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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.



And out of slumber, waking on the valley of the abyss. This is where kob came in, many years past now, and it's the wonder of revisiting that old time where one once lived, and the smile on his face, fearful. His skin, going pale, bleached old negro that stands there now, the slave songs on his lips, nothing he can do about it. Hair going white as the maelstrom, hiss of it in the distance.

The man with no handful of sand says nothing, just gestures to the shore and lands and we step off in the shadow of the castle. Castle's got seven walls for some reason. Ask kob, cause he's been around this way before and he smiles and says that it s somthing that he once had, the castle on the edge of the wilderness, something i don't have, though I'm going to go through all the way, through this odd tour of duty.

Virtuous son. Virtuous, like that old luci of yours, sucking you off to the top as always. His face white by pity, not by fear. These are the ones who lived well, unharming, in sync with the world, with good karma, but without a CHrist, and the understanding starts to sink in. Kob grabs me and points back to the river. I walk back and stare into the depths. He stands beside me and there is but one reflection in the darkened sky. CLouds overhead. My face, very clear, as I was when I was youngman, when i fucked well and wasn't crippled as I have been till I was lost in the woods. I have been here a long time and the smile on kob's face is mine. I have been here for a long time those without christ is the reflection in the water.

We walk on, into Limbo.

Limbo. The word means nothing. Atrophy. Into limbo, into nothingness, that is something, a wide dark plain filled with herds of lost bones milling about. Nodemons here, nodevils, just time, torturing a thousand buddhas and six hundred million gods who used to be hindhus. Cows wandering through the crowd. Confucius and jimijanetjim, chat amiably with the ghosts of a host of poor muslims, sharpening recurved swords with no purpose, still pissed about losing the jihad. Allah's head on the ground, and reattached, and severed again in the sand for those who followed and fell. Sweet Moulay Ismail and his ten thousand heads on pikes parade about, with his 888 children and the sixteen thousand blackblack, deepafricablack spearmen with their familys and many of them are laughing and fornicating. Out in the open, left out of the circle, left to their own devices.

Welcome to pagan country, son. I turn, tap on the shoulder. It's the one with a gap in his forehead, all apologies. He's telling me this is where it's at, that he got out of his lower step by walking through the seven gates and a pulse beckons that cnnot be ignored wa is that is th at ignored and switches on wand many long nights wanting to be you, to take your skills at death and hear they are, you bulit yourself a handy little coven here, tiny flecks of silver foam, still stuck in your head, into the ground, as you were, a corporate handgrenade, going off, shotgun in hand and into the sand, head up your ass, up my ass, up that sweat little bean you broke off and left behind and the art though the art was untouchable, so you have been set free among skirmishers and fornicators where I have been for so long, where kob came in but could nto stay, given this post as he was. I go somewhere worse, somewhere better.

He's joking. It's all down from here. an old joke, an old limbo joke, a new limbo joke, all the same, time in circles, neverending, neverdying, tired from not seeing the sun, in withdrawal always, no alcohol or drugs and impotence is rampant something about dead cocks so the first circle not such a cock ring as it could have been. Some lucky fuckers cached cigarettes and they're still smoking. No need to worry about cancer here. This place could have been such a paradise, if only they had some sun, so many so pale so lost now so gone.

I bid him farewell, many miles to go and all that such and he asks if his wife is far off, no news from the front and I do not tell him that she fucks other men. The grace of death ruined. It's only acceptable if he imagines her a chaste virgin till the day she fell, waiting for something to plant her next to him beneath the long captioned stone. This is where we lay. We were linked together for so long, and now that we are not, we are still together. Bones melding to slush beneath the layer of mold and wood and dirt. But melding together. In two hundred years, who will know the difference. As time is down here, no one will ever know. Your bones will be as one in any case and hopes are that she is not in love with some other man when she goes and changes stones. Kob taps me lightly on the shoulder with his long spear and reminds me. He is staring at the one with the bullet in his head and they do not speak at all, look at each other, inverted reflections. Animosity of animus. One walking and one laid down under earth. Kob touches the man's shattered lips before walking away.

Shadow of the tower. Shadow of the gates. Is that why I'm here? We begin to tread towards the masses. We walk on the outskirts, listening to the humm of prayer calls. They have built shrines down here out of living bodies, stacked high as unburnt pyres. They still kneel to the east in rows of hundreds. They face the sun that does not rise. They are waiting for the one to raise them, when they know he cannot. Denial. Always denial. A dead god, a heaven that is not, a life wasted in service to nothing. So many temptations unfulfilled for the love of gods unknown. So much ass unfucked. Monks weep uncontrollably.

The dead are praying. Unbelieving.

A buddha wails, asking no one why he is not undone, though he is. In limbo, he is as close as can be believed. There is no cycle through here, just the distant maelstrom, calling us. Kob shoulders his spear and his colour is back, slowly seeping into his blackface. Pale nails of pity fade. What can be pitied fools, for living without fucking. Idiocy. It fades.

Tall gates beckon.


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