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 IX

Sit and watch the incense curl. Metabolites in the system. Floating. Smoke from the edge of the city, long lost towers and the dust spilling from veiled walls, walls of velleity, ten thousand heads on pikes and the great leader, sprung from the prophet, his hands thick with slaughter, he rules with the executioner's axe in hand, three hundred years past, and the children - Christ, more wombs than ever

but we are through the back gate, in through cover of dusk and the suavely defeated, fall in anguish. words no longer strong enough to quite cut through to the immensity and pain on the edge of the vale our own timid loss..

and he was a quiet life of unfulfillment.

and those around us. but the razor raised now, in measured defiance. kob is looking at me and he is angry. he has a bucket of blood. he has a brush soaked in blood. we are at the gates, standing just outside and i can tell; he's going to tag that fucking wall. he is saying, he is writing it on the wall of the city of dis, this capital of hell, he is writing his grafitti in blood.

'i have raised the essence of what is written. it may be written, but it does not follow, sense the lost one in this race. razings, in the days to come, deaths measured in millions, old father, ground us all down this far, all us down her. and it comes on, the old oddity of a man alone so far down, dreaming of things that have not been dreamt, the edge of words, concepts and the shell of the reality that has appeared absolutely too real for words. It swings the whistlebird of that distant tune, followed on his own to the end of the path, her tracings called to view. '

And here it comes. through the steps of christ, into the city of Dis.

Sweet Christ, and it is beatrice calling me, calling me sweet christ though there is no way she could be calling such, not being in hell. And not, but a shade, and the question behind that call, why have you failed and why do you now carry on as though you had not. With the oddity of that call and the only wish, now, to be alone with one of the ravens that i desire, and though that failed me twice before, maybe more; five, ten the real lovers, i mean, the fucks that meant something. a brief history of fucking and the love of such a thing. quel confession? with such a field, one would not need to write, one would not want to do such a thing, as how could it be more perfect, to be taken care of loved in every possible fashion, provided anything, at any time, by perfection, the culmination of all lovers. all lover? real or imagined. you choice.

of course. great ass in there and the tits and the skin and the cunt and the choice of a cunts smell and that good funk in the thighs and the willingness to fuck, and be fucked, as you want. not too tall, perhaps, but what else would there be, really? Sluts and lesbians, virgins, assfuck lovers, those in reverie. in those arms, fall asleep before sitting awaking to a day of learning, or more precisely, knowing. reaching that tall tower of knowledge that pillar of salt.

burnt deep in your old tears.

and walking in now, there's a sudden anger towards that, the reverie turned revenir and drowned, through those waterbloated eyes you could see the limbs of wom en, rummed with warts, swelled vipers in her hair, an she was them three furies. broken now, one woman, the queen of eternal lament. seventytwo virgins my holy cunt. bitches.

Gorgon! I swear, as Kob stands there with his cock in his hand and what the fuck does he care. it's covered in blood. He's thinking about the oddity of a story in the future where an anthropocentric looking machine which is a machine is studying the creation of themselves by a species known as Homo sapiens and she is still in the same way as we are, wishing to create, with a complex society, desiring offspring, and now, the proud new evolution to understand the reason why, which of course, does not exist. that is all. listen, as I say it again.

<fucked> field, one would not need to could it be more perfect,all lover? real or imagined. at any time, behind calling me sweet christ though there is no way she could be call that oddity of that call and the only wish, i desire, and though that by being in hell. why do such, not brief history of fucking and the love of such a thing. quelyou write, one would not want to do such a thing, as how now carry confession? with such a you choice. on as though you had not. With the now, to be alone with one of the ravens Sweet Christ, and it is beatrice calling me, And not, but a shade, and the questionfailed me twice before, maybe more; five, ten the real lovers, i mean, that in every, to be taken care of loved the fucks that meant something. perfection, the culmination of all lovers. call, why have you failed and
</fucked>

So it is broken, the land of machines that will always want to know why, really, want to know why and there is nothing.

Attempts at rebirth fade in a quiet thing. Where the flying comes from, i don't know and i ask, where these things nest, amongst us and why the smell of god is so foul. Befouled a loss of original christs with their palms hanging, and the far apart where men like i are buried alive for this kind of assfucking. yet virgins, its all about virgins. nothing like spilled blood on the bedsheet.

fell erinyes, i hear you now in the offing, swelling banshees, a hum of salivation, requiem that is, salvation, but for that stoneheart the one they say is safe from divine intervention; oh beatrice they were so wrong, and here you are, your twin breasts fallen, so old and hard now to the touch, nothing to touch, cold meat to the touch, dissipation of a truly loved one, a father, a mother, a lover, a brother. someone shared heat with. fallen and standing up with a different eye in place. so

so we two poets ave entered the city and its plane of woes. torment. open sepulchres, sealed now, feather down for sensitive ravens, pigeons spiralling down with burnt wing. wind, ruffling as through goat's hair. falling fast, the life torn from it, left hung in the air, metal shards pushing organs through bone. a plane of nonbelievers, non believing now. where am i in the dark, tortured by demons, burning, burnt by my anger and the anger of those around me, and i am the wrath of the damned. temptation, paradise, so far away now for those heresiarchs, old friends. the echo of war on your boot's tread. we are unfolding now, the new autumn morning, and its golden friends. sunsets through a darkened sky, molten air coming down the mountain in pyrothermic clouds, incendiary sandstorm. and how much will be burnt. and how much will be buried. and how much left to emerge.




back to top