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.:  The Divinity Chapters  :.
Cunto 01
Cunto 02
Cunto 03
Interview 01
Cunto 04
Cunto 05
Cunto 06
Interview 02
Cunto 07
Cunto 08
Cunto 09
Interview 03
Cunto 10
Cunto 11
Cunto 12
Interview 04
Cunto 13
A short 'mindstream' novel about a man's descent to hell and subsequent resurrection. His critical review of the novel, as captured by reporter Marvin Gander, and the 'mindstream'© process is interspersed throughout the chapters and may be included in the final work, in accordance with the author's wishes.

Any unauthorized publishing of this will precipitate excessive violence on the part of the author. Please ask. It's all ©2004.



Muse on this, that I enter along the deep and savage road.

Within the forest there are branchings and then there are them branchings wherein once turned, one turns. Spun on axes unsuspected, down the wrong path towards the wrong face, the wrong place. The adversary unrequired. Man Kob arrives, walking backwards, his eyes downcast as he walks this path. Late as ever, face soaked with sweat, streaks of blood on his robe. Skin black like it's been saturated with soot. Shaved head and a limp and still the pallid cloak of celebrity and a life once taken on his brow.

I do not enter alone, will not enter alone.

Leads me to a place, darkened gallows at the crossroads. Three baskets, English made, hung on posts and in them, three women. Apparitions or decayed bodies, impossible to tell with the clouds in the air, fogging it through. Wings beat in the distance and ravens caw loudly, screech of hawks? What animals? Something hisses in the air, without which I could talk but I cannot and the smell of sulphur and chamomile mixes in the mud and I have a handful of it pressed to my face, for which Kob does not comment. Smelling dried flowers. Cannot go down this path, fear of fire, showing me the steel traps around their feet, the gullet, guillotines singing.

Lie down face down cock down in the mud and lie there because i will not get up will not go on. This is too much, this smell of her on the wind and her agewracked body up in the gibbets, when she's still far too young, the man once said she was nine, but not at the time when I knew her here, knew her new well. Sucking me down. Sucking me.

Succor me, to the fates. Mother of the one up says to me from the gibbets, speaks down, that tender down on her lips, saying, i was once given up of my child and I yet lived and suffer now only to say to thee, rise up by descent first. Take the step and the nine steps and the rise up the pyramid and up again to the next seven and sit at the right hand of the sun. With my sun, all my light, all my light, back of the sun. How to deny the mother of all mothers, and sweet bees, legs covered, back legs covered, bristling, with honey and the edge of cement buildings so far from the current lost whores that cover where we're sitting and sweet chamomile, she smiles with me at the mudshit smell and droppings on my face from lying in the pool and my mute black guide says nothing. Succored to come to them, a virgin and a virgin and a virgin and the possibilities of three virgins, all to myself, too much to deny, so I will walk this thousand burning miles, will walk the wastelands, so for waistlands, for the untravelled path, i will walk, the shadow of these girls, all girls and children, now old hags, burnt mummies, up on the swing crosses, none nailed, nailed like old suicides, take you revenge on the dead, the dead who left you without a hand to hold, the hand beholden to none and Kob's thinking that I know that his secret, for he dips his head in shame, words of the mud that cannot be scraped off his face, his brains and blood on dark rocks somewhere cold, and he'll never get three virgins, not the way he's been, not without the long walk and the long penance.

In the air, on leathery wings, misomusists circling, hoods on their heads. Intent on killing our muses, at least, the assumption of such murder, or are they hooded muses themselves? To wax poetic, the adversary, upon three unploughed lands and a hard hard plough and nothing to be seen by them , inverse perversion, except the dirt and the filth in it and there's no beauty but for what is rigid and ordered, but not the rigidity of this pole, walking industrial state sponsored artifacts and the appropriation of it all for propaganda. I spit upwards, hoping to strike one, but they are too far up and the spittle falls to the ground, cold and spread apart and pathetic.

Gibbets full of howling crows now, picking at the bones of the beautiful dead, long departed and still held tight to the breast, and where have you gone, where are you, cannot see no-things in the darkness, need to steal some light to breathe once more, but fear that there is nothing to see, and so i wait with the man with the spear and start to follow, treading carefully down the path, away from the broken sirens, away from feathered avengers, fistful of mud and sliding carelessly, now, towards the river. The clanging of bells. Chamomile and luci and mary mother, waiting so far, their husks left hanging at the crossroads, messengers.

Whisper of ravens. Announce us. And they trod a savage road.

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