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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.



Dark spark off the brain. Black tamaracks. Hiss of faint banshees overhead, sky melting down with drops of moonlight, just over the horizon, spilling into the puddles our feet make on the surface, in the marsh. Walking in the wetlands. Mountains nearby. Metal shod feet.

She screams over head.

I don’t want to be just a girl on your shelf.
I don’t want to pose as the memorabilia.
Of yourself.

And we are silent, blacKob and myself. The mountain is rising. Overhead, circle, like birds of pray, the banshees wail, foreboding. The moon is clipped by their shapes, circlets of silver, falling.

The sign, writ large with ones and ohs. The one we’ve all fear to tread, the path that converged, never farsplit.

Abandon all hope, all you who enter.

[and in parentheses, with a footnote marker]
[*Arbeit macht frei.]

Gate framed in metal, famous archangels, cast into bronze on the side, smirking, knowing the trick to the words, the lie inherent. And the road goes on, and Kob tightens his grip on his spear and says little about his journey that Im awondering where and why he walks with me, sneaking in the back route like this. Cast out from the woods. Past the animals. The earth slopes down, towards a river, steep. A man, fedora smartly awry, waiting for us there. Glint in the eye, platinum caked. Waiting. Charon, always waiting, standing on the bank with something to hide.

Last whisper from the harpies above, circlets circling. Naked at the waist, naked to the eye, dark bush protruding, so thick. A face on the one I see that evokes memories of a night lost long lost where i made sex to a woman who’s younger sister listened from next door and in my mind I was making sex to her. And I loved the older sister at once and later on did not love her because she was thick and stupid. She tells me.

Fear the man with the handful of sand.

And there's no one there but the man on the boatside, and after we goodmeet, we're standing with the dead man in the boat, skull on his
sleeve, his flesh unconsumed.

No fee for the ferry, or the toll’s already been paid.

Straight off the riverbank, a tour guide that no one wants to see, but we're allgoing to see, no matter what wefcuking want, it's oming down the sstream at full speed, without a ripple, like the taste of mother's nipple, the fat red flesh in the mouth, and what is there to do but to taste the red flesh, suckling, sweet, to the taste, bitter after, bitteraftertaste/////tasste foul a dn unclean, stench of sulphur and marshgas, little fires.

Sweep through the marsh, the black tamarack, needles brown from the winter, the sun now lost in the shadow of the mountain, and the hum of engines beneath our feet. We look at each other, behind, and the marsh
swallows our path as though it were alwyas such, untrod by men or animals or devils or archangels, lost or fallen or simply lying down in the muck of a couple eons to think abou twhat they had done. Such is the time here. Minutes to eons, nothing matters in these cases, because death has already come and gone. Charon, cousin to gabe, the one who dripped me off at the step, haft caught up in the arteries, struggling to get free.

And then it has struck me, that this is hell, that the furnace is only a few directories down, that we can fall further and meet the lucifer, the roficale and lucifuge and asyymmon and the rest, belial and azrael, they’re aall heir s apparent, celevrities of such and we’re to meet them. The night moves so slowly here and it is because the flow of time is changing, changing with the silence. No cries yet, just the quiet travel down the marsh. Charon shuts off the motors for a moment to drift and there is a large dog barking on the riverbankd but he is paid no heed, so we try to ignore him and listen to the absulute silence. No humm, no insects, nothing. The drift and a footstep or two. Humm of the boatman. Singing old slave songs.

Smiling. Far off squawk from the banshee and he tells us, nospeaking, but tells me. It’s not me. I have no hand to hold sand and I can see that he is nothing but bones in the reflecting light, off the river. The flesh fades to marsh darkness, but the bone, like harsh silicon, undying. I meet you and the rest of it proceeds from here.

Abandones, abondon it. You travel with the boatman, and there is naught but what you are, you’ve stepped off the land and now you follow. Falling fucking Jesus. and their brothers.

Face of the banshee, echoes off the water. Times so far past they’d been diluted, so sharp now. And smile, before the descent. What hope is there now? Humm of motors. Humm of silence. Humm of passage.

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