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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.



As he steps off that ledge
he is saying
I am becoming memory

Live with me forever without living with me. And deep in the blood, those eyes penetrating. Inculcating the apotheosis that occurs, the alchemy of loss. Somewhere out there, the old man and the sea humming to me, the harpies' tune.

Over the bridge, ruined women working the orchards, wailing away. Haggard eyes and greased hair, deflated breasts and overgrown snaphair, decrepit wings. Feasting on the leaves of the dead's soul trees. An orchard of wrist cutters, neck breakers and pill gobblers. Runners. Jumpers.

The wind blows through the trees, the harpies scream. Smell of lithium. Somewhere there is an old harpy I know singing gently to me, seducing me. I can see her at the bottom of the river. She is caressing my chest, kissing my feet, anointing the head with oil. Slipping it into her own virgin ass, and saying.

This is where he lies. And you know what I want now?

What, old lover.

Soul leaves. I want to chew them myself. Let me in to you, let me wear your gauntlet for awhile.

What for, old lover.

He does not burn in hell, not yet.

This is what you'd like?

Yes, my firebrand.

And what do I get?

An old memory, relived. Choose what you will.

Kob is warning me, somewhere, to stop staring into the depths. But I am already counting backwards to those times and trying to pick one. The bedroom? Mountains? Open field? Or maybe the time, your face contorted by love, the waves sweeping over us. Seated, unable to move, scent of rose petals and lilies in the air.

That's the one. What else. What else beats that? Her hand, rising out of the river of the dead. Touching my face, paralyzing me. Every second of that day ticks by. And that is heaven, right here in the middle of the inferno. Silly christians. What the fuck were you thinking? Heaven is stepping backward, heaven is an old time relived, or a time unlived that is finally lived. I am the man seated in the chair, under the heavy influence of something worse than heroin. And it worth what is coming, which isn't much to me, in any case.

She steps out of the lake, breasts sagging. Crawls inside. Gets her bearings, and looks towards the trees. Kob is far away. There is little he can do but follow faithfully and watch the back of the possessed. As she grips the ash, calls on my strength and the first of the harpies swoops down towards these unwelcome visitors and she lets me have the reins back a little and I am set to receive charge and the point explodes from the back of the creature's throat, white vertebrae turned to dust. The beast slumps. It wears a small, sharp knife on its belt. I take it, push the body off the ash with my boot, turn it over and cut the wings off. There are other harpies buzzing about, but they are unsure. Like any time one is outnumbered. Kill the first one and make a stink about it. The head comes off under steady sawing, and I mount it on the pike.

I am walking towards the grove, the bitch's head on a stick, my face covered in black blood, red steam from the river of blood rising behind me, a fist full of wings in my left hand and I am screaming.

I will burn you all. I will fucking burn you all.

That sets them moving. And what happens next, I only witness from a distance. She walks into the forest with my body on, and she talks at length with a tree. The woods are marked by no path - dusky, thorns loaded with poison. She is screaming, and cutting off the leaves with the knife. The wind moans through the trees. Kicking it, stabbing it with the ash. And somewhere in there, the fire starts.

The harpies try to get out, they have wings, and they swirl about in the sky, swinging about deleriously from the heat. The forest is on fire. The soul leaves are burning. And somewhere in there, I stand, possessed, hacking a tree down, unknown to me, with the edges of the ash, cutting it with the handknife, eating the burning leaves.


I told you, you would burn in hell.

The forest burns, and my skin burns and roots turn black. The harpies fall in great murders, unable to fly properly, unable to leave the wood they are bound to tend. As they fall, they fall angrily, sweeping towards me and the bodies begin to rise in piles, impaled as they are on the ash. I am receiving them all, blowing out breastbone, and pushing them off with my boot. I do it, calm, methodically, allowing her rage to punctuate each blow, trying to maintain the rhythm of the job. It is far from simple. The trees burn all around us and the grounds are thick with clotted bitch blood, and I am outside of it all. Looking in. There is nothing to be said, nothing to be witheld. We are fucking again, the sensation rolling over us. The spear, covered in blood, plunged in to the hilt, repeatedly, till we are spent and the bodies do not soar any further.

Shaken, I slip into darkness.

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