NUNT Command Centre
About Nunt.com
About Mingus Tourette
Links & Props
Guestbook
FAQ
Characters
Mission Statement
Contests
Contact

Nunt: The Book
Excerpts
Reviews
Trailer
Publishing Details
Artwork
BUY THE BOOK!!!

Tourette's In Progress
LitSLAP
Divinity
Ascension
Essays
Artwork

Daily Mingus Archive
July 2007
December 2006
November 2006
October 2006
September 2006
August 2006
July 2006
June 2006
May 2006
April 2006
March 2006
February 2006
January 2006
December 2005
November 2005
October 03 2005
September 19 2005
September 05 2005
August 22 2005
July 25 2005
July 11 2005
July 04 2005
June 27 2005
June 20 2005
June 13 2005
June 06 2005
May 23 2005
May 16 2005
May 09 2005
May 02 2005
April 25 2005
April 18 2005
April 11 2005
April 04 2005
March 28 2005
March 21 2005
March 14 2005
March 07 2005
February 28 2005
February 21 2005
February 14 2005
February 07 2005
January 31 2005
January 24 2005
January 17 2005
January 10 2005
January 03 2005
December 27 2004
December 20 2004
December 13 2004
December 06 2004
November 29 2004
November 22 2004
November 15 2004
November 08 2004
November 07 2004
October 04 2004
September 27 2004
September 20 2004
September 13 2004
September 06 2004
August 30 2004
August 23 2004
August 16 2004
August 09 2004
August 02 2004
July 26 2004
July 19 2004
July 12 2004
July 05 2004
June 21 2004
June 07 2004
May 31 2004
May 24 2004
May 17 2004
May 10 2004
May 03 2004
April 26 2004
April 19 2004
April 12 2004
April 05 2004
March 29 2004
March 22 2004
March 15 2004
March 08 2004
March 01 2004
February 23 2004
February 16 2004
February 09 2004
February 02 2004
January 26 2004
January 19 2004
January 12 2004
January 05 2004






 
     
.:  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.

DIVINITY

CUNTO III

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.




back to top