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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.



Never more clear than here, at the edge of the plain. The clock is ticking, always ticking, till it stops as it has and the solar circle of tears drops descending. Light falls. The wind is rising and the snow begins to float in space with a silence unknown to cities.

There are women in magazines that if I had known them well enough, would have given me comfort against the ground, nights in the forest, and they did, unknown to them. Dreaming, always dreaming. Walking and talking and sleeping and living whole lives with pictures of women nevermet. So it still goes. The sounds of animals in the dark, outlineined against the snow, their dark red eyes, colour of my blood, glaring out at me, snapping at me and poor Kob, unused to the cold as he is. Our breath floats in the air mixing together. Dissipating. Thick pealing of breath.

I am holding a long gun and firing carefully at fleeting blurs in the woods. Dogs or coyotes or wolves, something swirls round the camp in the dark and Kob has only his spear, spell of terror. I've got some liquor in me now and the fire is rising up behind me , thikc like bile like bile and bloodstones, philosopher's stone, turning love to gold. Love to ice. Semen to love. Hold the rifle too close to my eye and i am struck by the force of the shot, and something yelps in the woods, but I have no more bullets. The eye weakened, sealed, bleeding, the gun falling from my hands, spent shells burning holes in the snow. Bile rising. minos if you were here and it were just a second before you condemned that girl I would pull the trigger on you and sweep her away and take her somewhere, somewhere pleasant, livable, back to the first circle, with the monks and the moslems and the pagans who lived good lives and we would build a house of rocks and live there all the time and for all time and you would please me, you would play and I would play with you and the essence of it would not be pure, perhaps, lubricated as it was, but it would be honest and what thefuckeareyougoingtodotouswe'realreadyinhell fuckyoubastards. Let the god in hell play with her minion.

The dreaming ends when the hail starts.

Thick ice, channels of it caving in, side of an ice mountain collapsing on us and nowhere to run in the darkness, our fire put out and maybe we can run to the trees, try to find shelter in silent dark pines, like old Tom Thompson and Al Purdy's eulogy and my eulogy of him. It was tough country you walked, and I would have liked to walk it with you, guns in hand, looking for birds or whatever it is you tough men with sensitive sides who wrote about rocks and bulls, who carried birdguns, and talked about blood and the heart pounding into the base of the forest floor and fucking without saying its fucking, older brothers, where are you, miss you. Miss your tutelage, alone. Glad not to see you yet, but there're others we'll be seeing. Layton, are you dead yet? Where is that ungrateful Pound of flesh? Alone. All the writers down here alone, I am guessing. Would be fitting. Isolated and singlecelled but knowing, but not knowing they were all fated the same. That comaraderie denied them. Alone.


A three headed dog is following us, his coat sleek with sleet and his beard rough hard like wire. His breath sticks to trees as he passes, and he is urinating, blood, all blood. Cerebrus. I know this dog, not just a dog, three demons in one. Antediluvian stench. I know this trick. Feed it dirt, old man. I am yelling at Kob who turns and stares at its eyes in fear and the cold has made him sluggish, the hell is getting to him and he starts to gain weight, fattening up for the spit as I watch, adding pound after pound of grotesque fat till his poor lean body cannot support him and he is forced to sit, watching the hound come in on him and all he can do is butte the spear on his foot, but that won't do, the demons are smarter and it is going around to the side and I am telling him to throw dirt in his mouth, but he can't hear me. Can't hear a damn thing and the dog is closing and poorKobsneck is so plump and slick with grease and sweat in the cold from the fatand it is going to devour him i can tell and there is no dirt that i want to throw.

I am thinking about the little girl, about the demonminos and the girded tail, unwilling to grant any mercy and the pedagogy that created them, the patriarchs andpopespedos and the bile is tasting thick like cigar smoke on the back of my throat, and teeth clenching and I remember the deal Kob said was made to see all this and it doesn't matter, fuckthefuckingdeal i won't watch kob go down here under those jaws and let that beast tree me for a hundred years. The spear is not too far off, held lightly in kobs failing hand. The breath of this thing, old slaughterhouses, smell of a dead animal left in the sun. Skinned and left in the sun. My hand is on the haft of the spear and the beast is coming and it knows I can't kill it but i am saying fuck that and when it rushes me the spear is butted against fatKob's ass and the blade goes through the middledog's throat. should have cut for the foul triune heart, but i missed and the other dog is biting my arm hard, crushing the bone, unbelievable i have never been bitten like this but the bile is in me ani am tswisting its head under me and its neck is open and my teeth are ints neck and the blood tastes like wine, thick wine like saliva and wine, and blood and chocking and vomiting and the other dog is trying to bite me trying to kill me but my arm is free and I shove it down the trhoat and wait let the dog notbreathe and when notbreathing, even in hell, there is no breathing and the breathing stops. The breathing stops. Arms covered with sticky red blood and the sleet not washing them off. Thick white scars forming where the snow falls. I want the three heads on the spear, but boasting a sin, punishable by hellfire and death. Dare not.

Of course, it's all punishable by death. Yes, little god? Where is my woman, where is she luci, and I am howling at the woods, and there is no sense to it. Kob's weight turing to salt and sloughing off his frame like it does in the end. Decay. Decay. Skin stretching gaunt as he looks at the dead beast and doIknowwhat this means and I don't give e fuck because fuck it. Fuck you and your so called morals and your so called god and your so called hell. that's what i meant to say. Come to me demons, come in the night sweet incubus and let me castrate you, young geldings. I'll wear your manhood like pearls. Kob is looking at me with a bit of horror, and there is no doubt that this is changing things, but the bile could not be ignored, could not be ignored, too thick in the throat.

In the distance another wolf howling. The moon is far away and bright and surrounded by circles of light from the evening sky and the dying sparkles of distant planets. Come to me demons and I will cut off your heads and tear out your horns from your heads and pull out your tails and shave your beards and I will pull out those eyeteeth, so pitch full of venom and I will eat them. Kob shivers in the snow. Silhouettes of beasts in the woods and the crackle of flames, smell of roasting flesh and the outline, black outline of death in darkness. Tragedy of dying with shut eyes.

Fear the man with a handful of ash.


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