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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.



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

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.

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