de Lord burning and
charring and spiring to a spit of pure and deadly incisiveness. And it was good to think
this way, so unchecked and unchallenged by logical cares, drunk as those imaginings were
with manufactured loss and hatred. 'Why?' I suddenly thought, 'This is the place where
shakespearos died. This is the place where pharisees and rumped and rollered the seminal
to tiny bits and pieces and connived to control the skies with minute patterns of bracken and
bitumen. glad as they were to see the Lord cry and die. And I was so overjoyed to think
these things that I sought out the innermost remnants of my long since fragmented and eaten
and excreted spirit and rolled them together into a pile, desirous to live and hail and hold my
soul again, desirous as I was to fly.
And Matthew called The Lord an 'Ass' and I could see the value of His words
and I could sense the sanity in all of those around us grow crimson and wide with
embarrassments and poignancy.
'Cups and Crucibles,' said John.
'Cups and Crucibles,' said Mark.
'Cups and Crucibles,' murmured Luke.
And the Warden? The Warden said it too, just as he had always had, just as he had ever
and ever and ever done. And today's Lord, seeing His once keen apostles defy the sanity
He had bestowed upon them, and yesterday's Lord, sensing the ones He healed bewraying
the things He had melded and carved, turned across His cloud and screamed at the
Heavens, loud and shrill as a wolverine child clad in the base of the womb.

But I could only say the Lord deserved it. The Warden had been defined as litter by Him.
That poor Warden, to whom we had ever turned for guidance and penitence, in the
pre-Eye days, had been so beshrewed by de utmost Lord Himself that it was sad to see it all
And the Lord stopped wailing at the Heavens and de Lord put on His mirror
shades and the Lord wiped His nose on His thumbs, and de Lord looked down at us all,
even at Matthew and me, even at the excreted fragments we had become, and said, 'I shall
not leave this place until all the world has come to see your cooling defiance of the Word. I
shall, I shall not..' As He had told us, His Father was always dead - God Himself, He had told
us, was dead and gone, jsut as every damned thing we'd ever had to hold us together was
gone, gone, gone.

And I saw Luke turn to John and I saw John and I saw John turn to Mark and I saw Mark
hug the Warden, and I knew, I knew more than I had ever known anything in the whole span
of my estranged life and death, that petrol parity would come to us all, that parity would guide
us against the utmost Lord bad Judgement, that parity would lift us one and all into a
new Void of madness and templered damnation; and it felt so good to sense the syllogisms
left, which was Madness + Freedom = The World, or the World + Madness = Freedom.



chapter 61: LUKE

It was the Warden, it was the Warden that made me
1. See a place for madness.
2. See a place of madness
3. See a face for madness
4. Seize a case for madness
It was the Warden, it was the Warden that made me -
It was the Warden .-.

chapter 62: THE WARDEN

And they all started chanting, 'Cups and Crucibles,' and they all started revering all I had
ever said and they all started calling de Lord an 'Ass;' and they all started to revile the
sanity of they had always been given. And I said unto The Lord, 'Cups and Crucibles,'
and I said unto the utmost Lord, 'I am an egg from which cups hatch.' And Luke and John
and Mark and Matthew all raised their spirits to the limit and said, 'The Warden will call
us Master Men again. The Warden shall hold us tight throughout the night, and we shall
hold him tight in swift returns, glad and proud as we now say the Lairdy crossed Lord
above must have been before He lost His ground Grail. And I know now that Matthew and
the Nurse were fragments of what they had been before. I knew that their bodies had flown
and that their spirits had been fractured and eaten and excreted into the hot earth. But still
they spoke, their voices shrill and endearing; and it was then that their faces in my mind,
both multifoliate and proud.
'Cups and Crucibles. Crucibles and Cups. I am the egg from which cups hatch.'
And we said it together, again and again, until de Lord was reviled and mad, clad in His
mirror shades, weeping through His nose and crying, 'Nazarene! Nazarene! Nazerene!
again and once more again, until bible-benumbed.

chapter 63: THE EYE

When I heard them revile the Lord and when I heard them revere the ways of insanity
and madness and when I heard call for restoration of the past, I came to my senses and
I knew I would come to the wild earth again. 'The Eye,' one of them said, 'The Eye
Portentous and All-Constraining. 'The Eye! The EYE!' And I felt the sweet earth
in which I had lain, blind and recumbent, split in two and show me the way to the surface.
And I felt once again the God who had made me swathe and pelter upon my visage
and motility. And it was then that I remembered when my God had moulded me and and
cast me down from the sea-sky. This was shortly was shortly before He died and some years
after He had made the Lord-Lady Jesus-Christ. For I knew then as I still know now that
I am the Word of the Dying Gods who died in nonentitied grief. I am the Word of the dying
Gods who first made Christ, who once served sanity and churlish bible-caring.
So I arose from the earth I had been in and flew against the hands of Christ. I arose
and flew against the one who had made my blind brethrens lose their abnormal charms.
And I heard Matthew's fragmented and excreted spirit call and croon to me alike to an old
and happy lover. And I shot against de Lord who had somehow failed me as much as a bird
must fall.
'Nazerene! Nazarene!' He wept, senselessly and furiously thumbing His nose and
mirror-shaded eyes. 'Nazarene! Nazerene!' He cried, flummoxing against my flight with such
little grace that I could only laugh to feel the terrible blood of the sweet world I had once owned
rile and rise against my glistering, wide-pupilled sight.

And de Lord-Laden Justice Jesus Christ was soon wrapped up in panic; was soon choking
on His personal cloud and writhing in beaten pain, and I remembered the crown of sharp thorns
I had placed on His head in those long trendless years gone by and shone with pride at my
victory. For I am the Eye of the dying Lord himself. I am the Eye of defeat and portent and
Restitution. God Himself made me defy the Word He had once believed in, way back before
He was forgotten and softly Dying.
The Warden blinks at me and smiles. Luke blinks at me and smiles. John blinks at me
and smiles. Mark blinks at me and smiles. And I see the fragmented and excreted spirits of Matthew
and The Nurse shimmer as one in the earth and know that my time of killing and being killed has
come to once again, or maybe never really went away, or maybe never truly left the sights of and
minds of those I once controlled and now would control forever and Ever...

chapter 64: JESUS re. T S Eliot...

Father, the Roman soldiers are blooming in the bowls and
the sublety of summer creeps along the Grail -
this rumoured season, settled, has made a push
for the final hill. All is devised.
Your life is a light, my life is a sill
overlooking, like a feather, the flights of war.
Music under moonlight and tramlines on borders
wait now for the wind you chill and your wrinkled face.

Please provide us.
I have talked many times about your beauty,
have wept along my faith, devised and poor,
have ridden and broken my back like a slate.
There has never been a baby left behind me.
Whence comes the wind? Where must I live
that I might trammel down? What cause
has here fragmented upon the greenest grass?

Behind the minds of whores and resurrection
please provide us.
Beneath the passions of midwinter, before the passions of
the wind,
please provide us.
Beneath the palace of the Virgin, beneath the Idylls of
saint Kings,
please provide,
that we, your lonely servants, may curtail
each driving, hooving sin.

Disordered by the wrens,
we need your praise. They shall praise, and will
be praised.
In every generation, there shall be fields -
patterns, grafts, films of some furious Word. Father,

through glory and derision, rite and burnished vein
allow your heirs to shine. For
prayer and prayer alone, now
let there be wastes for Time to fill.

For I am tired of dying, as
tired of awaiting the locus of the incoming hour
and the runnels left of the sacred life that have lost me
to the rings and the strings of the puppeteer.
I am tired of dying and I am tired of damning
each rune and root of the ash and the sea.
Now come to me, pamper me, serve me with casuistries
For I am sick of Love.

chapter 65: MARK

'Lord,' I say, 'whose Son are You?' But the Lord is caught up in His cries of
'Nazarene!' and His rumbling prayers to the Father who forsook Him. And I do
not care nor see nor hear His cries and I do not care nor see nor hear His
prayers. For now the multisonous whole of us is straining to be mad once more.
'Cups and Crucibles,' we say, 'Crucibles and Cups. Cups and Crucifixes. May the
Eye Portentous and Sulphuric regain our Souls. And the Eye arrives from the place
in the wild earth it has been lying, and the Eye strikes the Lord about His face and
head. And the Eye shines bright and the Lord falls down. And we? We are together
And I hear the bright blue patches on the earth where Matthew and
the Nurse lie spiritualised and excreted join together in one high voice, one high
candour, saying, 'Lord! Whose Son are You? Lord!..' And it is then that I know
my peace with angelled Heaven has been determined by my devilling peace in
For it is obvious to me that Faith in this Lord, this Lord who squats on a
craned cloud before us, is tantamount to having Faith in everyone but yourself. The
Devils offer more solace. The Devils rise and rile and ride along a wave of cheering
Faith in nobody but themselves. 'Self love, Lord!' I yell, 'Self love! Did you ever hear
such a graceless and mindless thing? Self love! Self Love! Did You ever care to see it?
And His mirror-shaded eyes go red and His drooling nose turns pitch dark and His
Holy Ego falls on the hardest of times, and we, both Luke and John, both Matthew
and me, both the Warden and the Nurse, both Matthew and the Eye creel to the surface
like a mastery and crack the good bled deceiving Lord in two.

chapter 66: THE WARDEN

He was under the ash tree and Luke and I go across the hill and the Lord jumps up
and runs away and we can hear the Eye inside the wood.
'Listen,' Luke says. 'Listen to it very closely.' And I put my cup-shaped
ear close and I hear the Eye. Yet I cannot discern what it's saying.
'What's the Eye saying, Luke,' I say. 'What does it want of us?'
'It's telling us to die,' Luke says. 'It is calling on us all to die for it.'
'What way does it want to die Luke?' I say.
'It wants us to die in a hideaway way, out of the sight and mind of De Lord' Luke
'Why does it want us to die in a hideaway way, out of the sight and mind of
De Lord?'
'So it can cheat the Word of Heaven,' Luke says.
'Why does it want to cheat the Word of Heaven, Luke?'
'Just listen, ' Luke says. And we hear it. We hear it turn about from side to side.
'Just listen,' Luke says.
'It's turning around and about,' I say. 'It is looking at us through its tears.'
'Yes,' Luke says.
'Why is it crying, Luke?'
'Never mind,' Luke says. 'We must leave it alone now.'

'Why shouldn't we mind, Luke?' I say. 'Why must we leave it alone now?'
'Come,' Luke says. 'Let's go and talk with Matthew.

And once I saw a thing that no man should have seen. And once I saw the world spin round
on a bed. Just a bed and no more. A bed!

And John is sick in the head. I am sick in the head. The Nurse and Mark are sick in the head.
We are all sick in the head. And I turn to Luke, who is somehow sick, too, and ask him for
the Word of the Eye; and he says the Eye has no Word, just a name. And I am glad to know such
things and I am glad to know that the world spins around on a bed, if only for a littlest of seconds,
if only for a while?


chapter 67: GOD

And when my long dead being beheld the Eye I was glad to see my progeny suffer in happy
silence. "Sweet Jesus", the Man I had created before the Eye, was now rotating in sufferable
turmoil; and it was so fine to see it happen that I was forever turning in my sky-lit grave and
was forever chuckling at the misery of my progeny had chosen.

For mastery is all that madness becomes, and those who succumb to its natures are forever
wrapped in sadness. To see my progeny writhe in their insanity was to sense the World I had
created rotate on a dying rainbow's ebb. For history is all that madness becomes; and DE Lord
I had made was no match for that history, and the history I could see was all-consuming and
rattling that I knew it would batter my Son into many palpable pieces.
But to see the world through long dead eyes is to suffuse the Heavens with a
living conic splendour. And this I cannot understand, and this I shall not suffer, for the world
I once created is a morass of servitude and maimed amorality - such is it's Lord Jesu Judea
that rides a buried wave and spires against the sensibilities of every Law ever cast by Man
and Woman.
And when I saw my final creation; when I saw the Eye Portentous and Mad, I knew
the laden Lord I had once created would be shattered and forced back into the utmost yellow
bowels of a prayerless, violent hero Heaven.

'Provide,' my undead yet dead Son prayed. 'Provide that the prayerless world
may be set to rights.' But I was too eager to stay long dead and passed by with a fist.

chapter 68: MATTHEW

'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' and the Eye, the Eye Portentous and
Rolling, shines in the reddened heights of the sun saying, 'Who can proceed to tell first
words alone? Who can proceed to forgive the dictum of the holy moment?' And I am a bright
patch of spiritual excretia in the wild earth, that, like a wild seed, has found again paradise,
that, like a shrill child, has found a place to grow and briar in full and growing fluency. For
I am seeking to be mad once more, am pining to be united with the Eye and all it gives.
'Who can proceed to tell first words alone? Who can proceed to forgive the dictum of the
angelled moment? And my firm and heightened senses reach for the mana of Insanity and
my honed and liquid and long gone body shines in my Mind's Eye as a twisted sarcophagi
which holds the mummy of melding rhymes and snares.
'Before the body beautiful. After words and 'Sex'. Before the body beautiful.'
And I believe in some kind of flight God; but I do not believe in the Lord: I cannot believe
in the one who walked amongst us with such chic and leaden failure in His quiet arms.
'I am learning to praise. I am becoming a cruel poet. I have the utmost gift of words.

For the Eye has ever been all-seeing. It's portent and Sulphur transgresses
all Folds and Furls of logical bended mind-schemes. The Eye is more a Lord than any
Christ who may walk among us. The Eye is Contagious and Star-Reaching.

And Luke has taken the Warden to the Ash Tree at the foot of the strange hill. Luke has
bid him listen for the Eye therein. And I wonder how to fly and I wonder why we die
and turn the bright patch of land that I have become into a gauge of the Eye's Seduction.
'I am not the spectator at vulgar venues. This is not the body beautiful. This
Love hangs upside-down on a forced wing. Surely I am the clash of slow days. And I hear
the Eye and I revere the Eye and I flash my pleasure at the depths of its ways, and I curse
the saneness I have become and ask the Eye for Redemption. I had a body once, so did
the Nurse, now we are both without a noteable mind-pulse, and I shine from the patch of
Light that I am and I ask the Eye for Eternal Grace, such is the Poetry it now speaks.
'It was a foetus set in clay. It was a cancer set to glow. This I have to write.
These are my first and last words'
And I hear the Eye and I revere the Eye, with the Laden Laddy Lord Jesus we have
rejected sitting on His rude cloud all the holy while, smoking a cigar and wearing
mirror specs and weeping, weeping, weeping..

chapter 69: JESUS

'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' May God damn their conniving
and merciless souls. And now they campaign to return to the warmth of the asylum,
gathering up their accoutrements and frowsties and gyring mindlessly together at the peak
of the hill. But I shall some my cigar and I shall wear my special mirror shades and I shall
serve my purpose as a Lord regardless what the Eye might do or say. Even though they have
split me in two, even though they have cut my spirit from my Mind and left me to flailing in
mortal purportal misery, I shall smoke my cigar and wear my special metal shades and
suffer their arrows without design.
'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' May my long dead Father
damn their maddening outlawed souls, may the wrath of their long dead God Himself confute
them with acridity and sadness.

And I shall smoke and I shall weep and I shall feel my sweet tears mist up the lenses of my
clean miraculous mental mirror shades, but I shall never, not even in the heart of my fractured
beauty, give in to their mindless jibes.
'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' And now they are collecting
the sweet earth surrounding the excretia of Laird Matthew's and the Nurse's Spirits,
gathering the tiresome ark of earth in the sweet hope of carrying the bright light that lies there
into the doubling crooked womb of the asylum's shrill walls. And I shall smoke my cigar and
I shall wear my bohemian mirror shades and I shall shed tears against those bohemian
mirror shades and stay on my clued cloud oblivious.
'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son are You?' May Gods damn their foaming
and recusant bodies and minds. For I am a Spirit whose has ravelled out into time for the
purpose of serving the weary. For I am the Spirit who ravelled out and caught the angst of the
keen moment; have shared a few rebels with the world, have captured rivers before they fold,
have dabbled in a few deep ravines and roped caves. For I am a Lord Mankind has dictated
unto a ghost-sport of some indigo mungrel age; and the Lord they have tithed into a trillion
tensile tenths of biblical prehistory. But I shall smoke my cigar and I shall don my haloed
shades and I shall not want for the emptiness my Light has become.
'Whose Son are You, Lord? Whose Son?' May God damn their spiritless and
conniving Souls. If thet could have just Sacrificed the well being of one Man, they could have
been well again. But the Warden meant so much to them. May God make them pay for their
temerarious Sacrifice of the shuddering sanity I kindly gave to them. For just one Man they
Sacrificed all. For the Love of one Man alone they chose to rave and rave and rave and
thence go back to Hell. May fucking God damn their conniving Souls. May fucking God
damn them all.


chapter 70: THE WARDEN

When I want to find where the Cups stay when they are both broken and unbroken,
I saw them digging. They said, 'This Light shall be ours. This excretia belongs to
us all.'

They carried the sweet earth into the place where I'd been. The hill was still red,
but it wasn't a hill now. It was a shroud, and the red went whorling up and out of all
our signal sights. The hill went whorling up in tiny responsive pieces, against the sun and
the moon, so that the sun and the moon moved backwards.
And then de Lord was still awake. He turned his hand from side to side,
with smoke from His cigar reeling.
'May God damn them, one and all!' He said.
'Your heart and mind are as acrid as they should be,' we said.
'I think He's learnt His lesson,' the Eye said.
'What in hell's name are we doing taking talking about Him?' Luke said
'We're just passing the time of day,' Mark said.
'We just hoped to teach Him a fucking lesson.'

They went up into the asylum and disappeared. The Lord smoked His cigar. He looked
like a cup of fire. And then we went to sleep.
'He's died,' I said. 'He's a cup on fire that's died.'

He seemed so cracked and weary. He just did not seem like de Lord.
'Warden? Come inside,' they said. 'Come inside and join the mad melee.
Come inside and meet your cups once more.'

'I'll come when the Lady Lord's stopped smoking,' I said. 'He must stop smoking
before I come inside.'
'The Lord's an ass,' they said.'
'And He's a smoking Lord, too,' I said. 'He's a burning, churning, smoking cup
on the hill.'

When I joined them, Luke was talking to the Cups. His eyes were both crossed and red.
John put the radio on and we all listened. The radio was made out of butter and soot, to
draw out the speechless fire. Then the words went cool and black.
'Do Matthew and the Nurse like the radio?' I said.
'I think they must, what with the Cups and the soot and the butters all around.
I really think they must,' Mark said.
Luke's face was once bearded, then it was illuminated and shaven, but now it is bearded
'I think they like the radio as much as a bird must fall' I said. They listen as if they
were born to.
'Damn de keen Lord,' Luke said.

And the Lord is out there above the ash tree, on His blind cloud, with His shades and His
cigar and His sleeping soul, lying there with His body smoking like a cup aflame. I said,
'Are You going to sleep there all day? Are You?'
The moonlight dappled on Him once. Now He is discredited and I am almighty
'You needn't die, Lord,' I said. 'We're all mad again now. You needn't worry, Lord.'

The hill was red once. It used to be redder than any of the sons we ever knew.
Then it went whorling up and away, making the sun and the moon run backwards without a
wide Word. It hurts my head to think the hill was once red.

When I went to find where the Cups stayed when they were broken and unbroken, I saw them
digging, and I heard them say, 'This excretia shall all be ours. This Light belongs to us All?'


chapter 71: LUKE

It was the Warden, it was the Warden that made us
1. Find comfort in madness's creche.
2. Grow my beard again.
3. Revile the Lady Lord.
4. Find comfort in madness's brief-case.
It was the Warden, it was the Warden that made me
1. Grow my beard again.
2. Revile de Baby Lord
3. Grow my beard once more.
4. Find my comfort in madness's toothpaste.
For it was the Eye, the Eye that made me -
It was the Eye, the Eye that made me
For it was The Eye .-.


chapter 72: MATTHEW

And they dug us up and carried us into the asylum and I and the Nurse took pride
of place on the winnowing window sills, bright in our talkative patch of excretia,
bright and mad and whole.
'The Lord's a cup aflame,' the Warden said.
'The Lord is an asp,' said Luke and Mark and John.
And I knew then that the Warden was safe in his madness now; safe because we had
joined him, safe because we had made him the nature of us all. And the Nurse murmured
into my spitting spiritual ear, 'We are all Spirits now; now that we are all mad and proud
with tears.' And I knew she was right and I knew my god-niche in the wild earth had been
The Eye meanwhile was glistering in the skies outside, looking down on de
Lady Lord and making Him sleep a sleep of Death. The last time I looked, de Lord's
cool cigar was still burning and His model mirrored shades were misted over with tears.
It was good to think the Lord was sad and alone. For we had once sat lonely and sad in
the wide world waiting for a sign, waiting for the Heavens to speak to us. And now we had
the Eye. Now we had the Supremacy of Poetry to lull and whirr us along the swerves and
bouncing blood-curves of madness's headpiece.

The radio knelled in my Spiritual ears. I heard the notes of the smouldering classics connive
and weave around me, and for a time I felt so content that I could only aspire to the words
I had cooled in steel all those sad mad years gone by, to the cooled and steeled-in words
I had long since spoken with my mind.
'May God damn your conniving and mercilesss soul. May God damn you..'

But I was just not listening. For I was hearing the Words of the Eye waft from the sterephonics
of this world and into the smiles of the Warden, who was now speaking calmly in his
madness, who was now swathing us all with a commanding, rising and riding spill of Words
that held Peace and Cogency in their heaped insanity. As much as a bird must fall, this was the
wild world I had been brought up to live. This was the sweet world of the killed and the
killing, the sweet soft world of the Eye Portentous and All-Assailing. The web-headed world
with its crossed eyes clamped sex-shut.


chapter 73: THE EYE

They are listening to the radio. The Lord is sleeping the sleep of death I have bid Him to
sleep; and the heavens are black; black with the regimens of Portent and Sulphur that
I have ordained. And soon they shall be still and recumbent in their merciless Insanity.
Soon, they shall be killed and killing each vestige of Father J Christ they may recall.
And de Lord is sleeping the sleep of utmost death I have bid Him to sleep; and the
Heavens are black; black with the regimens of Portent and Sulphur I have ordained.
The radio plies their ears with classical, ancient waves. The sterephonia therein
is a Testament to the death I have bid Him to sleep. For that stereophonia, as proud and loud
as death and dying itself, conceives itself as death and dying itself, conceives itself as
rigor mortis might and wells into my snearing seeing as a grabbed trumpet might, as the last
trump, mad and bad and redolent.

The Lord is on fire. His cigar has set His sleeping figure alight. He is slowly turning black
as black becomes. The Lord is a fuming, burning wreck. My long dead yet undead God would
be proud to see suck mazy amazing things. He would be proud and glad to sense His once
loved Son careering into this violent ebb, as much as bird must fall.
And they are listening to the radio. They are hearing the ferine waves of classical,
ancient sounds, ancient sounds whine and spire and pelt upon their maddening hearts and
boned souls. Matthew was once the one I called my own. Now the all of them is one I own.
And it is kind and cruel and softly sadistic that this is so. And they listen to the radio and they
listen to the regimens of Portent and Sulphur, as the Lord burns, as de Lord sleeps the sleep
of death I have ordained Him to sleep.
'Before the Body Beautiful,' I murmur. 'After the speculations life and death. Before
the Body Beautiful.' And I know, as much as Matthew once knew, that they all condemned to
a widening, pie-eyed sadness that will hold them together in the madness of these asylum wards
forever and ever and ever. For they have chosen my Portent and Sulphur as is their ultimate,
intimate end. The truth is that the comfort they find in insane inane stagnancy is the proof of
of my extenuous existence. The truth is that the comfort they find in things gone past and
things nostalgic and commensurate with established acrid matter is my bread and wine,
my Communion, my destruction of the true dead yet undead Lord.

They are listening to the radio. They are slowly rocking and rotting away to the heady
sounds of the classics that have long since died. It is good to think this is the way of
utmost things. They are good rockers and good god-rotters. My self-creating God could
not ask for a better kind. No.


chapter 74: JOHN

There wasn't anything else to be done. It was either obey the Eye or have the Lord sue us with
His asininity, because He knew some way or other that His healing was asinine. I don't know how
He knew, but He did. Mark had seen Him falter. but I saw too, and I swore from then on that
the Warden would be my only Lord and Master. But God was not there. He could have been if He
wanted to, but He wasn't. He could have acted upon His Son's brain-failure, but He damn well chose
not to. And the Lazy Leaden Lord said that God was 'both dead and undead; and that was heresy.
And so it was that Luke said, 'I owe it all to the Warden to serve The Eye for always,' and
Mark says 'You're a good man, Luke.'
'Good?' said Luke.
'Good and kind and proper,' Mark said. 'Damn, you are surely the goodest guy around.'

But there wasn't any reason to it. 'The Eye was Matthew's, now it is all of us,' I said. 'And the
Warden? He's certainly comfortable in his sodden madness now.' A man can't share his madness
with anyone, he can only serve himself, and that is surely a joy.
'I think we are all comfortable now,' Luke says.
'God knows it: it's been a trial, but now our Insanity is both mutable and happily

Sometimes I just can't be sure who or what we are. When they say 'a man is crazy
when he isn't, I truly start to wonder. Sometimes I think it's not right for the good to be mad and
the mad to be good. Sometimes, I think the world is heresy. It's like it isn't so much what you do
as how you say it, but it isn't the way the majority think and feel that matters.
But it's ashame in a way. Men seem to get away from from the inane insane fact too
often. Men seem to drive a nail into the venal skulls of the mad just for a hapless joke. It's like some
men have to their smooth, happy faces and others have the rough and sagged ones; but still no
congruity is made between them, still no soft sweet madness is coupled or sung.

But it was better to lie here listening to the radio with the Eye above us all than to saunter and dance
for de Laying Lord, for He had who had failed us by dealing in Eyeless measures, and Eyeless
measures Eyeless measures are far too sane and careless for bird-words. God Matthews said to me
that 'Words are to be cooled in steely metal before they get spoken; so with The Eye, so with
keen sanity and mind-carelessness.
And the Warden was looking at me, then at the bright patches of excretia that were
Matthew and the Nurse, then at the rest of us. He had a green smile on his fooled face and seemed
almost ignoble in his magical truancy from sanity and logical head-candour. And we had chosen to save
Him, had chosen to serve the Eye and be just like Him; and that psalming choice was manna from a
different Heaven - the deep Heaven of illogical bright sounds. He had been born in a seedy waste down
town, retching around the cat-bowls His Father had left. Now He was with His ultimate Family: the
sweeteing deepening family of tensility wrapped in inane mimed Insanity that spoke for the world being
entirely round.
'Warden', I said. And he looked up at me and Luke and Mark and at the bright patches of
excretia that were Matthew and the Nurse and said, 'I am glad to be listening to the radio. I am glad
of the noisy butter and the toasted soot that is sound. I am glad of the Cups and and the tangy
poem-Crucibles within. I am so glad to be the final bird-words among you'.

And I was glad, too. I was glad to be mad and madder still. And the Eye stood over the hill looking
down on De Laden Lord who was all aflame and sleeping; and I knew then, as I had always known,
that this was the place I wanted to die in, that this was space of my birthless Mind.


chapter 75: THE NURSE

Matthew and I were sitting on the window still overlooking the hill. We were both bright shining
excretia now and spoke our words without a mouth or a tongue. The others were listening to
the radio. Their vocal tones were alike to ours, although embodied in a body of features and
characteristic compressions that upheld the lithe infamity of family insanity as much as a bird
must fall. I for one was happy to know that Insanity was all ours. I murmured to the excretia
that was Angelled Matthew that we had never really known such headed joy as now, seeing
that the gulf between extremity and stagnancy had now been bridged and seeing that the bridge
had brought us both the Eye's inspiring foils and the kissers of madness as we truly had to
know it. Indeed, it seemed to me that this was the one true life we had sought to have, levelled
as it was with comfort and raving contumely. And it all seemed so right that I felt the patch of
excretia I had soddenly become glow and spire for Glory.
But it was the Warden who saved us all. His contentment with the fires and swarthes
of the soft sliding world we had brought into was so ideal that it spoke the bird-words of a better
Soul than I could ever hoped to have found. He had been the toy of de Countless Lord of
Jesus Jewelry Christ. He had been focalized as a Vessel for the madness of us all. We had seen that
and had chosen to become that Vessel, had chosen to shame the Heavens with our cornucopious
grasp of God Matthew's psychic words, with the revel that was the asylum and all it held.

Meanwhile, the Lord was aflame on His blood-cloud. I was cheered to seem Hin burn and mad to
sense the God He said was both dead and undead repeat on Him so grandly.
'Lord?' he had said, 'Whose Son are You?' And He had been destroyed by the Eye and
He had been condemned to a burning sleep of such pure contempt that we could only be surely
compassionate towards Him in the Future. Particularly considering He had been such a failure
while He did not burn. For we all liked failure. It seemed to me that were now the fantastic epitome
of happy failure itself; for we had succumbed to a final madness, and madness holds the keys to
failure's troves, and troves like that rotate around a pinnacle of endless fire. Hence the Lord who was
now figure of 'us' in a way, a figure that the Eye could only repeat on more and more until we were
all so compassionate towards His mind-failure that the flailing Heavens from which He said He'd
come could only open out and transgress our passing fears and redeem us all with a bat of the focussed
Eye, and thereby we would be All-assailing and joyfully 'MAD'.

And I whisper to the excretia that Matthew has become and I murmur to the excretia I had become
and I sense the Warden smiling into his stagnant, cuplike hands; and I hear his insanity burn and briar;
and I know that this is the wild sweet world, and I know that the comfort I find in madness now is the
Idyll of us all, who are surely and simply and merely the last fast spectators of the sweet wild mind-
world, as it spins on its bed of stentorious fruit-pyres.

chapter 76: LUKE

The radio says, the radio says
'Magic, magic, magic,
magic, magic karma.'
The radio says, the rodeo says
'Magic, magic, magic
Magic, magic karma.'
The radio, the radio, the rodeo, the stereo
says, says, says, says
'Magic, magic karma.'
And I know, and I hear, and I know, and I hear
that the radio, the magical rodeo, the radio
says, says, says, says
'Magic, magic, magic
Magic, magic karma.
It doesn't matter what you do
nor the scheme of the drama.
'Magic, magic, magic
Magic, magic karma.'

And the Warden and I and the Eye and I
and the Warden and I and the Eye and I
and the Warden and I and the Eye and I
are magic in our longings, magic in our trends,
magic in our karma, magic unto the maddening end,


chapter 77: MATTHEW

It happened I was on the sill of the asylum, looking out over the hill, when the Eye
came inside and said, 'Now it is time of my coming.'
'What kind of coming?' I said. 'Whatever, it is, we'll serve it, as much as a
bird must fall.'
'The coming is purely fatal. It shall cleanse you all as your madness has up to
now.' 'That sounds good,' I said. 'I may be excretia but I hear and obey.'
'You shall all obey me,' it said. 'You shall all obey and suffuse yourselves with
my ordained Stagnation.'
'Wait,' I said. It waited and I went and peeped through its enpupiled centre directly
into its mind. But I couldn't tell of its intentions except they were good and far better than the
manxed Lord.
'Are we to go mad even more?' I said.
'You are all to Stagnate into your intimate madnesses as best you can. In that way,
I can have my Victory.' the Eye said.
'Okay then,' I said, giving it a long and loving look. I didn't take my Spiritual eyes
off it for even a nanosecond. One of those mazy dark-pupilled sort of eyes that look like
a knife in the slit of a heart in turning. It looked very pretty indeed. There wasn't anyone else
in my skirted mind but the Eye; it was all I could find myself thinking of.
'How should we stagnate first?' I said.
'You must simply accept my solace,' it said.
'Fine,' I said. It stopped looking at me and then looked at the rest of us; particularly
at the Warden, who was by now laughing all the time.
'Can we have a bit more Servility?' is asked.

It was just like the Eye to be Satanically domineering. I and all the rest of us found this
Satanic domination both perfect and vital. It was surely verbal manna to our ears.

'We'd better listen more closely,' Luke said. 'It'll pay offf in the end if we just listen
more closely.'
'I agree,' said Mark and John, closely followed by the giggling Warden and the
remnants of the dead yet undead Nurse beside me.

'What I want you to do,' said the Eye, 'is to condemn the Lord entirely. What I want
you to do is to partake of my cool kind of vision, my type of noise by driving your Stagnancy
and therefore stinking madness to the very limits of ruddy mind-dilation. In that way, the doorways
to deception may be entered through and then my blind mission will be accomplished.

So we all did what the Eye had asked us to. We screamed and wailed against de desultory
Lord in a candid dumbly pioneering way, calling Him a 'Soul eater,' and a 'Prodigious religious
brain-heart-mind charlaton,' and then we settled down into our own teeming sensations of madness
as wildly and as clamourously as we could, going to the very hilt of the hill we found with our
madnesses, which the Eye called 'Stagnancy', until we were altogether foaming at the bit and saluting
every ebb and flow of dilapidation and multisonous schizophrenic consummation.

'Now,' the Eye said, 'I want you all to pray to the blindest cause around; to the very utmost
salutations of de spy-vivid Lord bewrayed and betrayed into indignity.
'If you pleases you, Sir, we will,' said the Warden.

And we all prayed to the signal salutations of the gone-wide God bewrayed and betrayed into mental
indignity, and felt the victory of the Eye getting closer and closer to us all.
'Now,' the Eye said. 'Soon, darkness will befall this place. The asylum shall rock with a blackness
never perceived before. If you find that your tongues are cleft to the roofs of your goblin mouths, accept
it. The Truth is that you are now siblings of a Fortuitous and Nihilisitic end. The Truth is that you Stagnant
love of infamous flaming Insanity shall be the cause of the Intimate beginning of the wide world's end.

'What an Eye,' I thought. To think we could ever be involved in the utmost end of the world excited me to
a height of limitless Ecstasy. I had always cooled words in steel, but the words I was hearing - the words
we were all hearing - made me feel as if I had never cooled my speech enough. To think I had once spoken
through my mind alone made me sense the Eye's Transgressant Parambular Paranormality. If the Eye said we
would begin the wide world's end, I knew that it would be so, and I tried to regain the Poetic timbre I had once
had to my mind, but found it woukld it would not come; but that didn't make me feel alone, since the Eye was
there for us all.
And then the Eye dilated and grew vast. The hallways darkened. The windows were black. The radio
sputtered out. The faces and bodies of those around me disappeared. And so it was that the genius blackness
of the world's keen end was sainted and upon us. And so it was that we huddled together in our own maddening
warmths, Luke holding John, John holding Luke, Mark holding the Warden, and the Warden? He held himself
and the Nurse, clutching the patches of excretia that we were in the palms of his plump, hot cold elfin hands. And
we all smiled as we wept sweet tears of pure joy that the wifed whirring world we had known so long was hanging
once more on a manic head-sore of severe and ecstatic telekinetic head-probabilities. For this was the Judgement
that de loud Lord could not offer. This was the Judgement of arm to arm charmed damasking contact with de Word.
Often, we had sat in the lapses of silence whilst mad; now that the Holy Helenic bed-head-silence had
broken into a lardy bone-cantata of delirious, final fruit-flowers.

And I held on to John and John held on to Luke and Luke held on to me and I held on to the Warden and the
Warden held the Nurse and the Nurse held on to me, until we were all together, one and all, with the lasting
hitlerled hearse of mangy evil beauty once again upon us.


chapter 78: THE NURSE

The darkness is God. God is darkness. The dark God Unchained and Maimed. The God of Gods
is dark. The darkness is God. The God of Gods is darkness. The darkness is the Intimate, Ultimate
Word. God is God and God is dark. The darkness is the World. The World is all in worded darkness.
God God God God God God God.


chapter 79: MARK

The darkness is the World-Word.


chapter 80: JOHN

The darkness is the Word-Ward.


chapter 81: MATTHEW

The darkness is de Sword.


chapter 82: THE WARDEN

The darkness is the Grail.

chapter 83: LUKE

The darkness is magic, magic Karma. The darkness is magic, magic radio
The darkness is magic, magic karma. The darkness is magic, magic radio

chapter 84: JESUS

Christ has gone to heaven. They put him up in flames, crying, down the long nails,
crying, the beds burning like the eyes of voles when he caught alight. 'What are you
burning for?' I said.
'Whose Son? Whose Son? Whose Son?!'
Seven eyes put him up in flames. They were mistyped eyelids and bellied over the
bed-clothes like a siren, as though the regent and simultaneous Father had had a klaxon
fitted to their bedheads.
'Is it de Lord you're burning for?' I said. 'Why do you burn?' I said. 'Is it because
you hate the smell of burning?'

They pulled their flames together so Christ could spit on their fingers burning. One of them
lit a match, the others spat and licked their thumbs for burning. One of them had to burn
back-to-front because the city's flame had a furnace that was inside-out and laughing,
and they are riding on de Devil's flames, which is the Satanic and unlawful awful. A match has
a pervert on either side and a geezer on the other; three sides and neither a back nor a front.
I never knew a day so strange as this. God had a tiny iris he got from Mary when he was
new-born. Inside it was burning and burning all the live long morning and evening. I never
a nght as strange as this. 'Is that why you're burning, Lord?'
'Whose Son? Whose Son? Whose whored Son are You?'

The Eye stands on the hill, unravelling, the sirens motionless, the flames wrapped round the
metal spheres, the back of de Eye is searching for a whored Mother. It looks no different
to de Devil; no different to the hundreds of other flames around. Matthew was once a Man
but now his is excretia; now He is looking up and down the purple hill as if He were a clod of
earthy solder. There is about it all that imperceptible air of divinely recusant and eager departures
to foreign haloed shores, perhaps due to the fact that de Eye sits on my fucking skull and sets
the whole sweet world aflame.
'Is that why you're burning, Lord?'

Christ is our Father, our dead yet undead Father Christ. Our xmas-easter Father Christ in
a pit in emptied Heaven where, his charred brains burning and charring away He looks down
as he swallows fries.
'Whose Son? Whose Son? Whose whoring Son?!''

'Is that the reason why we burn?' -,.-


chapter 85: THE EYE

The darkness fell and all stagnated. For they were siblings of a darker light that ever befell
the Mind before. For they were puppies of a lesser breed and needed to be killed before
the last fast trump came. And de Lord? de Lord Jesus Judea Christ, whom I had been put
on the wide earth to destroy, was now foaming in his inchoate, ageless heaven, like the
full acridity he had truly become. For he was too good for this world. His long dead Father -
the long dead God who had created to spite de Word - was too long gone to be revered by
such things as a fatal Crucifixion or a plangent moving stone. And I was ever one for seeing
into things, into the terrible blood and beyond. And an Eye is and an Eye must serve the swathes
of blood that always come before and since in every utterance of madness and stagnancy ever
curved; in every single utterance of the wide wise world's glad end.

People were flying but weren't reaching the sky. People were smoking but weren't getting high.
Before the Body beautiful. After Sex and Words, this is the only way for an earth to be that
prays before it falls, that gyres before it spits, then whines before it smiles. People were
smoking but not getting high. People were flying but weren't reaching the sky. And now the land
lies scoured of all its poetry; empty and barren as an Eye must intend, empty and fruitless as madness
must entrust to each sector of the stagnant human twixed Soul.

For they are gone now. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, the Warden and de Nurse, all have served
the dark and met the magma of the whisped world's purloining end. I took them on to go
mad: be mad, fly mad, smoke mad, coil mad, soil mad and foil mad. And now the simultaneity of
spontaneous ends has swept them into Lordless sleep that weeps and skirls like an epithet upturned
and burnt to death, or like a vapid plain of tears that cries for subterfuge alone and wastes away
in the blind Void that is Heaven.

People were smoking but weren't getting high. People were flying but weren't reaching the sky.
People! People were faltering and flailing in the nebulous nebula that is both mass and madness.
It was time for them to pass on; time for them to die.

I see the body of the Earth spin off its axis. My pupil dilates and I see the moilings of the mad
surge into a faux past of deadly dying bended instincts. The Warden lies quite still with a
muted smile on his face. Luke lies in his arms, his pulsating beard suffused with shaven
night; and I know, as much as a bird must know, that the Fall from cleft skies is all the light
of wet wild heaven becomes. I see the sad earth; I sense all this mad mind-heart world break
off from its cradle-bed and spin wildly and defaming into an intuitous insidious gracelessness.
Such was the Word that it must come to its unnatural end like this, both posited and deposited
in a snorted tonsured cry of pure abeyance.
'Can I die now?' I ask the Dark. 'It is surely time for me to go'. And I hear the tongues
of my lizardine God lash around and up the estranging hills and vales of night, through the dirt,
and on, and on into a rigid turgid eternity of sightlessness and painted quiescence.
'You may die,' my dead undead God says, 'You may, for now we are all undead
and dead. You may for now the last vestige of my mind-creation has slipped into an ebb of
duning dark peace. 'You may die, my Eye, you may die, you may..'

And I slip to the surface of the clued clouds and I slip through the dust and the
dirt that is now the heavens and I slip and trip through the nemetic mimesis that has become
de one rude naked Word and I shut my aching lid and closedown my vernal bible-sight,
and my once angelled lashes tight around the sleeping towns of deadly undead dying
heated sweetening splitted mindless pied Heaven and, in taking a last peek at the wasped
bee-hurtlered world as it mumbles into dummy doom, pass swiftly away, with an alien
demented starred mentalis of a mind-girl, with an aptitude of Absolute Portentous
irreligious religious babel-boncing mind-dignity.


chapter 86: a hellish poetical adjunct to in my father's house.


Do not expect me to smile, I implore you, for I fear my eyes shall fail to sparkle. I may provide
you with a Trophonian grimace on bier-swathed Sunday Nights, but please, I implore you,
do not expect me to smile.
Why did my Dulcinea have to leave? Why was the Elysian epopee, the operatic arcadia
of our hearts, ravaged by Time's envious hawk-bred fingers? Why? Is this lachrymose hole in my
soul, and the great chill in my angelled veins - like that which bids the fog-enshrouded deep a glacial
morning's greeting - love's single legacy? Could it be true that the eternal tea-time of this infant world
is forfeit from life's veiled dawn?
Questions, those, oh, so contagious, intoxicating questions, which, like some malign,
Satanic smoke, infest my eyelids with cancerous pluperfect certainty, festering, perspiring pits
in the core of love's Morphean being - night after night, I am haunted.
So often I am inclined to embrace the parallel realm which returns so much and yet so
little, and swims within and without Time; holding whatever i wish for it to hold, taunts every
amorphic plantations with solving, unreachable images of the illusion that is life.
So often am I inclined to focus on Olympian quarters during Morphean moments,
and ask the protean clouds for my true identity. For surely I was struck from a wandering seed
to roam through timeless webs of empyrean understanding? But my carbonised, tidal-lake of
red sentience defies my dreams and tells me I am here: here I am, in this illusory firmament,
wherein popping seeds germinate; become linguistic beings; and adopt placements in vast,
yet barren, time-plantations.
Am I 'Master Stardust'? Is my Mother really rooted in that squat residence -
her inch of amphoric plantation - in ruins, with my quiescent, lamenting Father? Could it be
this is merely what the scrambled, reversed realms tells me so? Are the vast, yet barren, amorphic
daddy plantations the blue reality, or is it the formidable spectrum of pseudo-light more than what
I view in that dividing, captivating sheet? Could it be that I am not the angry, choking saps of my
mind perceives me to be? Maybe my position - my terrestrial acre of amorphic plantations - should
not be here?
Yes, I know I was meant to fly; but the potent, mobile world weds my boots to the
dust-bred soil. Shall I always be intertwined with obese amorphic plantations with the ever taut
truanting bell of plutovian muscle, which attempts to force the illusion of neon existence into
the perjured, sulphurous depths of drowning, asphyixating earth?


And Acheron invaded my Merlin Sleep, swathing my eyes in the blood of one million male-thoughts:
'Come dine with me.' Charon commanded, 'Let not thine complacent eye deceive you - I am the Cantata
of Death!'
Reluctant to embrace the frigid night, I cherished the Tombs of Hypnos and ignited the air
with tears. 'Pass me into the grave of Los if Destiny desires it..For I am fond of no sister other than the
petrol sky,' whispered my Mind in shrill reply.
Hence the fortuitous glance of reflecting Bone dressed the Hours of deadened Reason in the
bitter waters of Cocytus, and infested my Being with shrill songs of graveless Souls.

'Here thou shalt wander without question,
O'er the frontier of Hades, learning th' lack
Of sense thou shalt behold:
Ne'er shalt thou be free to greet
Heaven or Hell. Unless they heart come
Dine wi' me, thine eye shall be blinded
By saline regret, and loneliness
Shalt by thy sole Companion.

Ice clamped my defiance and wrapped my hand in Charon's Fleshless grasp. The Air no longer blew
blew with Los, as a Dew-Washed Mist blessed my Ken, and vermeil Diadems blushed and a perfumed veil
of Sublime Comprehension.

'Partake of this wine, for
It may chase th' chatt'ring Night
From within, thus leaving thy Being
Revived and cleansed anew.'

The Sulphurous Voice of Infinity ordered, as if the plumbless Styx yielded the Tunes of those who departed
with coinless wee mouths.
'I have messages to impart. Be aware of the content, and drink not the gall of Pride: listen!' Charon's
Bloodless cry decried. He too had drunk the Wines of Creation; but fleshless ribs permit not the fatted
warmth of sustenance, and Bacchus's Joy erupted from every crevice of His heartless form
So the Guttoral Passion of Laughter imprisoned my throat: Charon's mouldered cocked Skull provided
with much perverse amusement. Infinity's brew dashed forth from an urned moon in a sightless mask, thus
abluting Bone with sacred vine-rain: a plump shower of Eden's oil which crested the vermeil dizzy doll-diadem
with Seraphic Dulcitude, and demanded Saturnine Tribute:

'Wherefore dost thou send'st
Hilarity unparagon'd?'
Questioned the potless Spectres of the scattered Styx.

'Spen'st not thine passions, for
Th' poison Clouds look not
Upon Cheer with favourable Heart,
Be Hardy outwardly, since th'
Conscience within should o'erspawn
This most tyrannous Falsehood; an
Illusion such that if th'
Very Embers of Birth were to
Seek acquaintance wi' Ample
Milk of fullest Nature,
They would alight upon it
As lesser forces would,
And Consummate Hunger wi'
Rapine vaccums of rant grimace,
O thine eye must distinguish
'Twixt treacherous Morphean Tampestry
And wintry office held therein.'

They instructed, while the dew-washed Mist dispersed to unfold a Firmament of Stygian foulness: Infinity's brew swam with
jaw-wet Maggots, and the Clouds were overpaved with vast Globes of anguish, which revolved at a pace unparalleled demented
the Sky; molesting the Sun and enshrouding the Styx in Pluto's beamless eye.
'thou dost abuse Death's Patience; hence Truth's plague shall be thy Vision, for Night's Humour demands Mindful
Tribute,' Charon chastised, 'Be seated, and Grace thine tears with th' Knowledge I must dictate.'

'Thou shalt Love twice.
Th' first Dulcinea will twire little,
And shall dissolve wi' few Cars
But th' second shall emerge
From Celt-woven hills, bearing
Verbs and nouns of fine Crystal
Upon her Sirian form. She shall
Be descended from Don, and
Shelter Stars of May within and without
Her blossom-drawn senses. Thou
Shalt stitch thine Soul upon
Her azur'd Aura, and she shall
Stir inwardly, thus pervading
Th' Damask Air wi'
Silently Equal Love,
- Yet thy Beateous bonds shall Shine
Not 'twixt Healthy Hours, for forces
Of perjured Essence shall part
Thy Hearts, and o'ersnow thy Virtue
Wi' Anteros's Sublime purpose.

She shall strive to imprison
Her love for thee; but
Seraph's Tears seldom welcome
Gaolers of outward Cause,
And pastelline Memory shall shake
Her Senses at th' Root,
When Heaven's Figures Bless
Th' bursting Soils wi' Repose.

And thou shalt take such Sorrow
That thy being shall quit
Humour. Day and night shall
Offer no Comfort; ev'ry movement
Shall yield closed Remembrance
And thine Soul shall remain stitched
Upon th' perfumed veil of
Thine Love's starry endless Aura

Peace shall ne'er strike they sight
Until thou art once more a part
Of her May-kissed, Celtic Heart...

Behold th' Staff of Destiny
For it directs th' unfleldg'd
And all who roam athwart
Blackest quarters of fevered Air,
To pastures of Tranquil Light,
Wherein thine Love shall stand,
She hath Don's unchalleng'd favour,
And thou art her Soul's ranger,
Th' sphere my spin wi' adjunct Desire;
But, lo!, Anteros shall rise upon
Th' surf of Fortune;
For thy Hearts were spun
In Olympian braid of Law,
To be wedded mid th' Path
Of bold Jupiter, who send'st
Time's Blood-rich scythe to Partners
Who part and ne'er again embrace
Love's velvet Prayer of Sex-Unity.

'Adopt these bird-words, and feed upon them in vacant Days, for the Future
may be leached from them.' His storm-veined grasp spat upon Winds, which tore Nature's limbs
into indefineable shapes, and cast them into a frenzy of barless Staves, thus sweeping the plumbless Styx on to a
floor of Musical Mind-Illness, and furrowing the Sickened Sky with incontinent Grasses, Petals and Buds of maimed
sucked promise.
'May Hesperides inflame thine eye wi' th' night's bitter courage: Farewell.'
The coinless Souls chanted, while Charon ploughed glacial Bone into the Core of Identity, thus crapping Permanence from
my zero-ken, and returning my Soul to Sleep's active Breast. The Air blew once more with the sour earth's Loss: Tears burnt
in the Life-gorged air. So my Heart Slept the fierce Hours of the sweetened Mad, aware that Agni's Horizon would enfold Joy
and Fear its Trojan planchette.

But nevertheless, you saddened old Maecenas of mine, there is a curious bad 'Joke' !!!


chapter 88: a poem named: QUIDDITY

Th' structure of Patience has informed
Those of Ancient Force and Majesty
That th' Minotaur breeds on Cowslipp'd Lawns
Enshrin'd, fore'er, in Collonial taste: sever'd
Who are but latent Memories of Youth,
Long embalm'd and left to pine
For Eden, whence Eve preach'd th' diadem of Love
To bear-laced Adam, who sought to refine

Our sated Hearts wi' unsolv'd Tales that
Painted form in waxen Sands;
And loosened flies for fetid laps
When crusted Cries beshrewed Dian's hands,
Amid th' calls for five Dollars extra. Or
Invasions of care-set, detached embrace,
Which withheld Tears without blind Law,
And elect'd Thought to fairest solace.

I am no more what was meant of
Me; I behold no Dreams to
Give unto Life. So distant, yet True, th'
Passion burns for Eve's return, where'er
Her Orchard may always Bloom; whoe'er
May seal god's bones in
Orchid-bound sweet breath. So far have I
Travelle'd in search of Anteros's endlessness.



chapter 89: text-name BENDER  'Part 1': a prose-poetry adjunct to
'In My Father's House'


The rocker raps from smiling
laughed coffee from coffin machines
and sees
that how Bender took the asylums
slouch-strums a soft retreat
from the dealers in the dowsed woods
who sense the hash in a fall of rain,
no heart but an open oven
splinter-preaching in tall refrains
that how love must pass on quickly
passes off the bloodied buck
and flitters into the sickly
drawls of blundered luck.

In the silence and darkness of checkmate
wind comes to the curious crowd
a half-sensed grope of yearning
that draws upon the palls of the proud,
and exhumes from the timeless valleys
a cause for the wrangling rope
that furnishes, paves and parries
each banished madness of dope;
and Bender, who took the asylums,
masters a score of goodbyes,
with the heads of his office stunning
and the libertines of rumour
wrapped up in a sober sty.

Female decanters hold fast
Bender's laughter that tinkles to raid
the last spired wreath of Jade -
the wrist-crotched fluesy stammers
down Bender's limbs and on:
in cities of infernal malice
the guise and guile of Bender's mind-song
swipes and sweetens the limits
and folds and marries the darkening planes -
down flickering flumes and dragnets
the genitalled Father spits and trains
an eye on the bardic tunnels; so Bender

speak from the hip as He lies
and strides through the spheres and magnets
until the white wall dies.



It's been ages since I held the baker. It's been even longer since I held the dough. Twice a week, my Maker

comes in here. For now, I am all alone.
If fear could spell the face on my shoulder. I should run the gamut close to home; but now it is
my Maker who makes me the writer amid the bone. Now, now: it is not me who cries. Instead, it is the house
on the hill, forever showing glints of piers and cranes. So sure of my dainty exit, I turn towards the Scene
but now blood hell-fire cums.
If I were a scuplter, I'd make my favour moggy-smooth. But, for now, I am the travelling culture
of dust and hive and hoove. And hence my rhyming's false; riven with the tawdry towers of manseless rooms;
or even with the caverns of the Whalers who live beneath the floes of the molten seas, where Baker crow and Dough
is just a matter of an evil rose?
Now, now: it isn't for you that I cry. No! It is for my Maker that I wail: He who came into my room on
Sunday, then left without a trace in His search for His galed Grail. Now, shall I stand alone today; or shall I proceed
to dance the dance of Death? Whatever, I know that my Maker shall be better than any; at least, be called the Father
of my tomes. Faith! She had a right to make her Master die. Yes, bitter and, better, buttoned by the sick chant of
my acrid marrige to Gem, her revolt against me makes me cry for Holy While. And it is the best that marriage espies.

Cockswained, then, and Hitlered beyond de pale, here my cuckooing cousin knows her ebbs and flows;
finds relief from me and mine as the bestial light throws a lungless seance at her gyring hips. Can I alight now all my
days are cold? Doubtless not, my friend, for then I'd know my demise; and that is the teeny tawse, now and always.
..It has been ages since I held the Baker. It has been even longer since I held the Dough. And that is and must be
my measure: fever must always break the bones in two; make an Absolution that warrents us all a cool and integral
summer of freezing Loves.
..Summer! Summer! At least my love can linger on. At least my fascinating girl - that is, my dizzy Woman -
can turn and mill the romantic sun. For my Maker of I have made my bed, and now must die in it. And this is the Americana
of the drivel: If Poets were meant to shine all day, why does their worded swimming pray? Friend, friend, friend....I
entreat you till the very evil end.

It's been so long since I held the Baker. It has been even longer since I held the Dough. Gemma comes here
twice a year. It is not so fair to say that she's alone. Nor is it fair that my Maker trolls decks to make me pay.
Sculptor and, further, Master, I stand here lovingly till bared.
And my rotten Maker, who shows his talons to me whenever he can, does down the day with his rangers
so much that the instinct of dust and dry: the innermost recesses of that which is new and driven amid the deaths of
the wave-eyed blue whalers who float upon the molten seas of drowned tomorrows.
The Baker knows how much I love him. He breeds with the bits of my writings and plays a little
heterosexual wank-cantata that slows and spires about the brittles of the wholly crazed. And this is the rhyme as my
Maker sees it. This is the dust and the dry of rhyme's code. For faith in one Father, one God, my eyes keep check
on the shelves and blossom in the Hesperides.

And if I had words that saunter, I should build on high the haloed throne; but this is my only verse, my
only poem: nothing saunters but stone and bone and dust and stalwart dry. You see, my friend, not a thing is sacred
in my world: the Baker comes and the Baker goes: the Dough comes and the Dough goes. All bullets hit the head
I seek. No valley is mine to rove.
It has been ages since I held the Baker. It has been even longer since I held the crows. Henceforth,
my longlost impossible bride is a-weeping, is a-wailing and bawling for something new. As the layered seas cry, she cries,
as she cries, the seas cry. If I were culpable, I'd pray.

But, you see, everything comes down to churches in the end. When all the cowls and caves are closed, the church
is all there is. It must be ever so. Grave and luminous days here pave the way to de appled chapel - the agents of prayer
are ever near and sphered. For a life that has no meter, prayer is my only device.
Gemma comes here twice a year. When she comes, she rakes up the sweet gravel, assumes a
missionary position and thence dies. And so it is that all love is a depleting swept dream. When it lies happily, it loses
faith. When it is smitten, it absconds to the sun. The ovaries of it all are all gold-fashioned yet cumbersome. Once the lust
of love is sated, time cries fast away.

But my Gemma must be the dictator: she knows how I fib; she knows how I lie and evade the bitter Truth.
Bitten deep where the notch in the crotch expires into a flush of labile malformed Life, my Gemma - who is my only
demon wife - rides the zillionth mile and sheds her loosening loving heart-tears.


chapter 91: AS THE SKY-LIGHT'S CRY

Gemma is my wife, and she knows it. She has been around since the dawn of rhyme. And this is the life I hold to:
nothing kills me here that cannot be explained.
The heat is very high today. Today, the sun is burning in the sky and seems particularly coarse. It is surely
hot enough to bake and overbake again and again, night and day, day and night.
For taxidermy is here too. The heat is such that it stuffs the animal that I am, fast and swiftly. See now:
I am stuffed by the delusory sunrise every single horsed day: I am stuffed, and so it is so that my mind-fields grow
dryly and atoned; and so it is that the guards in my christened secreted garden conceals pursed lips and tonguing
tulip-definers. Indeed, the words I speak now are severing silk-mates from fevering sealed cottages
.My mind is a stalwart repeater: I say things over and over and do not care to say I won't. The peppered
papers on the porny shelf do down fate, sure enough, but still I repeat printed news over and over again. In fact,
everything is repeating, here and now - as verbal skylights shine, it is so. Thus the Baker and His Dough are ribbed
with fire. And this is the stalwart fire of repetition: everything burns and turns about riders of shit cognition,
stalwart till the sirens end.

But, if I had my time over, I would choose to sit on Gemma's crotch and watch the sparrows flow by.
But that is not to say that I am eager to do things again. No, No! I'm simply saying that Gemma is my soft gem-
hooded christ-wife and say that I would just die to hold the Baker and He hindermost midas-hand just one more
time again. Soon, I will spray cocky tears till both the Baker and de Dough are held by both hands.
For It has been ages since I held the Baker and even longer since I held de Rose?
It is almost as if I cannot think again without saying it over and over, forevermore but once again.
If my Maker should walk along the bridge, His face should merge with the dreams and rhymes. But this tale is merely
hearsay: the men who walk light's bridge are filled with crime and time and time and crime.
..And so it is that my selfish nature snaps and screes like a mind-monkey in chimping heat; does down
the faiths of its mutinous rangers and forever calls the Lord an ass. The face of it is always fake: bearing the cheek-scars
forever and a day, my nature - which is owned by my dangler wife - wears a false mosaic of fucked hairs. Nothing can
stop it from from wearing Hynenas: Nothing at all can cease it from insisting that the Lord above seems dumb.

My Gemma takes a bath all day long on a Tuesday; goes through the rest of her sleepy week unbathed yet clean; pays
the bills on maundering Wednesdays; ties her bows and raves and raves. Bitten close to de Centre, her eerie pulsating
minge-mentality sails dry seed. An ebony and ivory girl of god's good choosing, she has each day less than clever and
each day wedded to shrillers of heart-mind-tongue head-sadness.

For the ghosts are here today - see! they take the highroads and cry amid cauls and cranes and palls and
bunny biers. These ghosts are full of eager flares, and ride the sweated winds as if to pray and pray as if to ride once
more, devilish and proud, in their penniless chaff, more, commensurate with dukey diamonds. And these pled ghosts
do not bathe at all: like abbots in a modest commode, they sidle as they shit on the clean, and they rise and arise
from their scrotum-slinking river-rinded gravy floats.. And I am a ghost also. I am as much ghost as Man, and I
know it. Not a ghost among me as keen enough to shake the haunted hearse that swallows midnights.
..It has been ages since I held the Baker. It has been even longer since I held de Dough.
Lips spit eyes and salivators kiss trendless drives (and capped lips condemn beards with crows?)
O, sullen, my love, that you should come here. Sullen, my love, that you should fade. Sullen, my love, that you
should come here. Sullen, my love, that you should decay. And it is more sullen that both the boys and the girls
weep about you. In a sodden search for sex-deaths, they hurt fish atlantis.- and the keen gravitas of one zillion
wide pies strap swarthes across blue kitchens.
If you should come here alone, please remember that birds of prey are foes. Remember, even, that
birds of prey are leavened by the scythe and hives that hold no bees at all. Do now see this sweet truth; do
now recognise that the ways we conceive and perceive the barrowed wards in Hell will hereby succour for
widening bed-warrens
- and no shrilling dampness here pervades us till shouters of kiddy cock comes weedling after snout-stores.
For friend, this is a mad soft town: she has no light to give us but the roads of starkening noises.
The flashed flowers die here. The trashed mind-towers have no trading transmissions. The booted truth is that
this stillled town is a Doughless, Bakerless place.

And the shell, my fleet love, is IN the seashore and not ON it, as fashion would have it
be. Don't you see? A shell here shards underfoot and cuttlers days-deep beneath the swift shoes of times.
O, my own sweet Gemma love, recall to me your hampered hands and make Love Good?

For you must sense it all. This hellish love of ours is ever on a selfish gradient. Forever,
old yet outlandish, the sovereign nodes of our all-so-angry hearts will cut the lace we spread.


For you must sense it all. This hellish love of ours is ever on a selfish gradient. Forever,
old yet outlandish, the sovereign nodes of our all-so-angry hearts will cut the lace we spread.

For you must sense it all. This hellish love of ours is ever on a shellfish gradient. Forever so outlandish,
this sovereign flame of our most evil hearts gets happily gutted by darksome red moons. God knows it! We are
so much of a hellish flava that everything our love forfends swigs liquid bone. And liquid bone is honed by stone
and a stoned bone moves to a false home; and nothing may permit the firesides to creamate lust;- do eyes foam
Gemma, you are my mind-wife. You are my sweet life, and you know it. My sweet sister-
cousin, come to me soon for, by far, you are my hapless, broken whore who married Christ - the seance of our
fatal marriage is sad and shorn and cold. Even if may opt to live on a beach, the romanticising tooth-truth is
just the same! Gemma, you are my heart-mind-wife, and my lilted life dances as he runs then dies fast away.
O dry is the face in the cellar. Dry and dusty as a Law, here the phantastic revellers of headpiece
portraits tear: the dance dries up though, and a cellphoning mouth-deceiver folds sex folscaps underneath
my potmost peeing wide opening girl-fevers
Gem, My own sweet Gemerald. If only you could seize the stars turn mad and sourced with pies
and rotted rotating brain-blooded vulture-butcher; and a comic coda cosmos has to treat us to melon-drives.
If only, Gemma, you could hold sweet communions near me then you and I could seem
endlessly together forevermore and once again.


chapter 92: I AM THE BAKER

I am the Baker: I stash the souls of me and mine with de Maker. I am the baker: I press the hashkeyed
woes of de sailor saviour. And this is the space where I stroll down a red beach. The Baker and the Maker
are bended while complete. For death-retail, for murdered rhymes, for sainted brain-crudity, out of bitten
sky-vines, I ruffle my mother's hair, and then dive into a divided babbled scrap-sea. No Baker nor Dough
is rolled enough to get kneaded; and bread-boys are of course kinset-baked.
And it is no sweet abuse that Gemma, my wife, comes home to spin: she spins for my heart
and reads my soul with a wakeful kiss at my side. No abuse of de umpteen senses will be known to the tears
of my lovely feline former life who laid snake-baskets down.
For, the brute muslin of a ventricular deity must feed the Baker: for the cousins in
my invectories of sweet bun-baits come carrying while parrying with the fleet soldiered farts in the spin
scratcher of earthed religions; and, o, when heady islands sink into one zillion seas then, as spreaded wave
get littering salt shakers, a mutinous sex-empery will murder midnights.
For faith in one Father, in fateful fear of one knuckled God and Lord, the Baker and
the Dough push up, up and out for hissed high dreams. They fly with pickled Jays and connive with
the merlin arrival of space slaves and star-sigma: and no pleasure is theirs to shuttle times.
So, now let all food fuel my farting bird: let fevers chime upon deep golden
guilty sails: for swift poetry alone, may we let coursing tapestries be forever screened by coughing
lung-heart-labotomies. And, um, if I should lose my sleeping minds, and if I should turn a reaper
with carnivores and acritudes, might I gey slathering after goggy marched dogs
and to arise and steal decay, the bastard flower in a purple cave must cotton to slow budders.
The aviaries in a whipped sky seal houses and houses hold many bad birds beside
the winged scathe of lungs-meats and plural spies. And but one lung remains: the golden breath-
bum whose ideal factory sparrow sinks passionless pundits whose chiming heaving scutters then
immediately constrains.
And now a miniature town of ether flares well above the seagulls; flies on up
and rectally under bum-juiced ripped wheelchairs. And all waste is done now; reeler rodeo
whisker-razors sink hispid pussy fayres across criminal bruised tables
and the whispery beard of a human bird scatters slams aside fattening digital cock
and crocking - and a motory milky bud nerve whimpers - and a whimper is heard by
both loud wife-gemma and me that cracks de Maker's mind and sets us - both Gemma and
me - very free: sets us upon the road to manic union.

Both the Baker and the Dough shall not be mine forever. God in Hades knows all about it!
The Baker and the Dough shall soon cut out and leave me sexless in the sweated fields of
sap-strangled meals in massvive onan-yields. O, whilst long demanded mind-Gemma sings
for old-fashioned blind gallows, I shall be live on blood fields when the vastness of pinnaces
caress dyed christs.



Today I am the Baker. Tomorrow, I shall go without shoes. Any following day, I shall be
the Butcher-Maker. O, this is the stalwart dictum of my soul-Fall.
And the bib of Jesus bedevils all my choirs: as hadean evenings fall, it bedevils
all with baby dinners of ticks and birds. Half of my heart rallies for my Maker, the other
using sense for a lingering mind-shawl. Now tarrying, then closing in on the signs of heated
winnowing minnow-brains, this Love I have for goosy Gemma - who is both my wife and
my fun mum-pilgrim - dries out in dusty lager-splendour and finds no gin-dampness to
purloin. O, now roaring, now drawling life from a papering pig-pen, this, my lonely marriage
of pigs, deserves an utmost spiritual date-divorce. O, the starry transepts of the hill-sacred
cause flea-hung gals to know all about it and the blackbird baby that is bathed therein knows
utmost everything ghost-piled and emptied. O drilled down to the very buried lip, mad insidious
Gemma and I must lose each other inside jacked father-pain: we will suffer balded sex-quotes
and sun-thrum till the eerie motor-stars that look down upon a fairy town must butter boats
with loss. And tactile Gemma and I will never escape our intractable murder-frowns
and the arrows of heart-partings use a dart on the penile left for a cunny on the right.
And I know I am a Baker; and I realise god had no Dough.
The Baker bakes me honey; the Dough sits in a hearse-purse that glowers; and, see!,
where the ideal bunny cathedral showers rude spires with washed flowers. See!!- the
Baker and de Dough reach into the cake of me and, charmed in kneading, the salts of souls
clambers into an infinite eternity of picklered skin-scram; and, with nailing scum-batons,
bad trumpets and jaffy furling jonquil-dams, I am swelling up and up from a disinfected earth;
and de judas ghost caresses me as me and my head-dropped turf gets sugar-sign-cursed
For the faceless know about our burdens. Distraught unto the very
last, the cabinets of a massive Zodiac, the faceless realise that the empties found in berries
will use porny briars and pony tyres, I jack desirelous brides to find belfry bellies come
the utmost Baker and the tutmost Dough; and I am the Baker and I butchered bums with
howlering easy lamb-splinters. O, to swallow vim is a keen part of my penis mission
and, tiled, a queasy rocking bath-mirror accosts the uncleaned clean; and dangerous lissom
rhymes for dragglers and dummy droves: I cannot find the eateries of lustive eyes.

And if this place could comprehend its fabled ending, fast fate should slide and
dance among amazing piers and cranes; but, instead, night lies glistering inside lud heat,
is jutting into a weird and graceless space to live. Foreign spaces must gyre and smile here;
sovereign and ancient tiny islands must forfeit their regals to this most barren and brackened
place. For impossible ghost-Gemma calls to me. She makes me red with my own two weary
eyes and she layers me with the sindling cock-stores and I will suffer bread when tangerines
come cutting fishy sails from nuclear-gnit-wards; and all my holy whore-dreams use faiths for
a fine fuelled pyre; and I lay abed where death dug for cold kiddy clay.
.Today, I am the Baker. Today, I own the Dough. Tomorrow, the martyr
shall seem all too mad and different. Today and tomorrow, my own sweet refrangible Gemma
will be dread and gone.




This sofa I sit on is aside a river that never meanders. These fleas on the sofa are those
who account for a cat and me. Nothing at all can ever be done for itching bum-love
the stops, here and now. Nothing at all can ever be done for divorcing blue drought.
And it is so that my Maker is a rhymester: riven the calor gashes of my
zillion odd readers, my Maker shapes poems that dine inside the dark; and poetic sails
come scandlising the sunshine in a tail, and the render of cussers comes crashing
through good dogs and female felinity. Glassy, my Maker owns to Father; and sandlers
come striping soap-arse with gloaters of nuclear sotting gentian infertility.
And here comes the Baker, and now comes the muddy Dough: now comes me and
my natal elegantine now. The bestiary's in rigid Hell; these mitching boys and girls are
scone-thrown: the Baker is my Maker, my Maker uses cake for clothes; and here is my
face thrown from focal fires which use hands to storm girl-brands; and here is the poems
of my wasted dreams: sunshine seizes bloods from nailed bed-bandages where a brother in a
rolling drone gets waltzed across the darklings of bled Infinity.
, And the Baker's no seagull; No! He is the Sun; the golden osiris
of with a shielded mental-gun - and the slaker of a naughty eagle gets sifted by lady Isis
and the dust that is above me: o, I chose to leave my dear gem-wife for skittlers
and keen musk cries above me: o, I chose to leave myself for what little life I had to
give: with face under face, with hands across hands, the poetry of my Maker uses truths
to waste away the eye-lidded dartlings of an inky endless Human Car-case

And my own dear dabbed mind-swipe uses gold for city guns - the heady heroics of
a plato in a devil-cage shafts psychic snows within chews; and the Baker is my healer
and de Dough is owned by money-cavers: Gemma and I choose to read tamelesness to
the public poets of an inverted city voice; and the public shadow of the dead hoists
routing hail under raving flags, forever and ever.
And now my Baker calls me by my name: 'Horatio!' he says,
'What now for you and I?' And I, who am more ghost than a man; and I, who was once more
a Baker than a Thief; and I, who once held de Dough by its long cooked hands, turn to my
Maker and say, 'To you I pray; for you and I stray. Horatio! Horatio! By this game-name
I shall my hands upon the bed that was once mine; upon the best bed that Gemma straddled
But, now and again, from near or from far, I hear the gentile sound of poems
strangling; from near or from far, I hear my verses course with epithets of angst-ridden sound!
I must hear the sound! It must speak to my blood and thunder spindler and awake to find
the guardians that held my long lost Gemma coiled and vacuous stave! For Gemma is my
livid Lover: Gemma is my dizzy song: Gemma is my Lovely and Gemma ties lingerers to
fast kisses in the seas and brings lip-fish back home for me.

And the Baker roams alone. And the Dough roams alone. And my Maker foams against these
empty days, calling me 'Horatio!' calling me by the dud game He chose to engrave on my
already dated deep tomb. For Gemma is gone from me. For Gemma has roots in her wounded


chapter 95: IN SPITE OF TIME

It's been ages since I held the Baker. It has been even longer since I held de Dough
Every other week my Maker comes in here and tells me where I should go. And this is the
relapsive Idyll of my marriages and disemblences: one long Maker gets writing up the pall
and another long Maker uses a fast marriage for a dead child. Once upon a mind, I held de Dough.
Once, I feigned rich: once I lived with opulent verses; now I feign poor. Now, I am poor
and atoned.
And nothing can end the flacillating dreams that wail and cry throughout my mind.
Towards the Baker's fate, I yearn to be smitten. Towards the laps of Dough, I yearn to be
swathed. Towards the screaming hands of the sea and time, I dream of Gemma: I dream of my
widdling mind-wife; I dream of being a wealthy never and once again?
It has been ages since I held the Baker. It has been even longer since I held de Dough.
The Truth is that logic does not serve me: I have been ill, shall be ill, will remain ill. That is
all. To speak of being an ailing waif, I must write and write and write once more poems of
undue strength and heart-propriety. Please now see it, my friend, this rained place of divorce
and lingering fevers is not the only world I know. Indeed, I have known many worlds: worlds
poetic and shrill. Though I have been ill, am ill and shall seem ill, this is the earthy time-truth
I should own.

It has been ages since I held the Baker. It has been even longer since I held de Dough. My
songs are all written in spite of time - in spite of oceans, I must swim my tunes - in spite of
of long days and in spite of swift nights, I must sing for rivers once more then again.
And deadening rabbits run the fanned fields tonight. Under trees, the squirrels climb. In
the world outside my head, Gemma and I stroll through the meadow's grass-creed and
dabble in plenty of wheated seed-kisses. To think that Gemma is gone is to realise that the earth
is sour. Yet still I write on and on, versifying every single poem-creel.
It has been ages since I held the Baker. It has been even longer since I held de Dough.
And a butcher-baker-bender is my Maker. And de Dough is my only sensual clause. To think I
have been tamed by these words alone must make me noose a bird-muse a laden bitter while.
If only my Maker would save me, Gemma, the Baker and de Dough would be mine once more
and eagerly forevermore.

Now save me! I am one for the Saving; must be held by pyrex pistons, sirens and
leaden moons. Now save me! Save me, silent Gemma, as my butcher-baker-bender flails
aside from the rapiers of reapers and, oo, de Dough seems dammed.




Faithless fly the denizens and ghosts. Faithlessly fly those who live to die. Faithless come
the ancient lovers and their burnt hosts. Faithless fly the kings and queens who cry. And I am one
for faithlessly saving; I am one who deserves to know my name. And I am one for faithlessly
measuring; I am one with my pain.
And nothing can stop my wife from flailing. Nothing can stop her life from turning
veiled. Nothing nor nothing else can cease my bed-gem from flailing. Gemma is lost: soon, her eyes
shall lose detail. For Gemma was my invidious evil cousin and my renal bride. For Gemma was my
courage-caressing Mother and my brotherly sisters; and now love's animal animula lays down
in a prised dark room.
And this is the sweet madness of the mad men; madness that wreathes and wails upon
a dirt-stone. This is the sweet madness of conceives without a rectal remit: madness that weaves
a suicidal magical tragic mind-earth. O, I am as sick as sick becomes and shall be always
insidiously heart-hilled. 'Gemma?' I say, 'Wherefore must annals of bled bended mind-raves
thrill the veins and bones of a dilly bride?'
And nothing can stop this detolled fistula fate from growling; nothing in
the whole wild world can stop my keen Gemma's slow death; nothing can cease the mindless
shoppers of ferine mentophrenic from lapsing into demure regimens of greasing breath.
My Maker kneels then prays to the Butcher-Bender-Baker. The baker bakes his bone and
storms carbonisers with de plated Dough and then storms de butcheries with bleeders of
de swine-Bender. And nothing may stop this mooted fart-fate from crowing; nothing in the
cone-candied world may revokes my Gemma's celled death; and nothing seems the water
and nothing rends the fires, and all turgid basketfuls of lip stops to marry blood.

Today, the vultures have been spring-cleaned. See! Their blonde beaks sparkle.
o deep in the mental wood, the vultures scream. See! Their blonded beaks encircle all
fever-feathers. See! their springing sponging buzzard breed uses pecky parlatans for
hands and knees and evil bird-rivals.
And, ohh, we will thrust winged lambs under winklers such as we find
getting netted into waved oblivion. Done down, through prisons, galleries and canyon-
knife-crayons; and here is my mimed love-story. 'Gemma! Gemma! o, moistening dead minds
will surely make you well once more and then one more time again?
'o, Gemmy germy Gemma, if your story moves the leaden merlin-stone
or if death's tomb may break, what then for you and I; what now for tidal times and idiot


And nothing in this world can stop Gemma's split suicide. Oh! my sweet wife Gem, where and how
do you flow when this life is so lemon dandy with shelled hatred and pain? Tell me, my dreamed
Gemma, where do you eat the clouds.
If she loved me, she would surely stay. If she cared, she would surely retain her blue
guile. If she wondered how God felt, she would surely roam an endless cage of light-life.
If! If! If! O, deem to tell me who we are?
And this hot town resides in a gritty city; this town wells with mitt-grit each
time it wanders then dies; each time it flails away. Don't you see? This town is fuelled by mismatched
eyes; eyes that wear mismatched lids and belly out into breaded angst and fishy pity. God knows it.
This blind bound littered bed-town is no place for a good girl. O, this bed-town is no place for one who
was once a beauteous chalked river-bride.
For what is one to do when their twinned heart is all in dizzy love? Maybe feed off hold cold
rose-snow or maybe weird beads or maybe hope for a place within the utmost caves of falsifying
sex-gold. O, maybe the dinny ginny deceptions of lonely Gravitas shapes and shaves the swarthes
of this splayered whirled world where good love drops fast away.
How should I listen to a bruised dove? How could I laugh at love when true love is hereby assigned
to signal signet pain? .. and is it perhaps a romantic gold-glove that interfuses doves with champagned
windy whelking lively murdered dangerous stairs.
Whatever, i know that my rites in moon-nights will lead keen inflammatory
imaginary Gemma to the deafening cockle-graves. O, since we all departed life for a dodgy navel
then we will certainly become swift of cellves where an urchin in a pot uses guitars for uterine
hisseries; and death succours weed as idiot anal studies call 'Death! Death! Death!' at gabby manequins
that seal tall smilered sicklers in our harping beer-frights. And the hagglers and de need and de scarlet
tocking moon-swipe must define radio angels.
And nothing can stop mod Gemma's death. Not even the butcher-baker and de Bender-
Dough. Even if my dilator-shaper, with all His idiot paraphenalia, came to my rural backdoor and asked
for a cursory feline sealed rhyme; not even then could Gemma's genoa-death be stella-sealed. And this is
the noose I lay my blithe writings on. The tiddy noose that hangs gabblers when love in love with love
will mutate penniless peerers with guns.
O, now may the fuel of my farting dead gull-girl come loosening longlost original paper
be shended while the dirt moon grinds
down, down-                      ?.



And this is Gemma's death. All wrapped up in the vaults of the falling breath, Gem's dude life
was is always in doubt. And Gemma leaves home without even wailing; good Gemma leaves home
without even a single swift pout: Gemma's lips swail aside keen evenings. Gem, my mind-Gemma,
passes out. Twice a year, my Gemma came to see me. O, Gem! My Gem? My twice yearly sex-
friend. Divorce just like ours was first dimmed then fed to the grey streets of feeling dirty?
O, don't you see that a wedded death just like ours is meant to wrend and wrend and thence
come looping snouts with piping cellved disease.
And it would have been so easy to ask for the butcher-baker's hand; would
have been so simple to ask for the hand of the ravished Dough. Now, the decks of dust get
licked clean of all their poetry: Gem! My swine Gemma! Gem, my animal Girl, she dies, dies,
dies. Loinward, she lies when dying: with aether and spelled acid about her demon smiles, she fades
into the swift black raven-rafters of this loud eggy groin-curve.. And it would have been easy to marry
the bender-butcher-baker, would have to marry de bound caked Dough; and the bender-butcher-baker
fades now out across the slick black clogs without a single word to de evil hadean love-lord
until every single candle-weevil moves true rhymes from a family whore, until all of us who deal lust
must star-hoot; and, lo, my tired and lonesome lardy gal-rider Gem, pawed, will drink from a coca
venal sweet vinegar; and one mental distillation, just one roman distillate, just one robed womb,
will sweat for the baker-butcher-bender. Uh? Here goes my gem-den, into the purple band-parade
that heeds to Death, De-ath, Death! Death! Death!
And now a vulvic s proposition of demure crying takes the clouds. And now the
vermeil vermin that is time and space collide. And now the whipped world around us shrivels into a
fierce sleep that can only bring Gemma to her foamal knees. Lewd is this Death. Thoroughly coursed about
the tonsured nostril-dick; and all galactic suicide gets heatedly stallioned by magic bit-foamings; is gashed
and grasped under salted heather-hands. O, I am getting to thinking that the utmost poems and poems
moved rosed death herself; and now and then Gem (Gem?! gEM?! SCanner!) will cum, here and out
So take this burnished, burgeoning hearth-heart. Take, take this wild world-wound in bleated
blortive bed-blood into something much more than material space. My Maker! My butcher-bender-baker,
I call on you to lay this Gemma spine-gymnasium to ferine rest, if only for a little doll-while.




It has been ages since I held the Baker. It has been ages even longer since I held de Dough.
And nothing can tell me who's my stranger; nothing can tell me who is a strangler
stranger to myself.
Two spaced years ago, Gemma died. Each way she chose to look, her death
was both molten and strong; each damned way she chose to smile, her dying and flailing
puematic teeth drilled into deep dread sex-poignancy, deeper than deep, unto the poxy female
smell that powders the robes of time. O, fever fuels my bird and my stirred bird flavours
dark wintry stages and Gemma is my stirrer and Gemmy is my soft island; and Gemma is
the butcher-baker and the butcher-baker-bender cooks the bum-buns we spread for wrists.
Lord, gigantic ghost-Gem rears the poem of my dead life.
And I say once again, this sweet town of mine gets bitten by gritty
farm-city. This town of my sweet mind runs around and passes me true and seedy gnits,
and, at the edge of all instinctive angles, every possible time uses friends for cages.
Time after time, my diggering vault-town reigns above me where the Baker and de Gemma
and the souping leverer of colt-crown sputter bendering bitchers with red refactories.
Long, long ago, before my Gemma died, I heard tell of a way to restore life to a dead
woman. Long, long ago, this wild world told me that, if only it were possible, an encounter with
a mazy mad fuhrer would restore life from death. 'You must,' it said, 'You must seek out the
mad fuhrer. You must, you must seek out the likes of Adolph Hitler if you are to find the
jeering gridded key to suicidal night-christ.'
And so it is that I stop and think and wend my dizzy way through the sweet recesses
of my heralded heart and mind. And it is so that I must find egit Fuhrer Adolph Hitler before
sad jewess Gem's days are truly through. I know where I may find him. I know that he may be
found in the evil hills where his heated, hating, horrid boar-soul gyrates into mute despiction.
O, if my Gemma is to live again once more, I shall and will find lunar Hitler; shall and will
encounter and forgive the evillest of noisome Lords
But then again, if I were a sculpter, Gemma would come to this
statued earth without need of a single chiselling mod miracle, without a single whine
or use of wind. If I were a scuplter, this keen mad keeling heart would simply have to
deconstruct meddler women with glamour and pistol. Such is the lot of Man whose hands are
gnarled and bent and febrile.
And I must meet de Fuhrer; must seek and find and forgive the idiot king of Hell.
O, this serious severing town of mine says so. This serious and skitty city proclaims that
devil Hitler must revolt till its gut quakes and murders snow. O, here Benito and Adolph
loiter up high in a pied sky where noosed curs bend yappers from coaters; and Gemma's dust
appears to size again the oodlered lovely Hitler who drinks gipsy urine and shits for everyone.

It has been ages since I held the butcher-baker-bender. It has been even longer since I held
de Dough. And now I must ask the butcher-baker-bender, o, must ask de Dough for strangled
christs. The acid test of the tricksters must make me kneel and pray. My Maker is de Butcher-Baker
and the Butcher-Baker-Benderboy cause my mien to shake..I shall use Hitler: come tomorrow,
bread will flow.

chapter 100: 'ACH DU?'

And I must meet Hitler or lose my fast wife impossible wife forever; must parry up into
the hills and summon hell with comb and paper. And up five hills I run; down nine hills
amid the corners of my peppered mind, and I find the flit and flume of docs when flies
get fanned against the dad fuhrer I must see.
'Ach du!' my tongue says unto the spectre, who is Hitler, who is Hell..
And then the wet scene gets changed; then the hadean hills become a stage and oodling
anal Benito Adolph strides across it; stridencies that encage de diddy Fuhrer inside Eva's
begged tears.
'Forgive me,' Hitler once said, 'Ach Du is not fucking good enough. Ach Du
is a plumy labile sentiment that shall not, will not ever save me. Ach Du is a pussy-sin!
Don't you see? I need a new milky totty titty to forge new nubile nakedness; need a sense of
penis-peace now; now that my bread-heart and cakey soul have been banished to these ole
reddening silo-hills.'
'Hitler,' I say, 'I know a way of making you feel very well; know of a birched tune
that may both redeem and save you. You must see, for in the foreskinning all-seeing purple
veins of de wept buzzard world, how indolent poetical pissy pride may bolt from your mad
past unto a redemption of de monstered Saviour Himself.'
'But I am surely beyond eager soul-redemption,' Hitler says, 'Surely, my pig
friends, it is heretic to suggest that I should ever be 'soul redeemed. If pleb poetry might
save us then what in the fat Lord's name am I to do? Do you suggest I write a dirty limerick? Or
is it that just too glib for fascistic honey curves?'
'Hitler,' I say, 'Poetry is a strange matter of crazy dozing scenes in bled dreams
that twist and turn against the colt piss-grain. Poetry defeats all instamatic logic in order to achieve
its mooted lippering abuse of verbal instinctive verb-guile. What I am saying; what I am stating
is that, to be soul-redeemed, you must take on smiled words as if they were all that the mad poet
commands. Logic of a pluperfect genocidal pome-kind, which is the kindlers your earth once held,
may only be contended and defeated through the scattering whip-words of verse-logic confuted
and deranged into a poetical, briaring metric sign.'

.... And dole Hitler struts the dun stage behind us, and dole Hitler sheds rigged tears
of time, aand dole Hitler paws the blind air roundabout us, and then and only then, droll
mad-mettlers shake for Benito's and Adolph's grinding rhymes.
'The Baker!' Hitler wails, 'The butcher-baker-bender is surely the fangler of blood
Dough. The Baker is butcher-benderer; and the toe-tapping genocidal founted streams are
restored to evil Empyrean ocean-cars and, o, until the cocking tides of a painted earth gets
glued to beery blinds, then every other evil corporationed bell-guise comes to centre grips
and hairy harebells break into a tensile trialler of dummy desultory blue plasts. And the saver
of cheesy chapped limb-winds get easing ivories from holy ebonies while a paster of trillers
uses velvet wings for self-deaths! O, the butcher-baker-bender shits inside a teaser-trailer
amd odlers of pinky pooled giraffe get pissed upon by gemmy genetics; and eyes let rip!?'
And tides turn and rocks turn, and locks turn and Ides turn, until
the staging cage about us breaks into flame and blazes the shrift world that is poetry's
blithe raped atoned cortal glamour; and miniature, tragic traps catch female blood-potty.
'Hitler!' I say, 'Hitler! Through your crazy wept words may you be all bottom
redeemed! Hitler! Adolf Hitler! Through you mad massed rinked words may you be saved
by the dicky-birded seats of your wifeling and her kind bosom-arse.
And the shrilled world about us slithes and rolls, and the shrilled earth around us briars
and yearns, and the rotating denuding world lifts up the snaping sun and opens up
hell's door. And moggy Hitler fumes into his gassed fires, at once demeaned by judas
satan and his lingering lucifuge; and hurting streets when feeling dirty frill daffy holocausts
with labelled beds where veined pigs scream. And all at once, from a mossed place
in kisser's face-case, I open up my minted dinners across supperers of cannibalisms;t
and easers of goofy gemerald will sweat for deadened undead Gem, who was once stripped
for Ashes but then disappeared under beakers beading along a huge babe-druggy.
'The Lord!' my mad impossible Gem-Wife says, 'The moggy gods are saved! De Lord
has brought me into the rheums of god's faked child! O, The bawdy Lord! O, de gourami
Ava Maria, come cut me a cruel piece of craned cake and never slice me ever ever again?

Oo, all I want is to be swathed in feelings?




Now Hitler is an evil great poet. Now Hitler has a verse for an asshole. Now Hitler is redeemed from
all prosody's insane monsters. Now Hitler's rocking crapping cocking-horse has set blooders to
toppling finger-snubs; and a-hole Hitler has brought mad dead Gemma back from father sex;
has folded genocidal caraffes of rotted dick-coffee and chock-filled it with darlinged bed-mess.
And it is so that my Gemma shall live again: she shall be seen once more in the plumed
guise of her special life. And Hitler says 'Our daughters and sons shall be ordained by a female
swirl of pure selflessness'. And I know as much as rosed time knows that this serious filthy town
is freed from cunt-grit now. And I know and mad dead titian Gemma knows that the butcher-
baker-bender of a muled girl-gull will entwine the hostelries of marching factories with baiters of
blathering choked cherry.
And though it may well be ages since I held the Dough. And though it may
be ages since the butcher-baker-bender was mine, it is evident to me and all the wailing sharks
underseas that this huddled world I have been born to is full of pealing pussy men who lead
purple photographers to a stationed devil hypnogogic light. The butcher butchers wine, the
baker bakes sucked rind, the uses of the Dough delves burials for kind puny witches; and bread
is fed to polar pigeons that appear too swift and over-wise; and my Gemma is here and I shall arise
above all active pactive clock-tears. Oh.

Soon, though, all too soon, the poetry of blue faith shall wash away the model moon
and make, as all makers gets scored, a divinity of devil rumours inside the harp-strangled parks of
pure whores. O, my lines are faithless; no success is theirs to espy: lines like these teem endless
with sky-scribes and unearthly star-knives. And Gem shall come once again - I have already overheard
her moist voice. O, on a hilled torrent, she spoke out: on a teased typhoon, she grew moist with
heavenly rebirth, with bud-towering, sop-flowering tunes of poesy-hearsay. And glassing rooms rid
heavenly earth from fiery hell-hit wound-tombs. O, Gem shall come again via indignant blorters who
feed limes to minnows.
And sweet Gemma will come once again. Gem will live while undead. O, out of the camps
of a concentrated, genocidal forge, she shall rise again into the toffee ruins of spirallers and nuclear
minded gas-parished town-clothers. O, love in love with love shall anoint my own daft barren seed
with the skullered bone-blows of famishing stars and the rainers under-seen by babbies in soft need.

And I see the gyring gypsies and the flaring Jews, the holy black men, the easy merry
yellow and red mad men, congregate in demos-kratos duned minds; and from whence the tears of teenies
cast salt-grass across this fast chopped earth, herds hanglers with sheepy lamp-lands. 'O Gem!' I say,
'My Gemma, when shall we meet again? Surely when dairy ungent shudders for the bubblers of stone
froths and painted thunder-thrones.

Oo, the butcher-baker constrains the doughy cake-shaker of dullard cruets and drones.



Gemma has returned from the grave. Two years and endless months after she died, she is saved
and living. The fuhrer said she'd come; the redolent ruddied fuhrer said she she would be saved
- sad evil Gemma is back and Gemma's grave is swashed into the muted sun. Her name is
'Gem' - just so, no more - Gemma, Gemima, (the wifeling of cicada) lives within without the
curtained pox. And now my faith in sodden life is true; gets riven where the massing mamma
Mary rocks and rots
Shall I, then, know that twice yearly visit of my loaded lonely wife to my manhood's
massed desires? 'Of course?' Gem says, 'Of course you fucking shall. You shall be surfaced
by the book inside of me. And hence my once married soul-heart entrails its passion-pleatings
around filthy roboticised fotal bod-sense; and the giddy tomb-traitors who cloistered at de Cross
come sundering fragmenters of naked pot.
And, you see, that is the wheels on the floated wagon: married vemin like
us can only be eager to drown. Whatever the fabler I choose to smite, whatever the poem, whatever
the sleight upon flitterers will spray goat-wines across moonbeams that loiter as they toss crisscrossers
with pendulent beards and fatal suited gemmy chummy lochs
and, being as she was a regal whore, plunderers of Gem will arrive home where beer bleeds.
O not a thing, nothing at all, my soften my coastal bawd. Not a flashy thing comes homeward now
apart from the fallow passing of a baby fountainhead; and everything a whippy wifeling may use
and screw will push parsleys up into dizzy promiscuous verisimilitude.

And now the owlered owls, with their hooting eyes that sing, gut sweet midnights and swim into the
hordes that is blue Hell. It is as if the signum sirens on the lambed hills are motionless; as if de world
around us has shrivelled into a retrogression of night into day and day into night, perhaps due to
the fact that the butcher-baker-bender, with all his wondrous dabbed Dough, is still close to de Maker
means that Gemma (my own dear sweet deadly undead lost wife-child) who once raised graves is hereby despoiled,-
O! she who is my ladenous bum-murdered girl-christ will hereby couple snails for slimey fucking.

No! No! No! My dear, near feline heart-heist, come pull minds by the tail?





I am a Baker: I write the poetry that speaks to the butcher-bender.
I am the Baker: I speak the words from the whims of pure failure.
I am the Baker: I wear the comical tentacles that drown like a saviour.
I am the Baker. I am the Butcher-Bender.

And it has been ages since I held the Baker. And it has been even longer
since I rolled de Dough. The Lord comes in here twice a week and tells me
which way I should grow. And now my own dear impassable fast wife
Gemma is alone inside her own wild rebirth; now, my own dear dead yet
undead Gemma has gone into the decks of the multisonous pit of blue night
O, wealth and Heroes will get balled under bedclothes.
For I haled mad Hitler. For I have fumbled upon inchoate
misery and loneliness. For I have haled the mental maze of de Fuhrer; have stubbed
out of headpiece inside a flasher of a spastic ashtray full of louts. And that is the
hock as the nazi wino sees it: starved half to death in a casket of demure tears, I have
lost all my fortunes and must dictate no peace now but a poverty of conscience and
a carmine poverty in puled blood. You see, my failure to ever achieve, my failure to build
with my very own foamed hands, has left me atoned to self-breed as I yearn. And I am
unmarried and married all at one time; married and unmarried to a swift woman who
has let me alone to self-deliver hedonists with drivelling drooling heart-football.

I am the Baker: I write my poems for the arks of de Maker
I am the Baker: I sight my aims that time may arise for the Butcher
I am the Baker: I kiss the dried lips of the listed homeless Bender.
I am the Baker. I am god's flava.

And it has been ages since I held the Baker. And it has been even longer since I held
de Dog Dough. Twice yearly my Love was my own mind's loud linguid dictator. Now I am
loathesome and completely alone. See! that long riven god-resurrection - that rebirth that was
Gem's - is a terrifying mark upon lust's livid gentian lavatorial head-throne. Plumbed by fascist
sky-mikes (plumed and strummed by Hypnos in a Morphean bed-statue) I have no table. O,
senses creel as modems run riot for web-whirred cunny
and I am the Baker
and I am the Baker-Butcher-Bender whose vinegar finger sinks cunters within old ribbands.

Lo? what is the colour of the naked word?



It has been ages since I held the Baker. It has been even longer since I held de Dough.
And now I am the Baker-Butcher-Bender, bended double in my mechanical mercinary
bones. Gemima's been dead here for gone six chiliads now. Her potential
resurrection was purely sour; left so little to the tangy imagination that both time and tide
must loosen their grave-flowers. And I am Baker. Watching the war-wars pass by, I am
the Butcher-Baker-Bender, and I roll the blood-Dough. I watch wide wallers come mitching.
I am a the watcher of ironed male rooms and I entertain the waldron of one zillion days
of peering aeon-blasters. Mad eremite Hitler swims evil sized seas. O, permy sperm-mongers
rim the tits of moggy Braun; and ages have sinced I fed the Baker and it has been even
longer since I held the Bender of the breaded fuck-marks of twelve zillion haden years.
O, I revere the spider and the gossamer salmon and her fat female roe and it has been many
cosmotic years of dressed rain since de Maker-Butcher-Baker-Bender made a tobacoo
mission to breeders of blonded cunt-steeds
O I am the river that fails to flow. O, I am the pensioner to dried sago and I am cuttler
of enmeties and facelessness files me with crows.
For mute sovereign comes the Father. A holy hermit by choice, his long pulsating
beard wags in euphensian wind. Oo, howsoever comes the Butcher-Baker de Fathering Master
will prise kneelers from red spun sindlers; and the prose of the future poem-blind poet will
thrill drilled minds with pinchers of skinners; and deadeners, gorged, spiral from verse-kills
And there can be an end to this sodomising sex-seance. If there might be an end
to this birthless wind-rhyme, what wicked dreams shall prosper, what wicked washy words
will leave earth to dine on the pitched dark. For, born into voiders, studios in anal must serve
weevils to termitic roach-parks when the shrift laws of dead riders break the moors of birds
But, then, if all great verse deems married to dumdums then all written verse will prove vapid.
O, all erse comes from a vacuous dead thing. Verse, being bird-grimed, becomes a biodigradible
piss-pulp; is so strangled now that it sings for a fart-hearse.

And now is the times of the Baker and the Butcher and the Bender. Now is de Maker of
dirisible mojo-Dough; and a pickler of jams gets rented to labia when a pincher of gods use
gougy gob for seasonal tarot-sticklers
and I rolled the rising Dough when I first stuck out my mother's tongue.




And I want to find a bride. Even if I run and hide, the truth is that my rose-worn christ-
Gemma has flown; that I am all alone. My times on this sanguine poet's earth has long since
lain bereft amid the stationed blue bones: I must find myself a new and eager bride to save me
from my father's hissing tombstone.
The pieces of my fledgling verses are ridged with the red corrals of sound: mown from
the fled guts, they make a pledge to the false bridges that cross lost water, eaten earth and ground
zero noises in absolute score-absolving stripped scar-stasis. And, o, I had a gem for a christ
wife once. And it is so that the gemmy bride I once had (the bride called Gemma, Gemima and
Ginny Gemma) is no more my deaf dick-cousin or wife than she is my mother or my motile
historic lost sister. And that is the truth that I must make as I seek another reeling xmas-easter
kid bride: she must be always bestial - de bestiary's the damning best - her ghostly cavern of a
bruised heart must burst with bestial remands. For I shall see her suckle on invidious silence; I
shall see her make a plushness from death's silent verge: she shall summon my Maker, and the
baker-butcher-bender will roll de Dough while following through.
Looking around this calloused, riven world, I see the dames on their pantomimic
hot idiot stages, briaring and wearing the buttoned shades of utmost sensual oaths; first spiring
then chittering with epicenic rages. And if my horsed heart is to find a true girl, this epicenic,
pantomimic world must charge change or never shall my fascinated precious-stone-grirl ride
high for her bestial prides: never shall my poetical fan-fever slide against the sea and the salted air
and the drowning time of sweet freedom.
And Gemma was my first world: first she died, then she claimed to live; for Gemma
was my first world-child: first she got parted, then the sucrose nibs of her defective incest-
evils penned rilling dandy coves with decorous deaths and dying seas seeming denied: to think she
left my heart-horse behind causes thoughtless clarity to collide with romantic oded orbers; and
hereby rosed loves are forever condemned. Don't you fucking see? I must find a better bride
than this one: it is a bestial woman: a wide woman who shall rave inside the saucered light
as it narrows into mained midnights. Oo, hereabouts around a tragic sex-carousel routs the
stolid circuses of all sensuality's gaols.
And food fuels my parting bird: see! It is devoured by commensurate raided
cock-rubbish; see! It is lammed with the bleeded bolts of a lammered laddy island; o, breath
feeds my parting bird; and both dying and death neuters medleys with zero dung and celled
cinema-breath. O, when life and lifted death sear familial families, then pickers of cold bells
come colluded with an ingenious moving merlin-stone.

And, yes, I shall find myself a new and naked better wife. O, Mother to the sundering beaches
shall be sand's beached slave: Mother to the sea anemones, her tawny tendrils will sting the
standing window on a wasped wax-star, causing pinkers to pick off the furious petrol curtains
of one zillion fingerlings pricked up a codded arse with a vast fat-redolents bosom-receiver
and, O, as sex eyes glow, then a keen felinity in fast grids hereby grease mentalis with reapers
and, wow, a dizzy canon-crayon digs for families, with all god's nine and twenty body-senses
reading bubbler babel-books to crazy hazy cardial pnuemonics.
agh a petrolling glassy mind cums coupling drakes with gay bionics



And I have found my new and eternally naked bestial bride. Standing between the
painted luminous asylum-walls. she showed me her eager bestial wet guise. Picking while
eating the multisonous putties from about the all-too-many yoyo windows around her
vast pearl-world, she comes to me and gives her zoo-tinged anima-tongue the airs of
snakish suppers when a Gem to a dead swirl makes dogs from glasses.
And fever must fuel my parting bird: sweat-married to de serene
seriousness of a gut-groomed town, without a single body-word, my bird of partners
gets lammed by distended fuels. Hear now! There, the shebird grinds and swings for a
beak-noise, my new and spatial bride climbs down from a the thrumming agonies of
the asylum walls and cradles me in her fat nippling gal-can. O, I see now, in fierce bloom,
the sex epithets to sheer cock-angels; and the dead and dried and dusk-drammed flowers
jut off from a shriviller of crows; and soundless pig-men slide from sea-maidens; and
this evenings on a munbler's hills capsizes till celtic wisdom soak bums in beer-bands
For it has been ages since I held the Butcher-Baker-Bender. And it has been even longer since
I held de salty Dough. It is so that my sole mind-reason for listening to planet hell is because
I am penis-blind. God knows it! If only ghosts got rich, then me and my headless sugar phantom
will winnow till Osiris to mongrelise evil parrot pits with soundless sottos and ozzing ransomes.
And now I shall look into the meringues of the pigeon-dead and see the beasts of my new fast
girl staring out on a discontinued venal whorld of bad words and mutants.
O, where though is the sex-substitute for mentalising punches of de Butcher-Baker-Bender;
where is the reeling substitutes for the earth and the sky and the dinners of a star-sender?
And I will answer with a staining pleassure-dance and I shall answer: 'If poetical wishes
clasp cunt in verbal fires then the newness of planet plasts will share wood with witches
or else, I have never scattered flowers.'
..But it is a pluperfect fact that my bed-bound mother wife is a peach of a
dead female lord. Perhaps it is fair to say that she is alike to the daughter of Pan or
the director of gilly girls and de dizzy Son of Man: the sonny sea-gal me and masters
have known since the dawn of mown strode babies;- oo, hereby, an earth of sun-shifters
comes igniting buds with webbed lung-bites
And it would have been surely very wrong to hope for a white and vermeil
rubbished wedding. O, this new bride of mine is forever part mad: as mad as sex and
Pluto's crapulent birthdays. And when I kiss love's tongues then I will render leeched cans
from beery blue-bursts and the nice spies on de moon.
My Butcher-Baker-Bender dresses for a naked late night dinner
and one million customers in just one evil restaurant will spin fed zimmers
and he I extemporise the Maker and the Maker has a name and that name is Genghis
Khan: o, Genghis Khan has the warring faiths that does down meagre deaths and
Genghis is known to the neon boards of the whipped, raped and culled; and it is to Genghis
that I take a swift walk with knighted bully boys who rock with the cocks of a distant penis





And I must kiss the lips of Ghengis Khan. Knowing that all spatials relay inside
sweet straight charm, I must kiss the lips of Ghengis Khan; must meet and kiss the
rawhide lips of a fatal heterodoxic pursing gay word
And so it is that my Maker stands up high. My Maker is the Butcher-Baker-
Bender while the rods of my hearsed jacked skirt-man cause de Dough to part
cruel English hens from snail-foods; and I will greet an urgent house of mongol beacons
and, lashed from eye-flashes, where sea-hogs crow, men and saucing navel-deacons
will betroth me and mod mistresses to a soda-sky.
..'Water wheel one to water wheel two: I am the one who opened you.
Water wheel two to water wheel three: I am the one who opened seed.
Water wheel four to water wheel five: I am who opened sister lies
and I am the son who drove against giddying mindlessnes; and I am the one
who must kiss the tippling clit of a mongolese female Ghengis dad-charm; and, O, guns
shit upon bearded spunk and easy bum-toffee-breads.'

O yes my mauled bride: YES YES YES!: You must be anointed by a clay-cold kiss
upon glad death. Yes, my pawed bride: YES YES YES!: the lip of this mad ward are
those of shrilling fascist Genghis; and Ghengis Khan gets dressed for His snake-dinner
and, ah, a whooper who swallows sandy mungrel sea-blood will now hoot for a miller
and, led to crazing fools, de old fools lead Hitler-Ghengis to a boat of a sea-whore
and, once shake-bearded, waxen molifiers will render dragglers with hymen firesides.
'Cock-a-doodled-doo! O Sweet Ghengis wrecked my finger. Cock-a-doodle-
doo! Sweet lesbotic Ghengis sets my suets food-free; and, cock-a-doodler-poo-poo,
my massed lice-life wails after chicks and the pigs outdoors.
And de copped cock gets set free and the vinegared
daffy rose that fuels receivers mete salted sed to an inventive sensual world where deaths
come putting slits under green ice. And peasy violence gets the sandal trees to moan after
mulers of metred penis swipers; and peasy swabbed silence comes guttering till de Father
lays a cooing wise pigeon on her verminous wing-scan.
'Cock-a-doodle-doo! And now I kiss the smell of Ghengis Pan. Cock-a-doodle-
dum! And now I caress the mary-arse of a proud piss; and, oo, Cock-a-doodle-dick!
This pasted cunt-world is vaginal inches thick! O, and now my cockerel Genghis bride
gets delved down to the ferried wick.


And it is a sensual dirt-valour that I kissed the tits of de teresian Ghengis Khan. Everything
round and about this varnished bud-earth tells that the slits of the Ghengis palms are
food. And this is to say that the Baker-Butcher-Bender beneath the gellings of my sopped
bum-maker are found unwound while laid together. O, forever, the spires and cranes of pled rhymes
which see headpieces implode, will tend summers here for the wag of making wrists shut
winneying tree-boxes under guns and mammaries.
And it has been ages since I held the Baker. And it has been even longer since I held
de Dough. But it must be said that the eyes of my butcher-bed-sea-slaker will always appear
selling mum-milled smile-high crucifiers; and blorted tonsures get bolted to gills and coated
liver-tongues come silently feeding botherers of snorted gym to portering hand inside ole farted
grannary villages
And if it had been that the true blind Lord was selfish; if it had been that
dear nude formless Ghengis Khan was mercilessly self-contained, this new and bestial nut-world
that only I own would have never risen so much to entreat me. Nothing can dismay, though, this
happily corpulant wet world: whatever may be the serums to my bud-word may sift sick now from
hazy shitters; and, dazzling, coursing high, the helenic rillers of blood-birds will kick a sweet lung.
It has been ages since I held the Butcher-Baker-Bender. It has been even longer since
I beheld the titting rolled Dough. O, my gently murdered deft wife Gemma was once the lissoms
of my dog-daughter but now a new and micking cream-bride has just been swift-born. And now the
sucking flavour of my crazed mind-rhymes cruises and crisscrosses a soft world where flavourful
fairy mad mien muscles after toadies and evil, dancing, dazzling, coursing wild chicken; and de fat girl
gets layering dauphins with star-tyres.
And, yes!, here comes the call from my mourning saviour; and, yes!, here comes
de tele-world where whimplers whoop for dumdums. Yes Yes! Here comes the easy call from the
Butcher-Baker-Bender: La, me and a trampoline saviour shape de Maker from de streets that feel
touchy and bed-dirty, and, o, when I roll the titty Dough then I feed bake to de Butcher-Baker-Bender
and thence I sweat for easy ogglers; and bright oven infinity writhes above the wastegrounds.
It has been ages since I held the Baker and it has been many chewy
chiliads since the formless fathers of blue cages shot cum directly down de Butcher and, made eerie,
the balded cooter of de Bender comes winkling in my dumb ears. And three times a year my long cussed
bestial marriage to swaggers as she remembers: thrice a fucking fucky year, I used to dream of de
hooted sky and the planet of hell-eden. O, to think I was born to dabble for thorny denuders must dust
a diddy cranefly with banners and cells.

Three times a year! Why? answer: because the gemma of gem my distant bestial wife gets dancing
forever alone...


And can it be said that the permed ones must hair-crawl? Yes, it can be said that they will
hair-crawl. And can it be said that the parched ones are hair-mad? Yes, it can be said that
the parched ones are hair-mad. And so it can be said that the ones in reeling quiffed
mastic masking glasses will sink sodden shampoos beneath prisms and lady molders?
Yes, it can be said that the ones in reeling quiffed mastic masking glasses will sunder us
with hairy lip and stinking gal-remands
Who comes to paint the painters? DEATH. Who comes to date dark daughters?
DEATH? Who wends its wave across hired water? DEATH. And everything is Death,
and everything has stilling daft silk-burials.
And so it is that I hold the Butcher-Baker-Bender; and so it is
that I hold the Maker of de Baker-Butcher-Bender; and nuclear sea-fires gut mad fists.
O, sucked right now through criminal Centres, I am tempered by the active sperm-mits
and, come down now, a manacled sea of mangers hearses after horsers; and what with
centaurs come rallying mitchers from tree-cavers a wagstaff of forcers drags daemons from
red accoutremental cock-fancies. O, everything is slanderously silenced: O, don't you see!
That youths and porked prides demolish bird-dips with gardeners of tubes.
And now, dear friend, see my play God's crap game. As I suffer to the last,
watch me role the ginger die: observe me now as I cast the dice of heaven and reel from the
Numbers that show me into Hell. SHOT ONE: The die meets the soldier. SHOT TWO: The
die ducks beneath dragged water. SHOT THREE: The die makes a numbered face at light's
dead cunt-saviour. SHOT FOUR: The die destroys all nostril-fervour.
..So much has been gathered from de Butcher-Baker-Bender. So much
has been rolled by de Dough and its sweet titty groper. So much has lammed this baked world
inside blue tinder. So fucking damned well has Pan donned guns from spindlers that the grey tears
of the mad and massed and demurely gone must rifle across radios and Digital sperm-girls
And, o, you my gold woman sitting there with your head missing will varnish a lunatic swirl where
a point of the daddy thumb will put away with de redolent milk-dried moon-midnight
and scurriers from cured heights will surely eat into jacklers and let moped heaven weep again.



And so it is that I hold the Butcher-Baker-Bender. And so it is that I hold the titty Dough.
In the distant waters, the Butcher-Baker-Bender vapours rise and rush across oceaned
Hadean snows. And hence the tendrils of God's glad man-squid rasp and thrash and
throttle holy balloons. The river of love dries out. The mason of sweet times knocks his
trodden temples down. The tigers in de gilded honey Ark snap their sweet claws in twain.
And so the ministry of space and swine gets damned.
And past the clutter that is the Poet's rooms. Past and past again the gutters of
de moon. Through and passed the ticking sentinels of verse and versed mab nights, the
trees of the poet get drilled under musical flavins. Shut! Shut! is the angry peddle-poxy,
once in the mauled masking Venus, once in the fled tombs of mind-sidled tidal screws.
Shut! Shut is the mind's treason, once in the spheres of devilry and once more in the burstive
thighs of a tall death-nest. And Slut! Slut is the gal who is brazen, once in the mastic curvature
of a chicken-built castle and once more in the microscopes of one zillion streets of feverish
dirt; and eyers come whistling for caged adultery and blown wefts.
And now the Butcher-Baker-Bender grasps into my spine; now, de Maker and His
rolly-poly Dough grasps hold of vines. The feasts of unleaven wail now; now shines nights
deep where the warriors of cannabalistic man-pride bleed into wrought death; and, o, rounding
De Dough into rich silky parcels, the Butcher-Baker who is the Maker, who is de Lord, fashions
de Butcher-Baker-Bender from holy milks and sylvan slips that abuse as they must all
the wed worlds of one zilion denters. And de silver Dough gets held by a Doughy Titty
roller whose dampening knicker-arrester comes flattering beards with a rising, mental venir.
And it has been ages since I held the Butcher-Baker-Bender. It has been even longer
since I held de spilt sex Doughs; but now I hold the lot and shoot my angry lot of a mind
into the changlings of mad Bibled Lot whose hinney for certain fed whips to cops.
and food fuels my naked finger, food fuels my farting bird, as I, a rhymester of demure staves
rush and roll upon god's boulders and move a scented stone from the fucking recusant
Hadean god-ghost-grave. And this world is largely a mad world. And these novel rhymes are
largely lost rhymes. O, the Butcher-Baker-Bender knows it! I have shored these poetical
ruins against a menstrual tidal wave so fine to seize that no-one, not even the leaf of my dead
yet undead Gemma, can rage away from ingled cabbaging salt-sex regal Law.
And now I expand for the Butcher-Baker-Bender; and now I hold de Maker
and its keen mod Dough: de Dough is somehow sensual wealth; is a haplessly happy pleasure
trove. And I, who have lost all duped demesnes of ridden pride, and I, who has forfeited the
rills of the loathesome livid live shall suffer here forever underneath the maiden moon until my
love for fucking rhyme and rhythm is baked then butched and then bended under ceilings.




And now that I hold the Butcher-Baker-Blender, everything is demurely possible, or possibly
so, as the chilling case may be. And that is mind-travel as the time raveller sees it: one sure limb
gets planted in the trees, another in the cities and the ses. And I am the Butcher-Baker-Bender:
see! I behold de dizzying Dough and de breaded Maker in twelve strong hands; do down the deaths
in favour and allow mind-palace after mind-palace to bloom amongst my pinioned peg-pen
and my peppery five seasons paper, and the winded limbs of sky-renters, this long time kissed
by the dragglered lands that got lost.
But the felons are out in the blue woods today: drawn deeply down from very
tomes of evil illiterate fens, they show their swift criminal enmeties; and, O, I now hold to the
Butcher-Baker-Bender, o, as felonic wights cum inside feckless iron dreams, then faloners must
weedle to the utmost quarter-hour. O, if it doesn't seem all right, this skinner of shadowers will
centralise dauphins with piss-proud shit-bones; and I sleep aside the dunny plane Earth whereby
keen masturbators go to Planet Hell; and, dunged, I sleep for prides when goaded gold God got
striding from pluralities to neckers of caged dream-dubbers. O, like a weird child born out of Truth
I must eternally hold to the Butcher-Baker-Bender; and I shall ordain to die on a hazy mazy
Wednesdsay; and this is the staunch rage of Truth that will punch teeth down love's porn-earth.
Whatever, it is my new and dourly bestial bride who must, since she is born of de beast,
pay the skeletal sun-wile; and now that the Butcher-Baker-Bender is me and mine to remind
undead slid-deaths of passion's cart-swoon. And nothing in this whole piped world can stop me
from ceasing bully flesh to flow; and I will cast a slow bone for my new and dourly bestial bride;
and, lo, as she is bestial then she climbs from woven windscreens that lead cruel creeling criminal
unto ratters and backside rattlers. O, whence cantalevering devourers dream for champagne then
an all-remanding booted babe-gaol will reel forever.
For you see, I hold the Butcher-Baker-Bender. You see, now that I behold de gal-Dough
I know my poetical pen-name: my name is written in the sands where the flames of health and wealth
flitter and flume and then die. My olympic nature, solid as it is in the inactive poem-game, writes my
name in the epicentre of Nature: 'Horatio!', it writes, 'Horatio!' and I know that Eve and Adam got
swiftly garden-saved; and I get swiftly bed-brided to milky baptisms and I am the idiot guide of a
new molten cocoon; and my butterfly venal traipse should bid all gods farewell?
And my one wish is to be softly freed: as the crooned tides flow, I yearn to
break free. Mad freedom stops de clocks. Mad freedom shuts the moors; and freedom, while being
both free and whole, connives to let the mad poet rage against the heavenly daddy world.
O I am the Butcher-Baker-Bender and I know it. I own the titty Dough and I
know it. I am the de mastered Lord and its flavoured holy toys, and we lapse inside the dead; and
I shall surely want for nothing more?
But, then again, what is to prevent my dilly text from rollering into the hot hiss of
five sealed seas. But then again, what is to stop my clocking world from lapsing unto lost Loves except
de washed lady-lord who dances across de cabinet cold when in blood-search for sex-serums?
and I get star-bunked with heady fats and criminal mind-seed as whelking women don alarums.
Text or not text, though, I shall know once again that I held to the Butcher-Baker-
Bender. Text or no text, my newly reborn bestial bride will hereby turn to blorted kiss-acid.
O, soon I shall be free to go?


I stole a pair of breasts from a teacher once. I just went in there and took them. It was so easy! I just
sidled past and ripped them from her thin chest. And so it is that my romantic book is filled with
sensual and unrequited mind-encounters. Riven, in the curves and lays of blood and anointing
venal thunder preaching, my giddy romantic book is fuelled with cursory devil-milks.
The first girl's name was Charlie: she had buttocks that shone like a spoon. And my posing
rhymes went in there and spat inside her womb. We stole her cavvy body quietly; made her eyes fill up
with sotto sounds. And so it is that poetry made her twire with loathesome balloons: shortly, we stormed
her naked beltane belfry and drove her backward through an afternoon moon.
And the second girl was called Lilly: she was a faceless keen baronness of fierce arms;
O, me and my posing wine-rhymes took her too eagerly; made her kitten eyes burn and mewl with
sweet sounds: shortly, we will storm her beltane belfry with hearts and minds and lost drones.
And the third conquest's named Rosalinda Lee: my intractable wet-rhymes took to her
aside blown buddy tombs that wail and tree-groan for indolent crumbling seed-swines. To think! She was
an excellent dead Mother; O, the fat sanders of apocalyptic scissor crows storm the mens while killing
the ladies; and the seaters of shrapnelisers cut buxom wynders from the shallow seas of war.
..I stole a pair of breasts from a teacher once. I just tripped by them and made them
mine. And so it is that vacane milk-grinds may well affix me to timeless space and the cabages of god's
limey heart-ghost. And the tawny teener test of stolen libby breasts get torn from daddy cindy. And where
lips slap at rosehips then eateries from winers shove mazy meddlers beneath sweet triller-curd.
.For I am the Butcher-Baker-Bender and I know it. That the Baker may be free, I hold to his
laden gilly gal-Dough. For I am the Maker and the Butcher-Baker and I am de venereal dick-shender
and I am a self-proclaimed moony great poet, and I lose to de Lord and Lady of great poetry; and then
I gyre from trains, planes and carring US freeway statues?



And Jesus Christ, He does not own me. O, my stretcher God is de pride of my black eyes.
See! The immortal cornerstone of His snake-battles rage and rave amid my bled disguise.
Although my eddying days are over-filled with daffy spleen, His is the gripping world-word
that enters through the sharpeners of my stone-bed, dunged in its own dreamt concrete
side-saddle, and beltane brewer boys lift drams from red lungs when I hear the living bird-word
come scuttering across lopped pompidores and english punched combs; and gaffy seed-nerves
grow, just like burnt scissor curves.
And now my lips grow bloody: crudded across by opened veins, their ways grow red
and ruddy; grow acrid with sheet pain. O these muggy mud-lips have me shored against my coded
ruins: dumbed by the wastes of idle speaking; and these scored verbs are mine to cradle under
milky paps and studying death-drawl.
Come to me, my children! Seize the drops of blood you will see: seize the warped
world by its thronging vines; seize it by its vestries. In the crypts of black and white, seize this charmed
sweet earth by its toe-troved fish-light. Come to me, my children! Sense the diamate demons of de
wide world gyring and gyrating where the true bloods furl: come and make a holy stretcher from the
palms of lammered crisscrossed Christs! Seize de patient Cross as she falls down into its hellish
cunt-crucifixions; and seize here and now, my children, the teasers of magenta with topless sleeves
and I shall size all kind mind-students with a goofy head-plate that spins as it crashes
adown a marmaladed mixed wasteground.
And I will stride along the moaning bridges: I have seen the forbidden
holy hand following sliced wrists and, o, I must stride along all groaning messages.
Don't you see, this is the nuclear gun-cluster that shoots gassy parrot veins; and witnesses
come extemporising dufflers from deadening crap-coops; and I will stride along lud pitches
and I will ride for skirters as menial minnow folks feed fistulas to darkeners; O, blood bitches
stride from pearling tongues and lick the fats from red flowers.
Come, take me to de suicide bridge, for I am sick of the rise and ride of atomic bawds
Come, take me to de accidental village, for I am sick and tired of thoughtless sky-swards
and I am eternally killed by salts and apples. Come, take me to the wonderous bugs in boars
and Ilkley took me and then Yorkshire killed me.
,.,Nothing can stop my Butcher-Baker-Bender from revolving in the flowers.
Nothing is the water and nothing is the fire that raves and scathes hearts with broomers.
See and see again! The Butcher-Baker deceives me whilst Bender cooks a crocked heart
with waspers and criminal stereos. See! the Butcher braves me when de Baker shrills for
me; and I see in the asylum worlds a noisome state of Greek come hissing to a blooded
bath of lubes and small toes.
But lustive long dead Gemma has possessed the Lady-Lord with twinned
wicked mien-micklers; and terrifiers of noisy concrete stoves come ovening sweet spind
spanish sex-wind; and ghosts found in shrill forests attend rooms thence sweat for sinned
baby bodice breeders.



And it is the bacon-glass that makes the female genitals seethe. Riven in the tempers of malice,
here is the question that marks down the deeds: if sex is a matter of calling the feminine body
by dirty names, what for de Man who is charming; what for his purple pomade?
And my bestial bride is burning: deep in the asylums she blazes on. Bursting the bladder
of reason, she steps up the ladders of her burning song; climbs to cloud nine as she mutters words that
lose track of the celled selves; rhymes with the jazzy sweety clowns and the ringletted actors as pooled
times trip around god's wealth.
And now the big labia of fortune is called by the lewdest of nick-names: 'Bacon Glass!'
cry the elders, 'Bacon Glass!' shout the sane. And life itself is roistered into a dream of plumed pork
and emerging bib-rinds: de mind of a poet lies star-clistered; the rodeo screams of his whirled words
spill-defined. And, ah, would it were that true madness could fail: would it were fact that glancing
insanity was all. But I am mad: my bride is mad: for all I know, long lost sweet Gemma's dead
undead mind is mad, too. And here the Bacon Glass is stuffed with many a sex-fish and many a
wicked lunar charge: from out from the castlered keeps the Maker leaps, with de Butcher-Baker-
Bender in his chopped arms.
For I must die. 'Die!' I say: 'Die and be free.' For I must pass into this mock asylum; for
I must my bestial bride and must sit amongst padded stalls and await my deadly son-killed Gem-
Child whose lousy leper mamma sells cake to cranial swine. Don't you see?! The bubonic bud of pure
ash is here so far from fleeted home that only the mad may see. Don't you know?! The blooms are in de
rainbowed graveyard: graveward they slide and graveward they boom.
For I must die! 'Die!' I say: 'Die and be free?' For I must pass inside the asylums; o, I must join
the purloiners of my greyed skull-groyne.
And nothing, NOTHING, can swipe away god's eastern eyes, as here I prosper in
a lunatical pit: NOTHING!! nothing at all in this wide wasped world can save me now from the sapping
of the krakened sex-whip. O, from the maw and the yorkshire-sky (from the helter-skelter family stone)
the bellers of doomy bed-slit gets carnivorous looped bone.
Now, into the arcs of the foaming I flow: Into the padded particulars of sweltered time,
I scutter and skitter and gaggle and gasp, with my raven poems strewn against a clocking fire. Into the
mass that is madness and scrofulous lung-fishy malignancy; into the caverns of the spanish daemon,
I lay down all of my penile arms, with bellered evil owlered eyes a-fluming.


chapter 115: IS CHELSEA THE BEST?

And Bender took the asylums in such a long and livid way that roman space and grime seemed
indolently fatal; seemed almost mettled in their mazy multifoliate waves. And it is so that sweet
madness must get felt and sealed within the dreary dust: o, dust and dry, where no dampness drives,
must be the mad Bender-Boys only walling cock-cusp.
Now, see!, the way is shorn from the green that makes the suburbs shine and scream.
Chelsea seems the best, next Surbiton, next the english floats that entirely fit the hand. As the flowers
show blasted ferns, suburbs mete suburbia when god stops for earl grey tea. O, where water
sluiced from suicide, sidles down a coffin built up from coffee canteens; and dartlers use water
to rend a new faith from a drowning sex-religion.
It has been ages since I held the Butcher-Baker-Bender. It's been even longer since
I held de daffy Dough. And ice becomes the Maker: aforesaid, in tendril temper, his oozy Dough
runs dry. And I am the Butcher-Baker-Bender - I have taken mindless fasting mind-minutes to
make myself cock-clean; and de Maker minus Butcher-Baker, rolls pizza-titters whence de rude
Dolls rot upon a topplered sex-shelf.
And now you must see it: a man has three true levels: deep in his
thunderous tundra, he has three main sidled levels; the first being holy black, the second being
easily white, the third being wrapped in the daisy-veins of a heltering eagere world. Oh! If 3+3 is
thirty-three, what world is ours to screw? La, if 9+9 is ninety-nine, what curled egit heaven
shall we have to count and view?
And the falsety in de bogus is de loo-flume that burns the lavvy brains: falsety
and numbers builds a bastard model mad man: o, a mad man seems false for so long that his
mentalising pulse lies bogus in bogey-sand. And hence my thoughts say 3+3 is thirty-three
and nothing less or more. Henceforth, my mind says 'Ninety-Nine is 9+9. Don't you see?
I am my own Butcher-Baker-Bender: a Maker without dread Dough, I stand and shake skirts
by the fan. And I dearly miss my wives - I am here slaved to two twixed brides whose
smelted pocketers give granny geese to ugly gold women: O, I am delved with a radio
and a stereo ramrose.
Where is my dateless Gemma? The answer is deadly simple: she has arrrived now to
reveal to me her hair-lipped nipples and her hair-snipped wolf dimples. See! She comes to me!
And I call to her to set lips free. 'Gem!' I say, 'My original dummy dead yet undead bride!
Come back homeward and be my bed-bride.'
But, ah, where is my flavoured doctor? Where is de medicine child?
O, where is my personal visions of tangerine mandolins? Where, where, where is my poetry's
licked limbs? O, where, where, where has my suet mind been sown? If Gemma can save me,
I'll strip her down to the verymost spine of her split bow-bells.


And Gemma brings me news from the outside. Utterly dressed in practical jokes,
she flings off her sweet veil like a stripping clown and tells me about the world. So, the pain
that I have felt; so the ring that heaven's patron once wore in the utmost name of my Gem,
is swept back into runnelled sight, but at once dissolved.
And Gem comes here to visit. Sitting, she unties her shrill hair and shakes her
glassy bone-beads; dresses then undresses in mute sex-containment, as I, real lowly, weep into
her masted chipped mind. Soon, then, the funny funeral of my distilling second lonely bride
accepts the scarry immolations of extended liver-lunacy, and she screams away at the lost
the sons found somewhere on a cleft ward; and soupy piper stews get mixed into sponge
and earrings are dissolved into earphones when dementers of noise-demeters eat bowls
And now my Gemma turns to me and wipes my shit-lips with her dream-eyes.
O, how womanhood glows and her beauty shines: her horsing happiness, glowering, makes
me smile. Oh yes, this sex-vagrant of a glued girl is a princess regent; the pomme de terre
in de muscle-castle wails: she is my ivory minion, and if she should ever spare her, my
heart and head would wed precious eager ebony dominions to enthrallers of city-pies.
For how may the animal know where his field is best? If all doctors have healing
wee hands, what then for the creature deep within? If all animal life is to be farmed into
a sluice of vacuums, how shall fast doctors come to soothe the renal root of it all?
O how shall our animal know just what buttery breasts to feed from; or is it for the best to let
the nitric teacher to die aside a clay-cold Iris? Whatever this wounded apple-world will wreck
has a hispid forge for a pipered bed; and I vagranise canneries with piercing birds
and I use precious guns for cunt-bread
And now my Gemma becomes my sole duff dead undead Apostle.
Glaring at the blanking killed, she knells a greasing bell and makes me share her past lives.
Soon, she shall be my preacher; shall revel like wife she was born to be. Poet, lunatic, searcher
of fear, this hissifer of a glam-gob came glistering just like a devil mumma.
O, the soft sweet of a rocked earth-bird forever gets decorous with me then sunders
green gas from pertive facial petroleums




chapter 117: GATE NUMBER 2

O, Gate Number 2 is the consanguine sexuality of the great bastard. As I drive into the choir-folds
of Gemma, I sense the great bastard's hands clasp thence throttle my natal mind-daze. Gate Number
2 is the proclivity of the great bastard's eager nature; the pleasure of the sex isolate and the illegitimate
carved whore.
And long dead bridled Gemma has left home to pace the asylum walls; has left my fatal
cock-death for the idled mad man's regal halls. In utmost truth, her cocoon body made no sense:
as if a wedding-train had struck and killed it, her cocoon body was all too pursed whilst pure. And so
it is that I sense the fumbling lubing openings of candid life's Gate Number 2. As it opens aside from
the petalled wide, its bitter sky-springs grow too goddamned soft and yielding to the bastardised
milk-floes of the mind-womb. Through my wren-fucked Gemma, the wastrel of one zillion wives
conceive of cartooning bastard cream-heights. Through my wren-sucked Gemma, I tell obsidian lies
to cagy criers whose horrid rectal jokes stub mental toes on a pig-penned padded mumma.
For Gate Number 2 enchains my mental spleen-force: truly, it bids for viscous vicious
iron as hugely traipsing hired dyed poems helter into the vineyards of thumby sex-visors, and markers
slide pigeon pinions beneath dazy mecklers of steely liver-cars; and a bastardiser who dines from summers
comes conical under blurrers of weevils and daffy drippets; and mangy cock-lipids concure with
a fierce teaser of ghosters of jammy jesus judas. O, yes I am desirous to give all leaning women a poke
at the masculine vaults. Yes, my bandaged penis gets hexing serene mummies with male-shod rope.
and half this mad worlds gets holy when a sugar cruet acedes marine dummies to thumby head-dope.
Dear Gem, what would fever be without a second lube-gate? Surely nothing at all: surely
a pruned dirt-sea-hole rakes de palmed yolks of a second buried flower will use spit for god's twinned
rex-stain; as i cleaves away seasons of leaden lardy butter-kitchens, to leave behind hindermost reins
that warp sex sense awry from spurgeons.
Dear Gem, what would scissor-fever be without a Gate 2? Surely nothing tangible or
fed to fret; surely nothing but the daddy sprays of carved moons and the scatterers of sweated
snapped long gentlemen
Dear Gem, whatever I shall repay you with penant penny-bait will surely cause lungers
to delimit the faces men see in dourly polished bed-shoes; and nothing but the sweet tares of de scarlet
anal talisman of regaling budders of nipplered mons-heights will empty soldierers across the ripening
phlange-flasks. O, don't you know that a clearness of the decked sex will define an active actual
Gate 2 for gemmy lairded bun-hivers; and bladers of small deaths claim demoners from sidling
beachy sea-maskers.
Don't you know? The luby Bastards do it! Oo, see how sweet they sire
seraphic strangeness forevermore.



The Maker comes in here and tells me which house to open. He is short and stout and an
absolving user of floats and grey mouths; and mounted semen styles will lead a painted hand
to curtal castlers and spar-enchaining dills and dashboards. And so I am freed to touch de
curtained blind-Dough and all she meant to me when I was led to bedboards; and, ah, a
pincher of even blanch-boys gets upended as manses in christ's huge garden sweetens drams
with plural petals and pastelline teas?
But, then again, I am the Butcher-Baker-Bender; I am the faces of de Master and
His mistlers and xmas spoolers; and I am purely in the manes of unicorn Minotaurs; and
deepeners of naked bacon-apologues will shove the signal drips of a sacred Lord whose
easterly arriving has to boat-flood for baity obese bed-jesters who connived to save de
Barabus Soul; and it is me and de chairy Maker who saves the neural killed while wild nudes
fatalise the greying goobly geezers of one zillion horsed hearsed mother-shapers; and shrapnels
come connudling with parasites and bunged revellers of pursed brother-breakers.
For, you see, I must learn how to die or forever go to poet-heaven; must study hot to self-
butcher the glassy neubulisers of all humanity; and slowers in ravens crush vagrant Lot when
scissorers of masky beard-dividers suck across valvers of floaters and vacant cock.
Oh, I must hear the rivers cry after vast seas and the drowned bones of my own sweet
love, or never again ordain for the last touch of the fast flowers in the murdered swarm of streets
that nuke veiny knucklers with purifying nuts; and fast fascinators use cola for showers
and the damagers of micklers bend their pinking way to the bright cots in citied crocks that crash
then lead diviners to dead but undead Gemma; and gemming goose-pipes fuck blue ash.
And I am my own bloody minister: I make my own bruised way into the peering
wynds of a slain church; and this is to say that the petals and pastelline tears of a dread feast will
inveigal clasped plum-prayers that apparently hurt the flirt-flit of the spiring major-men who
swing to a proud eye-hill. O, truly, friend, mentalis misses its slit-hit and widens gobbers with
undignified regimens of gated bone-friends that push the gentleman's shit-trip across sane squids
that fasten salted puke to sireners of croft pigs.
And now the Baker-Butcher-Bender sets my model free! Yes Yes, I am trammelled
for de east of evening when phallic entouragers of the cradled bees who buzz across
mammallers of moon-papers; and I am led to lungfuls of sodden sky-galls; and we sweat after
the dipping calf-spools of every forgotten armful in eye-warped gardens where peddlers father
feverfew and painted descriers.
..Silently, the violence of pursing chemic heroes dance back home where the winds
in de arsed throne of the hissing conic shakespearoes will laden mien with second spind skins
and painted parents to fizzing ionic sheet-shadows comes entouraging the slitty gritty town where
i laid my salt-mission down; and, once upon a mind, a birded bridal calf flumed from sacred
siren veal then shrouded death in leather.




And I think I have killed; have killed the hearts of Lenin. Setting fire to zippers of Russia,
I have killed and left the voided loony bins behind. And so it is that my mental wheelchair
crashes down the furtive highways and byways into an infinitude of sonic creation. See now!
Soviet lakes for each and every common law. And it's one for the Baker-Butcher-Bender, two
for de Dough, three for de Master-Maker and four for the signal rose. Ahh, death's hearts are
all a-quiver.
And I insist I have killed; have killed the minds of Stalin, and know that my vestal
poems - my nursery of noisy rhymes - must win on every versed front. It has to be said that
if I had the pipers of Russia to blow and play, I would be able to choke the Butcher-Baker-
Bender but, no, god's hearts are all a-quiver; is wrapped in the shroud of the bereft.
O, Lucy Locket comes in here. Gemma Gemima, my lost dead yet undead bride,
arrives from a moving moan. The arcs of impuned mazy infinity gyre. Soon, my bird-words
shall be betrothed. And gym-iced long stoned fizz-gassy Gemma invades my sisters, my brothers,
my cousins and my intractable wife; and my true wife is a wiffler who swings to a musak-
And it is now that I see that the bestial vessel-gal I once knew has, for just a short
while now, held to virginal morosis. O, she has somehow become a loser of a fast wedding.
But was she for even one nanosecond for dammed Gemma? NEVER! She was instantly
a vessel of a domed bride, coach-coaxing vanning buses with pokered sleep that bleeds
deliberately down in a faraway milky town where nothing comes to nothing. O, Gemma
gets gemmed in a reclusive padded bell-cell as she rotates across her revolving bath;
and Gemma Gemima hisses for liquid christs when deniers get lynched aside gold masks.
O, but love was all too much for Hera: just for one fast ferine time, outlorded Goddesses
had to sink cunny luminaries deeply down Zeus and his swanny Leda.
..And I insist I have killed the hearts of Kaplan: have killed her as well as the
northerly westended derival of a former summer sun has murdered stars with fever;
and I insist I have killed the tombyards of the crematively birded; and menkind and its
rancid rotted fast car brightens corpsers with delicate poetical pussy piecers of lips and
fotal maimers.
But I must state here and now that the mettle of reason is never at any doubt;
can never demeaned. The demesne of de lolly artist is in the flexed hands of painted
pastellers. Though the seasoners of lobbers in galleries flourish sometimes across
indignant lesbotic writhers of death's galleries and the posies of the anointing oiled
I must state my space in this rutted sweetened earth when Gods and Goddesses
come sharpening swarthy bird-lace with ingling baby-thumbs



And, oo, my Mother writes to miscarriage everyday. Everything she say lies smothered
by nature's fateful abortiveness; by that which is both knighted and blighted by fear
and fear alone. My Mother, who is certainly long since burned, writes to spiritual
miscarriage, all of the time: whenever the pierced nest-sky gets rilled with their rainy
curing cave-clouds, she writes to her fathers and jacks her baby's grave.
And I am my own fucking Maker; also, I am my own ministry of blood.
Moreover, I am the sole creator of de Dough and de Butcher-Baker-Bender, all three
of whom (in the form of 1) dances until the devils poke the honeys of demure weed.
and you will surely see that nothing can escape from my foetal departure from greed
and the turkeys found within it. You see, nothing can escape the jazzer of de sleeved
vinyl-killers; and, o, the middling ginger-birth of one zillion gun-gyms will hereby slot
a candy cot-clock in the revellers of a new defamatory fire-stage.
And so it is that his tall tale of a life of mine is filled with the carriages of
miscarried dreams. Follow me, if you will, as I slap Gem Gemima around the bald
death of her keen face. Follow me, if you will, to a vented tented spire-miracle that
spits directly into the faces of a deaf-blind head-chalice that fellows miraculous
veiny rat-sauce; and I wallow in de fun funerals of the ignitors whose paling sex-trap
casts rubies across this hell-earth. O, pray follow me, for I am one for brutally following
...Whatever, my lousy lost wife of a dead but undead fever gets failed by all
human examiners. O, she is proclaimed stupid now, and does a silly pirouhettes across
brazing beltane ball-rooms that lead moggy warblers to fantastic isles of idiot jazz-bossed
genius loud lovers. And Gem was my first killed: she died for fantasia then fed wax to
rosy moon-rot; and Gemma Gemima was the second killed: she died for pudenda when
ideal fractal fist-fathers gave sweet breads to monastic pealed chanting church-crosses;
and my very own navel-world is here to see: I am my very own Butcher-Baker-Bender
and I am my very own illing furling furious Maker-Master; and I trust in decorous silence
as me and my sister whistler inflame flat champagne for the pagers of digital retro violence

And I learned to be destroyed.



I am the Butcher-Baker-Bender, and so it is me who owns De Dough. But there is a
another mental-story that receives mod prose. O, de Dough that's left behind nestles
in a priory. The Butcher-Baker-Bender is close behind, squatting in a plastic mastic
belling sucked doll-vestry. And if I had my whole life over again, I would never weep for
yearning human dreams. See me! See now how I am riven with the milky trance of dancing
Gemima Gemma; and, ah, pickers of bled clouds come rotting where a pinker of a darling
stubs meats upon light hems when dodgers of droolers appear star-swayed; and liberties
cry for a woven sun-scream.

I am the Wailer:
I share my world of woes with timeless saviours.
I am the Wailer:
I pray today that tomorrows shall seize satyrs.
I am the Wailer:
So deep in fleet love, lost words are dictators

I am the Wailer.
I am de Butcher-Baker-Bender.

And so these spheres of mettled light lie lounging in the Wards of insidious night. O, taken
under by the gallowed moon, this chimed face of a lunar-sunrise must die out fucking

Bad boys
Pistols and scams
Makes my heart
Seem the heart of Iran

Bay boys
Pistols and crows
Makes my heart
Seem the heart of a rose.

And now death comes to the Idylls of the juicy city: bound in bell-ropes and stringing
sweet importunate drums, the eyes of Gods break through. The wheels of the pities, now
scarred then flavoured, burn like baiters of venal dirt discographies: down from a real American
mad Abaddon, levellers of ferns strut seed on de paces of cutted wine and renal aborters.
And I am my very own stalwart seizure-tailor, and my poems sew meat from greyers where drams
get ignited with tawny wives and gizzards





I am the Butcher-Baker-Bender. I am the ruler of de Dough and de Dough is my exigent
bed that spins across sweet mesh. For whatever secured rape rides down from then burning
evil rafters get teasy with time and tide. O, alike to a female poppy, I scuttered deep to find
the cold of my rocked name fed to shark-horses. And my scratch my upon grave-mortars
and recover from my father's bitters a new sense of antedeluvia; and the faith I once gave
to my gemima of a gemmy wife gets twirled aside clinker neighs and the sounds of de News.
For I am dead, my friends: this is the fact I know as I strut the emptied bowels
of de boards. And I have always been dead these past twenty odd dulling years: have and shall
always be dead behind inking singing pretty eyes. Don't you see?! I am too free for just one
woma: my ways live in behest to a pointless, potless, jabbering jobless Law. Living where twelve hands
of every single signal hour are sweetly touched by darkness, my tidal headpiece gets glutted by
penises and vast lives.
But still it is down to me just how I touched the fatal sun: the hearsements of solar clouds
appears splitted under pines; but still it is down to me as I attempt to speak: still down to me
why the starry stella bowl gets pissed upon while being swallowed. O, my leaky bones get spewed
as makers of muttery vagina-dudes get cauterised while burnt under coupling sea-cells.
Yes, my new beast-bride, if you could only spur my ways, the trackling of my fatal
dick-heart would not appear too slow. O, my Gemima Gemma, would it were that love's terminal
eremite was yours to hide in hermetics; O, when Gem dances on wood then she beshrews sex with
bladderers of dizzy cunt and titty pickets. O, my dead undead bestial Gem who catches my breath
as she falls must forever strike me down with her ingenious magnum opus of keen hems and the
elaborate sides of a murdered mass-moon. And I feed an all too creamy breakfast to happy holidays
and the easy chefs by the light of a torn town come chanting after demeter and diamond riders;
and, when eating rifles, I get pulled then drowned.
..And this is the note that goes out to the verymost anal classes that name their
rich daughters after doctors of hitlerite feelers. Here, made cold, the rectal fluffs of fear
bury idiot himler in the crags of genocidal killers; and god is a tarred kid these days.
and where maddening crow-fat came shitting on scissors I used loud Westminster for my hair.
And I, who am neither child nor adult farter, must beguile dodgy love affairs with iced bun-bears
..And if. If I should have my fotal time over, I'd make damned sure that whiskey brains
catch fire. But now it is clear to see, at break of puling day, that mind-heaven is serviceless and
gets trapped where motorways lead birds to crashers of cardial angellic heaven-quim. O, a beltane
brewery has to gasp across a naked pussy plane where cardinal sainthoods drop dead.

chapter 123: SONG INTERLUDE?

Bad boys
Pistols and prams
Makes my heart
Seem the heart of Japan.
Bad boys
Pistols and ploves
Makes my heart
Seem the Heart of a rose.
Bad days
Crystals and graves
What seems right
Seems to fade fast away

Bad boys
Bad brains
Bad boys in sugar-veins

For bad comes the sense
And bad comes the screw:
O, for emergenseas
The bad boys get blued

By Orion and Osiris-Isis



And bad boys fuel my parting bird: done down through the slicks of the fleet and mad,
the heady mason to a vile temper set bricks that click fastly through the rooms that
make self sweat. And so it is that the rock and the rolling cock of quietened tat
will sky-chain dizzy hearts to chinless bodyers; and chidden crockers use vats of fat
to sear tarrimg feathers with noon-days found aside starry breakers; and cats cut out.
For it is this weird visitation thing that weeps upon a moggy sea of doubt
and bad boys who view sci-fi shit will come homeward now to a new space where drought
clusters up, up inside turtlers of helterers and dicky tranfixing fanny-spouts; and trout
gets stitched into glaring kid-hoods that close a missing bed-staff inside bully fingers.
and a looping bathside leads dead creators to a tiddy town of endless ruin; and givers
use bad boys as if burning when dashers of dizzy crowners flicker then lead red riddlers
to a bled cistern full of screams; and I walk the wizened route of my head as fixers get
varnished with lamb-wings; and blowers of doomy skirt-gassers come rickling for pecked
babby-moistening cradle-ropes; and a cistern full of screams gets sun-crafty.
And yet, if these bad and moiling types of boys would only run unto the
verymost ebbig end, then these haloed asylum wallls would paint thicker than thick,
and, o, romantics at the death of a vein-show preach unto a swift venal quietus of
mazy mutators; and, lo, we get car-caged within dummy caves when seas of slit
comes crying for unicorns.
..And nothing can fuel my parting bird. O, enough has been gripped
by de Dough and my Butcher-Baker-Bender farts on cucumber when delimited pressure
gourdes get whipped from a pony-truncheon; and we weevilise gyms with skippers when
messengers to duke-dazed dumdums come shooting christs with spind spidery bitumen
and, o, time and tidal enemy-friends track down death as menfolk get wed to beaver-bends
For, here and now, my old and pinioned seizure-friend, it is the must of the hour
that eyes find face-liners hypnotising the fascist cries of idiot hissers of stinking bowel-
deceivers; and a focal spiraller cuts candy sofas where rapists sit for toast and tea;
and pluperfect fotal mutts crap across sandy soapers.
Do you see? Rhyme will fade out into issuers of creamy cisterns,
and, o, when lunatic fates drag blood poetry by the skin then vowelers of easy kitchens
get aetherised by ruddiers of slag-suds and the plaintiffs who use drowners for friction; and
the verymost stars of a stella scream comes rampling down fusers of pennny-mictions;
and bled boys come back home to find greasers of Downs come killing penny-fictions;
and I have seen the gobs of gal-kind whitening farms with dragged zero heavens; La?



"And I used to own the evil soul of John Christie. Seeing into linguid death and all that
death beholds, my sneaky panza boots spill from spiralling red blood and indigo-trace
the steepled wards of hospice-mind; a hospice-mind that chock full of walled bodies. It is
the time's leaden hacking sickness that rules my scarlet grinds: o, finding venal emeralds in
the weeping bud-mud, the House of Sweeny Todd is forever mine to live in, curl in, soil in
and dig a deep cock-skin: no women ever bypassed my door who's not deranged.
And this, old fiend-maecenas of mine, is the eye that cuts me: spilling with red
regimens of dust and damped rye, my manic mob mind gluts thin air all about me, like a cutlass
in twenty lost winds, like a timeless spatial blight. My old fiend-maecenas please see that I am
not yet old; have pricked all thumbs of age with a call to poisonous bed-murder. John Reginald
Halliday Christie is my heated bug-beer who has no empty love but that which fades into the
dirty moor of a small-self whose wailing pierces lusts with Lord Memory.
For all and all must fade away: all and all must sate this Doughless Potless life of
Orion and Mercury. John Reginald Halliday Christie was my mother's whored name: 'Reggie'
I say, 'Do you know my pinnace of a name? Reggie! O! shall boned meagre sex-zen save
youths and pigs from skin?'
See me now: I am the illegal gent whose genie genitals are large as theft, whose call
to bubonic body-nails sate a collonade of ribbons with naked nuked seed-fire. O, an acid house
in a revolving bath hangs beery whores from bison waters; and the criminal zeal of the listless
poet's verb-flame digs daffy murders when painters of dukedoms get rashing across vile mice
and, O, see now just how a damager of feelered dick-devs suck a dizzy cock-horse
and. O, see now just how a vagina in rivering prick-plebs ride a fizzy rocker-horse; and I get
sent to the parroted budgy-toilets sea-founded inside the original moon where eyers got wet.
And I spend my tangential bone-box to seal mutterflies under pleasure-bruisers; and sweet death
comes up then wars for mental-hostages.
And, yes, I sense my Maker arise: I am the Maker and I am the Butcher-
Baker-Bender. O see now, old fiend-maecenas of mine, as the Butcher of the Baker rends apart
the Master's mindless potion-scribe and knollers of gravy wine get cramplened under cunt-hearts
and we feel for trendless dinners where a pisser in a cunt-fart causes small men to shit
and, I give to you the imbecile ghost of John Reginald Halliday Christie, whose deifaction of a
small docked cock hisses with sensitive air-emptiness."


chapter 126: O LEADEN IS MY GARDEN

And those fluming eyes of pure murder stride along blinded towers and angular halls:
doing down the faiths in quiet thunder, rumbling and tumbling they must crawl. As bridges
cross and eyelids stamp, those easy yet quiescent eyes of endless rage seize murder
from mindless sea-slaves; and dirty diners must always dine in the gravy dark.
And this is the letter of a fabler whose mac gets stripped: strippling as
flava strips, muddlered peasy murders reel from buddy nightshades and painted grass
gets cupped in small choppy cheese-hands; and the madamed search for feinted mass
gets walloping for estranging leopard-ponies
and here comes my search for the riddled reels of the cherry-choked; and here I grasp
badeas and acid bedrooms
O, these castlers of a blown mind will sink cockless sinners beneath gas
and, once when I saw sex in tears, the pissy crystal hill of ribboners and spiderers
grow from a false hand; and the glowers of grass excellently pierce a buried lawn
and, munching, sodded grass towns appear bled to silent death. O, down the towns,
wondrous Rapunzel, in a leather tower, spills milked hair from dalliers and experiments
and, cusped from rhuematic easels, eyes shape dingoes from dollied fires.
O, eyes sight the Butcher-Baker-Bender: eyes such eyes that drumming
Dough benumbs: eyes made models from poesy and her poppy-paws; and these tyres
hereby rot inside a knife-tray and these ashes in brigands sift pits from cunt-emblems
In my twinned hands, outside the twixed hands of forgotten beast-Gemma,
murder stains red gentlemens chairs with goaded chippy larded patter-papers that chuck
dividers down zero cliffsides; and bobblered toady fish-shards cum huffing pepper-pups
at yoyo sides; and buriers of islands will cherish car-kissers with ravelling clock-nuts
And now my house of demure decorous prisms pelters through crude spectrums
into lost digital space. Split in two, the eyes of reason flail and flitter into dangerous bum-
waste. Baker, Butcher, Bender, Maker-Master (caught by sylvan satyrs) whip a galloper
with bled goyles whose heroed herpetic alien Hermes gets rubbered.
In my hands, inside the internal hands of dead undead Gemma, murder stains
the serial stairs with fallen brain-wine: around the outelbowed squeezy cellars, horse and
cherried groom cause arrant laughter to ream the dairy spine.
But, sweet fiend-friend maecenas of mine, what for the hellish hidden Saviour;
what for the Ghost-God that lives upstairs from Adolph and Benito? Surely the razor on its
evil sides can but hack pasters with aldebarren blue religion; and what for Fakirs and delusory
paranormality but the splitted sacs of eggy cock; and what for butterers but margy cervixes
who lead fled foods to darters and peggy sops
..And what for those pitted men that crumble bum-suns against red slock
except the dicker of horsing navellers; and the unicorns run baiters through daddy crocks
and crabblers, made grey as pussellers, come snoring velvet with fairy star-sites; and rhymes
will cauterise the devilling shimmerer of accidental men and the killers of all grieved trees
and carriers of cruisers cram swift tongues down scented mirrors where dazzlers fuck
every single arse.



The purpose of all life-baking is to make the Butcher-Baker-Bender rhyme. The purpose
of being all life-baking is to mark the Master-Maker alike to verdant scissor-hearses
and, burnt inside rapiers, the life-baking of god's golden Jesu-hand gets suppering for
bled boners and taxi-chemicals
And I must love my fellow mister-sister. And I must love god's plangent
bride. And I must love my fellow cousin-sister. O, I will chant the beast-name 'Gemma'
until the whole fuck hold of a criminal cocoon whistler causes devil incest to die out
forevermore. And I get bitten by a bedside coke: as faces chant the beast-name 'Gemima'
I reel from stooping skirt-vinegar and find the biofocal blushers of fotal bluesers come
scudding in a bald bath. O, smitten with pillow-wine, fatal weepers get crying eye-milks
till the verymost outspoken dizzy kid of a gallow-vine will crack lesbotics from silks and
massing blessed ginny limes that lead doom-delvers to broken daddy wafers. O, here comes
my lordless river-spoken sea-slam where fatted kilters crash against sugar-lasers.
Yes, I must love my losing fever; must hold her by the fag till she gets personified
with sugar zen and massive manxing rivers. O, eyers use mires for features flickers across
the emptying land: and I must adore the dead as they sleep, and wooded scanner-kiosks
will scar-share monstrous leaded wards with messy blood-bathers; and I am in spind hair
tonight and I am made idle till boney slickerers interfuse cats with wide baaing lamb-lairs
Yes, I must love my acrid desecrative Gemma-child for she held my mother's hands
and here and now a deadener of flacids gets crooked with bunny cock-cans; and easy remands
must curtail doomers with spinal apses; and petroleums in children's curtains heed mummy
and, oo, a shaper of de Butcher-Baker-Bender whistles here and now around a blind botty
ear-shaker; and castlers in strifing capers get nudifying the pulled perfumes of one billion
seized mopers with coded colognes and buffy sky-ships.
..And so it is that the ribbiting clocks that trip as they tock into the widening of
speyers and crushed mummy-pharoahs which lie mazy and cold in a dizzy screen of crypts.
And these raging purple parades that lead to the habitual descrial of lunchy dark-dinners
get roasted with blary bud-wipes that strip magis down to idiot bubbler-babels; and biblers
appear roasted in a thinning rill of corders.
and the intimate swanny vesta gets Zeusers creaming for gobbly Leda; and painters of riders
stella serenade the vamped doves and turtlers of butterers and blorters of de cocky limers
and such a long time ago (when dreams still worked?) ivories got together with ebonies





And as I hammer this snivelling pen into the gill-brains of the junked and damned, I sense
my pro-impolitic poetic fervour grow shrill with nippling bed-lesions and masted Venus
whores. And Gemma Gem Gemima slides into the chairs of oaths: garnered by the coked-in
cheesy breath of dizzy lemon-dipsy of drunken wailers, here my lovelorn lappy lay-love
hangs penis badly. Nothing can stop, NO!, nothing can subvent the gyring gore of pastiche
peery pelmets from rolling away from Boy Jesus on the hill. Nothing, NO!, nothing at all
can cease the defaming cobra-cries of dunny lives untold and left hung to die.
And, why, this is a fulsome silence: silence is beholden and silence is de best.
Now see! The silent ones are both mad and ugly, but outspoken ugliness beckons fucked
chivalry and fucked chivalry rests deep down in the muted arms of penile-peace. O, God knows
it! Silence is the peppery sweet truth behind real sex: after all those pretty panted cock-lies,
titted souring porn-pylons adhere to the plain and ugly fact that fucked chivalry chides wives.
Yet the bane of it all is the cream-hammer: the cream-hammer is the pig-pen, the
pig-pen is an angel's star-cord. For each pen I bang into a coked-in shrapnel-brain, the poet's
delimited passion-fjord quakes then revolves in a lost public bath-tub and public bathers
may well return home to the homeless streets with a bunch of barred soaps choc-hidden in
naked chambers. O, politeness is a hapless incorrigible vein-light: vein-light is ineffably
made from the sky that is all too bright: O, vein-light causes shrillers to flotila long some
coffee-sidler whose bummy drummer wine gets lynching sex-radio.
And, my sweet fiend maecenas, if it were ever true that the dashy world could be baked
to sullen death inside holy heaped hot bread, then the Butcher-Baker-Bender would slake
a poet's sea-gulled eagle-heart-mind and the Maker-Master with de dreadful Dough would
break into slit-rollers; and the poetry of pure prose will melt across skeins when red wood
gets glutted by fish-furlers; and the whorled world of ills does its best to get personified
by ravishers of blushers, but the human shaper of personifiers gooses the tablers of dead
dirt objects, always: and the weaver of skull-spires comes shedding greasers from bottled
bum-razors; and a spiraller of bum-razors kips for wireless wet-bedding when leashers
rend buttery mutterflies from mothy harp-treason.
..O, do follow me! I am one for the following. Seldom have I been so near or
far. O, my one lean wish is to see loud god shakespeare once again. O, my one mad wish is
to scream as cellves fly. O, do follow me! I am one for the hollahing. O, seldom have we been
so affeared by lunar cars. And my one glad poesy-wish is to seize vernal chopped forests
with all the spider-arms of the gossamer dead.. Come follow me, for I am one for the
egoes of the raging and my egoes are enough to be saved.



And it is not for you that I cry. Riven in the detailed ways of lucid fragmentation, it is not
for rhyme alone that heaven wails then writhes. For it is not for me that the Butcher-Baker
beholds de heated masoned Dough and it is not for me that I dig days deep for modellers
of intimate salt-decay. O, long dead yet undead Buddha Bride Gem Gemima reaches out from
elysiums to find the sweated guns of pecks scuttering poppy-ferns across histrionics which
lever radioers with tawny body transepts; and isles of kinemas sink pinematics under bitched
blorting gallow-gourdes
And if I were to say that great poetry's a bruise, how now should prosody's
damasked devil-angels gaggle then sing? If I were to say that poetry is a dark and painful
break in haemophilial star-skin, how now should this lilted little world turnaround? For
poetry is a keen head-to-hip music-bruise: beginning in the cracks of one titian foot on
de wind, poems pour from dizzy cocking defamers of holy Ides and passing cunt-
mutany. From the utmost poetry beginnings to the verysmost toyed penny piler of
indignant verserl foulers, we find the pretty stoned chipper glass of the deus-dead gone
atoning blue-bursts with panters of skirty silouhettes with wufflers of holed haloers
and me and my pluperfect veiled cock-canal gives floaters to drifters and bollock-baiters.
O, how shall my eaten animal, then, whose grave tides are clay-shorn and cold
burst up from its yolks into a formless Man? How shall the terrific creature who dwells deeply
down within breakdown the gluey earther of a markerson? How shall a flavoured enemy
show a petrol-pus to a strawed burnt smile? If we dare to flare then answer we will surely
find ourselves peddling bluesy musaks to pasters of petallers and peasy florentines.
O, cradlers of crannies use milkers to sink daisy hearses aside pokermen and horses;
and sovereign spine-bakes loosen guiding fucky hell to fun funerals and bad sauces.
And, see!, this widening world is dry: dust and dry are all this widening
world beholds: a dampless, acrid space is adhering to scarped moon-moods and this
wetted excretia of a bled eye-sign comes entrophying adhesions with naked tit-lids
O, no man's binnered dazed doctor-swine trusts in bolts as turnturtlers achieve grids
from swollen mouth-mice; and icy feral ratty wards glisten as they scamp then swig
gal-bled-bone from murdered gill sewers.
..And should it become true that the Baker-Butcher-Bender
my secondary wife and should it become true that the Baker-Butcher-Baker comes
scudding in veined city-rafts, then coteries of jacked Kaplan will shiver after bums
and, made sizzly, the kinetic juices under aviaries will surely spurt slewers at apiaries
which, stacked with killer bees, come shovelling fatal honey-shit beneath dairies
Whatever, dear old Maecenas of mine, the gold seems very straight here
and the scuttlers in twinned brains cum shafting scissorers to camphored rose-tears
and murderers of Mumblers get made spun from pleasurers of acerbic statues



chapter 130: O THE MOTHER ENTERS

And ogled timed rhyme shall be entreated by appetant freedoms: o, nitric nerves
get galoshed with fetid thigh-feathers that extemporise where a robin in a bed-bud
comes weeping for a beading smoothed car-stamened universal masonry of blood
and, o, soft as the scutterers come, pulers of apers grit to mussel-faces which
sink a holly reever under melter-boys; and peeing peahens get flamingoed down
to a milker of medlers; and pinion-men stride from out a strapped calf-town.
O, just as a door shall knock as limey defacers let the Mother in, mentalisers with
crones for spud-sounds come seeing the Mother enter for wickedness and cribs
And, now, the mazy catechism of trammelling time and space impregnates
dolters of superb bum-mictioners who leave de stars to exit a jam-hose deeply insid
a salter of scarried sugar-bird; and pelters of deeds cut a clamourer from family,
and doctors to sweety-curs get tracing the ideal cobwebs of one billion memories
O, we dissolve into queasy paunch-knickers as wakefulness foists blinders upon
goofy capers of blonders and poesy-milk-cripplers. For, de Butcher-Baker-Bender
waves a shrift goodbye to febrile weak carps when, fastening, de Maker-Master
rolls de titty Dough in order that felters of March sweep glubbers from tropers.
.KNOCK ONCE! and de Mother enters. La, to think that a mamma sign
should feed a dairy paper crown? O, Man who is neither hero nor fast Shakespearo
hits to a griming chest-fleece. O, Man who is neither Banquo nor Televisions time
wretched hotel-hoses; and divorcers of diggered tea-inglenooks get hereby spined
by maternal shirt-hostesses who get sleek with pomaded eye-skin; and old radio
comes dicking a digital slock; and, O, songs of sunny Pan get grafted by pillows
and crooked punchy paraders come huffing spermy edams across panters. Oh,
a chiming dappler of druggard pussy-pug will exemplify the asses of snakers,
and the romantics in fierce fat sexed aromas will harp across a swindler when bows
get tied to gallopers; and de titty rollers of de Dough lease sugar-scrapes to de
Butcher-Baker-Bender; and, once soldiered, gunny mad toys groom bone,- Dreams
capsize and wrap coda with bound jaws.
And this sodded spiel is more a way of life than a success. This spiel
seems surely dour then sore; and repeaters swing from bird; O, Gemma Gemima
germinates loud rubies that sink a vagina phlanger courses for ooze; O, sister denier
gets sex-minimal; and baiters of waylayers sup a goose-pot
and, deeply within muckers of graven sluts shoot slips down blue banisters. O,
as we knock five times, the Mother enters; and loaded poesy rubs derangers
and, mouthing Peter Pan, pullers of embers shit a weary wife-heart from huge sea
and, slumberising, fazers of fatal excretia will tie a vinegar christ to agnus beads;
And now the seal upon these code-words sets glisterers upon de
Butcher-Baker-Bender; and, oo, de titty roller of de lewd burnt dicker Dough
has but one evening partner but a raining clouder gets shot to tall pus-pieces
and, buttering for sphincters, a radioing rouser shoots blueers dead as clothes.
For nothing, nothing can make the founts of this gay world take the
pinnace-penis of dragged prides: oo, this word-fount wrecks light's moon,
and the lighters of the west glue puffy incenders to inglers and closed tombs.
God in Hellish Heaven uses Gemma Gemima for her sainter
and gooseberry rose-hips cum puking geesy members across grassy crazers.


And you know, I am sure that I never really left the asylums. Ideally, riven with
the paddlers of padded spewing critical kids, tablets and syringes are my only
flavoured servants, are my one and only moving blood-stone. O, when Gemma
left her germs to herpetic diamond drivers, she brought soft news of the verymost
burial swirl of pasters; and, lo, a cheesy fire-hold will snaffle ideal bird with
stirry fatal thumbies; and glazed wakers of a spiral hill will saddle evil mirth with
maddenig modemers of webby spidery gluers in vital rills; and we ravel for stone
and we use hired holidays for ushering mason-shades as we sit astride gold goyals
and petrolised by closed drays, a human red squirrel gets transfixed to blue soils
and, carded with coteries, the roller of de titty Dough comes sharpening heads
with azure puggers who taint taunters with the flumers of diamates and greyers
My Gem brought me the rooms of her dead yet undead sisters, all at one
with my Master-Maker who brought me Gemma Gemima. My fatal cock-empress
who duffles after soft glebes will hereby bear me ruiners of sky-stables; and gum
gets chewed, just like an oral spy, and whatsoever I used to write must spite
every single singular mind; and the lardy show-boys who spike horses with pints
winnow for heart-life; and a seer of a baby loony draggles for tosses; and pints
go gluing pastries to the picklered puckerers of bled ice and meaty sovereigns;
and from poetry's beginnings to her second comings goo for goosers. But I am
somehow my own Butcher-Baker-Bender of a lopped coven of deceivers who
receive stationary yolks in nine arachnid-hands; and punnnet menfolks, hagging,
collapse for latherers of bleachy blinder-grooms
and I say that this side of a lunatical car lover gets hecklered till songs.
And nothing can fuel my parting bird but the evil rapinity of the
holy ghost within. Nothing can stow me away in poetry's trips but the eager
and revelling pled penis of de fey Lord. Everything, my draped fiend-friend,
is steeled in passive lift-musics. Everything, my reader-Maecenas, is a colt-museum
to mazy steely pig-remits. Gods know it! My zero mind spins from acritudes to
plaited acridities: there is no difference between the ways I spins.
From out this ravened mind-prison, the spectral fears of sweet madness
flow. Therein, the prisoners of gold lie stabbed and papped in tiresome motars and
malls. And so it is that this tale of weeping town-times get troved by the spectres
of warring stretchers: all words seemed mad, all words appeared crippling for their
ferine chalet-minds.
For I never left the asylum. In this keen second of clear and spatial thought,
John Clare and William Blake slip their poetical car-keys under starring pipers of
hash and bacon-mash, and city-beckon me towards the fatal fulsome spastic jacket
that forces wiveners to scratch winds with cherry-bawds
and, if only my greasy dead yet undead Gemma Gemima got her scented sex
made wise as lizards, then the whistler who weeps from bad manna slathers forever
with creased veinous scarred swift avenues; and my magical magi-earpiece comes for
ghoul-huffers that spray seed upon a second fairy earth.




And psychiatry fuels my parting bird: as dreary bladder brooms go sweeping
vine-slumber from lime-tipsy caddy gypsies, a locum to spoons go reaping
mental massed strangers who lather after cocoa-prisms; and candiers in leaping
go damselling by; and a lotus-fever gets stung with prisons as petrifiers use sweepings
to sodomise brickers with easily raging dyed hair-oceans. And this is the Maker-Master
of diddlers and de refining swabs of bunked Dough as de Butcher-Baker-Bender becomes
snivelling around bookers of clogs and tripsy musheries
and psychiatry fuels my parting bird.. Ah, these ministeries of the languid get poked from
mapping cheese-raids and a light meat taper who sets up gowl radios will use guns to
storm sex-blockades while a naked cunter of furious head-curios get fed to daffy lungs
and, once dead but undead spheres swirl around, then a paperer of lip ogles odd tongues,
the endless spheres swirl round and codded cocky copsters greet glassers with stunned
defecators whose shitty liguid tea-body gives a stripper of a lunatic horse to sky-spun
dragglers of summiters in sealed magic; and trendless men give head to sucky flavas.
And here is my earthing bride as the bridesmaids see it: one wife-life was
named Gem Gemima; and the fathering swipes come pissing on pits as a wife-christian
gets swallowed up by the cousins to mettled sonar ruins; and the dockers of bird-renders
surrender a damager of a burlesque daughter to the elysiums; and noodlers in asylums
get whiskering around plumed mikes and the raises of Hymen; and oodlers in suffixes
appear scented under bread-smokes; and a daddy to pylons get rifted with spun voices
and dizzlers whose diddly star-tummy hoots for mammies cum spattering fotal spices
and, once daggered, weevils found in shoots get stuffed into maggoters of bin-laces.
Walled in a tomb, both fire and rain must steal my parting bird. Gem was
my one solus light; Gem was named Gemima and the dartlers of her curves used gas
to thunder-cross deriders with famous fast igniters of draculas and vampyre-glass
and we wolverise a bedded bay as rockers of masts will surely cut-out; and de past
gets spouted from bathy public-ash as wakers of grills will surely shut-out de Vast.
For the life of modelling show-boats caress carriers of bakered craveners
write for the emptyers of poet-vagrants and the vese-blind caves when hobo-riveners
get famishing for deltas and forced idiot wristbands; and hatchers of children use rizlas
to double-up for a moused liver-life; and stationers in grey orbits clasp to depleters.
My life with de phapos gods lead long dead undead Wife-Gem-Gemima gets swinging
and the optical skaters of medula screw-science will label pets with holy winged whizzings
O this side of an asylumed moor, we shout out aloud for the races of Gemmy Gemima.
Outside, all sweet perfidiums lay down with beltane bisons. Don't you fucking know?
Lust is the liquid distance that clads me in these padded mind-bells: muted mouthers
cause casual penal science to pin a lapping dweeb. Outside all vinegar belfries, doubters
get mandrilised with wraithers. Outside all chimpers of coated sculleries, grey spouters
appear motelised with swingeing peddled nuclear rat-boys.
Yet, my friend, yet, this is the tall tails of poetry. The flavour of hot roses
labours after tonguy face-frets to a blown beach of atomic flour; and the cries of aces
get stripped down and fed to moggy fire. O, my eager fiend-friend, when paunches
arrive home to render wine-weed, the hisses of lion-kids get shut in a renfrigerator
made from tender pole-caps; O, while my easy maecenas of a girl-saviour comes dating
scurriers of vented bird-cats, a kind and rekindling spy-drug of a mutilato lover fuses
canary-budgy-flesh; and vampers in limes cause furry confuters to compute chases for
granary-dodgy-pets; and scarring defeaters of gorse lap bummy juice from pony-pores
and, lasered around specs, careerers in controls star-entreat receivers with pommy bruises
and, fazered aside dog-dips, scatttlers of whelped spars come cumbering for red-cruises
You see, the hulker who becomes de writer may only dream on improper
themes: to fills de Poet's head with chapling chapter and goose-verse: the writer is at once
a veiled poet and also a sailed thief of bully-bards; and eyes daren't claim children from
the bleeding vats of caustic quarto-fat; and a biter of feline maladies cut stanzas with
cosmical funsters dressed in lyric-spats; and a jolter of doomies sunder thunder-pigs.
And this is the gemima gemmy moggy mind which fails then flails against
bled birds and beasted vagina; and the stretchered elisions in the fragments of red kids
get left to delve across the swollen cloths found beneath porn-patients; and dead pigs
forge idealisms from venal vanny pee-promontaries with haggard teas of cheese and
pure wine; and if the renal poet is to practice verse-pulmonaries to sharpen beggar-brans
with crowers of cunters; and discs aside vacant horses get fed to defunctive machines
and, skin-scoured, regal commands ride across vagrant voices with padded pandemics
..For clothes of losing families speak for pursing pussy pig-wrens who
dash warblers across seeds and doos and linen.




And madness fuels my parting bird. Unchecked by the world of sanity and smiles, the
mission in the lines of my palms rubs shoulders with the halo'd heroines of hopeless
sound. For it is so that the lily of my Lady meets me amid the towering flowers of darkness
and depravitude. See now! There, where the big hacked tulips glister in the hunch-backed park,
my one and only Gemma meets me round the back of dead undead Gem-Gemima who sinks
swiftly into the playgrounds.
And now the rain falls dryly on the mind. Devoid of all dampness, the shrill and
louring trees in the swarmed brain lies slain by eternity. And this is all so far, too mad. Unjust as
minted blood, the hooded arena of slavering goat-arias glides to the centres of the centaured
sex-relief that pokes this henning egged beer-life and builds a cross of scarlet mooed blood.
And the rain falls and the madness twires, and a seagull sea-train wails off the head-track
and kills the forcing rammy ringlets of the whole wildened wastegrounds where grey traps
appear wedded to the scribes of all eternally maternal soul-spoils that capture puppy-cats
For now the lily of my lost Lady climbs into its porn-shroud bewrays the hearts
and bones of recivity. Blown by hot wind and hived rain, this pantomimic flashed crap
will shed browning truth that sails the drowning stars into a windmil-sex-ward; and we will
do without the sun because the rigging original sun is dead; and the bladdery mind-malls
we call our very own will scudder in bathy ripeners of fast bed.
'O, my Lady!' I said, 'How shall your time in my cussed world be saved from its
importunate user of death's gold-rain? How? How shall the meter of the dirigible chapters of
blue-burstive plane earth get blessed by You? How? How shall the lily of my acid breaking
lizard baby cancel all shooters with cactii and growing sofas?
O, my own sweet forgotten dead undead Gem Gemima, answer me now without
a vestal vestige of a sexy dick-arcana. Answer me now with the crooked spoils of a spooled
car-wall where apocalyptic nitric dotty members drill for vixen-oils; the foxies are laden when
cold spermacidic hero-heavens adjoin drippers to hitmost veg-feeds...






JDB resides somewhere in west norwood south london UK?