NUNT Command Centre
About Mingus Tourette
Links & Props
Mission Statement

Nunt: The Book
Publishing Details

Tourette's In Progress

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.



We are nearing violence. The gritty feeling of dried blood on my fingers. I do not remember when the blood flowed, perhaps it is the wolf's or perhaps the virgin's or perhaps it is my own or even kob's. My hands are deeply cut where I had held the spear and it had slipped and the sudden shock made me remember what it is to feel the other end of the blade. Sudden and not so painful but fear, fear that one might bleed to death or somehow pass out and fall to the ground and let the red runn deep into the pit.

The pit - not so far off now, we are on the brink of it, looking down, looking last at Dis. The punishing city of God.

[eloquent waxings about Dis, a horrible blunt city of iron where the spirits walk mirthlessly, discontent, like angry foremen, not terribly wicked or bestial, not as I had hoped, i had hoped to cut erinyes wing from wing and spread their thighs with a vicious lash and shove the spear home. talk about hymens, devil hymens and what they feel like when they fold when the seducers are not seduced themselves, but fuckedfucked like a beast, like me, like the dropping of reality during the fierce pounding, the pounding of the whole bodyfucking for all its worth nothing worth anything. horrible city. mausoleum.]

breathe in breathe out the furnace sighs, its red glow like

the hour before morn
the shallow dusk in which
light casts not a shadow

Kob is a silhouette against the fumes and the light burning down from below, pulsing dully. He wants to talk, fucking talktalk, when all i want is the action, the SLIPin and the twist as the hole grows. What a fucking stench. Dead summer animals still in their clothing. left to sleep for weeks with nothing eating them. hearts bursting in the sun.

terribly lonely, when even a murder of crows will not eat you.

Kob wants to talk and this is where we differ now. if both our brother's died, if he died before me, i would spend the time injecting the ether and fucking hooker's heads and brawling and slaughtering the ones who did it. he would write a fortyfivehundred page book of sublime rage and title it, simply, requiem. Talkytalk , sweet Kob.

Mingus. We are entering violence. Look last at the punishing city. We will not see it again. The days are getting shorter. And here we are. On the brink. Next comes the violence.

With sex?

No. These are the lower hells. The deep abyss.

And here we are. The whore of babylon and the wandering Jew. The die is cast.

Soon, the die is cast.

The truth is, the die is cast. The mould is cast and the fight song plays brazenly on. I hear it, as you hear, but i will dance and you will sit. Let us be on with it then.

There is more to tell.

There is less to know. This is violence coming down. This is where the spirits bemoan their chains and the great millions of devils torment and are paid to torment the violent. This I know.

You are, I think, a fool. What man does not want to know where he is going?

I. Mingus. I do not want to know where I am going. I know what I know. The hand has the ash spear in it and it is hard and I will be killing devils with it. Because I do not believe this, this lucid dream. I am not just a traveller. I can act. and the carnage begins soon.

You are just a traveller. And you are a fool. I must tell you. These three rounds, the first circle of the lower hells, you will see terrible things done to humans.

They are all fish.

Three rounds. God. Yourself. And Others. Do you understand?

I do not, Kob, nor do I care. You know this.

Again, you are a fool.

I am a great fool. I am a great wandering fool and I take pride in my foolishness. The violence is coming, and this I know, so let it come. I am the vector of new violence in this violence, so let that come. What else must be known?

The winds blow foul, the dismal blast. Kob's darkshadow slumps, the monologue unspoken, stolen even. He trods slowly, feet clanking on the the last cobstones leading down, the final path out of Dis. His feet have become metal, i notice and i do not know why, but they are hard and shining and angry. Iron feet, trodding heavily, as we sink down, moving slowly over the brink, into the lower hells.

I am thinking, we are entering violence. The old ways. too much silence between us. I want Kob to read his requiem to me. Smell of chamomile.

back to top