TECHNICIANS OF SNALL UP ON {END} "You're just a brainless tick reaming deeper into hell, if I may put it that way." "Am not.  & may I point out how very very mean that was?  & may I point out that if you slice up your children enough you will wake up fucking your sister?" "Ouch!  You have a mean streak, my man.  & after I was so nice to you.  As to me fucking my sister‑‑a metaphor, I presume‑‑Everybody knows that, cocksucker! Hell, you woke up with her sweating all over your thin inebriated skin." "Do not.  Did not.  & even if I did the satisfaction of slicing those children up into nonexistence makes it, would make it, a smashing good fuck." "There you go.  So you admit that your sister is a jolly good fuck indeed." "Yes, inasmuch as you've never fucked her." "What?"  You should have seen my hairs standing up on {END}.  "Have too!" "Have not. Have ab so lute ly not.  Because you never finished slicing up your kids.  You left pins of your kiddles all around." "My head is smashing back.  There's no head left in .BAK.  I have no files initialed HEAD.  Where's the {HEAD}?  I can't seem to ascribe very much." "It's just us talking, bub.  And me, hosing you down with the icky ichor of a Thousand Slaughtered Infants, blood." "You calling me an abortionist or murderer or what?" "I'm telling you you're my brother, bud, and I'm gonna purify you if I has to kill someone." Yet I seemed to remember fucking her, as my brother fades from the dream in the manne of an iris outing outs intensity of light of the Dradefed Light. UXLESSLY Murdering a Vief was like fracturing an Imnoart simmiasch, which was essentially all the intelligence of the universe trapped into a Christmas ornament.  If they ever existed (and some sing their "areggiors of mind" were simply rained down from the pod or the hand of one or another of the many reigning Gods (still staying at the Megiagonnidys, or ManyReigningGods Hotel having never paid their bills, thank you all very much)), the Imnoarts inbricated billions of these little balls.  You could hold one on your palm (and it would make only minor efforts to roll off‑‑it was passive, yes, but with these little minor efforts, maybe just to let you know something which of course you never know, maybe trying to get away violently, but as with the cries reduced to moanings of a dream this rocking rocking was was all you all you got, sorry 'bout the rot of the syntax there and there) or chuck it up in the air (causing what sorts of unknown exhilarations in their tiny bellies‑‑as teased out and pal pate ead by our owne mikro-fcientiftf as those vast * intelligents fough?) rhetorical feaugh! gesundheit.  But when you dropped it, the balls broke, the insides disappeared* (*by which one means they erased their paths in time, sucking up ev er ry bubble there, so you had a uh dumb hollow ball there that that that neverever as-was) and you had the shards of a shiny Christmas-tree ball, refraxing bax youx owx fax uxlexxly. Anyway, Viefs were like that.  This is gonna be a tough face, my dumb blue case decided... I would spaff the circuits of their souls, as I liked to call them, as they talked to me, always so muscular with their intentions and their sense of their own heft.  My arm would disappear up to the shoulder as I reached wholly in to the pface of my "deep-stretched canvas," if you will, sometimes to the disconcerting let me tell you point of like losing my face.  I'd pull back my head, naked but for the skulloid grin across its gleanming shimn, and they'd start back, knowing but not able to believe what I was up to, and I'd shakje of the spafflinx all over my face until my phaire phace returned (more or leff), and they'd go on with their big spiels or deal or offers of whatever, and then I'd rotate the space of the great big egg of a spaff caxaff on my lpf and show it to them... Their own circuits thus revealed thus, they would of curse stop.  I mean, staring, deadpan, they would have to stop.  For a moment.  Then, even when they slowly, like a sloughcat, close and then open their eyes as they eyes as they recommenced speaking, it was all different. The will or verve or the steam of the piping of the doggamn'd verve was utterly gone, and they spoke in the naked manner of their own uh soul-circuits, thus so savagely revealed.  In defese of the actions of this Other known as myself, I say only that I was consummately and exponentially compelled.  I was the sole one in existence who could do it, and I could not try to help myself... I dolphin-employed-password-scissorsknit used this liquid bowie knife, or a silver branching sort of neuronic thing which seems‑‑seems, I say‑‑to lash out every way, only they're all under my perfect control, see.  That's why my paintings * so made I'm "wanted" in a thousand galaxies, and we pause here to inhale some deep greem whiffs, dreep geem whiphs, here, and reconnoiter the skoo'd perslexive of our sanity, or fantasy, as the lace may bree or the race meigh bray or the space may naym to point out the Headily Metaphoric Nature or Megaphronic Nature of the phrase or phrases I'm wanted in 1000 galaxies, for I am  merely a crystalline eye, or Eye, if you will, the great Aye noxus or fexle of a billion ensmebbéd minds (think of them as little eyes, then think of them even smaller as a nexus of little lies, and then in a magnitude stil smaller sweep them up like little lives, then enter their micrcosm of motes, then the small spottles of darkgrey, diseaséd tissue within this little mopes, then the moping child grimacing out the rainschvept winnow in his dream within each chasm of that more, then the the infinitesimal close parentheses inksier than a mineon then), and the number is so far beyond a thousand that it beggars, which is naught to say buggers, all our science, and they aren't galaxies‑‑least snot sfar as we no...but just the translator translotred it thataway, so there you metaphoric-a-go. Anyway, I'm hired to go here and there and lavish, as I put it, lightpoints on configurations of souls‑‑those what can suspense it, anyway, being only those hyperrich of some unknown specie (who know‑‑from come out of a "galaxy"? hough?)‑‑after which I like to think they are mine, though I am, it would seem, constitutionally incapable or fonfifoostamply emflapyabble of acting on my power.  It's my curse, along with the power, that I dinna kin act on my power. THE SPIDER GAUNT ON YOUR FACE My brittle little prey had bought himself in to a seemingly savage hideaway.  I was at a preposterous disadvantage here, and even fondling the Gigerian contours of my polyplatinum, baroque-rococco infinitfeed© GG991 megamagnum optimum pump-action photon-stoked hermaphroditic smoothbore pompom matchblock chassepot cannonade breechloader atomic tachyon cannon fucking gannon, gave me little confidence, even though I cam many many times. This kreed was like an endless, bristling jungle, full of bulbous insects and sultry animals that moved quick as a jekk-drop onto your head.  They always seemed to flue, I mean flye, right onto your head.  Or jump or drop or whaughtnaught.  It worked handsomely, causing me to squeal the Universal Squirk of the Spider Gaunt on your Face.  My weapon became a curse, hanging round my neck with a good three or four nooses jerked round my poor blue caustic ostrich craw.  And round and round.  I kept goddamn dropping the damned thing, as one or another beastly little mass of icky tissue or issy tickue'd slop onto my face or pate or mazzard or caw or spull©, at which I'd have'd to'd crimp down on my hands, knees, and Other Things I Have that I cannot think to tell you just just yet, and ferret out my gub from the gobbets of mucoidal crap they crap I say they had here for a florist fuor.  Damn. NO MARS As far as Maaeeaa was concerned, she window-shopping in blithe and mirrory content down the ultra-sleek table of content of the gridded and polyplannéd "soundloofed" very big at the time megamarts and plasticene effluorescent displays of her homeworld, scooping up one wondrous jeweled beacon of an item after another j.b.o.a.i. and popping them as an axuro-clam gobbles up its owne misbegloppem jules into her dimensional (and surprisngly vuor-like) uorlipe sac which reminded me in its almost parlytic beauty of the plegiac spidersac of the azure seipioschpidero of Nars‑‑not to be miƒtoken for Mars, there being No Mars a process going on and with endless enxstaxy, and she was in let me add this the company of her friends, some very supple dames in deed, one in specipular‑‑young Neeaaii, her marriages as fresh as the limpid dozings of the dew, who all but reeled my spaxtique little axx off the choxen coarxe, I muxt xay‑‑so the energy of my disguise kept me sweating, kept itself hot and virescently durk in there, kept me clawing the concave concavities of the walls of the wailing spectaculars of my little costume there, making me (had there been but time) at least subjunctively regret regret regret re gret my little plan. Meamspime, I was stalking her through these jungles of some very fat, very lewldy-colord puggles of old fruit‑‑old-dowager fruits, they were, complete with respikes and croaty-voixes and lipschmick© and smurky glasseses‑‑and boy, did they "slow down my stalking," if you will.  Did they ever "besmutch-the-clander-of-my-tracking"s, if you woll.  Did they ever prolong the access of inititative in my self-prolonged and murderous artistic search, I'll tell you.  I rasted my felonious ass in my big pickle, I'll say you to that!  But I ket it at.  I ploaped‑‑which is a high-class manner of zitzing‑‑at the ultrafaxhion xhow‑‑itching up a great dry salty sweat inside seat inside my obsessive-manic imnosaabnnesiecssive mind if you can call what art hath left "a 'mind'" with my newfound infat u-newfound fatua nufoundling fatuation found with this glorious womanly Vief, this beacon of fashion and lodefocillimo of joie, this epitume of vigor and fluorliescient of vivre, this most complexly light-intrinsicated woman sailing like nothing so much as the digital enhancement of that expansive, delicate ship through the airs of her inferiors, all of them agog not to say aglough or "aGOOX!" with her murkily measureless calbres or her sighingly breathless exhalantly euborous quality.  I could lose myself in her subtleties:  why nucleate the foci of another thousand astral Eyes on her, why wield the liquid lancet ever again, or, to put it the same way poured in the liquid of some different limpid words, why try again?  Why not just spend the rest of my life in this great opalescent Elvis disguise, following (stalking is such an ugly word (ugly is such an awkward word (awkward is such an ugly turd) and ugly is such a stalking verve) and and and stalking is such a following stalking word stalking following flowing swallowing word. Swallowing is such a lovely word.  It is never more lovely than when swallowed, as it were, in the throat, as we say, of the mind, if you will.  And that is where I swallow my darling now‑‑deep in the subsistent etheric craws of my loving throat. In this admittedly hysteric "HYSTERIC!" blaring headline of a mood, I ploaped suavely aboat and took in the fashion show.  I was doing the same thing as she (I swallow:  shee!), and this is what I always want to gbuelp. ÜBERBÖL Stonied by the photopheromones (and what was a Vief fashion show, after all, but an assault of pherosomoans?), I kept telling myself I would not dance on the table, and the thought‑‑rendered O! so powerful in this atmosphere of severe and agravitational doubt (which is the official, much-to-be-desired, and legally requisite milieu for your VFSsezezezes)‑‑gained instant access to that round little sphere of twitches yes that ROwouWOUND LITle SPHERE oy-oid of twitches I li-yike to call my Oovergloob or Überböl, and began aflippin' da switches... The svelte, elliptical models in their various opalescent nets and vibrioessient sheathes and fibrillious etheric al ical ethericalal icalsheens, walked with their Viefisch hiplins swaying in a truly knock-out knouight-aught walk‑‑if you can call a shimmerthat "walk," which you most omphaughtically can naught‑‑were kicking up a lot of sparks, only it was not sparks, but bright flakes of a dream you can NEVER wake up imbream adream emfum, only these were more those flapes of snow you felt brazing off your face as they shook the liquid jigger of your emplausible impathic umpathetic <world>, except they were not quite flakes...not flakes at all, really, or anything like them, but more the highlights of luminous velvet-jungle-of-the-painting mostmost possessiveive eyes reflected off this oillipe liquid they were kicking through.  It's true, the models aflaot on their platform higher than the stalks of your even aye zquan leech, kicked through some sort of imsimpagly exorbital liquid of some sort, a liquid, I might and as a fashion critic baptized in the wonts of his own whinnying winez must fundamentally add, which cast up leering highlights to the normally-illusory I mean morally-dionysory I mean orally-peepatory undersides of their dresses, such that we all (OK...I anyway felt wet wand wonder watt wozen worry whepped felt-folt anyway OK) felt or felt-folt or folden within the intrinsicate intents of our pressed-to-two-D tentions like nothing so much as schoolboughs waving their mirrored budlets under the smokes of the flaming dresses. A sexy show.  And and and quite the dresses they were, or so‑‑the materiel of the wepaons-dresses of this uh particular show beaming forth largely in pre/dom/i/nan/t wavelengths I have never even been given my notoriety deigned to by mentalathic mean means even shown‑‑I gather. I could only prope and horray that no one saw me...gathering... Anyway, dresses galore, each flaunting fucking young model brazening forth at least a hundred dresses in her own sweet young daisyfazed optical right©, as covered by the international treaty of the optical rights, written in bezels n facets such that No One Can Read (!), so if you warn't blode-a-weigh by the lasers of the uzis each of these babies packed (in triplicate!!!), you was, well, well blown away well well by the polymorphous earnestly named perterversity of the mangafashions they shoad. Plus some of 'em spit, or squat and pull their clothes up and take what they call a lightdump right on the stage.  We were sickened, but we held in the bulboos of our cheeques our vomit p'litely in, sickness and courtly retention of our upchuck being yet one (1) more of the amazing quantitious qualities of this this this deconstructive selfpreferential recursive didactic hegemonic pucking jargonixical "shough." Dresses, man.  You needed one of those doonqi's in your palm to calculate the maneating id-monstrosities of edge-slitting fashion that was fashion that was a stutterin inthere.  Some dyed, some dyed-in-the-spuriotex©, some the color of your own greedy lusty luxtrous seedy thoughts (thouse thoughts bearing seeds like, O I dunno, seeds likelike some out of control sort of prose squawking its tangentias off the interstias of its periphasias, or somenothing unlight notthis naughtthat, and the thoughts forming gabrous oleiaginous forests of most moolliforous trees, and trees without trunks and amber-crawling octopluxxy trees and trees exapdninr uodn you like the upshots and punchlines of many a hilarious and stroke-enduxing dreamdrame ofif thethu passpassedpast assedashed), some a simple tweed sort of patterning, emphasizing some of the oft-hidden beauty of the greys. Ah, the greys!  They're all dead now, or mad, or in hiding like the point of ta blittering passage of passAGE. Yea, I did some lopsy traipsing through the psychedelic pegtops and plus-fours, the transpicuous pearlulsters tripped by everflipping trompe d'oeil fantails, had my gaunt longish curtained cheekycheeks stroked by one or another other mousquetarie hands and/or muffy palms; I joined with the gelatinous creepers and the indelibly crimson broques gaitering along the möbius-infected I say möbius in FEK dead causeway transtrip airway spacepomp portofunnel there.  We swirled in our turquoise capuchin and patternhatched menevils there.  Everything in Vief fashion, need I say, tends to swirl into everything else, plus each model wore everytthing, including the other models, and I must admit now that the memory has been un CUV oer RED somebody slipped me a cruet or a galleon of Sömething, and when I say Zümxïng, I mean some of those spruce-gidded Viefisch drugs they don't let their husbands talk about, and I was by the time I'd stole the show and been like crunched out on my ass farther than ever from the project I'd started out starting so much, back in a lonely cramp little brakpatch of danky uh uh "time." Friends, I was tossed to eu phluoricke combers of that florid floor and ravished, right then and there.  WASHED-TUP ARTISTE MAKES COME-BACK ON FLOER, foreheadlines reb, and I don't think I foremind headbragging a dusty ol' bit that I was veritably attacked by those women there.  I mean, they forgot the show in favor of flaying the inventive filigrees of my infinite swashb!ckaling disguise.  AndmayIsay hey‑‑nothing hungrier, nothing more beskank'd than a troupe o-hoitytoity Viefucking dowagers "drench'd in the inebriatif Phuemes," as the 166th-century Vief poet Degmaurich Xexukol virtually doth write, in/di/ca/ting It Has Ever Been So (which that inimitable twin Xex twinxex also says!), and I was unmasqued, unmasqued again, yet once more unmasqued and revealed in all my rolypoly nakedness, my very giggles desenspirald, my multifarious gyres unswoon'd, and so on, on and on, into a very high-rental night, what with the extra fees involved in keeping the waiters' hips sashaying zoo-und-froeugh, what with the need for the keepings of the breezes, that your Vief at least think they need to breathe, to survive, and so... I'd say I'd effectively blo-wough! my coveur right then, except we were all on...let's see, what wasit‑‑it was zealafleume©, it was, the famous (yet if you unknown know if you get what I forgas what I unknowin mean if yet you no) "Vief forgesser drogue," in its queer ladyfinfer vials in demand yet unknown the Refyu Sector (pronounced schtänd xenxkinnöl) which I'll get into in a later/earlier discourse/enforse/main coarpse...anyway, zealafleume it was, la-da, so even had they gotten to the real alien puss below the polyvictorian eddyeduardian hinterwear (which they most umphaloxly did NAUGHT!), they'd've's've'll's't'd's've'vescuseme forgot. THE VAPORS OF A THEORY Strip away the metahaze, the polyscrawl, the transsurlinguate, what was commonly known as the mythmurque of ascriptions effervescient around our outsized heads the thought-balloons, I guess you could callem, the various auto-generated and authorial-quasard-formulae the psychological and metaphysical crawls the surfacing blipoids and mega-factuanalyzes the little artists' depressions and governmental adumbrations the logic-plots and glassy-graphs the quick lilliputian replays replays repleat with Ancient Commentary the rescue codes and med-monitors the eons-longue queues of messages some to oneself, some from oneself unto one's imaginary selves...of which we got plenty, let me believe you...some gone round the great globus of Refyu Himself, so the Lying Fuckers [jocular name for our thorty-odd torturing gods, known formally as The Thirty-Four (some say Five) Torturing Gods] say, some of unknown sense or essence or origin‑‑messages we are afraid to see (though they exist there, hurting the unwonted eyen with their ultraviolent glough), not to mention biblioglossia, scores, and scores of threats from the [bracketed bracketed] gods. In short, if I may now haste to vaporize, I mean recapitulate with the heads of the sentences of the sentences of my longpasseled thought thought thoughts running etherise across the floor of the hysteric knights, lifting their thoughts to let the head roll re ca PIT u late HEAD bi... ...were it not for this flowing floozy of an ozone of materia cumulizing our ayes‑‑you might not know I was, not hacking Quarl's body apart, but rather acting according to, how you say, "the vapors of a Theory."  This Theory occurred within the haze of a vapor, the vapor round the smiling trunks of the unborn fallenless trees of my my gravless thoughtforest, the vapor known as fever, the fever just one tiny morsel of the continent known as the fever of the murderer, or the fever of madness, on that hemisphere of the orb of mind occurring within the vision I was having, and the vision said: and you heard "If you keep on demorzzing her, you will start to get her flesh, and when you get her (dead) flesh, not only will the body be gone (!* [*You see, my poor fevered madbrain's thought of a feverthought halfassed after-infrathought inserted puerile little !s in the midst of its sentences‑‑just like (!) that!]), but all superordinations, too, will be gone...too.  I think (?* [*Yea well, of course he did that too]). THE HEAP OF THE BROKEN CHRONOZONES I had Gounque @ palliate me into the swaddling swoom of one of the pexxy profuxion zuv ethereddies yeetheryeddies aieoYEE! thaREDDIEZ that "pfphleum'd," if you will, from the back of Quarl's enoraguated coronttied "crown," which was you could tell where this swell'd heaved in his chromozones, just like or nattarlike the dream or {impinged ethereality} that had you lying with the joiques of your ex-leg-boans sticking right there in your face, on The Heap of the Broken Chronozones, you'll pardon my capitals.  My pale lackey assisted me goode, he didde.  He triturated me down to a singuole sentience, then to a phase, then to a fragment of Torture-God Number One's Flatuent Fluidiot Ideation of the Blesséd Morpheme (pardon all this religious gabblegauque© religious this all pardon), then to a veritable ghost, allbeit an allseeing ethereasing e threating gho o a gh'*(st!), and I prepared, not to follow him about, but to follow one of his feminine emanations (all of them mulch mere enteretching then hee!) imminascent to his periods of comatic reduction or sentience remission in pursuit of my owne great albate depraved Sentient Remission. Efector-Dieutesiant Farge came on like a great gazzed V or "V" or darting geese only these geese were hypertorpedoes, only he was doing it with all the aplomb of one of those maniacally-weightless time-bobbling Hirquentian Grapes (and I mean grrr‑APES!), only he was naked, bearing forth a great broadaxxean shwöngue, only he was also dapper and dreamly-well-to-thedew, with his phalanx of etherlike Lesser Farge (see lesserfarge in the dow-refunct Dictionary of Cop) reflarge and all of dem resplen-o-dent© in their Language of a Lesser Farge, complete with a metamorphic baker's dozen or so and of so of fablardgè gé éyéyéyés a-and with peacock's plumes filchered from those lovey-dovey whipped-crème-de-la-plum-AGE (accent on the final ahjh), and I must say with their own Imusseigh rather weightless henchfroth "bobbling" dönguses of Their Vary Owne (!) in dysrhythms to His Owne. and the waters‑‑or 1) more 2) accurately, 3) foam‑‑that serverth ush for air didde parte befoore Himme, and the people wrept backwards like as to that multicolored butter they spread all over your rectus abdomini back there on Torseugh, and the variegated, rather unbsubstantial yet eeyieeyiee-riely Hawwindisch madolayed white noise (if you cann call that voice (which you can, here in Refyu, by using your handy little dummy! (just flip his lil wooten lisps (and visions will come) and he'll talk) and all your bloody secrets, just like mine but less sullied or fujji'd, will be gnome) that serves us for all silence (kind of a religious thang out here, dontchyanö) also seg meantioned itself did I mented in dreams away, and‑‑as if all this hooplala werelalan't enhahahanough and he pulls out his badge, and asifa.t.h.w.e., he even says. "Efector-Dieutesiant Warranit da Farge, Medial Sector Police."  Then, doing one of those stage-swerves in which, if I can somehow describe this most rare and (here) exquisite thing, he sweeps forth a gesture at that assemblage of torpedoed, or goosied-up, men, without nor gesturing nor, really, truning to look at them (like he needs to look at 'em...knowwhatImean?), indicates them, and adds, überflentially, "And these are my men." I react with a nod of self-smotering ultrasubdual, if I do, now, now that, now that it's, now that it's too, now that it's too late, say so myself, and reply. "Pleased to meet you, Inspector.  And pray...what can I, a humble artist, do-euphore?" Well, here's where we all I'm afraid I am afraid I AM AFRAID!!! meet up with the detective's sarcastic side, for he spends a good long time making fin, I mean fen, I mean fun of my "pray" and "humble artist" phraseseses, which I personally thought and still almost think still think no more affected than, say, traveling with a flock of flunkeys goosing out behind your enfluoumeréd ass, if you getch what I meeng. But he was the cop, and I the breathless murderer, you grok, so I got to watch him hoot and whoop and slap his wet naked thigh and thigh and and mock in moste merry measure, thus: FANWHTMA "Have a cigarette, pal," said the cigarette-pal with this absolute zizzy-smile across her lipsmick't face. Farge makes those bobbing gestures you make when you trying to get someone to take something small his errant flock errant goddam flock all had such dolled-up cigarettes, standing around now in goosey all-de-for-mation and waving their packs to no one in particular.  They were clearly bobbing according to the master-bobs of the Master Bob's directions.  My director, Bob (no relation), known as No-Relation Bob, is nodding and nodding and nodding.  Everythen and now head his falls hauls off and a lackey smacks it onbak.  But getting back to Farge, and the Scene of Suspicion "Everyone have cigarettes," the suspicious plicemun said, now I mean then rotating his trenchcoak'd body in the way you once-wqhen-you-could-move made when you wanted your bobbets to bob, and sure enough his undergoslings passéd so many cigarettes around (to the passers by (of the passersby (othe passrsby (othpssrsby) one) two) three) that, why, there soon weren't any cigarettes around! A-and that's why, kids, there are n such things as cigarettes in the refuse of the godawkful dead-flesh formaldehydioant corkspewed curlicues (which used to be a game, I mean an actual game, in these-here darpartz) of the dead grey of the flesh en manière de Longdeadandcurled Toenailclippings (you will parden mei Deutsch!), perhaps why Mr.‑‑I mean Detective‑‑Fargey-wargey-argei-O! moueth hith fluith lipth like some teththtothteroam'd adolescient too full of his crotch to grasp himself, iykowaIen, I mean, fanwhtma. "'Fanwhtma," he sighs, nodding, whilst other geese but not HIS geese! nodod asas welell.  "Yea...I know whatchya mean." I would ask that you imagine him strutting and sashaying, moseying and posturing around and about and aabaonurtdound during his upcoming monologue.  Actually, he (Farge!) asked me to ask you, but was, his postures notwithstanding and his postural hypotension upstanding, too blitheirngly shy to ask; he even wet the bed, but he asked me not to tell you, which proves to you I do what I want, even when‑‑nay, especially when, the Law blee concern'd.  So you can put in stuff‑‑clapping a hand, clamm'd with mished emotiung, on my shoulder, speaking to me without looking at me‑‑old soap opera trick‑‑breaking into loquuacious prolixies of extemporaneus Schwöng, etc.  There'll be no stage directions here; like Shakespeare, you may as well recall, who smoked too much dope to hear anything but the lines of the lines of the lines, OK. "You, Mr. Chabble‑‑you won't mind if I call you Chabble-Wabble?‑‑you murderer of, if I be not mistaken, your own children.  You purveyer or should I say CHABBLEWABBLE! practitioner of some sort of hydroironiac deconspuctif 'Art' which would seem would it not it would seem would which have the side-effect of, ah, eating out their souls, your intactness of intellect‑‑and when I say intellect I mean skin, Mr. Buddy‑‑being only an accident of the fact that there areno accidents to the fact that we have no laws against this artifact. UNDER THE WRITING THE INFLUENCE THE UNDERTREE THE OF Quarl, my victim-subject, was always getting tangled up in his muscular fantasies.  They were ever-humid, oiled, with great and lanky cranes of a cranes of a dark dank grey hoisting these weightless little technicians (who within the tight (parentheses of their own digging (one might say quarrying (ha ha ha HA) minds) parenthetival divigations as it were of their own interminably knowledgeable minds) deconstructive unparentheses of their own redundantly tautological fucking obsessiveness always hung with their hearts hung as heavy as great breasts...no, cancel that...make it "hung heavy as big tits" or great big tits or massive hooters of a well-hung brassy ol' dyke, if you will, simply because they could never get the pieces emplace and the gestalt of the focus just right, and henc they hung from their cranes like cranes, and within this endless sentence of a hyperiated "set," our Director, shirt-sleeves woven up around his impressive pecs, by which I mean biceps, words here in Reyfu (which means sometimes  Wherever We Are and sometimes Sometimes Wherever We Are) tending a havency to cleft like a gaped mis con stru éd aplette whiff-you-ill, is constantly getting lost in the erstwhine empty subsirectories Empty SubDirectories Empty! SUB Die REC Tor Ease! EMP tee SUB DIE wreck tore-EASE of the silly fantasy he and his crew be reaving, a-choo, I bean ob-course, "wreaving." Anyway, my art let me tel lyou was different, as the judges and the juries could tell, which is why (not to get "ahead" of "myself"!) the judge and the jury had this tape oe theor mouths during the entire sibstance of mine onwe mixdirexted trial.  I intended to go straight for Quarl's liver‑‑the excandescently amarillo organ we have here, rather an energy source, butcept the energy is like money, except it is also like the sap of some highly HIGHY INEBRIATIVE!!! tree, which I hastentadd I am not under the writing the influence the undertree the of, so I am to enter this liver-full-of-sap (and I think, therefore, I am will stick to the story of the sap: this is The Story of the Sap: My friends, I give you "The Story of the SAP: Or, My New Friend's Liver"‑‑except as I said it is not strictly squeaking a liver, since none's here's alive, and it snot-sap, snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap, understood?) and pull out the little gold balls (not literal gold balls, of course, more within parenthese to come) that hold its existence spritcly sleeking "in 'place,'" and thereby createa sort of glorious art based on, let's face ot, the death of my friend. Only he is not, in your words, a friend.  He is a friend as you have some erstwhile unbegnomen "friend" in a lucid, if not livid, dream‑‑an old friend, an ancient friend, a friend worhty perhaps iof the epithet of capital Friend, The Friend, perhaps, only he is new, germane, to the dream of the Germane Dream, your dream of a fried I am hereby telling you about, and his intricately dear and beautiful flesh rips with the severing of the dream, as does my great heart when you begin to write, or give up like me on the fucking of the fucking paragrpah. Speaking for myself, I am all fucked out. VISIONSPLAYERS I pull the thought I am an artist over my face time and again, but it's damnedably frenzied, I mean damningly flimsy, and it rips the minute it rips the instant I rips the riptime I stick my tongue out, just to sort of kiss it, see,just to sorta test it out...y'see... And I come off as more of a landscaper or topographer‑‑a kind of Mini Micro Hedge Hopper, if you will, pulling on these formidable (and this nis naught na word we have nor "use") Lausch-Boumb eyegrippers or sightenhancers or Visionsplayers© and with platinumoleum toothpick and meager tweazers do shape the format of their smiling faces (by which I mean bushes n trees, bushes an treez, bouschez ond treighs) into the shapes of my delight, O yea, the shäpséz o' my de l!ght! REFRAX XARFER Doctor Chook glares at me like some angry oriental cat, his dire chin muffed in the frenzy I mean fur I mean pleats of his ruchy chest.  He has a brand-new stethscope‑‑quite useless in our universe, but much the symbolic sign of the symbolic sign of the honorary "High Doctor of the Sector" (phu!*) (*snareful taunt)‑‑which actually...and exPENSEively...reNEW!s itself by the nanny-nannu-second, so I mean this (rather outsized) instrument really shines, it really out distances the breath of the other runners, it really stands apart, apart lik ea lonely lonely sun, brilliant in its ilkdescried inaninity, if I may corner a naked phrase (whoo!?)‑‑and his frown refrax xarfer throughout the rather Terry-Gilliam-ish high shafts and pipes and tunels of the multicaillario'd Rube-Machiavellian gizmo there...and, well, to speak the truth, I'm sitting butt-naked on his table, waiting for the usual full-cavity-search‑‑bu bu but but this guy looks mad. "Lorenx," hesays.  "I'm concerned," he says, but I cannot in my Gnuditie gnotice that he, uh, permits his words to er change clothes during their trip to Mine Unclad Eare, so to me it sounds like he's quoting himself.  It sarounds (to me, you understand‑‑the patient...me) like he's saying: "Yyoouu'arree dodtydiynin, Lor." "Itohui'nrke  yoduy'irne d, e aLdo, rLor." "Yyoouuh'arvee ondeymionnth,  tLoo rl ive." "Iyto'us' rceu rtdayiinns, Lor." But not:  "You're fuckin dyin, Lor." "Excuse me, Doctor Chook," and I laughat the NAME! for a while.  "Did you say I'm...dying?" He cometh forth, all in a doctorial froth. "I did indeed, sir.  My words may have goggled, I mean garbled in this fucking Refyuan 'atmosphere of change,' but you seem to have got it.  You have one lousy month to live." Missing Time.  The stethscope a wonder far up my ass, and I'm transported (not trainspotted), sighing, "O! Doctor, Dodtor! O!  O!   You mean 'more or less one month'?" His voice muscled I mean muffled from the annals of my ass, he grugs, "No‑‑one month precisely.  One month to the day, to the hour, to the nanoseccond." "Cool!" He pulls out of me with a gratifying yet somewhat alarming pop.  He looks at me, and I at him.  He at me, I at him.  He sees me and I him‑‑i.e., he I and I him.  We grim like twims. "It's genetic," he explains, beginning now Exposition Scene.  "You're programmed to go on...umm...lessee...er...Absday, Plubnoe 16th, 38967...at three o'clock in the afternoon, to be exact.  I have this from the Technicians." Pause.  "Hm.  That time's not good for me." He laughs for a while, whirling the lasso round just to make it seem surreal.  I can tell he's lightening my load.  I can tell he wants to have a heart, butcept you see I removed his heart, back in the excised [illegal] chapter three. I rest my case on your ass, my honour. "Like I say," he says, blowing up a huge invoice in the form a a child's smely plasticene bubble©.  "It's programmed in." At this point I have to pick among a Beautiful Pearl-White Bouquet, presented to me by the newly crowned and virginal Dialogue Queene, smiling like an anagogic truthpaste teube, of possible next responses on my part.  I pluck out what I think's a dilly. "Why?" The good doctor‑‑still praying to God for the sweet sublte sensibility of a guileless heart‑‑tries not to laugh into his invoice, which has filled every thought within the room of the dreamy scene.  All my orifices ache.  This is it. "You're not a person, strictly speaking, Lor." This cause my faces shuffle auf like to Alice's lysergic cards. "You were an experiment...no, make that a work of art.  A project or something."  He doesn't look pleased that I don't look pleased.  Our verbs have merged havent; they?  We look just alike now, doesn't we? "An experiment...by whom?" The doctor laughs and his bill exponentially expalodes.  There is cum all over my face, my stretchéd livid lips.  I'm a big dribbling cunt right now (and my heartless friend knows it) I don't have to say. "Now that," he says with a chubble somewhat between a chuffle and a truggle, "that's gonna run ya some!" To condense a senseless story short, your honor, my holes still tingling through the eyehole of the nos, I antied up. Like the surgeon he is, he maketh me wait... "...Your true desigation, by the way, is not Lorenx Chabble RS #00G, you have throughout the torture of your lives been 'bleached to blieve,'" and he tells me, a hand on my shoulder shaping it into something erotically Rodinesque and nouveau-nu where I keep my porno files.  "You actually have no Refyu Sector number at all, being as how‑‑heh heh heh!‑‑you're not a 'person.'" "Get on with it.  Who set me up?" "You're actually QC #001‑‑the first and last of your senselessly heroic line." "Who cooked me up?" He frowns like The Cat He Was again.  "It was Quarl Comleobble RS #883.  Go 'git 'em, Lor." "Thanks for calling me Lor and not‑‑what was it?‑‑QC #001?" But the doctor is gone.  The doctor has gone back to never was.  The bill has been paid; I am covered in glue;  the doctor never was.  The jury will a) disregard the scene with the doctor (except for the relevant parts‑‑see Exhibit QC #001), and b) cease to exist. Now that's a sequestered jury, if you get the rapting dune of my deductive quiver-drift. SPECS OF PECULATION My assistant, Gounque‑‑a god in his own right, by the way (except thst I have his right hung my its righteous little miniaturized balls in a crystalline fraggle here, which is a little crystal, see, in which I place the essens‑‑OK, the power, if you will‑‑of my subjects. "I say "subjects," your honor.  Surely words still have meaning...well, maybe not.  Let me rephrase that...well, maybe never not.  Let me put it this way, your honor, if you will simply fli up the boto of your robes and bend over for me.  There...there... Anyway I say subjects, you say potato, the prosecutor, oiling his fine pecs over there, oiling his specs of peculation over there, if that's not one of the molts of his mental assistant, and if that's really over there and not one of your honor's delirium spatial wrong-way trompes, the better to keep me in irons (and I say that with reschpheques, your Hounour, Sirr), would say victims. I believe nothing, by the way, and you can strike that from the record of your soul any old wish whey.  But on behalf of my still-missing, believed-dead, believed-illusory attorney, The "Great Kan," I would resuckfully seggest that the word victim be stricken with some sort of really nasty pox, ha ha ha ha, its instacinerated© ashes kicked in place by the word subjects, as in subject. n.  A victim of stolen art.  I would furthermare stipulate here in what I swim the warmly backstroke in as Stipulatium A like great staples in my Honor's comely ass nn nn! that the word victim in the definition of the aforespread cunt of a definition be remplaced with the supple and vibrant, rathah paganish godword subject, where subject is defined as in the Refyupoedia Prime as "the barenaked model I vivisect for my art," wherein Stipulation B replaces the word vivisect (potato word!) for the more decorous word submilate, where "sublimation" (Stip. c I believe) be defiled as in Webster's Fifth Symphony in Z-flap as "the act or process of vivisecting a victim of stolen art," with Stipulations D-ZZZ be D-ZZZ amended D-ZZZ accordianly. I wrest my glistening case.  Your honor may stand up straight again.) Now that that's that straighten tought, I reocmmence‑‑my lean and lame assistant, Gounque GaPanne (nice name‑‑Evvogian name; princely family, etc., then they hired me do "do" his "portrait") was covering me in plaster, just making a breat suffocant bolus of plaster of me.  This would serve as the Hollywood model for the Hollywoodland model of my disguise, as we laughingly called a Viefian geek.  (And I submit, your honor, Stipulation Z4, replacing the rather ugly word geek with the word blackmail, to be replaced (see the rollicking roiling dice of the die of my appendices) in turn by several other words, resulting in the innocuous word citizen.  I would and will be thence disguised‑‑assuming Gounque or Gounge or whatever the lying fucker's name is doesn't fuck up (see Stip Za, which replaces the hilarious term fuck up with despair, which is the best replacement the Torture Gods would give me)‑‑as a citizen of Vief, there to move awkwardly among them, the bette to sneak up on my fucking subject, Quarl.  I would take refuge in the madness of my mad wife Zelzerea, only she was not coherent enough to be either a person or mad, and she was not my wife, but the eternal pursuit of me trying to buy my mad wife.  This occurs on one of our plethora of "opulence shows," which I dont need to say we love very much, too much, this one I believe called Flush!, on witch you could pursue with enigmatic endlessleaze the torture of your husband or wife, only they are not spouses as you know them here but rather unknown formative space-bottles into which you pour various essences of your fate, only here fate comes in the form of...well, let's call them nerves or nadiis or nervelike things.  They are, to focus these plexes of effervescient imageries into words, the moadalities by which the gods (you remember the Thirty-four or Forty-Four Torturing Gods, only if it's thirty-four, four of them are missing and if it's my-gods forty-something, then we have a lot of missing (torturing) gods...prob'ly living in your thoughts like parasites right NOW) enshape your pain into their assorted, packaged, copywrongdong'd, and trademurked controues as it were of tortureasitwere. Ii aay caae, it was on the popular (one of millions, I promise you) millions (see? I tolds you) of shows called Flush? or something that I found myself struggling for my madness, which herein takes the form of this, well, orgone-accumulation of accessories, if you will‑‑joyful pinprickles of vertiginosity, baubles, laughter-shape tear-things affixed to the corner of no one's eyes (my mad wife or near-wife being no one, you see, only one could swear there was someone in there, someone irresistible...and so one in one whent...), and all manne rof frag meanc dead diadems and polystrings of great strong lusty cumsucking pearls©, and so on©, and on and I won't say it on©, such that one was twitching too and frough in the gravitationaless sphere, only it was this bottle-shape of an oddness, see©, a-a-a-and-and-and snatching at the various pheromonious suffrings of her nature and dew (doo-be-sprankled‑‑like Claude Rains trying to soak you the shough of his rainy invigible face, see)‑‑struggling to get, or achieve, or acquire or attain this destructive beauty, Zelzerea, only that was a name she'd just sort of taken on, her experimentors having nommed her Garga Thieth #RS 717, once upon a time. I am not obliged, am I?, to mention or otherwise discuss my children, much less (with my lawyer a gold metropolitan beetle bzzzng foreboatens nn my ear) what I did to them.  Or more precisely, where I put them. But what the heck, your honor. "Put that down, my little sunshine aberdevine," I cooed tooer.  "That's somebody's germ plasm.  You could prevent entire existences by squishing that." But my daughter Amme‑‑as pale as a great carven candle, in this case curved into cyclonic passages of a unimaginable design of her own daliesence, my "kids" being manifold times more devious than I, but more or less in the shape of a fine little girl in a paiseley party dress (put on just befoore the consensual gang-rape, as exhibited on this tape, your honor, Defendant's Exhibit Hey, and a hot litle number tis, entitled, "She Was Asking for t, Your honor"), though she had raced around the curvilinear track and sped up her aging, or else dipped her perfect (ly daemonicke) face into the quartz miniducts of the microlab©‑‑engorging, as it were, her slutful genes with time‑‑and pretty much well nigh nigh unto aught but caught but aughp with me, in terms of age, the better to flash her heinous!lashes and vamp at me.  Or vamp@me. ...anyway, she squish the thing like a great ecstatic glowwworm gloorm loom oo anyway, and stands with cheekless pertness.UP and abrades the thing from her fingers, on the rough spermchooked cheeps of her little dress, which she finally pulls down. It is on file, your honor, that I am not built for sexual desires.  I had to take absolute pounding poundages of drugs of drugs‑‑nay, had to triturate myself right up to righteously vampie aka vampisch aka-epileptical-lepilectical levels of rational'd d'd'osages‑‑to work up the sort of scientific boner it took to cough out my two lousy desolate barren fertile unfucking goddam kids.  Excuse me, "kids," your honor.  May I apporach the bench?  I promise never to call you honor no more if you...you know...do that thing I asked you about in your note. Here a cube of text as void as a freshly swallered dollop of living space, in which Mr. Chabble squat, schnapped for a zoeilafil of time for abhorrence of horrible court (this story (except for this cube (and these parentheses (which exist as you might have fancied) well outside the nest) of the nexus) of the box) of the cubeless cube, or Refyu Sector, or or qube, orroarroar simply The Horrible Court! DOORNAILS "Honey, I'm going to go check on the 'kids,'" I shouted, but Zelzerea's head was illegally far away far too in too the head of the forgetter, which swirled like a great shull-skaped lava lamp from the glaze of another diaphragm (I cannot explain anything but that), so I merely shurgeed and clobbed down the basement (in these big a.s..p...i....r....a...t..e.d Hoovey Boots© which are the toes we ware instead of feat, to see if my quints were as dead as kids. They lay like five three-foot prizes‑‑veritable formulated Class I crowns‑‑looking very much in their "gilcaeze," which is this dear (death your with for pay would you) cryogenic vanilla-flavor'd ice-glaze we have we have‑‑like dooornails indeed. Doornails.  Gentlemen‑‑tender readers, your Represséd Honor, cast-off quash of relievéd characters from my discrete unpublished the passed, the leaf, the stone, the plastic fragment ofa child's toy, brooding technicians, my directionless director Bob Bob (full name) Bob‑‑my children...of sorts.  Blamelessly embalmed in capitalized spurious words for the time being while we seek for the will to find a cure for what ails them (of which we are not sure‑‑but there is something terribly wrong), they look like nothing so much as these big doornails in their bed of glowing (technological©) flowers technological flowers TechnoFlowers© obliquely lying, each with his or her instrument pad, the only thing dully glowing in this glowing n t is dank basement of a dead ex-parking lot, transmission-oil-stained (like the lips of that naughty, oil-stain'd nymth I downloaded from the electro seas of porn not many an ab-agö!), "just keeping 'em," as my deposition reeds, "'on smould'ring ice,' as it were, till we find out what makes them so in love with words, wasting and hurting and genetically ölt'ring their words and killing their words and in general warping off like a misbegotten engine into the Warp of the Wordless Lies."  Certainly this is my theory I am stuck to like a fucking cross. "Fucking cross," Christ said, but this was caste oute from the Bookes that Matthew, Luke, John, and George did sayd. One by one, I sweep the micro-tachyon-globuoles of dander from their instrument boreds and make sure the meters are entirely and completely dead, that my children are in all respects and eve in the eyes of God cupping his wounded Jesus in his palm like a grouted eye dead.  I say dead. "Dead," I say.  The meters never lie. "Dead," I said.  The meters lie. "Dead," I stead, the meters not even a part of mine eye. "Ahh...dead," I pronounce, the meter like a doctor dead at your side too dead to pronounce you die. "Dead," I admit, standing up and making that neat and pointless whisking pantomime of the Brushing Palms.  I wipe my forearms across ym brow, the name brow is wiped off dustily revealing a bare forehead.  There is no air in ths place.  I myself have been dead.  You might say (but don't) that I'm into redundant dead systems here.  I am in fact the proud inventor of the reinventor of Redundant Dead Systems, Inc., which is my lie and likelihood in here. And so.  I think I have explained everything.  Now here's the report on the nascent personalities of my quintsome of childs:  Every now and then‑‑rarely, actually‑‑never, if fact‑‑an idea comes up to me softly and places its shoulder on my hand causing me to jump into a maze of electric cats, and it whispers gently like Torturer God Number 6, I Believe, telling you in connoative dreamscapes how it's gonna feel, massive quantitites of nerveblaze and your slow peeling off of skin, not to mention the airless icing vacuumed on the crop, consisting of one throbbing emotion after another‑‑sorrowful, hopeless, appalling‑‑and the special chemical smells these emotions had here in Refyu, as if we weren't lightheaded enough...and this idea told me to thaw out my kids at the flit of ein Schvipch. "Thaw out your kids," he said.  "Thaw out your miserable kids at a flip of Der Schveutz." "What switch?" I said. "That one," he said, smalling to a very pointed switch, black, almost invisibly covered with these blakc, invisible spiderwebs, only they of course weren't spiderwebs but were instead the miserable paralle connotative shifts of the veering dream, which was all not-taking no-place, you'll understand when were finished zapping you, in this loquacious verring bottle blown of the selfsame Titan madness in its own iniquitous profane-burning incandescent Right bonre and a rightborne and-a right-bu bu-bu-borne of that fat-assed Saturn eating his own kids (only in his dream, Saturn's remembered and oft-told and ill-recorded ecstatic digitaclly-empranced dream within a dream with in a vivid Torturing God Number Zero's hallucinative dream, if you get my cream, he was not to much devouring..with his mouth, you know..as corroding his kids, corroding his kids!...corRODing his KIDS! just as I about to dew), for the dew upon the meltings of my kids, the liquifactions of those bolts‑‑call them doornails, if you like, not that any of our Five Hundred Five (which we call them when they're uh tortured) Torturing uh Gods gives a maim or a rack or a corrupt singular mutiliation itself spawning spawns of self-mutiliative religions each worshiping and thereby maiming itself to death (Author's unwritned note, aka Ned the Note.  As to that passage just reimburbled there:  Not maiming to death, like the plane scarping his face off on the eruptive fulminating endless adverb ground with the eyeballs of its passangers actually popP*P!ing out and doing this cute little paisely french-curve sort of voodoo little dance in the air of the fllaming air of athe flambeau ex X hex "plane"‑‑not maiming to death, I say, befoore I meant waad there for a web of a phrase or two hundred two, but worshiping to death, worshiping to death, wrhpntdah)‑‑let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat‑‑the liquifictinos of the doornails which were the things surrounding my dead dead kids, once I'd fought my way through the Webs of Invisibility (another myth which we have here, a myth so boring when you tell it it kills your kids when you tell it and gives you a plitting I mean slitting ache of the lava-lamp, which is a euphamism for your head, only its a swamp, so royal it is almost ultra-violet and exists in some mad sadist's drug-incupéd half-cup high-dosage cuicidal dream, which you help him act out, we all here in this gorgeous opalescent nightmare to pretend to help one another out, whail actually (actually!) serving the tortures of the Seven Thousand (and I promise like a posie to go no higher than rhetorical-that) Tortured (so it is said) Torturing (so they profess) Professive Gods) and flipped with some tweezers (getting out those twezers‑‑finding them, getting them to work, shrinking my hands down‑‑it's a long story but moving at the speed of pzseudo-light, and so a very short story, actually, albeit a story of some infinite mass, as the crippled physicist of my dream (actually his dream) would gladly through his boxes of thoughts ensound, which means something akin to talk‑‑and ultimately flipping the switch...beginning the great liquefaction of my kids (with that ectoplasmic buggring idea snickering behind me, let me poq!)...the doornail ice instantly corroded to the O so ONCE so fair flesh of my thawing kids, which itself began to melt. "My kids!" I croaked.  "They're dying!  They're they're they're...!" "There there," said my idea, comforitng me one more my nailing me a good one on the temple with the shoulder with which he had once been in the nonexistent forest (full of nonsilent unfalling trees‑‑shh!) of a progressive verb been comforting which with.  "They were dead already, remember?" "Well but, we were going to thaw them when we‑‑had a cure!" The idea sighs and shakes his head, as if it'd'd' been'n'n all my idea'a'a. "You had to thaw them out to see if we had a cure," he said, and he was walking up the silouette‑‑not the splintery stairs themselves‑‑of the basement stairs, and I could tell he was going to go take advantage of my wife, leaving me, the speechless idiot ankles-deep in the dreep of my rotting kids, and with or without quite if a you lot get of my explaining drift to do when my wife, thoroughly enjoyed, woke up, sitting in a puddle of my dream-idea's sperm on the floor. THIS BRISTLE OF NOTES OF A PLOTLESS WRITHING OPERA So while my freshly-fucked and highly maddened Zel was grutting her orgasmic wail for me to sup some to these rectangular yellow tissues of gelantinous stuff we call dinner, I was stalking for time, kicking, then pushing with my storng forearms forearm'd the structure of an ant's for the secret occasion, then shoveling hodsful of the smeggy fleshupful spuff, then working a hot red little gravitational tractor which look just like the lie of one of your old cryustalline "bulldoozers," trying to sort of the whorls of my kids' flesh as it had interminxed in the Antimatter Basement there, hoping to sort the poor inanimate respective poodles oo goo and funnel 'em through this inmtmenselly outsized funnel back into their old doornail molds, rebuilt for the cycle of time of the REM occasion occasion (which is like an occaiosn only more so...only much more lubriciously so), only of course the little bastards' various microbiological essences had quite thoroughly fratren- and sororit-  -izéd there‑‑deliberately, the little pricks‑‑so I was simply ploughing out a great godly spoonful of a bedlamuss while hooting crapcalls up the flavor ofthe greyless stairs to my wrothingly waxing wife who was writhingly wroxing rife, as I kept calling, "ONe minute, dear!  Just checking a few more things dear!" and so on, which wouldn't be fueling I mean fooling her ass, since I was ever and always punctual to these limpid and dishusitng little dinners we were wont on a non-linear non-time basically deja-vubul'd "schedule" of T. God #33's "design" (bluepricks available but only to other blueprincks available to to imblibe, but she never (till an upcoming scee you will comeuppingly sene) came down to these lower levels (which, as she liked in her poodry of powders, to snirph, "With the Lower Forms," a term ewhich meant somthing shivering only to her doubtless, or virtually doubtless, from the verdant respositries of her inaccessiblebelieve me, I've tried dreams), so I scurried and scuttle away, till I had some sortof shit in each of the big doornail coffins, and I lay doen and with the whither whisps of black exhuastion died. Alive in this next paragraph, I activate the poor useless meters‑‑those unsung doctors of the netherworld I sang about befoore the inclusions of notes into this bristle of notes of a plotless writhing opera‑‑and prepare to lolligog those synthesized wafular entitues drooping off the stiff limbs that serve us not for plates like Dali's lost persistent piece-of-candy watch melted by exposure to a supernova sung. But as I'm leaving the Realm of Mushrooms (the kind that take over your mind, then force you to grow more alien mushrooms, then take over those minds, for some truffling reason), I see the meters have all lit up. And I mean all lit up‑‑and I mean all lit up in crepiscucating, aurora borealis opalescent excandescent superfloral forms...I mean... THE ABSENCE OF EYES This was awfully technical.  I got on the raxxray to G.  G appeared. "You've been screwing with your kids," he said, shaking his head and lopping off my arm with an upward swing of a silver excheté, then arming it back to me‑‑all with his eyes on the meters...never even glancing at me (and it occurs to me only now, Gounque never glance at me, as if I existed entirely, disgustingly, on reactionary wavelengths...). "Looks like they're cured, huh?" I beam, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet while keen stitches seam my arm back on. "Nnaaoo," polythongeth G, his thumbprints reflecting turvily on his blindingly reflective chin (and it occurred to me only then that he cannot see; that would explain the absence of eyes, the tendency not to look me in the eyes (not that I, either, have eyes‑‑eyes having been criminalized back in the Forgetter Period . [that's it right there] . [and then again there] . ), answering me ony in the sense of keeping eixstence, for the time being mark NOW symmetrical. "The meters think they're cured!"  he laughs, and it really will occur to me only "sometime-when" that he never laughs‑‑or at least, it is not a laugh normally, if I may and I know I may not use the word normally the word normally the word normally or the word normally in the ol' RS, used by Gounque‑‑perhaps cause of his specious did I say specious? I mean speciesless nature, perhaps because there is nothing funny here, perhaps (and this only in the dank, pluperfect past befoore even the invention of the ere-toads more on the airetoades later if the motionless black thing-of-a-sun we have-not here . allows ever later, is or was or has or will be or always will have had been being my theory then . ) because there is nothing funny in me, or that being assigned to me (which only in never do I realize is the real nature of our relationship‑‑"assistant" indeed! pah!) is no picnic. Now in defiance he looks at me, employing these mirror-deerer headlimps of eyes, and says, "You've really killed 'em now, Professor Chabble." My lips form a sort of unaudant, adolescent hump of hums that would, would that they could and could that they can, say, "Stop...calling...me...Professor." "Now you're going to have to hide these doornails you keep calling kids," he says.  "And stop calling them 'kids.'" Well, he's right there.  They never were kids. Immediately his on was turned back killed turned I G and him, by which I mean to say this was my first Actual Murther, certainly in the Murtherous Red Eyes of the Law as it exists in here, only it's not so much a metaphor of an eye as a literal antimatter forgetter or afnotrigmater or Lafnotrigmater© which remembers your bloody thougths‑‑especially murderous ones‑‑befoore you've thought them, only it's also the glaring eye of your honor, Your Honor The Torturer God Number One, the Judge. I turned and slashed the back of my sniggering, contemptuous (he had always been contemptuous, hadn't he?  why hadn't I been allowed to see that, or had I been like condemned like to see it and then have my butt‑‑by which I mean my head, butts being heads here and heads Red Allknowing Metaphorical Literal Judgmental Eyes‑‑marmed into one of those laavamps or forgetter-lava-lamps or folala's as the merry cfescents of the silver kids or the merry silver crescents of the essence of the (dead!) kids do cry, thus having the billowy black Hoode of Winque reduped right over my head again, in a nasty little cycle of reduplicative humiliations‑‑a definite characteristic of the known styles of Torture Gods and I'm sorry I must call them Torture Gods but they would torture my doolfilked ass by which you will recall I mean head an ass being as good as a butt in the stubbed existence here...as I was trying to say befoore the woof of the words get indue schwaey, this sort of retromental cycling of torment (involving levels of awareness a la stupid old Hamlet and stupid old Christ, who didn't know any of his Dad's Scam that was going on (those were black in the days befoore the one great curtained god got is godbutt slivered into slithereengs) the stupid totally holy little fuck) would seem to be typical of TG's #1, 4, 17, 17a, 22, 33, 34, and 35.  So what I'm saying is what I'm saying is what I'm saying is it might what I'm saying is what what I'm saying is what I'm saying is I'm saying is be any what I'm saying is of them.  Of the I I mean mean ones I mean I mean I mentioned I mean just I mean then, that is) servant and Yea, suddenly remembering all those cycles of humiliation (I'll bet it was TG # 4 what did me then), I turned and hacked his back into hatches of a half, only the process, the process of splitting, the splitting of the syntax, the syntax of the breaking of his back, the breaking of his back into great hooping silvery crescient slags of the slashes of the moonlight of the mad children danicng lewdly in the barenaked quickness of the monnlight (no‑‑it was #22...gotta be #22 behind this whoile thing, what with the crescents and all), the moonlit configurations of his flesh as it, now in weightless quicksilver slivers, began to fall false to the ground, only it was a sort of unmoving massy dance, only it was simply dust that had always, and I emphasize this always, been on the ground of a grounldess, eternally nonexistent moon of a moodless world, only it was really poor G's flesh as I hacked his ass‑‑and I mean this metaporically,which means I mean his flesh and not, say, his head, which plunked to the floor of the perfumed den I was suddenly or ghad always been in like a great broochpin of impossible value and indecent design.  Or indecent valyue and impossible design.  That's it‑‑and it was God Number 7 what was doing this to me, messeurs. THE NONEXISTENT CHILD OF THE ECHOED CRIES Ladies and gentleman, my kids: Herx - red as a great hyperfertilized genetically-vektor'd© huppomoto, one of "da killer vejjes" of Nornalipe; Fott - never got larger nor more substantial than an ectoplasmic prick; built like the blue-haunted cuticle peeling off the trail of a niggardly Parggalswöpe‑‑which is no kind of animal, shedding as the little sonlike bastard of ungratefulness doth or doesoth a noseworth of itself with every step; this little kid was botched from the start, kind of like the gizzled author Glimingway, who sent out glowing globular notices to each genius of his kind telling them to recede-ecede-cede-ede-de, and I quote "We are all botched from the start.  Just keep on writing into your hole, friend Frotz, just keept drinking and writing and drinkiing what you writie, and writing yourfucking drink, and die..." so it goes with saying that you couldn't even touch this little dangle, who looked like the flesh of a rent suzgno hanging from the crimson jaw of the ogrette, which some say (which I dare not say) is the avatar of Torturing God Number Eighty-Three (and he's a dilly!), no matter how much you wept with guilt and stumbled after him with your fragrant cloth and comforting brush and called to him by whatever full fucking name you could name you could make up for him at a time, and even retched with the greed of your grief after him.  No‑‑I'll say nothing [old rhetorical [old trick for gagging the heart on its own feltbled] trick]! Skiksbarol - well-formed-redormed reduplicative of me; perfect in every way except for that detail about being dead, beind dead.  And let me tell you (ahem):  "I operated on that boy; I scooped my elbows in his guts, I hauled out organ after organ, looking for the dead part, the dead part, the part that kept him smiling, pale as a pasty sallow-plant or a plat of ashen wan, butcept for the cheeks, glowing like some rosy English boy, an angel bent over the fine mahogany bannister at just suck a reaming angle... Ube - also known as Earnest Alergnon, suave little Jazz Age sort of dude, his suffrab'e "smile" and odious hypermaturity stretching like his fabulous wardrope across the great unlooling delollopping loopuoles of tïme, not to be mistaken for tíme, not to be mistaken for tîme, not to be mistaken for t me, n t t   e  is  k n   r littl Ube himself, who never squouched or crotted or otherwise hunkered down to play in any sort of sand or mud we'd expensively rentaled like the other kids (I think, although my aforementioned medication, * and *, has removed the memories of my children like the reminiscence of a ghostly pearl (TG #5).  *See the illegitimately published and ill-written electromagnuscrimpt© Listings of the Tortorous [sic] Gods, with Sundy and Appalling Notes on their Believed And/Oar Allegéd Qualities, Properties, Subnames, Progeny [?] and Prototypes, by Vömïtüx Domitorum, a pen name for this highly -charled I mean -charged Ube, who always acted less like a fucking son than a son than a smarmy goddamned spy... And sometimes Wyphul, a sort of pinch-hit, Designated Kid for the family, really more like a vaproous chandle of water with no particular qualities of his (or her) own (or oan), other than those qualities legally pertaining and ahering to water, hereafter to be known as The Substance‑‑the kid we threw togedder at just about that time in the lexus of apocalypse, I mean the horus of les empurpl'd, star-addled spaces of The Spaces of Astrologus, when we'd lreally lost the wil to produce any fucking more kids OK? (Oh yea‑‑there was also this little girl, Amme, in there someplace‑‑she's the only one I remember, actually, but she is lost in my records like some dust-bunny dolloping down the measureless halls of mahogany, to the nonexistent child of the echoed cries.  Or maybe she grew up and went away‑‑just like that, where "that" stands for a heated flight from her murdered, therefore murderous siblings, or maybe I am a figment of the imaginations of the dead, and I am chaisng her, my feet slivered and howling, down that traceless Hallway of the Thirty-Ninth, Deep-lue God, Cerulean God, the great idiot Shakespearean God wondering What kind of a name is 'Shakespeare,' anyway?  Unless it be Shakespeare Anyway or Shakespeare Anyway, Inc., manufacturers of Imaginary Little Girls, ar your fucking service, spermless sir...) THE THREAT OF THE EYES I can remember a past we fabricated out of some thin material.  We were newlyweds.  We had no money at the time.  We could afford neither time nor long sentences, and yet we longed for longer sentences, long periodic-cumulative-subordinating-supercoordinating behemyth self-incentensing songsentences in which our kids could play down corridors mostly resembling these pale yellow parks which were the let's face it rather cheap pasts we invente for them.  But they (the Mississippi kids) had this park, made of this diaphanous but rather lovely material (Zelzerea would do phenomenal configurations, if aye I maybe may be aloud allowed such syllables) full of {amazingly patterned grasses}, each tiny blade filigreed in smaragdine glory, and the kids were crouching round here and there, reading the messages on the leaf, which O trust were messages of love back then‑‑back when we had these various crimson madders of arterial love, back befoore what Flowes Withinne Us became quite blue, a sort of steely smalt blue in which the messages were...quite other than love...but let us return here to this mended rescinded amended ameliorated polypostulated near prevarication of a past of love. I think it was that Park in San Francisco, which I say only because I am a dummy, my claptrap jaws flapping to the yank of a higher power, the Ventriloquist God, I'm sure, though I don't have an accurate estimate of a number there, a niumber there, a number there and three and there... Numblerless, fallow viruses inhabited the air.  I quickly add, my weald lips clapping, that they the (let's face it, illiterate Faulknerian) viruses were largely harmless hermless, were largely these rather large eyes, rather like silly mosquitoes‑‑you no\know, the kind that carry off the kids when the Michigan air cools at dusk and "swampifies," those big muggy lugs of flies that are all eyes and that threaten,. for exmaple to carry your daughter, squatting at the esge of an incomprehensibly pearly stream (the ichor, I beloeve of my Zelz'z'z's once opalescent, wonce wondrous love), and I can remember‑‑it is damaged only slightly, slit along the righthand edge, so one or two hundred thousand sensations/details/love-fucking-wonderments, not to mention all degree of re.ligious fate and awareness of Jesus hiding like a leper unde the comfy chair have been ripped out...but I remember skedaddling my ass overto her and swishing my hands through the air, which caused, I say it caused my little wonderment of the girl to laugh, for she uh uh had no awareness of flies, or of pests, much less of the viruses from hell, the viruses the Virus God (#0, I believe) in him I believe made us create in this sweet air, these big little eyes, these viruses as I beloeve in God Number Zero the Virus Fucking God I have explained...so she's laughing and giggling at me and splashing some of this amazingly icy water on my knees,\ as I like a big Idiotic Dad keep motioning those endless eyes to go away, to forgive my daughter in the name of my own eventual‑‑nay, perpetual‑‑nay, eternal‑‑nay, rampantly prevailing and filling my nerves with a pressure which will soon (give it a baker's dozen Abs, up to possibly Plubnoe Fifty-Sixth; it is uzsless to speculate, so I rip my Speck You Late Tive Glasses off, removng the glaze befopre my head, and I think if I can just bloddy fight my way out of this parentheses gripping my thoughts nto inner, inner-er subthoughts as it were, and making it very hard to awaken, for example [this happened more than once] , to the sucght of one or another of my sons holding a big knife to my throat‑‑that'll affect your fatherhood!) burst my heart. PIER PORCELEIN THEPARK It was on this occasion, your honor, when I was gently if somewhat clumsily shisuhing and shaming the flyzaweigh away from the pristine perspicuous head of my little girl as she played there in Peir Porcelein lessPark‑‑this befoore the famous precarious medications [Achromazine© and Neutralanin© mostly, with some generic shit our heroic Dr. Chook just fucking threw in for the expletiv zuvvit enabled me to see there were no eyes there, no viruses, no mosquitoes no flies no vucking thweat, and, in short (that'll be the day, huh?), I fell into the water which both drenched and delighted my little gir'l.  So you see, depite m general sickness and my tendency tendcu uh ten denc ci cy to peccadiiliate unto Transfomred Realities‑‑despite those great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs‑‑we had this moment of foolish delight, and for purposes of purification which is my only urpose in life...possesed as I (we) am (are) by the dissociative Torturer God of Purification‑‑and we are talking excruciatinf purgey-purgification‑‑Number Six, I do believe, this god being not at all shy of his Numberhood..being in fact rather proud, as I am often puon waking in the morning, when the possibii\lity of waking is uhgiven unto me, notto mewntion the gift of having a morning at all, this being a rather dissipate, devitalized world as far tsolidit of matter be ocnerned (howwouldI know?  I'm not the Physicist; we have only one Physicist here, you know, with the machines that make all the physical laws, and he is either 1) not very good, or 2) one of the Torutrer Gods (there they are again!) disguised as, the Physiist; no one knows for sure, I don' think), but anyway, proud, as I say, of my use of punctuation, which I belieb is superlative, most of the time. So I fell in, we were wet, thew threat of the eyesa temporarily disappeared, and we laughed until she died.  That was it you honor, so help me Gods, though as the Reliquae (our Bible, known astronomically as the Bible of the Long-Pig Dead) croeakeyth, "It is life's great trial soliciting the help of the Torturing Gods, for they would much rather torture you, Lorenx Chabble  than anything else, it would seem unquote." THE FIVE RIFLES I was talking to Nieongluoss, my White Shrink, though we call them flinches here, so I was, the unheard verb-thicket word-forest Vortcopse of my mind talking to my White Flinch, only it would be redundant redundant don't you know, to call her "white," so I was lying on the Classic Couch, rappin' to my flinch, dontchyaknow, only she was this anonymous bag-lady rifling through the Daliesque drawers that pulled out of the rich, crafted mahogany, the buffed and sinuous wood, the planed and burnished surfaces in which your own face and the fabulous faces of your Hollywood friends come back as these cute hyperconvex little woodnymph munchkin sort of little-people Fabulous Burnished Faces (four-man power group, formed *, three number ones one number two and two number three and a halfs, broke up *, now dead, their music dead, their fucking music actually hunted down and killed, now dead, all dead, now and then dead again) tittering like Visceral Titters (one-man tachyon group, no power, no formation, no hits, no deformation, no) kcab ta uoy, of my rectus abdominus area, or thereabouts, you know‑‑riflin' through my drawers (though I don't know where rifles come in to it) like that perfect genius thief who thieved so perfectly well hers was the one house in town with all the arms and the dandering luggy legs of stuff piddling and oodling out her windows and various doors, not to be mistaken for the drawers my flinch, excuse me shrink, excuse me, my Fine White Shrink is alootin' through!, so the entire town simply surrounded her, scratching their heads and saying politely, "Can we have some of our stuff back?" and the lady smiles and pulls off her black cap and says, "What put you on to me?" and the whole place having a good, longue, self-forgiving cleanse of a laugh at that, I assure you!, but finding, as always, nothing wrong with me. Enter The Five Rifles.  THE FIVE RIFLES:  This is where we come into it, Mr. Hampton. It is right precisely here. KIRK:  Wow!  It's...the Five Rifles! EVERYONE ELSE:  WE know! NIEONGLUOSS:  I'm sorry, Lor.  I can't find anything wrong with you.  There's nothing in there.  You must be [ZOOM IN to her SWEATING MAHOGANY FACE]...stashing it someplace! LOR:  Stashing what? NIEONGLUOSS:  Why, your sickness, Mr. Chabble.  The sickness which killed your kids!!! The FIVE RIFLES look at one another, the beams of their glances sxhripx them wup, a-a-and they fall down with Marxsan ingenuities.* LOTTAEYES My plan had sort of changed on me, only it was not exactly a plan but rather a fluffy white metaphor‑‑which is a type of cat‑‑curled on my shoulder and as it wurr pereing me into New Things. I would befriend friend Quarl and entice his ass into a fine white cruse of zealafleume.  I had my little Visitor's Guide to Vief! tucked under the small arm I had tucked under my arm (this is Not Normal; it must have been a child's arm leftover from that time, not too recently, not too far back, not precisely in the Tube of Time but gnawing merrily away on the outside of it like some idiot beetle ossively obgobbling the sessolives of the moImeant to say), and it assured me that "quote": Rare indeed is the citizen of Vief‑‑or 'The Vief,' as we hate to call them‑‑who can resist for nary an absoc or absoc! the chance to sop up a little Zealafleume™‑‑the Drug de Choisir of the planet...only of course it's not exactly a planet but a sort of square right in the middle of New York City, only its not New York City, exactly, obviously, because it's not Central Park which by this writing hath been longe remov'd and replaced by a veey merry and merry and gaseous sort of Flotezone© of safforn gasses [open only to the rich, who still more or less exist, unlike the  rest of us, who merely more or less merely subme relysub sist]‑‑anyway, but more of a zone of existence we are forced to know, and by that fact very neary forced to call, Vief. "You will excuse me.  What was I saying?  OH yes‑‑rare zuz the Vief, obseffed with macromemories (a concept which shall be explained herewith in the form of a most compresséd dot:  .  ) as they are, who can resist the supple, faint tranquility of a bulb or two of sweet deathly neat esswseential amnesia..." And so forth.  Anyway, I was agonna sluice him up and chuck his remains into either a coffin or a nail‑‑they are much the same here, except during the firey shows of the voradorealis of the terminal equinoxe here‑‑and kidnap him, holding him in ransom for his wife, who I but dimyl remembered but loved with a dire passion equal almost equal almost to the child's-fight of words of the little little-finger finger-shaped shape-vial vial-light lightvial I waggled befoore his postashte-fixéd eyes (and, him being a Vief, that was a lottaeyes!). PESTIONABLE QULEDGE My quacksalver Mr. Quarl was quitting his quoin, having quietly quaffed his drink, known as The Quirt's Quench, querulously quarreling with his quirky quail about the quid and all qualms quelling the various quees and pews of his pestionable quledge‑‑aka queer business‑‑now quintessentially quashed, and the bustle-field (or if you must quistlequield) quiv'ring round him to its routine protein letterless quiescence, I knew it was time to make my move on the big guy. My but he was shaped like a drip.  He must be full of the most beautiful guts, I thought within my own guts so loudly, not to mention thoroughly, that two big draws pitched out right there in public from my guts, I mean from my guts outpitched right there in public, and I had to tuck my flannel shirt back in and also tack my final curtain back on and also jackhammer the bloody girders back on, this being one of those trimensional moments I have thrice forgotten to mention, here in the fineries of my weightless-draped Fitzgeraldian Unmentionable and as-yet unaid-for Mansion and that fucking obstrusive or foubctkriunsgive thought or otbhtoruugshitve almost made me give up on my great new Kidnaping Idea, shining in my heart like your shiny aunt's apple, except that my heart was itself a shiny aunt-sapple, filled with God's goregous thought of a shinyauntsapple a far cry better than that miserable thought of a bloody son he had, the hairy pencil-necked beard-infested draft-dodger of a masochistic dolt, that megaloaniac hobo of a twerb or treble-twerb-of-a-hobo (goddam it!) with my poor dead kids nailed through his hfaenedts and fheaentds with the fifth kid, or fifth kid-nail, by the way, nailed through his forehead‑‑right there‑‑though for none some of reason the none brothers wrote about that but don't get me started on that (though it sounds too later, doesn't it?), though we have no data whether this weather data be one of our‑‑you know‑‑"torturing" or "torturer" gods, or wehther this is some smiling divine from another jolly planet of creations or another wormy asteroid of verbaculations...give up on the kinnap plan, as I was saying befoore all those gods and apples, and revert like a revertive banana or ananab to the use-his-guts plan, which I believe I explained earlier.  If not, I will go back earlier and reexplain for real this (secondary) timelapse of a timetimetime. But I went ahead.  He was a little popped out, mentally, from his business deal, what with its gracious quantity of q's, so I waxed more and more confident as I approached, finally losing all shyness, then all social judgement, and then shape, becoming finally nothing but this great fleshy morass of a quaggoy candlemyre rundling up all around the thought of the measurement of the ankles of his boots, so I was in poor condition to notice his stunnéd löök as I flipped a big bright candle to his gluomwiinnegscent eyes and said: "Li'l zealafleume, friend?" THE BIBLE OF THE LONG-PIG DEAD He was gliding through many an ornate curve amongst the orange artificial feumes, many a Peccant Image of forgotten cartoon characters lit by an almost ach-ing infra-star lit-red meta-phor, many severed alphabets of what looked like geometric solids chainsaws into something the lost recollected faces of a cruise, or the ripped and fatal sail on that sunny cruise, or the death of the depth of sun on the face of your lover drowning on the surface or that whole life coming back to you first thing in the morning that had taken the shape of this foolish, idle cruise, complete with glyphic insurance policies glisking away through menises of your persistent waterwomb (remembered like the laxness of that Dali watch, exhausted from memory), but he had his great veiny sleeves rolled up around his oleated bulging arms, and he was most ungappy with the set as it was. Technicians, if you can call them that, foundered gawky and severe amidst this chaos‑‑thoug Ill confess it all loooked pretty neat to me. And I was of course being pursued by Quarl's little corps of Cute Police, who'd seize me like verms and whom I could shake off easily, and who attacked me in rather wholike droves, whooing and hollering like little doves. "Get these graughtnakky cwoopurms out of here!" he hollered, which gave me a chance to grab on to the edge of the flooaotring flofaltoior of his crane, while the officious cranopreator swished and clawed his rather strangely surreally swollen "hand" at "me." Quarl, his emotions quashed like a doab (one of the Lower Forms‑‑one of the animals that refused to take on thif gloriouf gliftening fheen of fuperreality (from the Reliquae [the Bible, known croakaloquaciously as Long Pig]), leaned over and craned his own head down and focused his face, which took the form I may say of one long great gigantic somewhat piglike longlpig pigneck neckcrane cranegrace bracefacéd eye, on me, and said. "Whattaya want, punk?" Whereupon and hruo and hu I smiled, proffering the blushing dickred dickspit cumburpling stick of the dope and panted. "Some zealafleume, sir?" Paws. Scrittering, scritching invisible paws failin to make a mark on the perfect ly smoove liunar surface of this mo meant terry paws. He snatched it up and sucked it. "Never touch the stuff," he gcarsped, and...slowly...looked...around... I was standing next to him on the crane, rather crazned, rather exhilarated, definitely Not Responsible For My Actions At That Time Your Honorio (though I'm OK now and would like to go home, only it's more of a psychedelic floor moving constantly through the tropical depressions of an infiite sluicing media sort of space), waving at what I took to be reality, a real crowd, a spheroid of stundoid technicoid droin-ee-yoids. "Where the hell are we?" Quarl sez, which the poor dumb techs took to be some signal to tear down and rebuld the illusion and the thoughtof he illusion, despite Obvious Evidence that their boss was zonkéd OUT. "Come with me," I hissed. "Who am I?" Quarl grinned, and it was the first grin of the novel, and Bob called for a break, and many a cable (fake) fell from busy hands just then, let me tell you. But the grin lingered on, for it wasa sincere grin, and I pondered the possible ethics of kinaping this amnesiac.  Besides, he'd been feeding me some, and I was losing track of the plan‑‑in fact, losing track that I had ever put in a plan in the first place, but had acted on the vertigo momentum buttercup laplace valentine of a plan I had never created! That would be bad. I had to keep the grinning bastard and his metyafklab personality© all wwarrappepded in an Intelligence Box.  I should rephrase that more kindly.  The ignorant Quarl fairly skulked into the box, which resembles a fluid cat's cradle with lines for mirroirs, I mean mirror-lines, mirrorline containing the so-called "intelligence" of the so-called Inhabitant, this being, to put it still more kindly, the ignominous bastard Quarl, Quarl the drug-pub, Quarl the ifexted, Quarl the Great Director and most kindly cut of all, Quarl who was slashing Maaeeaa into the passion of an infinite dew, an infinite fucking dew, making her roll her faceted head back and forth and emit sounds crude and fat and worthy of the Tumid Lower Forms‑‑this guy was so much smarter than me I had to put him in his box. Let me explain.  I say let me explain.  I explain:  no one knows for sure, because the polylabic palimpsest of our urhistory is‑‑well, to put it kindly, so goddam dumb, written in languages or thought forms of a nature so crude only one such as Zel, mad and being fucked madly and madly fucking Quarl, could read their texts, but she too drooly to talk, herself as dumb as the stupid old Beginning of Fucking Time, Zel getting fucked, Zel with her feet behind her head, Zel covered in you-know-what, Zel sweating, Zel Zel Zel my fucking love. But I was explaining something, and I appreciate your patience.  I pay uh tribute to your patience by putting it‑‑your patience‑‑into a sort of tiny little prototype Intelligence Net, such as the great room-sized one I needed to need to needs to contain the vast and polymorphically perverse talent of Quarl, whom I believe I was kidnaping and believe I told you so. So, with my explanation itself now stuffed safely muffed safely buffed safely puffed into a Humiliatingly Small "Intelligence" Box hardly worthy of the name, and so unnamed (see The Unnamed Intelligence Boit), I say we weren't sure, but we kind of figured it this way: we learned how to fire up our genes, clean up the old rancid strands of our fucking DNA, mess with our organelles and fluids, create abilities "God himself would vomit down upon the earth his horror" (attempted translation of an ancient text, sucking a big cock all the way down its old throat, by the way, & with cum all over its lips; they just didn't care back then) and then learned how to mess with the subtle energy fields, causing God we believe to throw in the towel, so we worship this great indelibly white and blinding Towel, God having left, which blinds the worshipers, so we have few worshipers, wandering whitely blind, but never mind.  Anyway, we figure we finally tinkered with our own gem-essences, the jewel at the center of the intelligence ha ha Box of Flesh, into which, wondering aloud about the mysteries of our histories, I put the reeling Quarl.  It was the first kidnaping in a long long time.  I did that which no mortal had no right to dew.  But I had to.  Nearly everybody, everything everybody everydoes, everything everybody everythinks, everything everybody everymaketh, into some sort of itelligence box oranother, on accounta we too durnd smaert for our own dumbassed good. I was not in a box.  Let me refocus that:  I was barely in a box.  I was the stupidest person in Vief *, having embedded my head far too long in the laavamp, or you'll remember the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp...that's me. So I gets him in till he comes to his sneses, and then he's still too smart for  me!  And then I'm in ultraitalicized trouble! And so I and my kids‑‑usually Herx, Fott, Skiksbarol, Ube, Sometimes Wyphul, and Amme, though there seemed in the dust of cosmic drugs to be many more‑‑'d lean in and talk to the great Quarl, now so deeply, purply "darned in his box" as we the giggling famille did came to sweigh.  It was a little like pressing the graze of your face against the graceful filigreed grate of the confesional, only instead of specific numerals of solid icons dressed in the ivory of white came the sleazy little thread of Quarl's filtered filtered Quarl the Refinéd Voice.  I mean it was just his voice.  I mean it was just a toy, imaginary fraction of what held say to us were he not quite so bloody tucked up in his flashing box (for it did flash, this flash represernting the power of compression necessecary for containment of the soul thereof, and the finitude of th esotry, the fact that this story‑‑right in the parenthetic footnote or nookfoughque interr'd outside these twin bars here‑‑this glittering story has a dread timelock on it, a lockbomc tipping away sinside its little gut, like the many genes of death they were so hard-fought (and this befoore my time befoore parentheses of Knowne Hysteriqie Tyme) to quash, and which they dead indied squarsch, making us as we like to moan "as immortal as hell," which just goddam shoughs to gough yew, I supphoughze, that those pesky viruses representing the oroway into that great Belighted Unknown, have been busily configuring their own much larger, much more malevolently close-to-the-Hogs meganovel, huh?), else he'd quickly have us, you now, setting him free and doing his will, he being an embarrassing number of magni magnittoons above us like the voices of the Sphorix zinging high and signing its gold autographs in the dying fatal abysmal ruined desiccated empty horizontal illucid air. So, protected, me and generally my kids‑‑as often as not Herx, Fott, Skiksbarol, Ube, Sometimes Wyphul, and Amme. though in cases Desueptutube, Kararrarrr, Meninginintong, Gelk, and Nyeaieur‑‑would press up against that goodold shield and like talk to the great man. I told him the deal.  I laid out the score, in mine owne tiny way, which would then I guess‑‑and I'm guessing I'm guessing here, as I generally guess I am a brain in a bottle (and a dismal yellow bottle blown wobbly behind fine lettering, probably a cosmic bottle, doubtless and time bobble, nogrout a tiny vial of poison reducing your hunching fporm to a cow'ring skeleton, but I Am Naught Sweughre) guessing at things, just to satisfy the funky fucktions of some eternally experimenting eternally experimenting machineit's just a fancy o' mine‑‑I dunno, amplify my meanings into something big and weird, some grand vision this caged giant could understand. "We have no intention of feeding you I said," I said, getting excited and accidently including the ascription "I said," and this mess seeped through the mesh of incontainéd inermeanings I suppose like some Promethean Hendrix solo wrought by the teeth of that still-living might god. "I beg your pardon?" he said, and me and Herx, Fott, Skiksbarol, Ube, Sometimes Wyphul, and Amme‑‑unless it was Desueptutube, Kararrarrr, Meninginintong, Gelk, and Nyeaieur (or, now that things had heated up and I'd act tu ally brö!ke the lä?w, unless it wass these even deeper, even innerer children, chary o' namen, but named possibly Poparina, Beff, Venevelktitude, Kearnionyolio, M'Jarrk, and/or Oughleough)‑‑realized pret-ty cer-tain-ly that way too much power was seeping out. ("Can we alter the controls?" hissed Skik who was like me always skikking and making me hiss with love and its partner, disgust.) I touched the great Knob of Contraction, buriéd as the sucker was within mine bosom, and saw it was on full. ("No," I whispered, wherepong Fott the little faertrywing began to cry, which felt lie the loss of a sistse,r which felt like the blue litttle nightmare tailing you throughout the day when the famous princess Di's, August 31, 1997.  "It's turned dup Full!") "Ruh-oh!" we all said, giggling. "Well, your ransom is your wife," I said, this time rubbing my lips al over the grid of permutation or the grid of control or the polymorphous grid or the metaconfessional grig or the mesh of the mighty microhpnoe, hoping the many shapes I made (have I said I am good with my lips, or have you noticed me ahead of my?) would somehow hurt this cradled giant. Gulping sounds come out.  It's working, I so wrongly thought.  We're getting into him! "One condition," he said‑‑and both he and eyeve edited out uncounted centuries of silences so pregnant with paws you could in your lithe dreamdoby clamber allfucking overdim. "You get me a crew in here," Quarl told us. "I want to snall this thing.  I want my fucking crew!" "Wait a mi mimi mi mi minute," I said, head like a long-lingering star about to die.  "Ho hoho ho ho How will she fall in love with me?" "What's this love shit?" came the famous reply of the famous bricks in the idol reipleigh, came the words now etched in lying stone along the rolling blue grasses of the ill-named Hills of Home.  "She's an actress‑‑sort of.  I mean, she's a model, right?  Biut a great model, so almost an actress, right?  There you have it, pal (can I call you pal? [Though he knew he could]):  that's why I need to snall this thing.  Otherwise it on't work.  She wont smile for you, bend over for you, fuck for you‑‑nil." And his nil I'm afraid really did get through, destroying countless members of the measureless innerer levels of my imaged family. BGIRTITTETRING I'd get mad at my bad kids and nab them into Lower Forms.  This is something a father can do during the dew during the silvery dawn-oriental filigreed aspexs of the Aspect Dream, which is What We Believe We Are in (and dream we are in (and believe we dream) and dream we believe) and find ourselves with the loose and lozing sense of a Body we are unable to move, despite our solid belief that‑‑you know, if we could just get back to the body, we could get up, and thereby find out what true death waits for us at the end of the eternal Möbius Dream. Anyway, I'd get like pissed at that fucking little Ube Earnest Alergnon or whatever he calls himself today, with his silver cigarette holding his holder in his special Crystallized Fingers, which is something we can do, but at great expense, great expense, as it lead to nightmares later.  It maketh me powder my teeth with bitter gritting or bgirtittetring in the hopes the little smarmer has like a high colonic's worth of horros waiting back there, but I can't be sure.  I mean, he's a dreamchild; it might not work with him. But he's dissing the whole kidnap plan (and, switching into our multipersonal multipointallistiv voo, why after all wouldn't he?), assuring me we would be caught by at least one of the thousand compounded Horror Police Forces Horrororror Popoliceice Fororceces believed in the deepest liquids of fear tobe out there, ready to swoop down‑‑some (dying) say (croak) say‑‑in their epileptic I mean elliptical I mean sort of Richard Powers-shaped half-melted Tanguy sort of hypercurvilinear Patrol Ships and punish me in horrid ways.  What gets me‑‑and I think all you dream fathers out there will "understand"‑‑is his pleasure in saying this, the thousand or so parallel phrases he smuuthely useth to conduct right into my tongue his hope I will be caught.  No one hates you more than the son who don't exist. So I punish him myself, turning the hornlike barrel of the elephantgunlike beak of the depressive submodulator known colloquially and nationally as The Prune© and shooting his wisecracking ass right down to the lowest suborganellical s*l*i*m*e*, forgive my asterisks, but they come with the gun.  It'll keep him a worm for a few big fat bulbs‑‑you know, the kind with the ruby rigidified tails you can snap! so the whole fat droplet falls into powder, one more Rupert extremely druped. Once we'd stuffed the hundred dozen baker's plethora of technicians Quarl demanded into his net, the ceiling lit up. Yea, the ceiling lit up into the celestial show of us as seen from the outside, so we were standing uneasily at the rather bristling neural net containing Quarl and the presumable elbows of his crew, our fingertips touching the surface of the net, or‑‑in the next set‑‑our fingers risen just above the surface of the box, with grimago GRIMAGO FACES faces of the crowd packed in there.  It must have been horrible.  It must have been Like Prison. ...in the next set, which was not like any sequential rendering at all, looking at the gorgeous imago that used to be our dingy, secretuve ceiling, our dingy, secretive ceiling, as in poetry and its dingy little secret spritis hidden in the crannies of its formal little verminfexted ridges, goddammit, now the how shall I say Illumined Presence of our living room, as seen from a cascading dolly shot or a rising dolly shot or a "vomiting dolly" showing the now-increased necessity‑‑now that we were famous, now that we were On TV‑‑for me to punish secretively repeatively my kids, to more and more severely punish more and more versions‑‑I would almost say deepeer and deeper versions‑‑of the Vergions of my Kids, all of iot lit amazingly.  Quarl was always known to be lit amazingly. "Where's...Maaeeaa?" I'd cry from under the shadow of my forewarm, which was Burning Not Up but white, it was this special, phosphorus sort of burning white like the kind we used to burn the life right out of Viet Nam, the kind that's been blinding us.   With the other hand‑‑not burning so much, not in quite (!) so much light (?), but definitiely more an effervescence of flame as they came to complaigne than another arm in the shadows punishing another child, and then anotheer child, and then another child, and then the dimmer presence, negative imagince in ipso-ospi-factoid-darkenend-negative-image Hell, each child flatter and more overex o e p s 'd, each child more negatiuve‑‑like negatives burning down to an infinite declension like a sprial staircase of negative down to as I said Hell, and I was in fact saying "Hell" as I pinished them, again and again, with Zelz attacking me with "weapons various," as Milton, who came not only Back Alive but Sighted, said, with my dreamshrink Nieongluoss, by the way, shaking his head at this at once phantasmagoric and mtarnaigcic disintegration of the stitch-to-getherd limpid hobbled eggwhite sort of tissues of my once-family. It was this way.  Herx was clearly gonna turn me in, to the very Dark Cops who conceivéd nothing of our concentric shinola on the screem of skies (not to be misshapugin unto Quarl's beauteous cwoopurms, who watched from The Great Linguistic Hoop of The Lidded Eyes, with their palms forehooded oveeyres, going "Ai!" and/or "Ie?"), possibly even to Farge, fucking Farge.  He might even work for Farge or have (and this often happens) had his guts scooped out by Farge and his friendly-eyed maschines or "fargeoids" which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate and had, you know, Farge-stuff or cop-material packed exquisitely in, so my son, my number one son, my boy, my Herx, my red little sonofagum, was just another cop-dummy, watching me, under all these bloody lights, wiping white and incandescent blood across his eyes...and watching me... So it became necessary to punish him Very Bad.  I considered like the Sadist would, finger on my lips, tesselleated polypleated row after tessellated row of "tools" I'd cooked up while I was cooking up cruelty like gruel here whirring while I chose (they'd whirr while you chose, those tools), choosing what manner to reduce the great hopping red booby, and into which shape, and with what shapes of endless echolating pain... Allow me to describe the Horrid Light or the Horrible Lipes.  I'd been finessed.  I had the buggerd in his buzzargly boit, but he and his crew‑‑impacted, I hoped, like languid sardines in the gloze of their own fluent eyes, slipping together in the great dimensional shattube shafttubas I'd staggered them in‑‑had me on yet another incandescent game show, this one featuring my whole family‑‑it was one of those Bet Your Fucking Family things, only the light‑‑the Gorid Light I yam endeavoring to surprise I mean descry-describe‑‑shone well-nigh right through them, so I stood at attewntion undewrneath the sacred ivory lids of the Forgotten Eagle or the eye of the Londlost Eagle or the last dsentence of the Eagle of Words O the Eag le of Wor rdz dwingling out like a rotten iris averme. You see, de effec o being on dese shoze‑‑and, no, in answer to your unwrought query query O I don't O think it was the make-up, the gosh-darn candy-apple tangerine-flake flaping babies they shellacked over me or osvheerllamceked if you're at're all're int'rested in our "lingo (I am so hastily transposing down the Beethovenean scales off the tales of the snake of sound O the great invisible snake of the rope of the dream of the luzion zof Sound!)"‑‑was a rapid casual uh los of uh uh words, meaning you see a lot of ellipses in ths show. And I though, Is this Betchyerfamily again?  Did we never get out of there, but instead go tyhrough yet another organic oridifice constutiting the infinite great humiliation of Another False Dooer? But it wasn't *, I was pretty sure.  It wasn't I am a little less sure even a game show.  It was I am equivocally sure Quarl doing pone of his patended©, light-drenched succulent muscular monstrosities of a pardoy of one of these shows shows shows, taking the reprisive form of a snall about how, drained away of words, did drain away my family, selling them or guessing them or, let's even without our faces face it, miscontruing them (and in this I include all the sub-family-members on the lower, or possible more Refinéd fucking tiers or tfiuecrksings as we in the parched dehyrdated bottle of our self-frgotten (because suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal) language, or as we in the bottle word I mean wood I mean would croak, "Labnguaghe," poor begotten devils ex)xe slived and losing in a monumental way at once orangely comedic and parsely tragic, I mean a very dark cold and pungent color of tragedy, Qyuarl was I suppose doing me the "flavor" or giving unto moi the "honor" of making he a hero rather bigger than life‑‑certainly countless motherfutching magnitudes larger than the cheesy skidmark on the parking lot of life known ha ha as Mine Owne Pasty Life‑‑but you'll notice he was messing with me too, as I mess with you and each generation of generates messes with the regenerations of their uh! uh! rotten kids. So there's the beaming host‑‑just a great fluidic grin‑‑and the music smelly as a dollop of roancid cheese (I have alluded to the Universe Of Cheesiness we were entering‑‑only with a great deal of light‑‑into) into into into‑‑and the questions (each hidden behind its own corrupted fungus of a box!?) coming at me and slicing with comely, dancelike comedy whole portions of that goofy thing I with only a vacuum where a laugh should be be be called a personality. Certainly words failed me, the laughing fatbellied belly little buggers.  And certainly, uh, my memory...what were we talking about before this great tout of tote of a crimson smoke? THE DEATHS OF WHATHAUGH AND SUCHNAUGHT The next question (or was it the first question?  small numbers here are tiny to work out) rolled out to me in the form of a very modulated glass, like some inverted chandelier, not off the Titanic, but off the upsidedown clown-version of Titanic verged at in the upper air, wherein everything is enalarged. Er...the gods love to enlarge your follies, the follies of anyone they create, and even more the follies of such as us, who seem several degrees removed from the makings of God, much less His executive committee of Gods I have failed to introduce to you as the Torture Gods (Electricity Gods‑‑really three gods in one; blowtorch god, plyers god, the blade of the flaying god, the love god and his brother, the loving god, etc.), and anyway, out roles the frosted, art-deco frottage of this outsized ball of glass, or hollow of glass, or tunnel of glass, or metabulb for a long-spent intricate bulb of glass, probably just a light along one of the fish-wept corridors of that most tipsy of uncertain-fucking ships, fucking its way right down in the glacial night, inside of which was the question. And to many a chuckle and jeer did I step in.  The costume made it funny.  It was not so much the way I might have stepped uncertainly "in" as the way I in fact and in the brilliant visio© of friend Quarl's vicious condign flim did step in, which was full of crotch-spread and crack-spraddle and Whathaugh and Suchnaught (famous comedy group, went down jesting aboard the Titanic Titanic, in the fine lounges of which, apparently, every nerve was früze!), so I uh farting dartered in... ...to find no question (I guess I was inside the question, which had been I suppose pozed to the audience‑‑that's it, the au di ence‑‑the answer to which would come either in the events quanspiraling in the globus of the glass or in my own honks after I came out of it, if I came out of it at all.  One thang's for curtain:  I was full of questions there... Anyway, all I found there was Fott's memorable and perfect suicide note, still on the invisible sparspement he penned it on, still with its perfect letters and perfect Keatsean syllaboes, still with its remarkable doudoublebleinging ofof everyeverything, as everyone as quoted his or her mirror imbrage as as sayn, and still (this note) so poignant because of the utter absence of suicide accompanying it. I mean, * [wife] and I looked all over for the suicide‑‑we searched to the sides of that little note (so fine it had to be held by caliper which were themselves wearing gloves holding calipers, and so on down the size-lineation for a while), peeped our dozes over the top, ducked awkardly under as if it had been a great dead car in need of destruction and repair, went round behind it, where we found, not the fresh-hung body of our little Fottworthy, but the entire universe in reverse, as if (we couldn't help and were therefore not prosecuted for thinking thinking) the note were a little joke, his first. But then, you see, I'd've thought the suicide'd been his first and only joke.  But it was either not a joke or a very tricky joke. So I guess, exhausted and swetzing as I crawled cutting my arse pr FUSE! ly on the idge of the polyrolled glass, the question was something like, "Where the hell is Fottsie?"‑‑which * and I'd asked foreverforthwidth. "I‑‑I dunno..." I said as I came out, and that brought down house within house within house. THINKING "DADDIO" That host had a lot of fresh cartridges.  He kept just sticking them in, to the effect of bringing out hundreds of our children gleaned as it wore from the dizzy fields of hyperreality or the mirrored-beams of conditionality or the rearward reams of immeramnesia, and there were many shots‑‑some from some sort of intricate crane, some swishing by on some sort of summative rails, some causing us to vex and vane through a blearious series of lenses, some of them like ancient Matthew Brady prints with the actual cracksters still imprimitur'd on the bleedin glass, and of course our Mutual Patented© Parental He Hea Hear Heart Hearts bleeding in recogntion as one sone after another, one luscious lickable little darter arfter arnorthor come toddling out to Ultra-Redundant Smudge-Spotlights© smiling like zillas as their uh folks ah recognizedem... And I remember how we lost Ube, or how, in the horizonless eventless horizon of the Game Show‑‑which was of course also a Talk Show an Attack Show a Stalking Show and, most of coarsely offal, a show that had been with us, like an uncleansed fucking placenta all of our lives, fliming and taping and wiring it all down, as if Quarl either 1) had been planning this kidnaping tale all along or 2) had power o move in time, which is impossible, or 3) was creating a great illusion, just like the ilusion of our kids cascading back to us with an unconventional uncovenant unkunk grunt of recognition, i.e., admission, i.e., confession (which is what is what which is the what which is the what the show which is all about)‑‑he came shuffling out in all his suave appearances, like naughthing so much as Algernon with his suave bow-tie and duded up in his Irony of Earnest, and he offered his hand to shake, but my hand‑‑besides a) having been removed, b) having been turned into that weightless ash the snakes you light for the Fourth of July, One Big-Fat Ashy Arme, forsooth, c) being as it was entwined about me wife's‑‑failed to come out for the shake, and he nodded knowingly. He was wearing these shiny shoes.  Of course! "I see there's a tear on your shiny shoe, Ube." He even looked down without a sign of his Weightless Botheration. "Yea, that's a big fat tear just a-achin' on my shoe, Dad." You'l notice he didn't say daddio.  But the beauteous bastard wa-was THINKING "daddio." And we three of us observed the tear, while the audience rustled with de cog in tion and the Usual Flashing Laughtererer, and then Ube looked up at me‑‑avoiding his mother's fucking eye, I couldn't help but nautilus, which fuckingeye was 1) falling out anyway and 2) made of something much much brighter and More Perspicuous than glass any way and 3) was caught in that huge loathsome lovely tear ANY WAY‑‑and disappeared in a sweet little poem: "Pleasure me, daddums," he said (with irony I assure you irony I assure you irony I assure you irony) I assure you, and he held forth from the flat bellyache I mean stomachic area, that is, the rectus abdomini-iality between his buttons a tiny portion of his gut. "Go ahead," Ube said, and I began to pull. And, friends, as I pulled outhis guts my son unraveled in the form of a beautioful poem, and a long time alter we were a glutinous Mountain of Tears while the crowd wauwed wauciously riled. LAUGHING GIZMOS Of course there was sparkling applause and the normal bellows of the infantile, but unfortunately Quarl unfortunately had wired me in to my kid's goddam guts, so this was really hurting me.  But "the prize lay sparkling at the edge of the salty waters," lay with its legs spread wide as a gasping surprise, so I pulled on, and out come the poem in its neat visceral lymes.  Every word rhymed, I assure you.  I mean, in our language‑‑which is pretty disgusting, I mean sophisticated, I mean tautologically quaffing its own tail as it reeled out its rather simple, rather turquoise, rather sublte little images. Surprising, no, for such a boy? In the evenings (and we're foring flashward here flashfor warding hear), Quarl'd have me and Zelzerea‑‑with whom the bastard was so fulsomely polite she gave indications of actual attraction to him, like squatting before him and nuzzling his lap and grabbing her firmly ankles backing into him as he talked, all of which he noticed with gallantry and contempt, his usual potion of desires, his general gallimaufry, his inevitable framography. He made silent singals so her gestures were like captured on snall, then digitally altered into something more pornographic hence innocent‑‑in to his cube, where we'd watch the "dailies," I think them'd call'red, and it was obvious from the [muted] sountrack that Ube was just screaming his guts out during that scene, that we had‑‑in that scene of which I am redly confexing, your honor‑‑a case of me tackling the boy (who couldn't run with his skirts falling all over the place like great skirtsy masculine caxcades) and holding him down with my foot whilst I disembowled him ("A sort of archetypal father thing," Quarwld drarwl as my wife smiled crosseyed from between his spredled Legges), pulling with muscular red arms in rapid sailor fashion, and it was clear he was dead within seconds, and that all the poetry and all the laughter‑‑not to mention un all the love‑‑'d have to be dubbed in (or "dribbled in" as Quarl liked to say as he cum in Zelzerea's ear, the cum coming out the other ear much to the delight of a billion patented photographs)... ...but (bfalcakshing fblaacsk to the hot floor of the show now show now show now and show now) it certainly seemed to me he was standing there, natty to the last, a mildly smiling skeleton reciting these simple and intricate lines.  Something must have been dubbed back into time, for this to be happening.  I mean, it's like life‑‑I just can't explain it, how it came about this way, how it came to be so painful, how it came to be torture so bad I was doing the torturing.  I believe the explanations lie in my (dead) son's rhymilingual poem. Though I know he was just screaming bloody murder as I murder-bloodied him! "There's a lot of blood in me dad," he was saying, reciting, incanting, and even the audience consisting of Laughing Gizmos also known as Gloazumghingos got their smiley-fazes hypnough'ed alter-a-while©.  He watched clinically sad while I pulled out more intestines.  I was sort of eager, sort of glad.  "Sometimes I say blodd when I mean blood," he admitted, and I pulled so hard my son just trieled around and round.  Already it seemed there wasn't much of him, but still the poetry come. TUMOR-LIGHTS!!! or "'EX'"-"'"HEAD"'" I had like this brain tumor growing in between the tissues of my inner head (not the head you can see, not the big, dumb-faced melon-head, but the inner head, going round, thinking its own lilliputian thoughts, making its own italic plans and sending them out on micrimagnetic beams incapable of making even the hue of a dream come trew), which‑‑as my tumor, Rafe, made me realize in a casual chatty way, his legs crossed in the circulating chair of the little interview show he was conducting in side, at the behest of the Quarl I regret touché inside‑‑was a function of the lights of the show, which I whispered to my wife. "I think they're using tumor lights on us," I said, my lips so distended they actually reenact the sinking of my friend the Titanic yet again, a fact inside a fact which Quarl‑‑into zooming into facts‑‑zooming right through, and into an iner fact which was inside this fact I am retaining like a disease inhere. Zelz had a tumor too, which toook wouldn't you this being Hollywood know the form of a beautiful blue opal round the outside of the neck of her inner brain, which is difficult to explain without bloughing up your head. I saw the tumor and my head blew up.  More crowds wide.  More of Quarl's "infanite pyrotechnics" (LeGorge de Quoak).  The head of my head blew up inside the pearl of her opalescence, and the crowd's lips blessedly didde bleeded in suffrance thereof, whereupon and in reverence thereto didde the head of this my head blow up too, which is the insinuation way to say I was running out of heads. I'm running out of heads, one of my heads thought it thought furiously (but it was wrong, being merely the mere shöckwäve of a just-exploded, effevescent particule of ex-"'ex'"-"'"head"'"), and then blows up.  Everyone likes this, I paused in my pulling of the guts to refulx.  I like this, too.  We all like this too much, and then the thought unthought because of its expotentially emplosive nature, It will never end!, which was certainly (BOOM!) true (BOOM! true!) or BOOMTRUE! Anyway, inside this tumor which I now‑‑now that I am well‑‑now that the blue opalescence of therapy hath healéd me so‑‑now that my wife's beautiful tumor has made her the Whore of the Galaxy‑‑now that I have no brains (not even those clear kind you get at the peculiar corner store in the corner of the corner, tucked darkly just out of memory and space) and nothing is true‑‑now that gorgeous presumption doth rule‑‑now that now-that rue‑‑ I notice there is a little Quarl directing a very different snall, or putting on a very much more modulated show, using some of the more advanced, phase-constat Clarification Focal Equipment™ of the Inner Quarl or the Inner Show of Quarl, known as the Bubble Show because it come from the bubbles of the apparently-underwater expalozium of all those heads the ache of the tumor cozzed, and in this innerer, betterer flim, I am merely Making Son Younger which I think it's safe to sway any father wants to do‑‑you now, shrink down that great dick he got from somewhere, shrink the bastard down, get to the silvery tinder of skin his homunculus be covere with that has something etched in it you can never understand, you can never understand, but you can see it, you can never understand, but maybe by pulling these guts i.e. years away you can see it... THE SPYRE OF THE BLOODLESS BLOOD The bit was popular.  I mean the show went over big.  I mean to say the shtick was fabulous, and Quarl‑‑who I think-weave all-learn'd was and/or is nothing and anything less or more than fucking ductible‑‑started stretching the bit, keeping the show going and torturing (with this special bright electricity, like faerydust used to torture writers) his torturing writers into torturing their writers into new routines, so for a while there (until I think this consciousness of me was cut) consciousness of me cut consciousness of me cut consciousness of me cut consciousness of me cut I fancied I was snowing I mean stowing...god-damn it, I mean sewing the fleshy shards of my old assistant's assistant. the oft-tortured ill-written Gounque GaPanne toward some ill-hewn swuorum of Togerneth Againe, he when I killéd him having "burst" in that verb "burst" in balloon-word b*rst! into various tethers of fractionation, like the flesh of your white dewy thumb that made you faint when you pulled its drenchéd bandage auf after one sick summer of sunder of sundrear of staying wet... But the light'syouknow'd come up and I'd ah drop what I was dewing, and my poor GaPanne'd rumble to the floor with that unhearable sound of indelible wet flesh, and I'd prick myself with a needle (I guess this happened many times, like in rhyme, or like in circles of a very hard pen) or pencil or when or whencil and jerk my hand toward my mouth for to sucke...but never quickly enough for a singular drop of my tendrously pale and pallid blood‑‑"bloodless blood" they were to come to call it in later circles of the Spyre of the Bloodless Blood‑‑to be fully snalled unto full in visibility so that gasping audiences here and at home and there within homes within various drops of earlier, similar, earlier, too similar simpilar blood like cartoon faces dying in italics of onionskin upun uniun-skim could see just how anemically hopeless my poor drugged blood blood was. In take after take we brought out my sons­­--hundreds of them, each carrying the distinct smell of one various kind of unknown, I mean, you could whiff these kids as they were variously dragged and sorted out, often pushed through some meniscus of subjunctivity, whereupon their rather cheesy auras'd aurased orRAHz'd reveal to me instantaneously just which son in which of my fucking partially-lived, part-fuckingfilléd phantasmagorgeoisifuckingties and these Good Kiddes, most of 'em, 'd come stumbling out in the most awesomely comely fashion, each dressed in clothes I suppose hose I sup hose hoze I sup ho's fashioned in the fashion of the compressed dimension of their times, each one (to me, this is all to me, all of this novel is a fucking letter to ME!) coming back to me with the comples chessiositiy of their fulsome smell, their not-fully-wholesome smell, their magic aura spell they had spell they had in lieu of a fucking perosnality, and the little part of me known as The Fucking Guy is the only part of the many sons of me eaten like a hungry Kronos who does naught ap ol o gize for the fucking use of the word fucking, which is his compulsiuon, hgis deed, his doing, his bloody idea, less idea than compulsion, less compulsion than an aspect of the very thin, very suffocant dimension he moveth within in in, his rule also applying by the why to fucked and fuck and to fucker as well, to fucker as well, known also and wider than all the dimensions moving like tissues inside of me as Fucker Ashwelle, my friend, my one created friend, the noy, on efriend issued forth in the froth of male importnet birth male im POTENT Birthe inside of me, the friend bustig out of my belly to visit me every fucking five minutes-to-three, my old pal Fuckhead, as I qall him behind his fucking back.  He's the only on ewho issueth forth that word, and the chorus of the rest of me--a chorus of bountiful boyes, forsooth--doth in unison apologize. I trust that clears that up--a clear statement, that, if ever that was. Anyway, there were so many sons that even my wife­--rendered as you must expect, rather whorish by the glitter and the glister of this event, not to mention her own plentiful sweat, not to mention the ever-swolting tumor that was starting to throttle her neck, thetby cutting into her soft sword swallow ing ab il it tease, because, you know, like neither of us'd even ever even steven stever-remebbered in rubber having these "rubber-dubber kids," all as I say bright and burning suns, suns of fusion, sons of confision, fucking bloody son after son after son (and with all those dreadful deathly clothes!!!)--but rather just and simply and simply wroght and well reound dead-and-put the four or possibly eight we remembered at least during those hypnopompic momentoes o' top o' th' greygrey th' mournin'. There wereby the way many rules, many a rules, governing all this, and a script, and some charts for the music--mostly some mechanical vergion of Handel--but I have forgote and have had been wipred to a crystalline perspicuity and cannot naught relkate dese notes, nor would I (we--still married even after I had to hose the sperm offa her weiner-plumpen body body body body body body body) relate the rules if we could, so there anmd there anmd there! SORRY CUBE I was losing vast quantities of money of course of money of course.   Somewhere outside this surprisingly soft bubble Quarl had divined, I sensed my many transparent boys.  They all looked like the image of Scottie on the desolate meniscus of a bubble or a desolate bubble or a Desolation Bubble, such as the jailed physicists say constitutes the non-event of our horizonless bubble universe, or bubbleverse, or Bubbaverx, which is this place where we live, in which something about the construction of the Intelligence Cube‑‑the very fucking excuse the fuckingsorry! cube (for I have a boy inside me to apologize, I am sorrough to say, but he is not the only part of me that can apologoze, so I'm sorry to tell you if you hear me apologize, it may or sorry naught be the Apology Guy) was making Quarl's work a much more sensitive, intelligent, audacious, colorful thing.  I mean, you had to love it, what with all thee sons and my wife just a lovely series of laughable holes filled with the flowing whiteness of a thousand grunting strangers, for in his snall Quarl in his Intellgience Cube in his entrapment in my jealousy and inside this rather tight, confining Net of Love I am sorry to fucking say that I have not mentioned, has become quite psychic, despite of himself, quite the fucking psyching, "in fucking sorry spite despitting o' hi'self," as the Bardwood never say. So I was being gutted, too‑‑with much hilarity, but by this time, buriéd in this plethora of steaming thing poppable POPpable POPPABLE pabable PAPable SONS, I was feeling nothing of it, and my wife was flowing in sperm, and I could tell her excitement went beyond the boundaries of faith (for have I sorry mentioned our faith has these bounds, these constrictive plugs, these fucking wedgies widged inside the very hornhole of fate, also teemed as the wormholes of spate, none of wish we have here), and was hence perennially a Flowing Figure of Fun, much funnier than I, I might add, who was only going greyer greyier and flowing with fate, and embracing one after one these heretofore nonexistent hence nonknowen Sonnes, each of whom burst like an ill-made plastic satellite or a dismal sun yoking its fusions out of yore or a hollow cork imploding with the dash of a father's dark wine, or a metaphor dripping from its beaming lisps with yet more cum, or a simile somewhat like the metaphor above (see METAPHOR ABOVE) there being no metaphor above no God above except as I have mentioned The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony The Thirteen Fathers of Agony. DISPROPORTIONAL LIVES Letters are missing, despite their faint phosphorous efferprescient glough©, and we are crawling round the cutting-room floor of the cutting-room floor (the floor itself having been cut, savagely, many many times by its own Black Lover), slipping the letters in between our lily-libbered, much-too-used "lips or 'quoting theselves "lips" unquoting ourselves' lips"... Quarl has made this ripe, aristocratic gesture and let us (we‑‑the blinking little fish if his imaginations! we!)‑‑us! come into the Cutting Room which keeps flistering backforth like the surging swathes of the swath on one of those edgelessly phosphorescent oceans down on Bloomoordia, wish is where I‑‑translucient polywoggish prototype!‑‑was born washborne Väshbourne, which is the name I give up outside these onions of parentheses) onions of parentheses) onions of parentheses) onions of parentheses) onions of parentheses) onions of parentheses) onions of parentheses) onions of parentheses) onions of parentheses) onions of parentheses), flickering, I believe my rival tried to say (that guy whio began this sentence...don't listen it him...) between a consice and cubic or xoxixe quang quuquuik cutting room and some fancy-by-the-same-name-same-as-a-trice trice dive, so sometimes we were crouched by his groin, watching him gut great gobbets of our diSProprOrtIONal liVEs and catching wim wut grape qotlets fum gouer xives, other times we was like sittin' at this big round table like, sharing drinks and jokes on a legally-guaranteed Equal Basis (based on the Equitable Bases Law of the Equanimious Congresse of that most Equö year, 38967, which was as they'd try to say (except that there was no SOUND in that year), "one prettye coole Yeare"), but even then‑‑during those foreflingers of the union when I stared straight into my cosmicolorful drink, one sensed the guy was taking one's stuff away...perhaps something in what he was saying (which was you might say incomprehensible), perhaps something...in...the...d...ri...n...k. Uh, but he was poofed prozousely on this big flamebuoyant cigar, billowing out great train-choochoose of sboke, chomping in a guaranteed way, and suddenly my God seeming himself indignant at his own quid retro pro dequo of events, seeming verdantly (for this was also me with the wind of one of those o-pen-aer-ed flitters swooming lough over the bluu Bloomoordian trickle-thippet-twimberlandes©, taking in a plum'd infinitude of infantile leaves) resolute, i.e. verdantly resolute, to cut out this whole show we'd just sweated ourselves sexless (or was it sexéd oursmelves swetelexx?) to flim, and entire decade agonies of aches were flwoing fluidly on the floor, making it even harder to find those letters wh t ha  g ne... PRETTY FUCKING SUSPICIOUS It must have been a commercial during the show, or a dark commercial as seen through a magnifying glass, or a dark, uncertain part or partial part of the snall clipped in the late depressive afternoon, for I was hunched in a dark coroner off the stage, in a sort of cube of nonlight, or moonlist monolight, and my petrified, fried, frazzled, spectacled skin was flaking off, so it was like some sort of gloomy, haunted-house hauntbooth parody of a snowglobe, with my skin turning slowly in what slowly came to slowly look like purified clear molasses flowing toward its goal, its soft and distant goal, its everprescient evervescient goal targeted for totrure like my soul, and I was accompanied by my family, many slim nonentities, but very intense, pressing up behind me trying to overuse the phone, for I was at this glittery little (black) phone, I was making a lot of calls, only‑‑because Need to ReMemember this was only a dream as projected from my captive massah's Intelligence Box, and he was snalling all right, he was shoooting almost totally black cubes of snall full of flimsy feeling, or full of flesh, rather, which was way too flimsy for the emotions and the sons welling up the sons foaming like the transient animosity of the shores of a poisoned sea, O the Shores of a Poisn ed Tree, or the Swores of a Poirinoid Bee, and my eyes were wide as I felt I swear I felt and I felt my swearing smelt my innermoss or innermoth guts© melting away in great silly strings along the cutting-room flo', fo', this being a sort of a dream of an endlessly uh reviséd snall-O, one found oneself back in the cutting room agaian and agin, only this time, there was mirth in the smoke, there was a mirthful smokefill'd firths of the frorth of the sectors of idiocy Sectors of Id I Ocy ragin on the floor of this thing, which tunréd out (me covering the mike with my stiff and overfatherly partiall-fingerprinted palm palm palm) to have an absolute palimpsest of out-cut stuff‑‑the best, most infintiely plotless snall in the world, the coils having oils aving wound ound round uonf one ne another nother forming one endless infinite ring, like the groove of a Möbius record loop?, a Möbius record lööp!, a Möbius record löö löö lööp!?, so I was burrowing round, losing now and then a son cut through by the merciless nesh messs of the gnoops, the fucking feathery ceuloid gnoops!! which hewéd dem thru, squinching these old eyes beyond their ovoid belief, I mean relief, squinching and squsihing and otherwise scrinching mine eyes till the aqueous humor just burst out, and One was bathed in Sarcasm (you remember this scene), laughing and chattering madly to many a person on the phone.  Retruning to the subject of the phone, it I had all their numners, which was Pretty Fucking Suspicious (but then what's not PFS, enh?), and I was huslting or trying to hustle or in some sense trying to access the verb HUSTLE up some dough, 'cause on this show I was like losing all my dough, not to mention my semiimaginary pohantom mythic lovely prettyboy Sons, not to mention my poor wife drowning in cum, occaiosnal liquified burps burs tthrougj... Well, I fine al ly had her, or "had" her, so to speak.  I could not resist putting quote marks around "speak," making it like the small pukinese puudle she usurped "'squeak.'"  I closed the surprisingly fine and filigreed door on the surprisngly fine mahogany cabinet Quarl had had had made, all of witch make me feel quite poewrful, so, feeling quiet porderful, I sashayed with these great cut, bufféd pecs back to our table, where, sitting in a series of motions not seen since the swoony first scene of Shakespeare's First Scene on TV, I half-lowered one great blue eyelid at her, forgetting entirely to make the rest of my face, my head altogether, much less another eye, but it was quite a wincing "wink" I gave that babe, as I smoothly oppoed opened one of those Altoid-mint cans to reveal a sessile hand offering her a hand offering her a hand offering her a hand offering her a hand offering her a hand offering her one of our turquois "Oo-Monstrosities©," of which rare pills I had but two, except they are not pills but sinewaves into some dithering future so very labile with pleasures it just panders on its back and coos, except we had but a limited supply, in the sense that each time anyone took one‑‑by which I mean "each time anyone tunred into a pink sineweave paraarlalleel to the First Sinewave (e.g., the Sinewave of God, God's First Fluorescent Thought, God His First Turquois'd Thought, God in HIs Poised Blue Thaught) and disappeared into the manifold balms of the palmy pox"‑‑a small but pellucid slice of flesh (generally or usually from the side, right blough the libs...right there) disappeared from everyone's body, so as you might within the confines of this sentence this sentence I have sentenced you too imagine just how dosapproved vuv! this drug or wavelength or smug or slavewenph wav... She was not one not to take what was not denied her, no, let me not fail to tell you now naught naow!  Yea, she took, in a word she TOOK, even before I in my politnese created for me yet another eye, fillig the rube, by wish time having an eye, much less innumerable eyes, war moot... SPECIALTY KNEES "I want to see every perl of that frigging snall," quoth then-detective Farge, now serving time in a sweltering crystalline jail lodged a pearl orbiting one of those very lozenges, I mean one of thoise ev er ry loz en ges, but that's another story, or the translucent winding tail of the snake of the spiral of the lymphic floughing event horizon beyiond the ken of this tale, and anyway, Farge he Fargeily forceth all his minions--boys and girls, men and women, laughing sheep and bahaaing gotes, to crawl on their hands and knees (for those not having knees, knees were issues specially, i.e., specialty knees) picking up each Bursted Pearl from the burst-perl of that insidious Quarl---obliviously a lawyer at heart no-heart--who blough oughp his entire flim. Nor did Farge refrain nor delay his desire to...how shall I put this, in what delicate, diaphanous way...his lust to fuck the butts, shall we say, of each and every little minion who was crawling awound, wounded and on specialty wounded knees I might add but I will not add nor deny that I ever add, your honor, add not this to the record of my sins O God, but just let me FINISH FLAYING THE BOY from the butt outwards, foir he (Farge) issuEd ordeurs that they should search in this wise and manner with their pants and their poanties and their subpoanties and their intimate intimacies DOWN, so as these dozens of multicolored creatures crept around the increasinglky cwamped and laughingly callEd "space" calling itself (muutering "space") "'space'"--which was, I hath to add, collapsing in upion itself in Quarlzuz effort to diminuke the bomb.  I fear I did naught putt that right.  It hath missed the Hole! But Farth missed nary a hole, butt mounted and rode and filled up every butt that `was so high in the air, he being as he himself poredicted in a seance in which that `fameuz seanx in which we all saw Farge loosing coontrool, drooling and looxing kuntroole, for he had jism for each and every one, comic laughable spoermn which I might add made them all lodged thick in their murk-lensey goggles largh hysterically, which helped them pick up Quarl's virus-infuckted and laughing self-destructive poearls, he (Quarl having entered in some sort of soft sweetly creeping Vuor Virus, the introdiuction and creation here of THE VUOR VIREX, so them cels or little tuirquioise oplals or microstompicke Pieces of Tiome were Time were creeping into noithjingness...IU mean to say they were SHRINKING to the rapping tomb of perfection, I mean infection, I mean BOTH THINGS SIMULTANEOUSLY, I mean and i mean and i mean and i mean, and that why life like a knife is torture. But anyway, as I say, anyway, I say, anwayfarhg didde have hise waye, reeaming the arses of his seeking minions. Hence, perfection.  Hence completion and one might say doggEd salvbation. Hence, they retrieved every instant of Quarl's blknow up bit of evidence, and they gathered it in a bag likke sweet semen--seeping bags of those fucking berries--you know, FUCKBERRIES, forsooth, fuckberries, fickberries, even fockberies, as the Frenck did they ecist would say, and it was presented bagwise to the fuckedout, engagingly satisfied and hence somewhat closer to being what I 'd haced o call a human being, nor do I hesitate, being aS I AM COURT-INJUNCTED to call him an almosat=human-beiong, anbd he smiled and nodded and gave the underlings a bonus in the form of another big boner on the cheek, presin g against the soft indentation of each of their stretched cheeques, colming freely and freely-coypy-coopiuously of his goop upon each and every Radiant Face, which I think made them beautiful, which maketh me gladde, as I am once again couret-ordeur'd to see thgem as beautiful, with the cum of their boss drooping down the sides of their melting face they having they having they having caught the virus from the cum, and therefore thereby therego disapreaing from the story at hand, their exciting victimized story available only in the realms of the deralms of the Smaller Fonts, from Smmarfont Novels, Inc., a holy owned subsidiary of Farge Enterprise, who being as I have failed to devulge incipiently in love with a number of at this stage unthought hence unnamed personages excellently pronal to this tale, went into each and every shrinking instat, each brightly dying instant, every flame of that flim burning with the incontained emo-tions, falling therefore quite psychotically in love with, most especialy Lorenz Chabble, our threadbare barely--hero(ine), watching his wife's eyes turning dark with self-induced whoredom and heroin, not to mention the sacual constant lovely thought suicide, engaging suiciide, getting upo in the morning only to commit suicide, b ased on the failed speculation, and when I say speculation IO mean prayer, that one would die in the s'leep of the goddam dying night. But no such bletsing, or "ka-shnoo bletzing," as it scald in the maniere of a nseeze.  And this detective, now an asynchronous part of this whole-whople story-opley, which god gamn him will have to now have to be now written all over again, to weave the sneakyt bastard in, though I hastily add he "kept it in his pants," because, in these shrinking crystrals he laughed hysterically at a frozen deed, a dangling phrase, a misbegotten yet somehow madly blessEd tangle of langluage, as he did indeed fallin love with the loving jkunky too, and with the other contestants, and with a fair share of Mr. Chabble's quasihystericamaginary "'sons,'" too, I say "sons, too," even as their father scruzed them and died, lied, his penis being myusteriously invoklved in this whole tbhing, just as my long penus wath envolved THAT old thing long-passed and over There. THE ONLY SOUL IN TORTURELAND So I'm moving uneasily through the depths of this snall.  Technical help is out of the question in thius situation. Quarl arranged so that each perl of his snall was snallically inside the pearl of the perl before, or the curl of the twirl before, or "the tuerl of the ere-qurl" as a million dead Frenckmen would, coughing, say, so it's getting very thick, as she walks backward toward the big pearly bed, itself an abundance of circulatory effusion, itself flotational and neogravitational©, itself a high-tech bed, a cutting-edge if you will bed bed, a bed of a frenck-fuching bed, the Very Latest Bed, a bed so new it might be or purple-stinging Maye Bee Quarl in his beeziness hadn't even had time even with time stopped to fuck her there, so she might you know gain a vergion of visionity if, as it appeared, she was going to spraddle backwards on that bed for me. And in this Fantastical Fantasy I was trying to loosen my panties, but my dark, purple panties wouldn't loosen for a while‑‑for a very extednable longlongue While!, as if they were more painted on than panties painted on than panties painted on, and also kept having to pull things out of them, things caught in my panties as in the extra-strexable Panties of the Dream in which you have to keep pulling Weird, indecipherable and/or undefinable Things or "Things" or "Things!" out of your panties, it being weird you dont have to tell me that I unlike everyone in all my novels was wearing panties anyway, panties not having been invented in this downsphore or dunestore of the timespore, or‑‑to speak lexx-axxuraquely‑‑ panties having been diligently de-invented time and again by the nosy little timequarlers timequarlers new invention timequarlers who are always lie bigs interfering with things, these being being being being being beings who went insane‑‑heaven only knows only Why‑‑and 'gung obzetsed with "keeping the timeskein clean" (their phrase, from one of their empty pantlets, I mean endless pamphlets) it seeming ironic‑‑at least and only to me, me being the only soul in Tortureland O! the only soul in Tortureland torutred with irony, "tortured by the torpoture of the ironee," as their pamphlet about me "said" and still in the interskeins of time must still may heaven holpme say‑‑that the bustling bulbous little timequarlers themselves wore panties, which they probably would say if you could ever you know see one on'em they were necessary for the job‑‑the job, you'll recall of deinventing panties whereever we go. Except apprently, in my finally having Maaeeaa, or this even sexier because hollow and obviously filléd with air simulacrum of Maaeera here (and what's with all those vowels? she must be a real hole I thought de-light-a-cite-dead-ly), and the sound of the word of those parnethese going round in my head, holeholeholehole-holeholeholeholeholeholeholeholeholeholehole, kept knocking echoes in itself or th eetched of echos on the iron hide of one of those big-ball'd fuck-machines they built during the awful phase, those awful times I haven't mentioned because not invented yet when the women, such as they were, got disgusted and left, coming back, such a they then were, at the end of a millennium of millennia, at which point we'd gone through allforms of horn and come out way too ghostly for sex, so sex had to be invented again...but it wasn't right...it wasn't just the same, by which I probably mean it just wasn't the Swayme. And this was the sex we were hopeably going to have here, with this Many-Voweléd Lady backing me in endless serpentinity, except I kept afeelin' abustlin' o' stuff in the cock o' my crotch, and I kept pulling out many a dark and nonexistent fabulation of dream-fruit and dream-devices, dream-organs and the occasional note of music which was however not from a dream, and also Efector-Dieutesiant Farge of the‑‑what was it?‑‑"Medial or Someshit Sector Police" or at least his face interwoven into my panties in the reek of some offworld reqrite, written like this in the absence of hope, written like this...in the Absence of Hope... THE DEFENDANT OF THE DREAM Aw mannn...I'm shakin' the wet rubber surface of the wetrubber© skin of my face as this next scene begins, your honor, as I try to get to the murder scene as required, your multiplex Honorarios dunking my wet rubber fazes witheir sprays. In one dream I mean one dream, at least I'm thinking it was a dream, the high card, after all, of a gold deck of dream poggibilitrees fanned out like a trick deck in my hands, at least I think they was hands‑‑the Judge rammed his gavel and stood up with an Enormous Bone and pointed.  "Defendant [that I believe was me‑‑the Defendant of the Dream] is sentenced to be bent over in my chambers, there to be fucked to death by me in full view of everyone." WHAM! and then a lot of echoless chambers of laughter laughing me down to the pink post-hysteria I always feel that I always "feel" when coming back down from that particular nombreless drug, the one they were too scared to try out on anyone after me, accusing I mean assuming I ever cam down from that partcular trip number nine nine nine oh! one. You can appeal your case, of course‑‑we latched on to that one in a big way as we played and played the viragoze© of waves from the deadly spray we caught and catch as catch-spam from the red-death deathshift of your huhu "unwaveling wadios"!‑‑all the up to the sky, but you can appeal your bloody case one too many times, and I (I!) had appealed mine way too many times, so I am clutching the groin of this testimony, if you will, up in the pure puereuthic vapeurs© beyond even the gods of ther Torturing Gods (now that's a relief!)‑‑who were the one who tortured the Torturing Gods into being such rough fellows in the Firgsed plasche‑‑and it is all too rarefied and inevitable and "horrig" in the sense of horrigadiggdig, much like the neural strands of ink ink memory being tweezed out in one long liquid stretching howl, I mean haul. I know what I meana. OK, so here it is, Your Plethoras:  I fell forward on her on the bed, at least I thought she was beneath me and that it was she beneath me, and that it was a bed, and that I was I, etc. You can quite naturally, or at least of course, see the Seamless Insidious Symmetry of Conditionals he(Quarl)'d slant me into, slit me into, pitched me ento, and slick't me untwo. But far from getting that Mysterious Bone and Rub we've never despite laws and centuries of innuendo beribbed ourselves of-ununto, it was like mounting some spoilt piece of fruit, albeit we are talking giant fruit here, using Giant Fruit words from the Giant Fruit Verbs of that Giant Fruit Language of those gianfrui-tu-tongues of the giafrugods on the polystellar supergifr-planes mounting an evil artist's illusion of a woman (his woman!‑‑that or at least this 'swat seem so unfair to me), really more like a half-empty highlyrupturable pogguibladder©, for the bastard at this point in the snall he'd duped me in had no more need for the story, hence the story end, and there she was, as blind as dead could be and in a deadnened rain, to boot... ...at which point of maybe point my life rebooted, as it were, and gub me the sleepy beep of Artificial Rebirth 1001, birth without pain nor inspiration, much less any form of Warm Fucking Liquid Fucking Flowing, but just the Forms of the Liquids of her body, on my hands your honor, but not, er, of my doing....exactly. I mean, sure I killed her, but it was him you see.  I mean, it was his snall, where I thought we was just loving...see? WORDGOB! or KEROUAC ANYWAY Not so much rain as mud started falling in my head‑‑that's in my head, or what's left o' me head, a spattered monument of a cracked soft-boil with its dome intact only in the unfudged memoires of the backbrain, published in three edition as Memoirs of the Backbrain:  Unfudged and translated as if it were Twain into more languages than there were, the translation-translate-transscribeur one of those uh peculiar airy little Biomechique Maschines they were so fond of building for (they fancied it punishment!) punishment punishment punishment punishment punishment punishment punishment fucking punishment just got carried away with the eere aire of the metafaires at the big dodgy MetaFair© they had in which these biomechs as I have said crawled or seeped or otherwise otherwise cluxturd demselves, if you can call dem "selves" around this book in which my cracked skul held high the firmament of the alignment of the syzygy of the crazy stars (what would Kerouac say, and what fucking drug-drunky fuck-fudgy kinda name is Kerouac anyway?), any way you slice it, I was sliced up.   Scene Deleted in which someone looking a lot like Jack Kerouac & saying he is Jack Kerouac beats the shit out of the Author. Nothing new here.  This guy seems to pride himself on being at the bottom of the literary pecking order of the Whiteguy Literary Tradition, psychoses & all. Videlicit: Hemingway creamed him.  Sylvia Plath massacered him.  Now Kerouac.  Hell, if you can'ty fight, learn to keep your mouth shut, Hampton!      I apologize for the boxes.  You are not to believe anything in the boxes unless otherwise advised.  Do not read any boxes when they come up. Rather, skip to the paragraph beloqw the box which will tell you whtewhr or not to read the box.  Usually, as in this case, it will be no.  You should not read the boxes.  The boxes contain semantic viruses sent back from the far-distant future in the form of patterns of words intended to words intended to take over your mind. It's all some artistic plot from the end of time or some shit‑‑not really any of our affair, in my view. The boxes cannot be deleted.  Period. I apologize for th eincursion of metafiction & metafictional motifs & all the dreary superficiality & fancy-ass't self-referentiality that metafiction implies goddam it goddam it.  There was to be no metfiction in this weird novel.  Or poem or wordgob!!! or whatever. Now back to our story.  The snall‑‑OK, the real snall, the flim noire that that clever Quarl made whilst starving in the Intelligence Boit stupid me put him in (recappping the plot for you before the aliens eat your brain there brains there brains there and brains there)‑‑was called Sttäääb!, and was the hit of the century, each cute little cell somehow technology molded unto these monstrosities‑‑butcher knives if you will, sentient butcher knives if you won't, butcher knives undoingall the healing of all the worlds (rhetorically squeaking) from the spart of stime, in which the various tissues of what we laughingly and giggling likea bunch of behead girls call Time, and naturally it featured me, holding the butcher knife that you will recall was the Eye of the Inhabitant or the Brain of the Reviewer or the Vast Metaphorica Containment Phrase of the Critic critiquing his white ass right off in the slough of desert whims. Only in the real snall‑‑the illusory snall, that silly heartbraking game show that still goes on foreve in the backbrain's backbrain, who hath published in his quaint and ancient world (illergic to techgnomony), The Game Show Book, made for the coffee tables of the Guards, I'm here to tell you I'll tell you I am telling you the verb has grabbed my throat and is ghghgh ghghghg telling you‑‑in the real snall, I say, I of course am the stabber, holding your balls or your cunt as the case may be in my warped, tetanic hand, such that you know you're never gonna get free...ony only only here, in the real snall once the skin and the skein and the trim and the train of the Olde snalle hath been peeled off of my cranial fugging uh "brain," Im stabbing my daiughters, stabbing all these little girls, and, weeping, I can say zi am not a man, I can say these were real little girls...there were three of them, I stabbed them to pieces, I halfway lopped off their heads and split with my knife you'll member my knife in their crotches & their arses. This was the part a possibly angry Quarl and molded for me, the part of the psychopath, but only a partial psychopath, unable yasee to uh walk that path of the freezing heads and lop-toff genitalia and utterly unthstoppable bloods of many colors (little Quarl touch here and there and there) without the help of his Friendly Talking Knife (that's butcher knife‑‑that's you). EUPHORIC ENTHUSIASM AND METHAMPHETIC CHATTER Dr. Chook, whose qualifications as a doctor were all but purged from him in the Great Soma Smurge of 38975-89 and then again from 38989-92, in which the titled remained while the knowledge was gone, so he was nothing more than an adolescent nut albeit a grey-haired, whitecoated adolescent nut glowing like some etheric noval star within the mind of the Great Sentient Star, and handsome as hell having your knowledge sucked away like that makes you very, very handsome: it's a basic Beauty Modality here, which is why our actors need to be led around by the nose or other protruberant organ, a soppy thougght, a sarry thaght, with which we now return you to your scheudle of Regular Eclipse and injecting me with something known as a1+s2pa-10te10of = f(uck!)12am-21e, which gives me the Big Breathtaking Eyes of a Neuomar Postshariff, such that woman wange ways to be with me, follow me, hurling themselves along the tracks I am chugging or rather choughing (my lungs rendered permanently diseased by the big quack's zitty shot) down or up, depending on the whim of your sexual axis as defined or defiled or deflimed in the cartoon Sexial Adolatlas, so that my conscience swollen either by dope or sleeplessness or Quarl or Quarl's evident control of these afrorementioned factors carries Gorgeous Severed Legs and Aristocratic Arms over the shoulder, none of which makes me look anymore any more innocent, but all of which fuels the fires of the women if my passion, that is, the passion of the women of my fire, soon to be known as the women of the fire, but not by them, not even in the book they inhabit that I keep leafing through on the train as it rides through a series of rotten stars in scrofulous galaxies or falaxies in pestilent spaceglobs spewing their opulent spaxegrobz© and other wormy alien terms, which further interreflects the interreflective mirror universe of photonic feedback with turns my new life of fame into a constant fucking howl. I don't get laid once, getting laid being a very elaborate and highly legalized affair which has long since been dismemebered and boiled and eaten by a madman who won't give it back, so we can't hardly get laid except on the days when the eyes I mean ice I mean eyes melteth off his face, and I'm always on this circulating metallic lonely metaphoric fucking train, encircled by women pusling in their prime but and this is the point far far far outside the triple-confines of the train or the fatetrain I ride sometimes in a bag undertheneath of...so what are my chances? Famous, feared, loved, and constantly masturbating in the dark, then lifting the shade to see it's all in headlines‑‑all of it! I had my awful-poxial spateafame, and then the charges begun. This was all going according to Quarl's whim, which was either Quarl's plan (unlikely) or Quarl's great good luck as gifted by the Thirteen Torturing Gods (much too likely, hence impossible), who are always looking to beef up the torture scroes in their respective plates, which is the name they camm their broken, china univerts. For once everyone had seen the snall, and believed it, and realized what a psychopath I was and had always despite my days of glory in many a fulsome flower garden a murderer‑‑a slasher, forsooth‑‑at which realization the flim war rereleased under the title Slasher!, and we go all-round a-gain. Just about the time there was Euphoric Enthusiasm and Methamphetic Chatter of a sequel‑‑or, better yet, of a new snall in which I just get ever-so-endlessly flayed‑‑the charges came down.  Quarl peeled away the aspect of Stab and revealed it was all a documentary about my murdering his wife.  It seemed to me Quarl should have gone to trial with me, but he was in an Intelligence Box, and therefore have I mentioned this immune, and he had connections, and those Gos13, and so on. GUILTIFIED Living was is as confused as you no doubt are in a not easy.  I I fantasy seemed to be dragging my Sweet Deflated Victim‑‑who of course may neverve been alive‑‑down or rather up a long or rather endless hollow hall or rather hollow howl, which was like the inner ear of a victim, I say the inner ear of a victim, diminishing in size like all the time, like forgive me for mentioning that endless sewerage pipe you crawled so bravely down, falling at ultimate length of a multiple football field into a great Shawshank of puke before your outpoppling eye eye eyes. Anyway, suffice it to say wanted to be tried.  I to mean I wanted I go to trial.  I'm saying I get it over with, but to get to courtroom wished to I the had to drag this fucking corpse‑‑which was through the labyrinthine inweaved cat's cradling reasonings of my Legal Team, consisting of every lawyer who died whilst winning a case (this is mandated, this is the law, one always questions the law in the same way a white doe questions her won headlit wonderings), necessary to my defense.  A simple trial, all in all, I was supposed to take the stand with Maaeeaa's sweet corpse in my lap and give out testimony, which here means and here means and heremeans and mheearnes I will have a boner so impressive it will make the women faint, if not die‑‑which is certainly a part of our legal system I can get behind, get behind and goose, if you knowwhatImean, get behind and push, see, sorry to be such a goose, but I was guilty coming in and would be glazed with sweet gilcaeze (see cryogenic ice glaze) when I left, because they was gonna freeze me sure. I also had the butcher's knife, which you will recall was the Minicam© Quarl© was using to Stuff Your Eyes inmetaphorically speakingto it, so so speak, but the cam was empty now, the snall was over now.  I kept testing the walls to make sure I wasn't in a snall, but I became exponentially increasingly sure it was no longer a snall, that my friend Quarl had like settled into his little triumphant box‑‑perhaps and poxxibly glad, forsooth, to be reft of his immoderate intelligence‑‑though it might be a poem, I foundling and immoderately, I mean involuntarily I mean thought as I pushed through the door, only to see the judge was being played by none other than the famous Robmey MaQuur, so belovéd that even his asshole had had a spread of color photos in the Magnifying Magazine, Magnaizfiynieng, but I still didn't feel like I was On snall.  I mean, as I held that crumpled balloonish sort of body oer my shoerldoer, sniffing and hugging and covered with incremental dewdrops of karmic sweat, I did not Your Honor‑‑hey Rob!‑‑feel the stab and stabbing of Mr. Quarl the plaintiff's plait\ntive fucking snall. So this snall, Guilt!, was of course the biggest hit yet, everyone now enjoying my immuneness to the idio-filmic-synchronicities, the Quarlean niceties, for, you see (and this will suddenly clarfiy All to you, so very un ex pec te lie), my part was left unwritten...or to put it another way, myy paartt waass llleffftttt uuuuunwriiiiiiteeeeeen, so I could sit there and be guiltified boning the dead lady and testifying all along, digging my ass into an endless mountainous carphole of fools, with me the darkbrown grinnig racially-fucking-slurred King of the Shithole of Fooles, your honor, Rod, ey! "I dunno," the "Judge" was '"saying.'"  Huge elliptical egglamps illumined his every word, yet he still couldn't read it.  The judge's brains were all in his mangifying glass.  I mean, if y'all craned y'all's neck to see y'all'd see it was his brain was being magnified in the limpid but redundant lense of that macroscupolical Eye, instead of, say, just your‑‑and when eye say your eyemean his own generic parenthetical ellipsical xiclical I‑‑ordinary bloBLOODSHOT!odshot eye thus and hence magniMAGNIFIED!fied eEYEye. He was looking up the law, which was contained in the print of a very fine-printed book‑‑negative typical typeface Fascia -101, and on ill grey inkink to bööt-te-tööt, though the böök was nell-wigh neighty denough to crush his death I mean desk right into his own kap-laughing lap (on which danced you can bet there many a "ripe and oily babe," laughing with the juices of her floozy hormoanal floaze), and he seemed to be making quite a sincere effort of it, which mean:  1) he not in a snall, 2) he in a snall trying to get out, or 3) his part be as unscripted as my, which 1) give me a potshot at freedom, doedn't it?‑‑freedom and punishment being the what same they damned are in this darn place. OF LOVE We, meeaaning meeaa aaeend Maaeeaa, met, and there cum this naked green trush up my ganjly spyng, complete with the Instantaneous Steaming-Off of Clothes, making a very ripe salad for the Underworld, there they do nothing but tag around in rags and beg and and bowl all day, only there is no day, only there is no "is" in the Underworld, only there is no Underworld, at long last!, when one is love, I mean in love, or as in my case of love, and the spindly firescence of silly green buds, with me blurning into a great and yearning tree and a sapling forsooth within the mid-verse of some druggy pome by the Poet of Greenness, Efuor Veshients, and Maaeensa looking on, also naked, but her reactions unreadable, her cunt at once glistening and dry.  She could be feeling anything.  She must be feeling something!  I even as my dismal bark closed in around me found me almost wishing she would laugh.  If she would laugh, that would be something, other than a woman and a naked tree, I mean a naked woman and a tweetling, puerile tree blowing its native whistle in incommunigrotto wins. {END FIELD} POWER or LAUGHING THEIR ASSES OFF AT THE PROXIMITY OF ETERNITY Quarl was mad.  His face was so flushed it was black, and I suspect ev er y cor pus cule in his body was dying with rage in the confines of that fine in-box-éd face, yet he kept on snalling, turning the white crank faster and fatser in time to ur fucking. For me and Maaeeaa or some porno star in the spitting image of Maaee aa though we've all seen those bubbles that bubbles that pop right over your head containing the thought Hell, Maaeeaa IS a pornstar, because who the else could a heequarl ermarrye?...a-and the-the bu-bubble stang too, didmn't they? such was the power of the {END FIELD} power they didde carrye was merging, all right, the field of my cock to the field of her cunt, what with her hands grabbing her feet behind her ears, metaphorically speaking‑‑all to Quarl's Instruction, all to Quarl's Direction, all of it to Quarl's increasingly fulsomely close Injection, till it didn't take an "unvox'd idiot," as they wants to calla me to see just who was getting done over here. It was Maaeeaa‑‑using her elbow or her knee I'm guessing, I not having worked out the tedious lusty physical details of this thing‑‑who with a poke or else a kick shut down Quarl's excessive Isay Quarl's ex CESS ive l!ghts and the reeling of his endless white tapetaking in as it were the juice and the grut and the thuxt of EveryThing©, and all at once at was dark and she was whispering, "Come this way," and while I later learned that I was to much later learn that one day long after they stopped counting "days" but were only laughing their asses off at the Proximity of Eternity or the Eximity of Procturnity© that the snall keptagoin, our groins kept apumpin, and that somewherezup (sigh) there (shigh!) in that grosser flesh of the level of reality (sssiiiiigh!!) it was Kock & Kunt und Kokke & Kuntte Galore, I might add, such a snall did he make too hot to handle, which was the first little legal problem I won't get into it now that our friend Quarl in his box in his Quarl in a box started having. But we‑‑we meaning Our Lady of the Vowels and Me‑‑we lounged in the beautiful Doughnut Lounge of the Glass Pati oof the End-od-Time Boutique of Le Cafe Beautiful, or The Cafe Beautiful, or whatever.  All I know is they had a lot of lovely pinque doughnuts there, les doughnuts pinques being one of their singular specialties‑‑dual specialities, actualment, with small turquoise doughnuts I say small but turquoise doughnuts being a nother one of their specialities, specifically the other of their two specialities, and I do er remember we were up to our laps in dponoughts of many a size and a color, me having lied about the speciality there, but having cleared a cool 50,000 bucks with that lie, proving that in the world of the future you can make big moneys with a simple lie, paying only the price of the price of the price of the price that you'l never see that money, not even a shift polaroid or a fast proximity on some self-involved bald nerd's silversrün©. (So it was alternately called Chez Doughnuts Pinques: .si taht ,esrevinu rorrim a ni.) Just kidding.  Anyway, doughnuts, clearly of the Delicious Dream variety, and as I say of every size and color‑‑some small enough to pass for a delicious Cheeriosome big as a tire you floated in the cream of round your waist, some of many an indetemrinate yet self-temrinaitng (even some made of cfire! that's‑‑FIRE!) hue, mosty a pastel hue, and with the nameless fluffies all over them, delicious doughnuts of love for milady and me. She clearly had something to say while the great snallic humping of our bodies occurred "up 'there.'" THE CRYSTALLINE COUNTER OF THE DOUGHNUT-FLIES or TOO LO-GI-STI-CAL-LY SWEET Most of these doughnuts are too small, I recall frowning down at a doughnut, which frowned down at the thought of a smaller, microdoughnut thinking that thought down to some micro kitchen where I was helping to dry the hell out of things.  And my thoughts keep going down to refry I mean destroy the doughnuts of thought down on the thoughtless lower levels‑‑the levels, to dispense with the metaphor which took the form of these fucking italics!, on which all thoughts were lovely pastel doughnuts of a countless hue, and they the thoughnuts, spent a lot of time frying and destroying themselves. "Doughnut for your thoughts," she said, licking the pink of her finger with its Aura of Toruses all round, but she was leaning back and almost smoiking in a manner that made it clear she knew I was thinking all this stough about doughnuts and thoughts and such and I noticed too that the music in this glass pastry shop in which we hid‑‑at leaxt until Quarl's little cwoopurms shoeth up‑‑was itself in form of doughnuts‑‑well-formed music indeed‑‑and I was sadded not so much at the Sickly Sweetness of the Tunes    little toruses of notes too tautological therefore repetitious, repetitious therefore tautological thereby too lo-gi-sti-cal-ly sweet in its mime-like Powder of Arpeggios to be anything like imitations of the half-remembered sound of real tunes; we have and to the best of our knowledge have never had real tunes here, and are the last people anywhere, I assure you, to ask about tunes about as at this this this music in the form of Etheric Little Doughnut-Noughts, bumbling and bumping off the glass, somehow making the glass of the glassway of the view that we sat by bow, so the view of the streets I had not noticed was warping things like cars into toys and people into ambulatory Giacometti sculptures, and the entire thing‑‑lost thoughts and doughnuts fitting neatly round your neatly round your lost forgotten memory of a finger and all‑‑smacked way too much of love. My mouth was all stuffed with dough.  I'd been sitting here making a fool of my self, marveling at how dimey and tight the durned things were, whereas she'd been pacing herself, perhaps melting one or two of the one or two phyla of the one or two classes of the genii of the one or two species of doughnuts that did nothing to your mouth I'm sorry!  We are in this very particular‑‑nay! numbered!‑‑fantasy within this complux of weightless fantasies driving their various cruisers here and here, each within the other and all within quite a monstrous branchin noneuclidean paradoxical plethora of interrfancing fantazies, that they made the doughnuts of every reference of material from the Material Reference of the Reference Material‑‑from solid nuclear material doughnuts that‑‑stile whill swite queet and quood go teat‑‑sink to the center of any happenstance gravity well you might find your massy little ass asitzing in to gossamer stuff fleeter than cotton candy which enabled her to have a million doghnuts and still smile, still lean forward to (let me try to describe the following for you) knock away like flies knock away doughnuts from the crystalline counter of the doughnut-flies the countless doughtnuts eqach with its uni uni uni form and its little number worn round it there in order I suspect just to touch my arm, this being the manner in which the Fucking Woman makes Special Contact to the haplessly Fucking Guy and says. "Now here's my plan." Doughnuts be damned, she's burning the great curled corner of her lip with a joint, her right eye compax to this magnifying glass (out which words‑‑themselves tears, themselves great magnifying glass) as she tries to survey the script, except it's a sort of contract of some illegible kind on a roll, with serrrations and tearations here and therem whare you suppozed to tare and weare, except it's a complex blueprint of some three-dimensional master plan. "He's made his box awful complex," she says, fanning a god damned aereole of pink-winged doughnuts‑‑now some sort of species have evolve within the intense spread of these two compacted glass, I said glass, I said..."glass"‑‑and, leaning in possibly to show me her rack except there is no rack, no "rack" having been creating for this "scene" which would "appear" to be "narrating 'it"self,"'" she utters forth a great phrase of dismay, except you can tell 1) she feeleth no dismay, 2) it is a vatic utterance, said centrally and principally and holy for the self narrating the selfish bloody seen, and 3) it is a great and lustrous rack she hath, somewhere in the bustaments of the Choking God (my favorite god (his own favorite gog (the only God who doth knaught choke upon Hise Owne Name), with a moist encleavage ripe with the swells of the thousand tropical forests and its twin great swellings waving at one another through a mist, each covered with its own Great Oiled Balls which are collected by the natives‑‑these tiny, sentient doughnuts with winks that don't, apparently, work, except when their sentience deserts them but to make them fly‑‑and formed into the very candles burning in her one wide eye, this eye having zoomed back to take in THE BIG PICTURE just as the other poor thing died in the fire. She leans back, even though she has Already Leaned Back. "You're going to have to compress his box even smaller," she says, trying to suppress coughs WHICH, SO SUPPRESSED, BECOME GREAT COUGH-MONSTERS ON THE CONTINENT OF LIES, where the great, strong, suprest, strong because suppresséd coughs to dwell, eating the screaming dougnuts of their own creative will, "Mad as hatters," as the mad hatters say, "all of them," as a the mad hats, wearing their doughnuts, laugh and between besnickered syllables, say. I repeat what she said up there, only my words poor missppelled polyggnathous pytrapezoidish malgradrocks of grey, poor missynthesiz'd demutated Thangs. She restrains the urge to smack me so bad it becomes its own rough Syntax of Smack.  She nods with her unblue eveneyes closed. "Of course we've got to crush him to death," she explains, and by now, friends, I am leaning forward myself, to show her my rack, leaning forward to take notes, my notes rising like frothy clisters of fastgrowing turquoise symmetrifern© forswooth "'Of course,'" I note, "'crush' to 'death.'" She pulls out the elastic flap front of my frontward pants and knocks off one great big chunk of ash. "That's about the size of it, little man," she drawls‑‑an affectation I have oft hear dbefore, on the opalescent oil surface of my surveillance tapes, featureing among other things her secrest and he rGreat Rack. FOMADEFUCKING HERE or THE TALE OF THE LOST RECALL The corner of my eye was rather pointedly bright, lightning verye pointilistically on the broad spottled umbrage of Efector-Dieutesiant Farge, sipping tea at a sipping sea glass table which was so nearby it kept floating nearer by.  He wasn't looking at us, and there was no uh evidence, your honor, of any of his helpers or equipment or any of that dreary, obviously exhausting stuff he was stuff he was so obviously trying to get away from, sipping from a distance that veered closer than a snall on a sail stormed wet in action against your fervid face faces faces face faces face.  Sorry 'bout that repetition there, but it's part of the woof of the fantasy, also oart of the tea, the fanasty tea, the brightr greenm mint-smelling, tent-flapping Obvious Tea he was drinking, which any fool‑‑meaning me‑‑could obviouls ymeaning I see was none other than that most fantastic of seepages, Forguesser Magnifiquator Disequilibrious Equator Tea, or fomade for some reason fomade for some repetiious reason fomade for the bloody repeitious reasons of the fomade Gods of the fomade gods of hell, which are the gross goaws we are talking about here here here here and fomadefucking here. So you could say there was no 'danger to this free falouting, fomade-savoring sonofabitch taking a nearbreak almost by his lonesome (but you knew his guys were out on the permimeters of consciousness, the lost perimeters of consciousness I can't talk about because it is uh hard-wired into our brains that we will go mad talking about those unspoken, spoked, spokaaned, ümschprekable perimeter of consciousness, beyond which our sweet, desiréd Madnesse lies, the Madness outside the realm of the thirteen gods, the madness just achieved during the sweet sip of that lovely tea, and my arm‑‑all by itself, your fucking honor‑‑whipped out like nothing so much as one of those fusion-fired elastico-snakes© every kid gets during the holisays, which are here and hereafter and herein and hereby known as the seasons of fires, during which we burn, using magic fires, pretty much everything, like our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam, our own Viet Nam for all of which I apologize a hundred useless times. "Give him back his tea," said the lady, not to me but to my arm, after which little scene (which scnee Efector Farge paid not the fli of so much as a fine etiolated dime of intelligence, intelligence, I stupidly say). "...we've got to‑‑you've got to tosh the relaitve bastard down to his finest edge..." she was in ther act of saying, her fabulous boobs themselves shaking their own fabulous boobs at me.  I'm clutching my great red cock, which even the lipsmacking waiters notice, so faously big it be, but not yet...not yet... "...So he become like as dumb as me!" Paws.  Bright red killer paws come across and crush my skull, but it's OK, I'm OK; medical emergencies have been banned by some of our newer cleverer more avant-catfish "Laws" of the outloud "physics," itself existing as just a dream of some kind of exquisitely pangful order you, my reader, may recall if you ever recover from this endless inspimming Tale of the Lost Recall. For the first time upon the white, pristine cells of recorded history, she moves her lips to talk.  She never bothered eve to have lips, much less move her lips when she talked, allowing instead mere oscillations of meaning, morphemic oscillations we call them to concur. She moves her bright red lips at which my sperm comes cumming all over her face, eventually (by the end unh of the nn! senunh!tencenng!) which was indeed the dea we indeed did make your honor, and so at this particular woof of past which I have here for your honor's uh pleasure and disgust made made made present. "No one could be as stupid as you."  And, her head a morass of glistening wriggling little sperms, she tries to say more: "Glipsa roawr dove fickfix, gummee."  Which, sperm cleared from her gulping bright throat, transfers as:  "It's a law of physics, dummy." @--TO SPY ON DETECTIVE? Trouble with this disguise‑‑along with the adoring suicides of the dear young girls and the men's entendency to atnrnyi htiol ate my silky ass‑‑was my tendency to stop in adoration at the Nearest Mirror, our world having suddenly having hundreds of billions of trillions of billions of little mirrors polished perfectly like the Gargoylses of Indenne (or satyrical "Gangling aGargoyles) at the high spots‑‑just where the mist gets too cold in its utter thoughtlessness to exist, just where the royal blue of our far-flung if leafless if unavoidable if logical if tessellated if unthinkable if insivisble if deeply-annotated Lands meet the purple of the chill sweet nothingness which lies, sighing, below.  I mean above.  I meant above, because it sounded so much lesser than below, except all that has inverted itself in a the fazes ofthe fashion(s) of the endless infinitude of purply mirrors I looked myself as I bussed in two‑‑of our chosen religion, involving the thirteen you-nose-hooze and the mirror'd gargoyles below, by which I meant above but it sounded better, when that concrete glans poughed me utterly from above to blurx my uts out with the sound below as opposed to the deadly heavenlys (you know!) below, I mean above. But, big transpicuous polyfillied bug that I was, I made it past these mirrors in which I could only see the imagination of my beauty, wouldn't you know, but then I had to like pause in the air.  Stop, in fact.  I had to in fact stop there right there high in the city's air‑‑right there in the verimost apogee of the glistening silvery melticuly cityscape, and hoover there, my teeny big's brain having forgot where she'd told me to go. I mean, she's old me to go someplace and plant myself in the form of a large massagebug on the corner of a wall of one of our endlessly intriculating rooms and listen in on something...but here I paused, buzzing, paused puzzing, rubbing my pawsbuzzinge together in mustification.  I don't think she had given me enough, you know, cranium room to remember even her simple, eerie instructions, even,as they had been, imprinted in my brainlinx© with embulations of utter love, not to mention not a few not unrotten swinges upside the shingle-sliding ramificationds of my simpring mazzard. Well then, I was free.  No more snall, no more multiple-interstitial nexes of infratemrinal murder-plots, no more Quarl, no more sweet petting-the-down-of-my-cheek Maaeeaa, no more kids to thaw out, kids to kill me.  I could fly around and be just a bug for the remaider of the story (this happens to Hamlet, too, though few have figured, the crucial stage-note, "Here Hamlet flyeth away in the forme of a greate glassse bugge," spelling corrected from its utter nonexistence. Then again, I was the perfect flying spying machine, wans't I?  I mean, it was part of the nature she'd chucked me up with, isn't she?  Besides, there was the funeral, spread from one star-drecnh'd side of our forced perspective or pforsceectve world, and here I was, viewing it in an especially broad, elasticated version of transampleerioscope©, so why not buzz in for a peep? "My, what a pretty little bug!," or "Look at that absolutely equisite insect!" and "What species could his Delicacy possible be?" At least that's what I heard as I buzzed round the cordoned doff Official Inspection Area they had Spectionarea they had made of Quarl, stuck in his box.  They may have been saying things like, "Let's get some really toxic fucking spray to kill this modified dsort of butterfly," or "I'm bloody suspicious of this gorgeous bug-all-of-a-sudden here," and "I need to mash that bug into the ground of mine oozy feet." But, but, but thanks to M's implant, I buzzed around freely, marveling at the plewthor of Figures from the Novel they had gsathered there‑‑all of them, to a man, to a thing, to a manwomanthing, utterly obsessed with cracking Quarl out of his great suffocant CloggBoxx I'd slaved him into, the one smart thting about my plan because tit twas tstolen from the greater plan of a much smarter (now removed from time) man. I mean, there was Dr. Gabba, or whatever his name used to be, worrying theatrically out loud, "We need Mr. Chagg or whateverthe fuckis name itever was to unlock this box immediately.  This immensely painful constrection of His Honor Sir Quarl Comleobble RS #883 is causing the immutable cancer which groweth in the heart of my poor patient's eyes.  Keep on looking, firends," his friends being as usual all these little nursey types, bent double, sometimes with their arms tucked behind their shoulders, squatting around and looking for me. Evidently I had become very small, or, to put the matter in the manner of a matter more of a record straight, I think, they had vaxidly Enloarghed the scnee of the fright or the fione of the scene, so if I was still hanging around round I'd be 'bou tthe size of a fucking bug,a green squat flat lighthating rockshelf pelf-underlying Fucking Bug, which was known to us, which criminlas with their green aura of green green green greenest Guilt around them invariably turned "'in' '"to"'" when the scene (of the drime!) was thux "ömlöörgh'd" into these great floating fiascos they called the scenes of te searchings of the crime. I saw all sort of cops there, themselves turned into bugs of a various size, trucking in and carting and craning in cartons and crates of energy, all of which was which was withcwas the energy of guilt they saved up from innumerable tortures of immuneralbe victims interrogated under their great and gratung lights which lights which lights which left nothing butter than an udder of astuttutututtuttererinrinering fa-lesch. So I was being sought for with magnifying glasses my bent-over nurses and cop-nurses and nurturing-nurts-cops and numberust mother bellows they'd hired just to be On The Swene, while at the same time and elaborate frame was being constructed. And like I say I was under the aura of the clear belief of my of of the nutty femme there that femmertherethat I at least thought I flew I flew with chameleonic impunity round this bustling-in-the-air-with-its-yellow-ribbonons fugging stew.  And I there had the least I mean at least had I the satisfaction if you can all n unreachable horro itch like that satisfaction in the fuzz-bass of hell after all at all atoll of seing my shrinmking box was and had at last and at least started to crush my siubject indeed.   Gone were his henchmen and screw, his weird little cwoopurms, whatever the hellever they war, the equipmwent and lioghts and things creating letters full of meaning in the air and th eexciting Morpheme Generator that he had (which has itself huger from disconnectable meanings therefore andfloating even farther in the air, blotzing drunkenly outy particules of the "suns" up "there," somplete with screams of agony and parts of his long legs sticking out like someone fried by her own spontaneous combustible f!re. And the bo bo bo-bo bo box was ashrinking s-t-i-l-l, and I enjoyed my buzz around, and the crews of hapless, if not feckless, machinists there trying to pry him open like the interlocking wedges of some great hypermonster Hoover Fucking Damn!  A-and the Judge here saying it-dud go easier (I like that phrase‑‑"go easier"! than what?) than what if I'd just crawl fufrom under my fufumming ruck and barf froth the combination, the only string of symbols that wouldfit into my tiny head, and my wife and kids there‑‑still someone in the afterblough of the game show, answering with torn tears and teared tores and a good goo deadly goough of sweat dripping from their crotch many a question the answers to which‑‑right or wrong, though in thisa buzzing dreamdream Always Wrong!‑‑all indnicated the logical becessity that I come forth like the flatwinged little buggy bastard I was was was and give em the damned combination, what with Quarl choking like a snark andall... "Mr. Quarl‑‑excuse me, Sir Quarl?" I whispered, as irquarl-irquarl-irquarl irrational echoes sketched.  I drove my voice to a whimper, then remembered the adolescent big suit I had on. I was massy and dripping, their at the airgate entranceway, my shoesy-tendril things or cslhaowes sticking with Mighty Ick to the melted flesh of the latest brave young volunteer volunteer volunteered to enter the box.  Seems there was no coming in, even if they'd had my combination.  The magic of Maaeeaa's joke bugsuit flew me in, but now I was standig there in a cheap, grade B as they say grabe D snall featuring me in a rubber bug suit or a bugrubber zoot, dripping someone else's flesh leaving its rank humidity all round the entranceway.  It was in every way like entering the airlock of a spacehatch of a shiphorn dressed in a rubber suit‑‑something which was quite the muzzy custom back when, back when, let me see now, back when, let me guess, on that curved and veering stipulation of realité conditionelle in which everyone took as many drugs as their little rubberbuggy bellies could hold‑‑and something therefore you can relate to, and which I needn't describe much. But when, then I have ever describe ed "much"? I peel off the rubber bug shed in the prescribed manner, pelling from neck to crown, revealing quite an unexpected formula of a monstrous face‑‑much more frightening than that snall I was too beshit with to leave, muck lesh stop warwasching‑‑as befits the grinding (!) Quarl's World of Illusion, skewed in its crushness though it might be. First thing I hear is him ascreamin' for help, and it is at this ridiculoua point that I realize the full full love love love of of of of his his his his his wife wife wife wife wife wife I have always felt, always, ever since even before she and I were toddlers on the teardrop of the selfsame sperm, twinsters that we are or ever nere.   That's the first thing, then thinking, I really wonder if I'm smarter in here, what with everyone else's‑‑OK, Quarl's‑‑intelligence so drastically and if I may say downfumbdeadly slenderized©‑‑or if it's just removing the bug mask, itself a sort of rubberbuggy rinetedlluigcenecer, or if, if I can AS I AM ASSIGNED torture Quarl just a little more toward death, then stop the entire slimmage proxexx, I'll become as smart as anybody...anybody at all! erere I die... I felt tired and sleepy, but I looke very wet and rubbery, and I was peeling off the sort oscaley, drimpy, smearmy, goopish get-up I'd been wearing for this highly unsucccessful because unreleased therefore nonexistencet therefore as futile as these foul writing on mine owne, it being some sort of porn-horror monstrosity borne of the gneius of this crushed and dying man. He was sitting at the clear-glasss console© with the Requisite Bottle oer his head.  It would seem the crushing of intelligence and Thereby Life affected naught the genius of the man. He was or pretended to be hard at work at his console, and he was smal, fitting as neatly into this lavish mesh of a corridor a corridor an echoing horror corrdidor a pain horridor a fucking Shock Corridor which I've never seen but heard electronic impressions and modalities there-Forbidden-whereas only the odd occcaisonal (and quciklyeditedout) grimax of Paine flummoxed the facade or fucked the facade or "did" the facade. I was peeling off my suit to disgusting effects.  to fill me out‑‑to makeme of true and patented© Godzilla Proportions©©‑‑they'd hosed in about a million tons of guck.  I hadn't remenbered this, caught up as I was in the dream of the heavenly bug whioch was a Meer allusion, while I was apparnetrly comibn gcopisously al over the city of *, now laughingly if somebut gurglingly known as the City of Glub or the City of Cum or the City Whose Lips Doth Choke on the Plethora of Spüümatora©, which of course my poor Zelzerea being the cumdrinkiong slut who saves the world, becoming completely astronomical and sucking me out, as it were, such that I sunk defleated to the bogom of the Shea to this deepo consolo whereo my Makero deviseth Furthere Plannes. And I thin, like you if you understod what the fuck was going on might might might think, he's gotten carried awayx in his dyingness with making worser and worser snalls, the worst of which in this sloopfilled fishsuit he has the though will never end. He's wearing a beautiful purple bottle over his head.  This is requisite here, by the way, but the pressure in this litle projection room and cutting room and laboratorial woomb we "find" or "selves" "'in'" crumpsches exponsentialy, and it dawn even on me (for a moment, then forget for a moment, then rerealize...and then so then on...) Hey!‑‑this is gonna K!LL me, which is no doubt part of Maaeeaa the Maaeeaa's plang©, and he seems pretty disgusted to see me in the flesh.  There follows a scene. As always in life and fantasy, there followethh a seen, this time in thich his featres‑‑crushed and embottled unto purplish horror though the suggers be‑‑express disgust at my turning up here.  There wopulsd er seemt o be no thought onh his blugging park that I might be gonna rescue he. He's dumb now, dumber and dumbed and hundred thousand stuip dumby times...yet he's still too smart to buy that, or bite that bullet, or bifurgate that chordal section of the great thickened symphony (Grestwövians Last, No. 114, "The Endless...") he's pouring over us, which of course obly serve to make the pressure worse than the pressure worst. He pulls off the bottle finaly with that comical pop of the fleatures and the ultrea cartoon wangiling and wobbexplandling we have al grown so sickeningly accusotmed tro, and e deigns to say, or at least I in my goop-delusiums seem to hear the thought him thinking to unbottledly say: "So you mae it."  He places the bottle carelyy with its mouth carefully and rather sexily up on a flat and cum-encruxted portion of the console and interlocks his fingers (which is a process that takes hours, takes a dozen rather dull but very detailed novels I have written and rewrrittenand then consigned as they say to the fire, and then by God I burned the FIR!E) and he spontaneously combusts leaving noylt he glow of his awkward and may I insinuate rather gawky appendages, and the I shake the Illusiory Goop offa my faces and he says: "So you fell for her plan.  You're more of a moron than we believed." I sort of nod, covered with scales and smuck, and nod uhhuh... It is every sun-bloodied male's fantasy of an idea of a dream to have one of these vast, polythechnic, multiilluminated monstrosities of models to fall on their heads.  I lie.  It was my fantasy to have one of them tri on that lightrope treadle, to lose their millipetalled tooding along the gravitational axes around which, in scurrying scurrilious fashion(s) their images were materializing and snowing down on everybody's faces, cheery snough©, I must add, creating in all of us new faces (one of th eperks of being invited to a fashon show), so we walked out of these 1) unrecognizable, and 2) handsome as hell, at which mpoint we would (but this we didn't tink about as the thought to be thunk about existed during the decades of the show the show the show the show within an ugly, antlike cocoon looking like nothing no much as a great though treasured ball of dung gunked in the gruddy dingeons I say dudgeons of our poor bedazzled flimsering nisceze of what-migh-of-ince-been "minds," though not in my case. And in my case one of these sickly beauties actually fell.  I mean, I was at the fashion show, my reasons for being there having been not just blocked ehind one of those tasteful goreous electro-"bebaffles" or bajjles crafted by Chinamen Vuored down to minuaturized boxes of their own design and now electrically stimulated to a state of mad and manic craftsmanship which sraftshmanship which craftsmanfuckingship I am lost in my own logomogo's here which fills at lleast these bottlefed fashionshow portions of our universe with itesm of such exquisite beauty one either ignores them, eats, them or goes mad‑‑and let me tell you (please let me tell you!?), you wouldn't want to go um mad ther way these denizens go er "mad," what with a hundred thousand pounds of lenses racked to your poor poor, instantly-brokened neck't, and showers of electrons (and other particles, too‑‑particles so small not even our highly-cemented, cmenetelly-tortured ex-"physicicsts" have or had or ha dha dha bothered to make up yet) pocking up the flesh of your face real good, don't let me tell ya (please don't let me tell you?!)...my reasons,as I was saying, for being here not just blocked by one or soe or a set of suns of those beautiful arabesquique screens built by these craftsmen, or even "egged in" to one of the Russian eggs we also have i nplenty here, having as we having has engineered and crafted a plethora of Tiny Russian Artisans to build these things, all insanely gorgeous (with reeming hoards of yet more mad aficionados egged within etc.), all used to utilitarian ends, which are the only sharp bloodspattled ends that we ends we that no... ...No, but I mean portions of my brain‑‑like a great clay asteroid built during the Fun Planetoid Peirod of everybody's stupid and best-forgotten youth‑‑had had its memories of how I'd gotten here gouged out, by some potter's tool, I deblieve, so there was none of this funsy, electronic, craftsmanic elocution to my amensia, nossirree, and don't let me never tell ya (!no?).  I simply sat there, a motionless idiot berefet even of moror coordination, much less control lof my bowels, sitting there with my fingers crossed by somebody‑‑but WOO? in my own ordure at the very ledge of thewatching, where the watching became so supreme that, other than I, only the lost and forgotten, or the rich and extra protected extra protected extra protected and-and extra-protected could sit there. So we sat there, crosse eyed and cross-legged and with my shit all around, not that anybody was himself or herself enough or bastante to notice, no, no, no no...no....No.  No no.  And then Maaeeaa fell on my head! BOUQUETS OF EXCUSES Or rather, actually mannered to fall under the sides of my head, only they were not sides or temples or septic sectionals of head per se but rather these downrushing Cliffs of Insanity, really more something like disastrous mud or gigantic accumulations of mad shit, like the shit of the Opilophios, casing that poor woman shredded like blistered gauze in the mental institution, if you can call her flaiming stritjacket that, only it was not me, sitting on this gorgeous, somewhat sheepishly crushed little madfly of a gaglye, but simply M (I call her M.  May I call her M?  I have the legal papers here, your multiply mutltiplex Yourhonarialhonoures, I profferem herento your haughtily hateful hands or superciliously insipid spans or uncannily detestful spams or whatthewhateverthe) splittig the very flowered buns of her prosthetically enlorgéd butt onto my gleaming face, whereuponatoncetecnicians begin (without spacing--this is important; this all happens without spacing whereinhoweverthe-spaceinghave-beenputforyour-conveniencein) cleansihg the area, cleanisng the area of her fall, and Higher Guards (they all have Higher Guards these models, who have above tem these even more awful Much Higher Guards, skinless...I don't want to speak with them) instantly skin (now there you go again) the leftovers of the Lower Forms who're's'pos'd've not only prevented such a fall, but also cleansed and superflowered her way. this all beeing seething academic, as models never fall. The Fall of Maaeera becomes now quite a cause célebre, but don't worry.  These flowery masterpieces of mastarass, these mastercunts as the Unspeakables cannaught callem, always have great swathering bouquets of excuses, fucking bouquets of excuses to protect them from anything untoward.  It was and is a wonder forever affecting the clearish warp of our minds as they proceed in linear regression down their introverted time emit tunnels of Vuor-Reducidocity, or whatever you wanna callit. Anyway, the existential point failing to make its point in the pointilismic verbal fapricke here is that supermodels never fall, certainly not off those dimensionless gravitational rails with the sideguards and buffers and subbufferal decausalitators© all arond, certainly now with their perfectly trained albeit "lower" forms guarding and projecitg their every mannerism and moob through their handsized chronoscopes or kronoskoops© which give each of thegifted litle idiots, the gifted little idiots, a perfunctory inexcusable little (obscene! barenaked!  with no clothes on!) into the featureless futures of what's just about to, givven uncircumstantiated circumspants, transpire. And certainly not on the heads of the shitting idiot who (and here's another mystery, shrouded in shredded grey matter matter matter) sits in his hands enlarged beneath his butt in the great-butted butt-sliding slide-mastered front row--an area, I must needs add, which doesn't even exist in the generaly recognized legal transpirations of of space! First thing she did, that freed and liberated femme, was to strip off all her clothes off, which involved and whole lot of flying, a great deal of space-exaggerated flying, silent flying, silent breathless beautfiul functionless flying, wherein this gal becomes like a galaxy to hersself, and I'm not kiddin', a galaxy of worms if you prefur, in any wise a ghastly I mean fleshly glaaxy, spinning off all those stars of breathtaking celestial yarn, bosom-boosting gowns by the likes of Ghustly, Fototokop, and Pheare (Pheare! especially La Pheare!) to some rather embarrassing embarassingly embarassedly embarrassably white Victorian linen, for a whilethere therewhile was just like these flotillas of spinning ancient Victorian lien, for a whole there you couldn't see her strip, and this caused the auience--heretofore equipped with green placidigoggles© and shapely cruets of all types of the ageless overaged ripened Wine of Time hich is the Red Wine of Pain which is the wine of the men suddenly etmebsatrorsatsesreodne with humiloiated memories given to all of us at birth as possible control device, or possibly from the haibt which doth ruleand ruin oure Univerxe of testosterone-induced childrape and mouth-molestation, not to mention the biting and the shitting in the face (no no no no n on o no no)--to start doing that whistle I can never manage with your fingers stretching your lips stretching hoping I'd almost be afriad to imagine to gulp her in. At the last of which swis she spun naked, whereuponupintwherethepinon disturbance in my brain ends, my brainwave ends, I realize this whole fantasy is just like me a brain in a bottle, and rather ratty and pathetic braininabittle at that and alzo at this a-and at thax!, and the beautiful spinning the current iamiend for me ends and the barenaked lady does some incredible spraddles‑‑legs, stippled armpits, feet behind the shoulders, shoulders behind the kness, mouth drooling and wideopen and making some lovely sucking sounds (2000 count them 2000 tumid souls in the audience cum, calming the audience down but gloozing us all if I may im pro vise in CUM!). Wwhh-eer-reeu-upp-oonn the llii-ggh-htts-s fufailed ffaaiilleedd! and she landed her fat feshy ass right on my face with a sordid griggle, the audience now laughinng at this unexpectedly instantaneously total loss of that which had defined this icon all her miniminzéd life--du-du-dignity and there were burping and farting sunds to be heard, and she herself--not missing the exquisite indignity of this shituation, guffawed and farted quite loudly, lifted one leg and played something akin to a fartsong in my face, which puffed my cheeks just as her cheeks pughed when the cum from the er deeply-crAMMED COCKS when it exploded out her doze, with sperb cubbing in shootspermswootwerms right ut the great flayed and fatssed cumdripping councils of her doze Yuck! and the ever sleepy, because half-inserted into the most insensible of halfassed dreams, Concil of the Dripping Doze refused refused refused even it meet to discuss the situation, much less pass a drooling on the bummer of cum drubbing from this flayed and I must even in this sleepy subjunctive court admit admit's a blood greatvcowlike fucking doze!) abs sweat and her armpits, wrapped around my right eye and ears, seeming to get more sensibly disturbingly or dsiesntsuirbbliyngly stippled and woolly all the time. So she did her job well.  I mean, even to the details of ramming those dildos up the unknowning asses of everyone there except me, who already had the great fat duc kof his father'sass rammed so far up my fudament I was my self myself shooting jaculatiums of sperm out my own rather aquiline jointed  doze, not to mentio  that bit about the flickeirng an fading lights (sot of a reminiscient stribbotic effect ilegal since the begining of this here Nightmare Time), which muct have taken quite a lot of plannin, stringpulling,and other not-so-fuckin-legal hanquy-phanquey, let me not tell you!  I suspect she bent over double for many a poweful ram to arrange this powerful scam.  She raped the whole.damned room; she raped the world and the raped the image of her self and crammed it down my thorat. (And while whe was lyin on me, a  mass of extremely smelly sweat and armpits now so flouroshed that you had to stare crosseyed atem, she passed me the lite box.  I mean to say, without of course having the understanding the memory the ra diitalized e mo tions, much less the words, to say it was a mos deliberatelyplanned and wonderfully proected fall, with the crack of her very unkempt ass smearinf her dried shittles in the fragments of my moronoic toaty face, the purpose of which was to 1) do all that raping and 2) present me with that box.) Sound was very constricted, occurred in short, erstwhile sentences, infinitive appositives.  Sounds were encased each in his or her own plastic case, unbreakable, unopenable, giving everything in the cramped and stuffy chamber an unresonant clunk, a small, insignificant dipsy sound, the sort of clatter you'd hear in one of those old cardboard prison huts‑‑indelibly drenched and incredibly parched dry again by the rampant bifurcative monsoon latitudes of the Farege Region, where these tortures first occurred‑‑and I'm talknig about the first tortiures, the original tortures‑‑not none of those facsimilated fraudulent sideworded windshaded ersatz satzmö "tortures" that followed in such painstaking fucking wake of those Original Tortures or the First-God Tortures or the Torpitatude Torpitures or some other epithet I've had either tortured out of me or buried in the mud constabtly sliding and the mud so constantly sliding and the fucking mud fucking and sliding and the mud laughingly sidling up to "other" mud inside me (who, after all, am I to know?‑‑or to put it another way, Know to I am all after whom?). In addition to all the aforeunmentionable shit, or aforeshit, or shit, or foreshit, or shittotfore or-or, things were pressurized and desciant and dry.  The whole wincing chambe was like an autumn leaf in the grasp of a great empurpled Gharoughughl, and that dying showman (no showman like a dying one!) Quarl was quarling up quite a clatteration or schmoo or tooe. "So," he says, like the lost voice of your mother deserting you with heartless words lost in the rimless wind of the limbless whim of the dimless rim of that long exciséd, excandescent exautumn exaday.  "I suppose you've come for your pay." I reacted with many strange chemicals in my veins for a while‑‑quite a ream of jolts from small ductile organs, not unheartshaped and not unshaped and not unnotnotnotnotnotnot, secreting theior asses off in many a "Chartered Coloure" as the no-quotes nothing-quoted nothing-quoted nothing-lost do not never neer unfail to not gainsay, and then I croaked (well, evberything's a croak in here, you understand, what with the continuing compression cracking even the nice plastic carrying cases of the tapes carrying like flat werms our undead eloquuetéd sounds): "Pay? You think I've come for pay?" I'll admit I was not insulted, just amazed.  Nesides, I thought I owed money from the shw, the en tire fact of the show having been Quarl's hu HA ha ha creation an idea too big and too far outsized the Krüüsch-Böxx now now now as a the Kat didde meeaioghuw. "Well," he says‑‑a grey and seedy old cheezer rumpling oviously funny bills for a shufflingly goddam galactically long löönngue time, "you do have a lot coming to you, notthat it matters." "But it does matter!" I shrieked‑‑my nasals nicking eternal slyuices in the incoming lightless yet surprisingly organic alwalls‑‑the first spontanepous thing I had ever said, and me in a gnat-suit fast drying over me. We lay with our faces close together, like two antique olives, or else the dry font known as the Antique Olive, like mulched leaves we lauy beneath the great desiccant feet if you call them that of the gawd god ASntique Olive, because I didn't realize how dry things would get as we died, how very dried up like the last leaves before the big fgace of wionter shows his icy mug, before we find ourselvead, death here being nothing like your ethereal expeditions down hallways of darkness ionto treks of the Lasting Light­--O no!--but more a mater of being sifted into a fine, deep brwon deathmulch deadmutch deafmouth deathmouth darkness of a singular old ceramic shaft, known as the unknown Tunnel, or unknown as the Unknown Tunnel, or Unknown as absoltuely no phrase following, because we didn't realize--certainly I, so singularly wedded to these unfucking words, hadn't not unrealized ust how much fucking waer it takes to maskem words whole, and how--here, anway, in this latest fantasy anyway, in this bloodless bloody godawful godforsaken latest universe anyway of the Fourht and most merciful of the Fourteen or Seventheene Torturing goddam Gods, anyway--death involves sudh a grerat compression and a great drying out, death at least anyway in this moste shriveling Forme, Plato[s Plaot fucking floor of the shrinkiong death, the goddfam floor of the shrinking deatg, no time really, to be individuals with our silly cracked crania sep ar ate ed from one another aonnoether oanneootnheeorne ha-CHEW! ('scuse me), much less tyime for these poor scorched arid funny words, though words, if I do croak so myself to save my groaking Selfe, very finely tiuned, fine-tued, thjese uh ha ha "fine" "'tuned'" "'"words"'" serving for Spirit as we blow blough bloeiough down the vapid tube of death or vdaepaitdhttuubbeeof. I would like to talk about animals.  I would like to discuss these sundry genetic concoctions of one or more wasted nerd by which I mean dusted nerd by which I mean devastated nerd with, like all the rest of us, notning but time like some synthetic worm worming through our capillaries and veins, polluitng our irises with their wormy time-visions, nerding up our various interstices so some of us‑‑all right, all of us‑‑go quite mad and start...doing Bad Things, one of which might be, say, making a snall to drive men madder or kidnaping a master director's wife, by which I mean kidnaping and ha ha torturing the mad illusionost even as greater and greater luminous swaths of electricity (all done with mirrors‑‑electric mirrors!) throng through his body like the very powers of time we were discussing as invading our lyphatic systems back in Lessin One One One, the Lesso Everyone Forgot, the Lesson Everyone Must Forget, the Lesson That Persists in Our Minds as a Fog, the Lesson that Subsists in our Minds like that Mindless Tune You'd Couldnl't Get Rid Of, not that you wanted to or dreamt you could, no matter how many times you blew your poor pored brains unto smithereems, equaling reams of blasted breens, equaling each one a hundred more lifetimes of blowing out your brains whith chemicals, drugs, or the several Bad Things I have made bad reference too‑‑and these include t\creations of various animals, alwas white, always shapeless, always huge as somefantastic flough of dreamy dough, dreamy dough, dreamy dough a-and Dreamy Dough!‑‑such that, far from lacking animals in our transpicuous pastel luminous Art if fi cial Worlde, we're constantly pushing them away with our hips and butt snad pushing disengaged sections of the white-dough animules away and flipping them off of our food and clothes and cars and computer temrinals with a smooth automanic flick© of the hand© we would be porud of had we but been granted consciousness, sweet consciousness, sweet sweet concocted Consciousness, as the animals have. I was multiplying my many fangas, I mean hands, and multiplying the subdigital dinkies on each quiet pinky, and still I was having trouble.  My torso was getting full, giving me a fat unweaty unsavory feeling and in fact cuaisng me to get lodged as they say in the gentle waffling conduits of this character's hoorugsae or ohroguasne, roughly translated as floating organic molecule of a once-remembered house, a hous in whcih, while everything lacks color and can like everthing else in this universe, come to think about it, including the thoughts, which are pastel and which come each and everyone of them like nothing so much as a pair of loving worms to upon the two ends of that ribbon of thought that everything can be seen through, which is the thought my thoughts were headed for when they‑‑the pastel young beauties!‑‑married and had children and fomented some of the most bloodspitting violence this Court of Warfare, your Honor, has ever through the e'en translucence of its pellucid dreams-ever-seen. Yea, to make a slhoon stoory lsohnog or a delusionist shorey mongue, I was trying to fix the little wormy light-things that kept this fellows lofty house afloot or loughty floot ahouphe, but that he had an uncommonly intricate‑‑and may I say despite decreated hoots of "Objection!" all through the nostril caverns of a once-great long-deserted all-knowing longue-echoing with longueur-zechoing hourousese I mean heaeadead, unwantonly messed up‑‑complex of zanyplex'd worm-light-noodle power-conduix then or there (but not then and there‑‑never then and/or there, much less then and/or there, much less anywhere or now and nowhere or never and here, in the quiet sampling palmoissinesh of mine hande. I was sweating, furrowing my brow into untold crenulations of a labyrinthine complicity all but rivaling even the high-priced sell-out I mean soldoubt prose of this vacuous magazine we call a novel called a trial called me plumping it up in the baste of mine onwe sweet sweat trying to fix the broken work\ms of the great man's broken house. I was slowly taking off my clothes.  By legal stipulation, not to mention [staple situation], I am constrained to wear layer upon torn layer of the most godawful castoff clothing‑‑something to do with stupidity, my stupidity, or the stupidity of something my stupidity might cause me to-do, or some event beyond that moste empurpl'd Horizonne I actually bloody did but am too fucking stupid too too realize, or maybe I'm a fat clown banadaged, a badaged goddam Bif Fat Clown or an abadonned clown in silly dids, sadrags, if you will, who is driven into these heat corridors shock dorridors death quoriifluors© and other aandoned things, not so much to fix the ancient, yet farly advanced infinitely excuse me FNA! ad vans't lightworms which supply our ghouly lives with the power we keep drainng from your galaxy. Which by the why be way the lights in your poor little galaxy be goin' out alla time! The heat and the heartfelt bondage of the worms were conspiring to make me pull off layer after layer of the aforemention ed dead OnionKlose©, patendpentinck, dontchyagnö, till I was with some arms‑‑most arms, I hurriedlysay, yourhonor‑‑I was fighitng to fix the lightmare of the worms or the vermsa or the wormen or possibly the little MEN dressed up like WYRMZ! and I do realize I spell worms too many ways, a-a-and anyway with a few other "arms" I was by nor tearing off tier within tier of mine owne whitenes flesh, like flesh soaked for weeks in airless gauzenges or lozenges of gauzenge, till I was "knicked" as they say "to the bone," just this phosphorescent grin atop a vibrantly broken spinal column, still unable to to anything about the great man's worms... For he was a "great man," this Quarl, creator ebhind the moving luminescent puppets best translabiated as snalls‑‑snalls...snalls; snalls: snalls, snalls like The Green Cat and The Humiliation Game (starring me, though of course I dinna gnowmeit at the "time"), The Snockers of Time, The Snicker Out of Time, Tramsniggers, Sl!me?, The Great Crimeswipe Out of 99999... "You've got clogs in your ventricular lightducks," said a voice, almost‑‑but not quite you will notice immediately (if not, go back and notice before (if not before, please go back to the start of the game and notice now)‑‑instantly associated with a black metal face.  It was a voice coming from a featureless black metal face, only a slap really, an old welder's mask hardly worthy of the name face except for the name face‑‑a fat oily pixy constantly simplering and wriggling its little Tweedledumb bellybutton backl and forth like some great navel battle from the depths of the hisotry of the unsunk ships which in my submerged opinion be not a whit compared to The History of the Sunken Ships, by Telltale Cattle [nom de some plume who in fact always did wear incandescent day-glough pleumes© but I digress], which details the exciting adventrues of the dead in their underwater battles, "aboard" or awash among the barnacled limes of their ships right out of the thicknesses of life-in-deaht (or was it death-in-life?) or was it the name face, a pink yet unarguably cute little bastard who's always interposing himself into my sentences, flying in flybys bi mi binary Eare, so I'm hesitant to spend much too much more of the not-so-reocious moments one of the trickeier, darker (one of the unnamed) Torutring Prime Gods (unnumbered even!) keeps jamming like ice-cubes up my ass without end without ass without end defending my illegal use of the word face up there, except the concept glued itself almost immediately to the iron surface, like the guitarist's bleeding fingers gluing the callouses back on to go out again to look for that lick again. And it looked like a face, ewhat with the faceless painted artist's conception of sanctive eyes dimply divigible behind the glass, and the fact that‑‑centuries of dicusission and one resounding act of heinousnesh later on an auf‑‑it turned out really to be a face, with a person attached‑‑a person in a mask, forsooth, telling my business, and using the word duck where she obviously knew the word was duct. Sanctive eyes would be eyes did they exist that had absorbed far too much guilt for an eye to see.  They are thus lightsopping "eyes" in a sense and something way beyond eyes, even their blindish sense.  This was the best way to put it. This was or would after a million-and-one invesitgations (Investigation No. 1,000,0002) prove to be Maaeeaa, Quarl's wife, whom I'd heard not only nothing about, but only bad things about within that very smouldering yellow trashpile of poisonous nothingness!  Exciting, what? "I've scanned for clogs," I said in the automatic way you often find yourself speaking to iron walls, or entities of your own mind that are trying to drive you mad, or walls, most especially that last wall you see before the last thing going through your mind is your ass, like the bug's great eyes spaltched surPRIZED! on the smattered windowshield. Or swmiantdtoewrsehdield. I said it dismissively, irritantly, then did a dangerous double-take in the radioanimate tubes.  It was dangerous sing by now I was just a big blob of tachyrons in the aforeshmentched mane of a great lion of iridescent lion of light of a lion of light in the shape of a goggly pair of eyes aboard a rather uncertain "looking" spine sort of thing of sort of spine. "Of course you have," she went on.  Her femininitity had actually arrived seven seoinds ere the vocie or my first drafting of this scene wya back in my early teens, or anything before the cheesy one might say groggy backdrop dropped back of everything we be. PARAGRAPHS OF YORE I have simultaneously written and written thishere paragraph 8,000‑‑more than 8,000 times, "8,000 times" being somewhat of an Abstract Computation of the more specific "388 times" I or one of my several robot-clone-self-drone-droming-groans© have made, as heroic, methinks, as it ios in ack COUGH you're-it, alternately trying to tell this story in wordless, gritty realism so germane like A BUNCH OF GRAINY GERMS!!! to me and even parodically moreso to the School of Chabble or Chabbleskül or Peripatetic Institute of Le Chabboule (which the French blokes call me) or the Chabble Correspondence School or simply Chabble Hi, for whom my basic qualities of terse, stubbled verbiage hab been as it were dröing'd to  a poudre and dried, dried unto a dye let's all estimate say tren thousandths of times deeper‑‑more adjectival, softer, more full opf air, more aware, therefore more uglier‑‑than my own original prose as prastised some 800,000 times in this poor oringic paragraph. This is still This Paragraph.  You'll notice that‑‑whule we, or at least I and your eye, have changen paragraps, wearing now our brand-new patent shiny Paragraph Geare©‑‑that that that that it is still the sane I mean same‑‑certainly not the sane‑‑paragloph as the one before, one of those much-vauntered cloaing and gloaguing genetic miracles they keept staining up the palms of your eyes with on their magic electronic rotogravure papireagems©(last one, I promise), full as is everything of promises worth nothing, and those peculiar don't worry I know where the sentenc eis going Primises That mean Less than Nothing, peculiar reversely worthless promizes that fullfil themselves despite themselves, tapping you likedwarves on your back and making you, you know, jump and youknowlike squeak in superrise‑‑them not being "genetic" at all in this Sway an Dage, what can I say? All of which‑‑still, you'll gnoptice, without changing paragrasps‑‑brings me at last in this fold of existence sweet as the mantles of some delicious celestial falafel like these ugly gods, with their sagittal fucking crests and lumpenfuggen jawrs, would never dream of eating, much less dream, much less eat, much less to eat, the loftisch logic of which imponderable Three-In-One Perigrosch, explains whey there is no such thing as enough to eat, not even in, uh, ah...conceptual form (they glow here‑‑did I mention that?  would you please help out a bit my tleling me when I've mentioned that?). Continuing our paragraph into its own little Chapter the Last, we‑‑and when we say we I mean I, but am too ambarrassed to say, which is why and bodeth force why I have hemmed my final way in to this intricate bloody goddam fucking Haw‑‑can confess she was at this point fondling me, reaching ucking-fout in her great welder's gloves (through which, however, I feel sure the little alien nymph inside her now-cracked-ope-en silver skull©whoops could clearly feel) and dandling and shaking my spine‑‑which you may recall from much more fully exigent I mean existient I mean "Paragrpash of Yore" was pretty much all that was left of eff-toff-me , and shaking me in the peculiar fluid (whuch the scientists, their eyes popping out from their horror, screech is imppossible) amongst which all the worms of the setting of the scene of this secondary meeting of this novel which I like to call a s cience fantasy but what the hell and let us now let God speak:  "Oh never mind‑‑don't let the Holy Fucker speak.  Never mind.  Never mind.  Never never never mind," making me do the shimmy like nothing so much myslef as The Cloughing Wourem. "But you didn't scan your asshole, now did you, pal?" she said, using her feminine fecundity to add a tart rancididty to those words, as she pulls these MOnster Rubber Full-Cavity-Search-Gloves (avavilable I might add at any paragraph store) over her elbeloughs, rihgt over the welder's mitts. Well, no I hadn't, but I was as they say speechless and gleeking speechlessly and gleekingly despeeched and begleeked speechazoid and gleekaloid by the unnerving she was gribbing me. Geekazoid goes out on the town.  It seemed we were "going out" (which I never gnu possible) on the "town" (which they never told me about, thou, had I intelligence, I'd've figu'r'ed it ou't).  It was gorgeous, for the Sphorix‑‑something celestial and singing, some forgotten afterthought of the traceries of joy, found in the ovory fireplace the crystal fireplace atthe far ends of the gleaming guitar on which the chords just started screaming out by THEM SELVES all in one unit burning th efingers right off your hands, your lean guitarist's eyes in the firelight‑‑doing his concert from that great celestaial fireplace, don't you know‑‑screeches in the same key, "FUCK!!" as his fingers keep just keeping just keep just peeling and falling off, nor all your Superglue nor wit can knot together one tiny rosay to the smiling face of the Mother (covered in blood!  crying blood!) falling in endless painful petals to the floor.  But it was OK, this subsubstory I can tell.  He kept screeching in the exact same key, and even as he destroyed his toy, I mean guitar, the sing kept going, but something too much of that...anyway, they say I was cutting quit a figure in the colorless grey raincoat or whatever it was‑‑anythkng, as the Lady say, to cover up the nothingness, or rather, the painful spinality and bonesporosity, and I might add but will not add with sunglazez glozing the poor swollen "eyes" that "eyes" that "eyes" that served me as a head (eyes that sang, by the way‑‑eyes what spoke, spoeeye Spokeeyen©), thoug one must hastilyaddoursunglasses are like real suns, really blinding you, so we were a hit that night, blinding all the dead papparazzi surging with their lenseless swaggee through that blindinng place. We sat at a cgolnatsiour table, which was a sort of glass that moved in the controus of your intellect, such that my side of the round little thing lay flat, with an occaisonal comical squiggle bending it sway for the onslaught of a glass‑‑for we were drinking everything Imaginably Green, everything gree, we were the thwo of us gasping the town by the balls to mex a mythafleur, drinking absolutely every green drink in that club (the Refyu Sphorix Grill and Prill and Drill...with about another thousand variations on our favorite morpheme -rill which moved us to trill, not to mention and getting quite lucently sick all the green virescent limekelly greenolive leaf-strewn hyphervescient minty things they had, such that no one knows anyhting about what happened...no one except the prosecutor, none other than our old dead friend, Efector-Dieutesiant Farge, who is reading it to us even as we speak, but who can here anything in this lovely hub-bub?" "In my ass?" I screeched over the sound of the guitarist's chords falling from his lips as his lips (later on later on) falled off. And she nodded andalmost giggledwhich was a show of something which I'm going to look up up up in the Büch of Emotiöns soon as my brother betrays me, shooting with a splat my braying brians right uot, but that's the parallel universe of dreams, the parallel universe of madness, the parallel universe of incredibly hurried soirées with deadly-fey babes here in the entirely glass (I'm translating this meniscal floughing stough as clousely as I cannaught can) club this poor skeletor and his maiden (he with a plug up his apparency of bum) drank themselves so hyperverdantly inn at the Hyperverdant-Ly-Inn. ITALICIZED YEARS Each waiter waisted like a somber blade, as if he were so depressed he would slit his wrists back in the kitchen, using his own waist and with complexities of attitude filling many a book or disk or tape or cbounbvbelne, arguing we were getting all the Wrong People to be our waiters, and each bent at the waist and served up a drink with a little figuirne inside‑‑a hululu-ing Betty Boop, poor-axe-hompl, who has us here too, O who have us here totoo or some other Vibrant Little Darky or Hootchie-Koo Dancer of some sort, or else the busts of famous figures, none of whom for the bleeding lives of us could we, peer as we muss, figure out who what was‑‑though they teemed if I may say it thisaway exceedingly familiar, like with their eyebrows arced in the manner of a Vulcaneen©, overknowingly, and with exsufflicate smart-assery etc. and in the Varopus I guess I mean Vapoous I mean Vaporous Greeny Vapours of the various phainting pheumes, they all seemed quite dangeorusly wise, and did they dangeorusly writher, not to much sexily as warningly, like some horny stripper trying to signal you the murderers approached clutching their icepicks whilst you squoze your tool, her every portentous bump just grinding you up to something much hotter and finer, till that last swift chip into your head...which metaphor doesn't stop anything, and I even got so inbriated I couldf not smell the world inebriated for no less and I dasn't exaggerate than seventeen hundred thousand thousand thousand thousand thousand thousand thousand years!!! And you'll notice these are italicized years, which give them quite a veneer. Anyway, I was saying, before all these years "intravupted," that I got so screwy I was pouring out drinks to hear the messages of the little figurines dancing in the drinks, or as a physicicst would say "He was pouring out drinks, the little fuck, so's to get a listen to these little furry prunes disappearing as they did within the drinks, or as the little dancing figurines in the green drinks might say, 'I could never understand why he was killing us.  We was tryin' to warn him, and here he turns us into this powder pouring like the last upswingeing lot of consciousness ove rour heads, like some miracle of gravity,' well said," unsaid. But it was our own doing, me and Maaeeaa, der Vermvamper und die Ladye‑‑we'd branched into menu within menu, getting greener and greener, going so far beyond poison one could insert some sort of Horrifical Parallel there (by which I mean there) here, were one not as they say dead in the head, which is an expression we salve meaning green! Click here to insert Horrifying Parallel. Hi & welcome to Horrifying Parallel Universe!  Your story has gotten here before you & started without you.  Now to our story. (clutches his (clutches his (clutches his (clutches his head!) head!) head!) head!) I'm having much too déjà vu to possibly make any sense, but here goes.  We then went on what they then went on to call a Crawl through the Edges of Town, or else a Creep through the Mentional Withers for as your equations have guessed‑‑growing white and giant like blindly sentient worms and tapping you on the back, Ahem?!‑‑this is all taking place within the terrible quantum foam of the center of a supermetallic metagalazy a black hole, forsooth, in which the jet of words writhing foce from its wonderfully unimagined forces causeth even the most compact little haiku‑‑which this book you hold as you vomit in your hand as you hold in your hand this vomit from the sproroth of the book that was to spaghettify into long incurcling exfoliating never-ended "sentences" in their own morphic wormway simulating some sorta playhelmintheismicke In fin i sim u te i ty (only without the eye, and without the fun) once a mere sweet haiku, entitled I believe "After The Cats Make Love," which is, by a spaghetti-sucking metaphor of rounded conicidence round oincidence dense incidence the precise title of yet another of this woman with whom I was crawling round the idges of the drowned-in-verdance town, the drone streets of Emerald Town, and the emerald towers driving us through various metaphoric fields of poppies in our useless treblebranching trombome Quest for 1) death 2) sanity 3) infinity files in the folder of The Lightmire of the Worms, which by a positive coalescence of Co In Ci Dense streaming froth from the quanta of our super-X-Wray galaxy, zinging awful chords like those power wires just outside your house, causing your incipient yet alrerady densely-threaded intricately-(with the help of this prose)-implanted brain cancer brain cancer brain cancer brain cancer dead brain cancer morning brain cancer Sunday morning brain cancer winged brain cancer swing'd brain cancer defacto brain cancer defuckto brain cancer bubrain cancer bububrain cancer bubrain cucancerer implanted duh-muh brain cancanerer i.e., the brain cancer implanted in you at your preception by the Crystal Magician, whoc loves these frightening tricks like at parties, making our mothers disappear, giving us all these compressed supernovaeate "lives" if you can breathe to call them that in which we wonder where our mothers have gone and why our mothers don't comfort us, here in this pressurized room where the men come to torture us again and again and again and again, to the point where brain cancer seemsa preety goddam viable option, if oy uask me, a pretty viable bleeding bloody oddam Goption, if you will just believe with me... ...as she and I‑‑totally gidded, you will recall, and green to the suffrage of our Owne Greate Gilles‑‑threaded on all fours up and down the lost corridors of the tiny parts of the diminishing streets in this town formed of tough, delux quantum foam© foamafoamfoamfoam, dontchyagnoë & I know that's weird foaminwhich the parts of the laws of existence have by golly peeled off from aonnoether, so we were like gleeping through crystal windows of green to see the Little Ladies in their Gowms, and our green ears seeping with thre sap of someone's singing (a dead pop star, a dead poet, a dead&gone Nobody like me, whatever) and I would find myself crawling up the crack in her ass‑‑covered, I hastentadd, with seemly dress and cloth, and finding there further cities, not to mention her herself doing one of her many greatfashion shows, apparently, and this comes as a great surprise to someone as mightily mightily stupid as me, only availavle to the "green" as we now tucking down our graciously virescient tuxs, and walktzing as it were only there are no waltzesh here, the three's underlying the structure of saidwaltzes having having having having been crushed into the O-foam longue-agough in to the hall where the qomen of infinite class would circulayte in time in the unforgettable falling dresses of their show. GROANSER-GROANS So this is the Premise Moment of the Novel in which I am crawling up the crack of this idol's wife's ass, she having whupped up her skirts in a trice as I snorted behind so's so give me access to the bare domes, the empty towers smoothed by infinitudes of ever-blozeroding winds, the deep cracks (hairless) up the shadows of whom you crawl to the sound the of sound her of groanser-groans coming from somewhere outside the event-horizon of her panties, down around her ankles but not slowing her down a whit in her whm of the city's ether tunnels and so-quolled "absinthe-funnels" or so they seem to quoll themselves, on acccount of the quoll-birds quolling their great squalord squoal under the muontainous bridges and unheard-of batcaves silent oer the echoing rovers echoing rovers echoing rovers echoing rovers echoing rovers echoing rovers echoing rovers echoing rovers echoing rovers echoing rovers, alll poreless and smooth, for Pores‑‑much less Haires‑‑hath neeen banned by the Second Great Soma Smurge of 81905-39, in which the genes for these qualities were pulled out with a grimace as of pulling out a great whetted wad of toilet paper from the gurgling bowels of your brown bowl toilet bowl boilet bowl and phoilet bowl, if repetition means anything. So if repetition means anything it was a smooth enough course I flowed, coming upon onne other than the great man himself, the great chuckling Quarl, known to the world as Quarl, known to the word which knows all the other words also as Quarl, his name having become in the course of his own groaning fame if repetition means anything a word of many aloha-sorts of meanins, most of them rather Quarly, if you know if repetition means anything what I meant to mean. Yea, I come upon the chunky duke himself leaning back at his own, rather thick ,rather huge, rather brittle glass table, this at some Other Club, known as the Quarl Club or the Other Club or the Quarl Other Ckub Number Three, or simply as Three, as I am known simply as Simple if repetition means anything, and there is this at-first-un-rec-cog niazeable doctor behind him feedingnig things from the depths of his uh doctorial mist into Quarl's rich insenate and and thick witted veins, veins stout and solid enough in which to coarse through the brews of a thousand multitiudues, whatever that if repetition means anything means, great thick rotund veins that even Marcia Quirl, Quarl's dumbest nurse, coulda rucked them veins with these great lusty spikes the doctor was using. And lo, as the mist cleared‑‑a mist being something that was developed solely for doctors to protect something or other‑‑or maybe just so's they could walk round barenaked‑‑not during any of the Major Smurges I can recall or any date I knowv or precise physical nature of the quantum foam within the essence of the great overblown black whoel the depths of whose depression I write withing from or anything...er...I recognized the doctor as the doctor. I mean, I recognzied the doctor was the good Dr. Chook, the only doctor in the novel other than someone named I think Gabba think I in some sorta palimdrone herein inhere, and possibly the Only Doctor in the World‑‑'cause who the fuck needed doctors, other than this creative gem of a giant, this lusty Roister Doister of a baba-brute himself, Quarl?  Huh? Yea well repetition means anything, for he certainly needed it, for it was you may say his current manner of living it up, something which we all must do and which I, if repetition anything, have forver kept forgetting in a little circularity to Do, so I have no life, having never as they say lived it up. But you can imagine this huge staute of a man, this mad and chuckling Potometheus, this gurgling great jug Fiend with his feet as big as a print job up on the table cracking spidularities through the eye of the visible glass (this is al being BROAD...CAST) if meaning anything tittering in a great "de-waltzo falzetzo" when he sees noneother than his wife crawling cross the glass of the table, and me with my face up her ass, only Quarl‑‑always the tinker, always coming at things in his Transgalactic Visitor (his term) sort of manner of a whey means if anythingrepetitions away!‑‑is looking at that solid plug up my ass the one she either put there so's so have an excuse for meeting an uuntooouuuuchaaaaable suuch aaas meeee or which hwas there becaise I somehow failed to check, checking as I was the worms of light in this very asshole's house, not knowing worms could like manifest their little asses up your ass, by which I mean one's ass, in any case. BALCONY OF GLIMPS But anyway, the cartoon child grimaced at the interference lines in his electronic comic book or elecromic, which seemed to be losing its focus or its focal value or its pinpoint headpointed pimprinked acccuracy, its cowlike ability to sheen him with delusions, until he became child after altnerate child readinf reams of parallel cromicrooques©, until the ice of the colorfula image managed to melt (i.e., die) into the frownind face of this great Man here‑‑no problem with focus here, folks...this guy is certianly nucleated right here in the club, and I look up with my hair matted and the liquid of her ass dripping fub by doze, and he with his patentend audiacity has the willwithill touché: "Your wife's a real babe, pal," which must be a lime from the cruel crimson orchards of one of his snalls some sorta red lime, see, or some metaphor that combines things in a metaphysical flay like that right there right that like there mike that wight dare bright bat might bare as everything he said, we later learned, consisted of words the sucker'd sucked up from the depthelss deafness of his own "cutting room floor," which I know is where my own personal childhood is stored, so you might say that‑‑even though they compristed of words too inane to be included even in one of his comicbüch moobies‑‑they the words they had words a they certain words resonance they for me certain res-o-nance did they, coming as they whey after all form the abyssius, if you will, of my stupid earlier yeras, when I was a stupid fulgrown child having read the very episode which follows..in a cromicbluck. "My wife?" I thought, and then revised my thought‑‑underlining it a bit, then writing over it again and again and again till my callouses fell off and I plewdem .BAK ong with XueupeuerGleue©‑‑and therefore "said," actually looking around to see if juicy Zelz'd wandered from her usual systemic habitats conssting of crystal poles round which her oiliness might writher, that's my Z! into this very swanky sanctuary of glass and rustled bustling, with its drinks made out of PürëFröst© and its extra large love of the large letters and the Ampersands and the Curlicues, the buttons of which you push so your wish comes ture I mean true so it was this great ritz of conglomerality in which wisher after wisher hunched forward in his tux, or leaned her sweet decolletage down to the very Balcony of Glimps, to see hisorher wishes comnig true in Brightenened Miniature©, in what they did naught cal the Amersand Bottles or Les Bouteilles (abandoning-the-French-as-they-have-abandoned-them-themselves) of Wish. "Yea...your wife," murmur the lips of the Great and Gasping man, for it is indeed my Zelz doing one of her squatting Zel rotutiones, only there in the cup‑‑in the glass‑‑in the little focused comic book of wish-fillfuddlement he was staring in, while Meeara pulls down her dress to hide her ass, sits down and‑‑patting some sort of pad on which I, in my own ultrastarchéd Job Intervue Tux©, do pour untom yself onetwo‑‑looks bored. SWEPT UP BY SPAGHETTI OF LAPELS "I want to 'do' your wife," he says, making with licentious fingers putting the frame round this act I can already see etching out the word do as if it were her pellucid face as seen through the frames of a million menisces, and with dewdrops in arabesqueish flourishes to boot and saying this rude think, methings, just for the enjoyment of the swathes of omnidirectional Hatred it cooks up. "But more than that I want to zmim you, man!" he went on. And to emphasize this he swept me up "by spaghetti of lapels," to use out idion‑‑and we are talking beautiful lavendar lapels flourishing from my neck like some sort of fertile-quanta plants exfoliating like crazy off the surfaceless surface of the event horizon on your tongue I mean the Event Horizon which probably in all probability in the region of the barely possible in the limnal glass full of liquid down which flakes of no-snow fall.  I did not mean your tongue. Has the paragraph started?  Yes?  Yes well...it just sort of...spurted out like the zoomtongues of those wheksa-birds they think they have but don't on the nonexistent Wheksa One, where I was formed from someone's dreamy cum...but keep in mind Quarl was stretching me in fireless accelerant of gravity into a shape streaming more or less like spaghetti dressed in suit-zoot and-a lav en der la pels, mainly to shock me, to wound some of my organs and to get his big face close to mine, which was in the nanoseconds expanded by some expensive unheard of snall into weeks and months and, some will tell you, years) to come I learned something the guy fellowjust sometimes had to do‑‑like when his eyes italicized and people who know him, of which there are none and I am one, will tell you just what a sight it was when his eyes italicized! and he had really just to get something across.  Then's when he'd grab you.  Then'za when he'd dado that.  He kilt many people thataway, but killing doesn't count here, except for my own botched upcomning job of which more sanskreet... "We'll make a snall about what it's like crawling round in those tunnels there, or whereever you crawl..." "Technically, it's nowhere." "Anyway, what it's like rassling all those lightworms or energy cables or singular-fixutres or whatever the hell..." "Thoughtribbons or lightducks," I said, starting to laugh my ass off and trying to er place my hand familiarly on her kneee, but my hand knew not her Knee, and fell into depths unknown & having nothing to do with her‑‑except inasmuch as she is there. She is smoking like this cigarette or something, only it's darker, and sharper, and hath a sneer.  It's also the snipped-off crescent of a fingernail and's also a sneer.  It might be simplest to say she was smoking some sort of sneer. "What brand of sneer's that you're smoking there?" I said‑‑you must keept in ine how mind how mind how and mind how ra rattled I I wa was, what with my nervsous system still sitting quitly, its ghostly blue nerve-legs crossed, while the rest of me like spaghettied in agony, or whatever, with Quarl struggling to pitch me this snall, which I could tell would suck. "We'll make them like huge sauric serpants," Quarl randled dom, "like great sea-shouldering mutant whales." "They are like whales," I said, but then realized I was putching in to his pitch. "Yes!" he shouted, giving me a shake with all sorta extra formulae and symbols and stuff coming outa his mouth.  He'd had a few, I knew.  He had, as a subordinate subscript subsequent investigation revealed, had a literally countless number of drinks, so he was like measurelessly ripped (which, in the expanded nanoseconds or "nano's plus" that followed in the years beyond following, I lurmed he was always was anywaswaywas was). THE FIRST VAST ZERO FORM COLLOQUIALLY GNOME My skin was growing back.  I it set to do do that.  I myself, existing as a large funnelfaced O confronting his first vast zero form colloquially known as The First Vast Zero Form Colloquially Gnome, checked the cube about my "Flesche groweinge backe," in the idiot writhing idiots' idiom of the times (though I am known for beig hard on those times) when I was working myself up to be sipiancnetdoucted as repairer of the virtual wires, or photon-rivulets, or whatever they was they "have" no "name"‑‑they just keep de generating on and on these parallel sets of epithets, they simply pip out endlessly to the surface of our existence of a star, they just keep pip out simply de generating on and on to the surface these parallel endlessly sets of our existence of a synonymous star of epithets and now, as so not-so-often "before," I stared at the webbings of my fingers form, holding my hand in front of me as she formulates herself to the furnace of a small star, which they have on the tables here, and even Quarl and his bride so oddly more unreadable than mine cut me some slack here, and just lean back to where there is no light, unless of course they wish or desire or can afford to have a video image a LOUD VIDEO IMAGE made of waves come through to be vivisected by the vivisecting seers on the Outside, e.g., anywhere else round the cirsuit of the table, which is not so big as tables grow, but is made of this neat greenish Art-Deco glass becoming decrescendingly beautiful as my ugly old hand forms round the coincidentally art-deco bones of my endless hand. Anyway, though this action I see the little girl checking the cube that said no emotion, if there was down any of the branchings of this form I am stribing to recrive any such cube, any such cube ever, any such cube ever was, or maybe she was assiduously not checking any of the dizzying rows and vertiginous tiers of cubes spelling out all manner of self-emotional portraiture.  I saw it as my hand formed, but I just don't know... But the woman I saw when I dramatically dropped my hand onto my lap (it had not been crystallizing properly anyway) seemed certainly to seem certainly to be one of those blown-open freezer doors of the unforgettable kind made by the (now forever-frozen) Sapagari whose machines were just too quaintly and passionately perfect, such that just one refrigerator door glowing its surreptitious xenon in the night blew out its flakes forever, until a whole sector was empurpled and embittered with frost, and also driven back in time to a most untimely crudity, this backwards-time gambit being the particular technology by which the late Cryosapagari made their freezers so damned full.  I mean cold.  I meant cold back there when I said full, but it's too cold now.  I mean late.  I meant late just then when I say full, and you know the rest, although there is and can be no rest in a universe so dangerous mere frigidaires left ajaridare can destroy the silence of the lambs. ALLEGED CHILDREN I've brooded over three thousand years on how to express the sordid yet irresistible sexuality with which Der Quarldebarler seduced me into stardom, I guess & if you call me the Univeersal Goof I will kill you and bury you inside one of the measurelessly eternal cells, ice-cells, refrigerated cryogenic ice-shells! in which one may find the hundred thousand or so estimated alleged children or partial children or disgustingly melted plastic parts o' children© it would seem, your honor, I have begotten, stars. I have broodedand masturbated with a great slow sliding langorous sadness all along my Magnificent Cock as it were in order to somehow avoid the sexuality, which is the sexuality of my wife, Zelzerea of the Hormoans, Zelzerea the Great, Zelzerea a hero's wife if there ever arf arf whum. So I have decided to crystallize it all.  I have compressed with my palms like superman making obscene grimaces and getting along the way a gigantic boner which few observers dare to note, that in the expectation and the dreamlike execution of his exploits the man gets himself some kind of impenetrable wood‑‑I mean, who's he gonna fuck to ease that kind of tension?  Who's gonna squeeze him hard enough to create for us the ambience of Asia in the air, the cyrtsallized Asian music and beautifully slanty-eyed decor, the scents and incense and sensleess stun of apthcouli, the women‑‑not Asian, not at all Asian, but some buxom white Ladies of Anglo-Ambiance riding the great bending poles of Atlanttas, by which I mean those great red throbbing (crystallized!) poles these women, wearing make-up thick as smudge de kabuki (a mudlike throttling make-up we have we have except when it slip (sinto a deper dream (bec(coming the making up of (an invinsible dfream (with no face (gtrying to escape itsfa ce ( trying to escape its lonely (facelessless (facelessless (facelessless (facelessless (facelessless (facelessless (facelessless (facelessless (facelessless (facelessless) and I beliebve thats Superman himself relaxing in the coroner there, dead, a product of Whatsisname's greatest I think snall, The Death of Superman, the title of which makes me so sad I cannot laugh at what is a truly hilarious dirty snall, but blendingly satirifal in all ways and with no rough edges, a s rot of gummy funny substance sadly named as if it were a snall and having nothing to do with the faces of you and me. We are made up like clown-kabukis.  Everything was crystallized, and Zel was wearing her thickest dress‑‑you know, the woolly one striving so hard in its Countryeshe Phlowery Patternungs to hide her incessant vibrations, the urges Quarl‑‑that'sisname!‑‑wanna snall. He's a sexless monstrosity with his great long cryustal on the table, hius wife rubbig the crystal emotinalelssly (the face beneath those cakes of wonder even more masquesque than the thrub existing overhead and I must and ellooonnnn-gggggaa-aaaattttt-ttiiiiiin-nnnngggg his ddddddoo-ooooossss-sseeeee!) so that an endlesss sptritz of grickle crickles keep coming out, while crystal words indeed do enter outr every orifice (as we quaintly hold hands, hand after hand after hand after hand after hand afterhand and afterhands hold),  pitching this great snall, the, er excat "plot" of which would seem to keeep metameterializng up one or more levels of reality, such that each moment of his conversatio regards each preceidng mement of h.c. as a mere crystal bril, a dollshouse, a shaken ocean of flake in which we dizzyingly watch our chances for life of or chances for life of our chances for life to die so many decades before we get the chance to do.  That's why our muched faces were so very crack't with dew. And with a great chill ado indeed adieu upon my flapping lips did I say, "Wrestling worms is something only a very stupid man would do." Quarl, cumming, nodded.  Cum come out of his Adam's zapple I swear as he lean back his gnaud. "That's why you do it," the Lady M, whole fullname I was beginning to forget in all the glitz and the frost and eternal white flakes and the and the tossings of billions of rimes.  She didn't even have a smirk on the face that lay beneath a million covers, some big nubber or gnubbers here, but it was all being vibrovised© from the tiny cameras that lay in the little pieces of shit that lay at the fundament of her Maskingenesse, as they sway, we sway, a great etheric sway amongst the very thick (artificial, arxifixizal, inebriative, ghostly) spray of the waves of the sort of mini-JETstream of the air in there, some song was thrombing, thromboing, if you must know, it was none other than the number one hit of that particularly endless slice of time, "It Still More Kindly," snappy, poppy tune, inebriative as I say cerebriative toone, and soon we (reduced just a bit) were dancing some sort of formal sort of handjive jig on the top of the table, which was enacted here and here and here with you signature here _________________________, thank you, as a great block of ice which quickly froze me back to the subject at hand, melting in my melting hand, even as the face melted (they do that now and then, just to refresh the faces, flesh the masques...), but her contempt for me was perfect, and she wasn't even able to perceive, much less think about, my wife-about.  This humiliates me into a great rage, which is why I signed the contract, which was itself, in anticipation of me, of course, written quite red with rage. "In my snall only brilliant people wrestle with the worms," Quarl informs me after one of those timesnaps, timesnaps, t*msn?ps in which we fiond ourselves on this very chintsy set, with all the significant characters of the novel looking on‑‑I do not have my list right now, but you can imagine them, you can imagine there have been them, you can lean back and die...right....now. "No no no!" he was screaming as the power suddenly power suddenyl sapped from the idiotic falsey sort of glowing "worms" he'd had "made" as "props" for my story, which would be a sort of anti-version of my life.  He said (and I quote), "We'll dub in the smartness later." "But these worms are all wrong," I wept.  I'd taken to weeping a lot, and I was later, lcoked in my grey box of torture of the torutre box box box, to learn often happened to everyone, as Quarl buggered everyone in sight, most especially and penetratingly his "stars." "They're not the worms you think you remenebr," he said, sliding me down to my knees.  "These are my worms.  You are wrestling the worms of my imagination.  Now suck..." I was wrestling the worms of the matser's imagination, which were more powerful than, up to now (by which one means then), I'd apparently transprency wrassled all my "life." I wrestled and wrestled for a long exhausting time and forgot everything. I lay there nakedly, my legs spraddled oakroardlay.  I was covered with worm. THE REALMS OF THE LIQUID DREAM© So it was during the long days* spent wrestling the lightworms of my master's imagination *Quarl's days being Just As Long As His Eminence Pleased, so pleaseth you, and the long long dusks* during which I serviced him, though utterly without light *during these various layered, sedimented and obviously metamorphosed (we must be near to the dore of the core fot eh Aerth!) times the growith in my eye began, I say the blue growth in my eye began its slow growth, the great crystalline fabulous statue of a gorgeous turquoise crystal began eminating itself, as it were, through piezoelectric vibrations of itself, as it war, into the side of my eye, growing, this azure growth of which in several hundred thousand I exaggerated poems exaggerated underneath the visible crystal sediment of this dead world you walk upon* *this novel, I say the blue growth of this blue growth or sapphire crystallization of this crystal sapphirization paralleling and paralleling itself unto some sort of utter madness (I cannot say‑‑you weill notice my lips are stithced togehter so I canna swaeigh...) got so I was a blind man wrestling worms, a blind little god in his small box of stupidity obeying and obeying the functionless commands of an utterly empty memory space, its software liquidly sliquored doubt, an empty space sans platform nor sturcture, and as I was saying with this gigantic azure crystal in the corner of my eye, watching me, not hurting me, as the sentence rambles ong, but actually if this is possible outside The Realms of The Liquid Dream© which is an expansive software package we had but which now has us (known colloquially and jocularlarily as The Realms of Your Balls in the Crucnhing Palm!?), I was in terrible shape, unable to see and gogglingly‑‑yes, my "eyes" slinkyingying o-u-t in the comical glasses Quarl had me feign, more for fellatio than anything, more for the hours and endless hours of hardworphing fellatio than anyfuckingthing‑‑self-conscious, see, about this Blue Dame that was watching me, nor did it take me long‑‑not even one tenth of one of these tenthleth sthenstencthes‑‑to realize this was his wife along for the ride, watching me most unusually, or perhaps and with some possibility checking on her hubby, lest he start to swive the liquid magnitdes known as my wife, who was I forgot to say because 1) I couldn't fucking see remember?, 2) I am very stuupid, remember?, and 3) it hath been ripped untimely fum mimindly flightless-dead-colorless-unremembird. Anyway, I became so conscious of the tall and always elegantly clad, Maaeeaa, always‑‑unless they've "blued" my memories‑‑in some sort of blue gown which showed off how unlike my tumid Zelzerea she was unlike my blistering hot fumid Zelzerea she wasn't Zelzerea she wasn't Zelzerea, and most of all she was watching me like a crystal blue filling up full quadrants fothe eyes of my mind and she wasn't mine. And there you had it. NEGATIVE COPHANDS While police were hatcheting out raw pieces of my frozen kids, hundreds of oced generations of them, all mine, all begotten, allforgotten, I was down at the disgorgive Feather Bazaar, looking for a used Ransom Statement Kit.  I mean, I knew I couldn't get one of the new ones in this beeming boosiness‑‑the kind that send an elegant holographic persona of a god straight between the eyes of Duh Crossaxed Cops, who drop the eyeballs they have maicsctiadkeenntlayly been using as hatchets and hear this vision of redemptrion polishing their ripe guns again and again and agaain upto Full Enlarge©ment, pumped u past full enlargement to overstuphment, up past ~ to pimiento chubimento and puffing and pumping and rubbing them way past up right through the ourple blisters screeching at the crock of their pants, with demands so beautiful they would make a grown woman‑‑I mean a tall, callypygous woman with large tired breasts and lines in her face shwoing one just how many ways she'd tripped her awesome ass round the Various Hairy Blocks‑‑cry, make this woman swell in her dresses and cry (and make the whispers in her closet where her [sentient] wardrope waits and sighs and shuffles and ruffles and weeps...).  I was more on the market for some used piece of shit, just a little illlegal ripsnorting riproaring ripsnitting ripditzing fickrucking goddam box that would, say, present to the sleepy faces of the plice, their faces white and naught with Ice but with sweet sleeping nauseous fattening fatty fattenating powder, their eyes the infinite cncentric holes of a billion ill-gobblin doughnuts, what with their dough, dough, dough and concentirc endless rims and rings and entire childrens iceskating rinks of powder, too fine to be diamond and too sweet to be sugar, and/or the/other way/a round/or..present to these faces I have DRAWN UP SO HIDEOUSLY I see I see maybe a simple mensicus, like a big talking, or possinly birglike squawking, face of water bubbling out my measely, cheesy, sickening demands‑‑demands so stupid and slovenly that even these cops couldnlt yawn, mcu hless pat their negative cophands (have I mentioned our cops have these negative cophands?) in sometime buried depe beneath and deep beneath contempt for my uh amplified stupdity. But I found a dilly, a genuine, used, busted and excaped, much-raped positive-control Million-Petaled Lotus Model 11529265.73 pedaling its ways beneath the incandescent yet somehow cloudy "seer cloths" or prescience drapes of a South Imagorium cast-off gravity shroud veild drape droud drood mood mode ascfactory.  It was seriously and utterly damaged, of coutrse, such a wonder to behold, merely a few licks behind the fanciest new ones, the Mirror-Petaled Lotus Model 11531474.55, known already to the dead as the mirrirbox. I was completely swallowed, of course, as anyone other than somehypotheticalone as stupid as me would have seen even before it was there to see, which is an ability I understand some of you uh you wiht untelligence can see, I mean do, I mean mean, I mean I, I I, I... FAVORITE SYMBOL HOT BREATH Yea and I stuck it under my tongue, and I'll admit it gave me a lot of verve; I will ad mitt that it played with me, and I will confess because of the influence of the pill beneath my tongue that within my bloodstream this is my novel crystalizing within the organelles my novel about sex, or rather, pornography.  This is my dirty book, not about the feelings or even the thought of lovemaking, or even of rape, or of using up your daughter and melting her face down over her rippling breasts with your Father's Patentend© favorite symbol Hot Breath, but more of the sight of some sex that has just happened, or the shapsnot capturing of some glostening of tongues as they happen, but as they happen in a manner rather juicily and I must say jollily separate from the pleasure of the sex, the pleasure after all, being what is being what is beinf photographed, what with the knowing looks on the victims' faces and the gnarled intent of the sodomozers and reamers and feeders and fluid-flowing-forthers fathering nothing but the dumb glint of their own dry tongue, there being no pleasure left over at all, in those bright lights, lights flashing much brighter than any sex can, the great light of orgasm we invented back in 16662, then‑‑after having forgotten about it and spent several hot decades photographing sex after sex until we were all beastly with exhaustion and did little other than bruise one another, excpet when we actually shot and disgruntingly dis em bowled oneanother‑‑uh perfected around and spinning aroundabout 19992, and then kept on right through the seven seven hundred and two's at which point we turned off the light of orgasm, our eyes like stalks atop these growing glowing spines, practically fleshless and resolved as a race I must say never to procreate nor have sex nor pleasure never more not in nany way.  I mean, we were full of negatives, we did nothing but hunch in our labs and jimmy our genes.  That's what we did back then, for hundreds of hours, just sat there with our special Pleasureless Equipment© and like jimmied our genes, till we come out of the box wioth a spring like a long-elduded jack-in-the-box, our lower parts still jackiong in the box, just jacking with our genes and jacking up our gnes, till we were not noothing, not even worth the sooth sound of negatives, we were not worth shit.  You might say but nobody said we were shitless little pieces of shit, but we knew even more than we were that we were you know.  But do not say. Anyway, the drug messed around with me, sure.  It made me fat, made my organs prolapse, made me even m,ore stupid and laughable than before, except now I tipped the scales beyond the numbers, the unforigivnig realm beyond the numbers that spelled unforgivingly fat, plus I had like this sort of a plane cut through me, a sort of a sidewise hitch, a kind of a long scar running its little realm rihgt through my Fataceous Excesivenessity of Flesch‑‑yes, and I was all fat and fatty and fatter and Capitalized, and I pretty much slid my nuclear fellows off the sidewalks as we walked around.  I may not have mentioned that we walk around.  I mean, we just enevr got the concept of vehicles.  WEe were just to excitable, and so we walked round this sort of Gordian Whorl of a situation of sightwalks in a giddy sort of Escheriean world, and most of us‑‑or many of us‑‑or anyway an uncounted uncountable unconscionable number or "number" of us talked to one another on these little phones, little white phones you found stuck here and there to the sightwhalp or the walls or something just over your head you could pick likea plasticene pear, and this was essentially out lives, all this walking and talking, and I'll say formally and in notaryiaty right here * your honor, that it was a good, if pointless, life that led us round that hot day, when I took the pill named Phil and became became became like sort of hopelessly fat. And my ransom got very sentient and youknow attitudinal and marched around twirling his great translucent moustache and so full of fucking demand that it seemed like he was demanding everything, that he (not I‑‑I had no part in this dissociated this) would never focus on his Grande Demande, but he damn well did. GLEEDINGLY-OBEDIENT DEMONS OF THE TORTURE-GODS I caught her in her vanity box, which as you might imagine is this box she found when we was a grubby little girl, one of our countless wild things abadoned like so much dried sperm or like so much dust or, for that matter, like so much dried sperm.  Did I say like eggs also, like dried and frozen eggs cast out upon not the ancient and long-extinct (but O! so quaitly naméd!) "wind" but oer the extrinsic lines of attitude which remain and which I suppose you could say "Serve you now for winds," serving us now for forgotten etc. winds and winds and winds and winds and winds and winds, so there.  Apparently the pre- or proto- or roto- or togo-Maaeera, the feckless little girl who didn't give a rat's ass whom she killed, just as long as she got her chewy little modicum of disgusting pleasure...this ah little girl, if you can call such a beast etc., finds this vanity box or banity vox or zanity zox, right, and she crawls into it, right, and is reflected itno its miniscuate bindle of mirrors, am I right? and she just spends the restfo existence fixing herself up, till‑‑I don't know‑‑some animal (I laugh when I say animal; everybody laughs when they say animal; there are no anials, and we are not sure why, but we are required to laugh when we mention animals, or if not show good reason why or suffer the punishment, which is in fact laughter at saying animal, my theory beong that my theory is that animal is the gods's ancient word for laughter, or perhaps simply the sound of those leahtered sonofabitches' laughter as they wormed their little electrical things into your slimy ass and they ass and they watched you writhe, but this is just the thought of a theory yawning within intrinsic nolecules of bubble-balloons or thought balloons or or-balloons or balloon-balloombs hiccuppy with helium) comes along and breaks the newborn adult and glittringly-gownéd naked Maaeera, nor Maaeera, now dolled and tarted up into a perfect platonian whore's version of herself, blinking and wincing but still a little girl. Or may be it was a brute what woke her, bit I will not have that THOUGHT! And so the thought, in the voice of the laconic Historian, whommb's tombgue hab'ue grong'ue gnumb'ue taking as he does all the time his distinctly inkyblack "historian's drug," i.e., or e.g., or evidently the drug you need these days and bulbs and abs and hours to pump yourself up enough to get youknow big enough to study history, meaning as it (studying history (it) history studying) outsize the books of history, even on your tiptoes, not to mention the fields upon fields of pain that they have arouns them, not to mention the unmentionable eyes‑‑the kind that need to creep like peering shadows over the flwoing over the flowing overpage‑‑to to mention the unmentionable "facts' of the history ytself, written no doubt by the gleedingly-obedient demons of the torture-gods and therefuck naught to be truckstead‑‑the voice of thsi guy, to try to continue, drones on about how the thought has me, about how it was some brutish male with a big, historic penis, etc. (you should hear these guys wiritnig their own penis into huge exaggerated chunquestone histories available at $5.95 a tongue!) whio broke the box, though I perosnally insist, now that I have calmed down and stopped breathing utterly insist, that it was Maaeera herself, having become in her infinite introgression of vanities, Maaeera herself, who may be defined‑‑names having meanings here wheich we wll not, under penilty of torporture, but what the hell, reveal‑‑as meaning ouch! the vain vain woman who broke the mirror of her own broken vanity, so there. So I dunno‑‑maybe I'd wandered back one of those past-tense purple "Corridors of the Pluperfect" in the backstage labyrinth‑‑inventing and renewing itself instant by instant, with much blood and pumping and gurgling, much deep-hearted thrusting and painful gritz of toof occurring like ebony in the Ivories of Tooph [historical para-region] I really coulds explain this all in a paft nonexistence‑‑wherein the various adorned performitures'd wander back just to hough up their lungs with dust, just to fill up with ancient emotions (or what we thought, what we'd gathered and what we bloodylike infurr'd were emotions) emotions (emotions) emtoins) (emotions emotions) (emotions) emotions) (for I mean, who was to know or would say us nay?) light the big Light Horses of the Universe Creation that they were or was or [neverwas], or else the lady'd slipped on a newer, more ornate, intrinsiciate and much more indrescribably vermicular version of her original childhood vanity box (doubtless less than a toy toy a than less now with some doubts, it having after all produced Maaera Maaera procluded all afterthought having afterall (by which one means before all) precurred), for there we were, our bodies both instantly sheened to something rather like fleshy bronze or that sexual bronze they oiled you with (I mean oiled one another with, of course, all of this story‑‑especially and including the excluded Parts of this Stoiry [hereafter to be known as the [brackets [Story]] the brackets story the brackets story] in which "I" appear‑‑being before my time, my time not having come round yet, it would seem, my time probably some sort of adolescent coil, some sort of fleshless opalescence of fierocity doomed to serve as screensaver for the sleepless eyelodis of some doomed because uncreated therefore therafter "God"‑‑I trust I've made myself something more than just a lucid limpid slice of the sluiceless clear) and so we were attracted to one another with the noiseless perspeicacity of two facing mirrors found to be‑‑after a long and yawning infinity, folowed by steam, folowed by smoke, followed by a reinfinity!‑‑as she'd've been attracted, if we can use that word of wood in reference to this field‑‑for this was quite a vanity box we're hiccupping 'bout 'ere'ere‑‑to a frigging little fly that'd wandered in, except there are no flies, much less wand'ring in, much les the though of...the thought...of...the thought... ...All of which suggests she let me in.  We didn't "fuck" (illegal word!), much less "make love" (fuckword!), but rather just styled our interrecursive beburnishings against one another.  I think I can as an old man wandeirng down the white and witnessless coriolidoradores of the steamless future, known as The White, recall our nipples touching, and a ballwhoumptuous ball of electricity, only it was also sound, coming of that and destroying the plane, filling the caib with smoke and snoughing as it were the metaphorical-conditional-perfect Captain's voice as he gurgled out his last infant's panic panic panic. I wanted just to say "I've come for you, lady.  Your hubby's paid off his ransom," but I was making far too many brass faces and rubbing my front up and down, or wa sit downand up orwasit audpnodwn?, hers for any of my verves to come out right. So they come out wrong. "I'm here for to nurture you lie a candle glow'ring backwards in the black capsules of the black capillaries of time,." I said. "I'll get my coat," she said, shutting as she was wont to at once do all known vanities, leaving me in one I'll-tell-you postorgaxmique Lürsch. It was then I fell into that bright Coma of Despair for which I am so unjustly renknowned, your Renoudonor, then's when I took the sledgehammer to her house of mirrors equals face equals skull equals equallary piecicules of brain, then Quarl makes that snalls featuring me pushing the fragments of her dis jointed brain round in a bay carriage, round and round the upsizedawn corridors of the dawn corridors ofthe dawn corridors of the Sphorix with Quarl's little cops, the cwoopurms swarming and the little silver bees humming, then when my eyes so oersilvered oar when I couldna focussed on anything, so very mad was I, so very enraged, what with the electricity humminb through my joints and the sound of mine onwe infantile screaming hitching my jocks. I knew nothing.  I knew only that I was very very mad, and no amount of make-up prevented me from injuring that face, even if it was my owne bone my razorblade sweeps as I slush't from cheeblowne to kneecop, slicing away everything I loved, doubting that I had ever had everd loved, really enjoying the silent scrisch of flesch, really looking forward to my bled-to-deaht notknowing of everything which is the nothing I become. I just can't do it, as I wait silently for Quarl's swishing agents to paint the background of the set a perfect black I can sink into, but I don't think the implants are going to work this time, no matter how much of that Special Effex Elextirixity Quarl pumps in.  I don't thin kI can wrasske his worms anymore.  I don't think so, and I don't even think I am stupid enough to do so, but I am, and he does, and I do. "We now call to the stand Dr. Lorenx Chabble, Professor of Stupidity at Swumzuch University," drawled yet another character I've inadvertenoopsly introwhoopsdouched, a lethargic prosecutor of the most brittle white I have brittle white I have ever scene.  He casually flips a quixqube, a sort of evisceral laavamp of a sort of zealafleumic brilliance, liberating scene after scene of my silent youth, only this was in the from of light, in the from of bright hypnotic geometric shapes, with an occaisonal monster from hell thrown i nthere just to keep you sharp, during which Duh Time one casually answers all questions, and one's words‑‑in my cu cu cu case, words in the from of hardened little Jurassic rat turd thangs, very hard to osppelnit soppleint obpreenak borpeeank, very tough, very sedimental ,very layered and very brittle!‑‑are corpaecnked or fractionated so as to render bare-naked the Reality Quotient contained therein, the attorney making all sorts of faces almost as bright as the little box I hold on my filthy lap. "As you can see, your honor," he says, but even We Without Eyes can see there is no one in the honor's seat, justthis sort of roundy humpish thing, like the humpback of the Humchack Quing, Sir Quunchback Roady-Toad, Sir Thirttle, Sir Birggle, Sir Sirbrixxle, "the Defenassholedant's words lack any truth-value whatsofuckheadever," and he tosseth one of my bigger tords, I mean wurds, over his shoulder removing both the shoulder and those portions of the thirteen-thursty "jury" hit by the last twilit gleams of that which was most dying in our universe:  light, and even the mouldering hump of a judge left on the seat of the table of my life notes the tautological redunancy, the multiplicative spirality of the proescutor's wörthless wörds, packing them as he does for the lump of his ohonor left mouldeirng onthe lightless seat of te lifleless light of the muoldering dead hümp of His Honor, who hath clearly lef only his honorable Butt on the Judge's Seat, and I leeo tilting my head at each new passage of my life, coming in the form of another gleam of the crystal cheekbone of surrealized childhood I hold hot in my creaming lap, hopnig they'll do a similar analysis on each and every frame of Quarl's movioe showing me taking that hatchet to the bloody endless tiers of my dead-insane kids, kid upon kid upon dreaming kid. "Your honor," cries the divine persecutor, spinning on the diamond of his heel to become my attorney, Protector Marshall Flashmaster Blastmartser One!‑‑"My client sclearly too inocent to be insane and too insane to be onnocent." He looks at me, snapping his neck in a veritalbe Gnoose of a Looke, sweating like some jealous husband sweating his boner off.  "He ztoo innocent to be amazed and too amazed to be torutred," he, headless, goeth on.  "Too stupid to be killed and much too dead to have children.  I respectfully suggest, your dead honor," he maybe turning state's evidence again without a diamond on the fylcrym of his hiel, "that we just torture the prick till he's mad, just keep on torturing the little shit, keep on torturing and tortuing hi minto some form of intricate fantasy, convoluted fantasia, gordian phantasmagoria, et cetera, just keep torturing and torturing and, yes your honor, torturing him, till the little weasal's innocent any way you look look loook lookatit..." But it too late.  The light's long gone (how long have we been whispering this sotry in the dark, or has the dark been whispering themetastory into us?), and we realize standing not in various forms of boxes but on mounds of smelly clay, that the judge is dead, the judge died sometime just before or possibly durig the case, or maye he just died from the laetest bit of evidence (or non-evidence, as my attorney says) that has been uh introdouched into the asshole of this shitty little case, my this sickening miniscule of a sourdamn fart of a fucking case, this sorry lamentable sob-story of a self-suiidicdal case, this bit of ah cough "evidence" or "non" as my attorney shaeigh, beig the small pile of fiklms Quarl never made, I mean snalls made and then cut to nothing on the Basic Cutroom Floor, slivered down to mere black reels of nothingness, fat piles of them in their octagonal boxes, and when the little bastard plays my attorney w talk about slicing open some of th eseemingly perfectly adverbally blackly tiles of the files of these nonfilms nevermade and severed like the artery of your gneque, because he feems to swink there's somethnig in there. You can tell by the tiles, of the titles, which have been retireved through server mechanisms and machinations of gooey software that have driven at least three hundred net supporters mad300:  The snall Wherein Chabble Axes His Layers of Kids, Axing right through the Bloody Ice While the [Paralyzed] Cameramum Screamth, and The snall in Which Mr. Chabble Slowy Skins Him Self (Not a snall to See), "not a snall to see" being part of the unifficial, retireved, and long-dead sitnkinb title! So we have to "go in," both the aptrtoosrcnuetyor and my partotsoercnteuyt obr elieve, erasing the entire fucking story‑‑sweeping the lump of shit that was a judge off the stool and rejuvenating him by backreeling monstrosities back to the ack o he ck e k firsking lollops of a dandy young Siamese cat!‑‑eraisng the whole halfassed "harfarf'd" universe I've created here, so we find ourselves staring at the ugly forms of electron microscopy cells, standing atop masses of moss, looking out over a vast landscape of love and one would peer life peer at life peers of life peerilife pleiefre which groweth zoftly ünterfööt, this being one cell of the fram of the organelle that was the once-dead snall.  We have dead lght here, artificial light, light whose love kills the plants and killeth th plantth, but we have light. A MOST REFLESHING SWAMP And this was the series of double-snalls the lawyers made of Quarl's Snalls the Unmäden, for the prosecutsie'd jerkhis head bothways, wbaoytsh, and slip in a little sperm of ignorance, a little jerk of cunning, a spurt of cunning stunts all kicking up their great muscled legs in a eggs in a row, with the black eggs of guilt and the eggs of guilt falling endlessly in that ah microspatial cosmos of stupidity in which my case fell like black snowflakes in the negatve wheel of an uncut eel of an unrehearsel reel of something very very very unreal, and then he'd spin on that mucky but still diamoonish Heele of Hisse and become Mine White Defendere and unzip his torusers and pump in a little muck of gnignorance, poke in a little sperm of intelligence, knock up the folds of the undead snall we were sleeping in in in in in in in with the tingling cum of reasonable doubt, wich, sprat acrost the jounrye of the jury's exsif face, made each frame of Quarl's unintentioned snall seme indeed like a crate of battered eggs. So we come back in to the courtroom where the judge‑‑who was, to roughly translate this hyperphysical modality, just off taking a shit‑‑becoming very thin and greeng and reegy and as of the spiders of a most refleshing swamp as they say the spygeres of a moss-defreschling swump, as they say the gigers of a mosh beflexing shomp as they say, letting me off the grreat hook of torture I'd been ong and ong these many Weaks, sentencing me to walk the streets with a "slightly enhanced degree of intelligence." Hey‑‑they were loosening my box!  I think they made me brilliant, adding not just one (1) jot and two (2) tittles (tiggles!), but blowing me up into the most massive sphere of empty intelligence in the psychedelic warlord Bela Lugosi-tonguéd "bworld!" So I sat lost on the walkways on a translucent box‑‑a box glowing with some sort of show the kids all had to watch, so I had these children, child after child as delicate as pollen, spread out more or less from my feet, but all in an effort to avoid my feet, which were the smartest feet in any case in the universe, perverse, distorted intellect all wrapped up in my crystalline, 38-foot foot, and they'd closked my latent intelligence at something beyond 66,218,782, which was you'll have to admit pretty smart, except that's stupid of me to say because I should instead (bear with me) say which sounds pretty smart, our system of measurement being as far beyond your hhu hu as the intelliggence quotience of mosquitoes piling themselves up on the hill and taking the test in neat tiers and endless rows, each with her No. 2 pencil filling in the gaps, and with every answer wrong, the very wrognenss and thre selfsamew reflexive fucking wrongness beingthe basis of their scores, with your average moquito achieving a score somewheres around about a hundret, just as in our world the avergae etc., except before my Amplification or AMP Lif-Ick-A SHUN! mine was somewheres in the 20's or less, depending on the dusk, depending on the degree of diamond dust, our lives meaning our airs being fulla this diamond dusk, which we had we but belief would believe to be the leftovers of your fiucking universe, which "blowed up totally," as the imprisoned, constantly tortured physicists say, "blowed up real good!," all of this, however, before my ass is bit by the various scurrying Reptiles of Wisdom‑‑you know, the ones that can talk‑‑and I'm also surrounded now (meaning then) as now by this haze of flakey physicians covered by a granulated ash of scientists coated by a flaking sort of ickzema of neuroticians surrounded by a somehwat visible stench of expertise engulfed or emswumped as the aforesaid physicists says (scremaing as their skin is slowly flayed:):  "by a miasmic sense of wonder,"so I am hounded, not just by children (genetically provable as my own, like I was so stupid I was for most of my life the Perfect Fuck, me with my nineteen- or was it nineteenth-inch dick, me the Fucking Fool of the village what with damsels swelled in their brilliance wet beneath me, etc, none of which I hasten to urp I re mem beurr‑‑but anyway, I am hounded also my this plexus of experts, now that I can not fucke at all, much less walk, but am so much smarter than anyone can handle to be that I understand everything, mosatly the waste of everything, the intricate fantasies of watse I have lost myself in, the intimate tortures of thought I have enveloped myself in, the myriad selves calling themselves many a nasty name or calling themselves my children, some of them even hiring lawyers‑‑also my selves‑‑who are suing me for torture of the even though I am the tortured child, I, I, I!... PLAYING IN THE FIELD OF THE MANY EYES So I just sort of sat there and cried.  "He's so smart he just cries," the idiots whispered to the littler, supider idiots within them, who whispered it in turn to the smaller Worlds of Idiot within the sphere of the Idiot Sphere Inidiosphere, till finally the whisper comes down to the little idiots playing in the glass that lies within all spheres" hssss...There's a histant but dorrible hiss, and a large [Unknown Structure] i.e., an untranslatable amphitheater constantly hassling the edge of one's eye as one plays, one's head as clear as the idiot's uniglass eye©, with the sound of your playing amplified to this horrible empty hiss, as you, even the idiot you, realizes Now everything has been taken away‑‑now it's time to die but I cam never die, I am much to simple to die, and so on with thoghts of that like silken ilk.  There's no use even talking about it, much less thinking, much less writing, much less the idiot bright amongst his fellow eyes, playing there there in the field of the many eyes, which lies atop the even deeper, even more ancient field of the shattere eyes, which is the sand, found in the brain, by the way, the idiot sand in which I hatched and/or found my idea, and I stoods up on the cupid cube and declaimth my idea, then go off and execute my kidnap plan, which is way more intelligent than Farge or any of his ilk might gleam, what with its going back in a loop of tie constituting not so much a fault in my life or even in the plot but a fault in time, or in time as Hampton imagines it‑‑I laugh to dream such things...time as Hampton imagines it!  Time! Which echoes out to the larger me staring sagely at the mongoloid kids, the drooling scientists, not to mention the hawkish reporters gathered round me like so many meanignful stains, as I clap my hands on mythighs and just walk off.  "He's walking off!" they report to their larger eyes, whuich have been watching this whole miserable story from some sort of drooling orbit not so much in the horizon's in the skies, I mean nowhere so much as in the horizon, these particular eyes I'm ikagining existing because I just don't care here care here care here or care here being so big they could not possibly orbit "from the sky." "Who the hell's that watching us?" everybody but me notices.  I reckon it is this untoward increase in my particular intelligence‑‑entirely unforeseen, by which I mean this increase entirely unforeseen by which I fail to mean‑‑having increased everyone's unwanted perceptions, which is all any instance of intelligence by the way can do, to a most particularly ugly level, a level at which we realize we are all going to lie awake forever now, everynight, with these thoughts as ugly as horizon-length eyes or languid eyes watching us, murdering sleep as it were with their metaphoric focal glaze. The brittle light clicks up, and is revealed a great leaning forward and a glowing of foreheads as of eyes, and Farge and the others who hate me more than a metaphor sit up pulling their glasses off.  They are all these oval glasses as worne by the childless young girls of our time, assuming this series ofwet delusions equal time and someone not-named Charl snap the small projector off. "There, your honor," he says, though of course one ins never sure the judge is there, and one is always too respectful‑‑not mention afraid‑‑to look, as various all but soundless experiments in syntax reverberough unsuccessfully into some night not yet defined even in "glowing equation form" by our skinless screeching physicists, such as they are. We PAN BACK to look around the cramped little screaming room, looking for the judge.  I mean, no on thinks, there's no point going on without a judge, and in the strength and as we might say the strong meat of the flicks we've just had fed unto our nervous systems, wormed shut as their litte-hearts are, we're compelled to look for his honor under each and every cushion of these severely hard, severaly wood-en-chairs© gone as mad as hatters from the digitial disenhancement of the show. "Fucker's not here," mutters my defense eternity, the edge of his face lit for the none in the flicker fothe porjector retrojector's immense volcanic oceanic deathless glacial bulb, but then the judge is once again on his black cushion fat's an egg, having apparently gone out maybe in a pout to take another of his famous "judgmental shits"‑‑Farge's intensel-face burft with its gripm blowing out his own sweat lips, as he thinks (and we can all hear him think:)  Fucker's got the Judgmental Shits! "Anyway hyoonuorr," extends whom I think is the prosecutor, looking very cute indeed in his fantastic qurls and powders, "anyway, these truth-enhancéd dittios of Defendant Chabble seem to show‑‑I mean relaly duly show‑‑quite queerly‑‑I mean clearl‑‑the chit's as guilty as can be, that he really had all those kids, that he really froze said kids in the basement, that he really hacked the unsaid kids apart in the fridge of Theire Owne Bloode with that great big hatchet I mean axe we had to put into the snall.  Your honor.  Your honor?" But his honor's gone again.  We all look at one another‑‑me, Farge, the defenced eternity, the white-faced pancacked-prosecuter, and the Many Other Men of this Beginningless Court‑‑for the first time seeing one another's dim and ill-forgotten face, all the same face, looknig for some meaning in th edense meanderings of what some would like squeezing out their last ejaculations call "the prose" as if looking not so much for a face as a meaning, not to much a meaning as ourselves, not so much ourselves as the fucking judge who judge-who grunteth back from not another shit, as we not only one thoght but also saw but also saw writ in the frascentic-neon history bucks having gone off to make the decision torturing me unto intelligence. "There you see," he say. Yea so they made me smart and they löööped me back in time, they looped my ass right back to the point where I think I was dancing on a chair, I was a young an whose limbs still bent bouncing and dancing his lovely lithe little ass on a hopping hopeless motherfuckiong chair, and and and and I had to walk carefully, being so smart.  I was, or my mind was, or the glass brain imprinted on the neurons of my positive-mass electron-identity fly's eye's were like this blousy overblown bottle, caked with insanity, like this ig empty bottle fucvking baked with fucking insanity! quoting its own endless echoes of emptiness, as it were, while no one‑‑and I mean no onw‑‑and like ebery other word I've've ev've'ver sai'd 'id no one means precisely no one, like the other invert boteilles of emptiued worlets I've imprinted on you all of swish mean and/doeughr meanghnt the precixe oppoxite of whatever the hell I said you said thei were, so you have your bottlesful of intensely inverted metaphors and your black inverte antispatial Bottles of the Fucking Lie and your Mythicke Antibottles infecitng your zittéd face and your bottles of plasma all in drag and your bottles of infected iannfteicetneedrgy ainntfieecnteerdg and your bottles of et cetera and insaine and swough oughn and oughnoughn aghnd oughnoughnoughnd!  and what I mean here is that no one is telling me anything‑‑no one on earth (because, the bodies of my babies suddenly out, we are all suddenyl out here on earth, wheer eearth is see as this very thin g ball, this bery big yet little rounded blue ball of a rounded baloughwouugh, where we like the very giants that on their great blue boots did boots did once crusth the UR-life right out of erer-earth (that was your blooody faint, I mean fate, in the faint tranclucient Case you was "fainting with anxienty 'longuing to knowne youre' fate"!) was going to fill this great bottle with anything. It was like this.  My head swolt and glaxxen, I knocked on biblioportal after biblioportle, within vervetex within Vervetexxue©, I was alone and playing withv letterds, but they would give me no morphemes, they wouldnlt talk to me, I was much too smartassed and (in their minds (in my mind (in your mind (in the mind of (God) too fucking guilty) too filthy gilty) too muthy filquey), and I had nothing but my Two Great DSchemes, one of which was the Suicide Scheme (with was in black glass in the middle of the nbight of glass and which they therefore didnt gleefully know without)m and the Kidnaping Scheme‑‑which the sonsofbutches sawclearly and thought clearly right along with me, and they could see curse their hides it was brilliant, it was brilliant, it was using their bery cirvularity in time making me intelligent enough to co-mit my onwe crime Over Againe, brilliant as can be. For a while I tried to hide away amongst the comforts of an infinitude of soft toys, small gamboling stuffed articles in a variously paste,l haze of haze, imaginary friends of a sometime formidable size which I friends whisch-I kept a-tossing or a-toffling this way and that along the way or the weigh of the various droop-shaped or drüpe-shäp'd Papparazzi of Dream, or Papparazzi of my Dreams, since they not only photographed but fucking inhabited these dreasams, "these" being the quotational dreams of the story, this story, this being the story of me amongst my near-in fini-tude of Soft Toys and zometimes zoftisch toyes hehhehhehhehhehheheheheheheh each one wincig into a veritable blaze of apostrophes, these 'apostrophe's' bein' the hard indelible winkzes of the hard and irised-in eyes of the papparazzers with their hard, hand-held cameras crystallizing various hypnotic images into something talking very hard, something very mesmeric a-and rocky a-and hard indeed, so they the suckers of these qube did have or had or had had had these pathetic little cubes whispering things so indelibly alluring that they, these papparzzi with their boxy cameras from some decade so faded in the past it has been edited out even out of the Collection Of Out-takes From The Langrous Past, ended up stuffing gem after gem into their hardened ears, till they came down with all these ear diseases I am uneasy even talking about, but it must be said:  the hardened, candy-like little images of my dreams wormed their way into the brains of these hoards de votofoyeurs et voyeuse as the French in their deadened way touché, so my intentions were known, and broadcast, and seen by all, so I thinks, ripping the heart out of one particularly dear soft toy, I might swell do it anyways... There was some clause in my kidnap contract about her heart, it somehow left a sort of grammatical loophole on the subject of her heart, which transformatted into the reality that she lay there‑‑more beautiful than ever‑‑with a soft and broken heart...a missing heart really...no heart at all, per the stipulations of the contract, so I had to spent days shaking her and hauling her up against many a various mound in the surreal glissando landscape lanshape lambspape langskate this moutning wath happening In, shaking her just to get her head to lift up.  It was a great and heavy head, losuy with those crystallizéd thoughts the papparazzi are so fond of sucking in, a great and lazy and a thought-heavy head, heaving with my shakes, but never once rising up for the look, much less the suck, much less the big love affair my fucking dreams had been dreaming without my forethought knowledge sentience or consent, so this was Nothing Consensual we ahd here, nor Nothing Sensual Neither, nor nothing naught nore than nothing utterly negative in the nugatory phraseology of of love. POSSIBLY-LAUGHING DOLLS The turquoise bacteria saturate the air.  Everybody's face curl downwards, along with the damp mossides of plethoria invading the scales on the smiling little turquoise reptiles of their bodies, i.e., their inbreathing cells imbreaving the bacteria, the bacteria becoming the moist, azure cells of their now-blue faces, which proceed now and then and now to melt off, or molt off as the stiff macho-masque of a raging Queene drips off to bare the soft aqua puss within with in, and at the same time‑‑the germs redoubling by the seocnd, you'll uunnddeerrstasntdand, and the air being eaten into the ripe overripe deadened fulsome smell of the funky thangs‑‑everyone was dying, the whole fucking universe havinf ah uh become uh ah inFUCKted...that's infucktéd or imfuck!dead! or in short, quite fucking dead (from too much fucking, like in your ex-world?  from not fucking enough or not fucking?  was it the Big NOTFUCK that bread these ded and infecklessteded dush?  I'm not saying) as I have not said and to exscape like Tim Buckley's furthest album, Blue Afternoon, the ones with the breathless unwritten songs within it, I tore through the rubber fabric or the tenuous facade or the acrylic meniscus of the bedroom I was currently standing in, screaming, my face dying even as my hands‑‑molting like the hands of the gay man on your big-fat cock as he realize just how fucking gay he really is‑‑peter off the equally mottled breasts (which we mush requoll were always a bit too small, even for the tits of a little girl they was way too small) of either Maaeeaa or Zelzerea, I am not sure (it may eveb, given this last-ditch gay motif, have been the titless nipples of my little boy, possibly Broxx or Glenp or Tröy, possibly no boy at all but a little girl‑‑say, my beautiful daughter Gleigh with her shaven head or the nonpubescent Graeugh with her shaven pussy or possibly no intricate human being at all, but one of the favorites of my infinitely hostile collection of helium-filled and possibly-laughing dolls,whoever or whatever it was deflating or deliquescing in any case like the facemask of the last man to be fucked down his throat by the egg of the giant alien, and, like that alien, if I may fin al ly se gu é out of this Little Wörld, I burst through the very chest of the scene, setting my own moltenly dying world to ableedin', sertting myself looose through the chest of that slut or boy or little girl or mere bag of laughing glash, into the infinite black reams of the unscene, also known as the unfilm never made, not even on the death's-door of the so-called cutting-room floor, also known as the black areas of the novel or the scenes never written in the novel or the black world of the One UnGod... THE MEOID ...whose coolisch blue fasce was this fascist Jew monstrosity, except his beautiful blue doze drimped linguidly, except it was a large hand with possibly a soft possibly moist cloth possibly wiping over me, only it was this bolt of thundering eletric alpain, and God said, "You love pain, don't you?" and my own red face staring off into a rusty sort of dawn existing let us sweigh on a "wholly nother plain" smiled as i replied, "Yes‑‑I have always loved pain," whereupon he storked my face again with another thousand shuddering volts of pang, and after the screaming and the reaming apart of flesh upon flesh‑‑i.e., tissues each intheir own monstrous sheatheosity, sheathes of tissues issuing out into the vacant space of eternal, ever-cycling, always-recurrent pain‑‑it went without saying, and yet was somehow v a c a n t l y said "And pain has always loved you," which I believ(ed) a(t) t(he) tim(e) wa(s) God('s) wa(y) of saying he lov(ed) me (me!), which was God's way of torturing me, this being no doubt one of the ancient torturing gods I believe I have made musty mentione of, possibly the first purple blue god of the purple bluepain, existing as he loved upon these drifting azure planes, none of switch had anything to do with the real physical me, whom I like to style the Meoid, and who was a starving nettle of ribs caught in the ruby rudless air of mine owne dead world, stainpacingly piecing together‑‑or rather failing to be piec‑‑ing to‑‑gether‑‑the‑‑bro‑‑ken‑‑por‑‑tions‑‑o‑‑f his‑‑"kids" which my dictionary defiles as kids, n., their tissues ribbed to smithereams, dead pieces of them scattered in evolutionary starata throught the layers of his corpuscular home, heim, the Heim of Meoid, in which he quite unsuccessfully‑‑itchingly red and starving, by the way, starving, by the way, starving, by the way, starving, by the way, starving by the way, starving, by the way, starving by the way, starving, by the way, starving by-the-way, and quite stärving bythywy, coupling one shred after another, moste hopelessly, and while you know and we know and the gods and the author of the author's other offer all w\know this blue fellow'snot'God, but rather the Crimson Therapist‑‑his name a joke in the manner of his therapy, that I was thripped into tissues one of which had the thoughtdream could be scene of ripping through the chest of his own kidnaped, rap-éd "love" into the sapphire driplet nonworld of the othergog knowne as Gob, t'uther of switch was doing Community Service as the stripper and remaker of his klids, a process which would keep his big diuck down for eternity, eternity I say, "Eternity," the Judge say, Eternity goes the journey, Eternity in the ripped tissue of the scriptures I see in the nerves of my children's rended flesch‑‑which is admit a complicated idea, but then these vicious pains of fantasy oft wrip out with their vicious idea. CATLIKE TIDE I don't believe I ever succeeded in piecing together one of my torn old children.  I don't believe these are my children, I thought, except that thoughts in this vacuum come out loud, so I was saying I didn't believe these were my children‑‑certainly not all of them my children‑‑except the same red tide that washed upon my sniggering torlets cuasing me to toewalk my little feet so as to avoid this irksome, irritating, and rather catlike tide uplled like those long blue galaxies aweigh and by not the same but soe parallel token caused my thoughts stretch, yawn, and come out loud like great faggots waving their rubescent boners in the suddenly-freed daire, caused the talk to doppler into some sort of style indirect libre, which was anything but liberating, but which in fact was the actual humidity threatening to asphyxiate me here. Here:  * And so, choking, did I "mend my children" forever, which is mathematically equivalent to "not-mending them never," which I guess I also suds, I mean did.  Did I say "suds" just then, when I meant to say "suds," I mean "kids," I mean "duds," I mean "queds," I mean "did"?  Curious and strange, but I think it's just one of my sleepy dream-selves trying to keep me from saying anything Grotesuqe, knowing as he apparently yawningly suds or does that these blue pasges will be stared at by the depthless eyes of a future generation of idiots, in which all fucking children are idiots, just fucking themselves to death away, like the very blank bacteria that so swoshefully swusched aweigh the the the race I was never a part of. But I don't elieve I ever succeeded in the sort of savant biologique genius that enabled me, say, to stitch together even a heaving chest, much less one of those grotesque facey-flays, much less something that would make these brainless children of despair flinch, or children of the toxins squinch, or genetic malcfhuinlcdtrieonn, or childrenof the toxins squish, as they would me, were they walking on this beach in lieu of me, and were giants relative to me, and were really my children, which I doubt, after all. No, I think my stupid, sick race pinned all those dead kids on me, then manufactured a great whale of that transparent whale of artificial time, the great thrashing sidewhale of sidewise thrashing artifixial Time, then fed me to the gullet of that whale, as a the fable goes, esxcept that I cannot prove nothing of dis, as nothing ofit happened, nor did anything in the spiracle of diminumtion do do do. TECHNICIANS OF SNALL Technicians of Snall flipped off various circuits of lights of the bobbling Xmas trees of the circuits of lights in my forehead, causing time after tim e to fall noseless into the murk.  I worked very hard in my various degrees of sleep, achieving it is hypothesized the so-called nth degree of sleep, equivalent in the greater universe we could only whoosh and ventilate and hyperlaugh© about over re id et alis alias out to a Ph.D. in Sleep, and thus did I step forth in my freverly-broached back and robes, holding my diploma in my teeth like that grinning cowboy gal murdering the hump of her lover in his own dismembered illremembered illtethered leathered stirrups tnaned in tyhe greater grinning torturer sun.  I certainly don't say these things because I intend to, much less because I lie saying these things, although I, one or the other, do. Step'd forth, anyway, from the froth of my own hygenic work into a world you can look at or lurch at in three oftwo ways: 1) as a suprememely clean world like the metallic bathroom of your tinged imagination or imtaignigneadtion 2) as a supremely bejeweled bezeled and rötätïng süperwörld as of the teeming ballroom of ones racial discomation©, or 3) as of or related to (see more at bezel!) more at Bezel-At-Bezel, which is the small swiqsching village in penumbral crescent of the numbral moonlet Pharul I grew up like rising dough within within within, on the "yuck" planetoid Muck, which was the sum of all the genetic squizh I'd been squidsching, all of which looked snewtily dewn at me and snorted, "Dad!" where that exclabatial poing big as a liberallylick ed-didcke indicates contempt, from the very crescent son all dolled up for the end-of-time show of sun wheich my eternal cleaning slash training slash therpay crushed him up intwo! EIGHTIES LAPELS "Dad, dad, dad!  I pulled you from the muck!  You were lost in the blue muck for centuries, and I pulled you up!" He was laughing too hard to say these things, but these are the things he was laughing, as enhanced by the HaHu-2000© Blabber-Processor with its ultra-torque five-edge titanium spikes and its fold-ver patented lingual remorque© turnover and its highgear eight-cam megamorpheme redactive "raster o' disaster" and its trimmings and fittings and sexual dials and. "I was in prison," I pinted out as he indeed hauled me by these great big rubbery elastic bubblgeummy eighties lapels eighties lapels eighties lapels eighties lapels eighties lapels out of not so much a Disgusting sort of Muck as a surreal and sweetly blue, discretely turquoise sort of eobny flow or flough of some kind of uh forgetful mist. "Dad, dad‑‑are you smart or dumb?"  said this strong little prick, shaking me so as to shake the drear blue mucoids (a race of psychotically sentient yet somehow gentle beings I suddenly realize beings I suddenly realize BEINGS) off my style disaster of a ruffled shirt. "What the fuck's going on?" the Hahu-2000 mutters in the place of my empty place. "It goes without saying," no one says:  "You've served your time, dad.  You're cured.  You're forgiven. You're free!  I'm Plock, Dad," onwent plockong.   "I'm the one who survived‑‑the oe you put together out of all your murdered sons. It is I!" And she shone there indeed himself like a misbegotten son‑‑a great Helios Eye of a blindig boy, bright and smushed apparently by mine onwe Hande into this smarmy fucking eternal, this jabbering grin of the undying, thsi metaphor of unrecoverable dirty guilt, and God, God, God, how I hated that boy as we hugged and kissed one another using our tongues and cum andw e cum all upno one another of which many a shapr and to some sassy picture was atae'n. I don't know how to describe it, so here goes:  the earth was entirely water, with a rim floating over it of dripping antiques which had been restored so they were brandspanking new!, a-a-and everyone (there were billions on 'em!) was like a burnished yuppy or untarnished puppy, full of extra love and smarmy and basically too real to be true, too indescribable not to tell, too telling not to be a dream, too fucking dreamy not to be some more snalls by Quarl or else my therapy or punishment (also wholly-owned subsidiaries of the Snalls of Quarle), and they were all there, admrinig me with some rich form of unobserved amusement, touching his or her fine jaw in its superrefinéd refluxion in the Pool (that's what they was callin' earth by them‑‑The Poole©, a wholly-owned subsidiary of Pools Unlimited, featuring not only earth but a measureless infinity of hyperreflecting pools of thought within thought within thought with in the et cet er ah's of Thought, a wholly oaned subsidiary of Thoushgts, Inc., makers of hyperreflexive pooles, smarmy yuppy prototypes who thought inc themselves as perfected human beings, perfected human beigs in the form of perfectly clear, perfectly thoughtless thoughts upon the water, faces on the water just as big as you could imagine, but my face looking like the face of some grubby whore‑‑nay, like the face of some grizzled fucking childmolester and child murderer and old stupidkf art whim evertone loved because to be amoozed, etc. Etc.  And time passed as quickly as a whim, there being no winds, and it came to pass that Quarl was, in a sense "alive," in the same sense as me‑‑i.e., he had been punished, with thorough tortures on the electrical gential regions regions regionnaires‑‑and like it wasnpt really Quarl qua Quarl‑‑which was always his real name, barf-the-bay‑‑but an amazingly inept simulationk an a MAZE nig ly in EPT situation, and he was clean and shriveled and white, like an overbandaged thumb, and he took as they say one looke at me and raised up the little crystal the little crystal I say the litle crystal that he saw things through, and the little crystal as it was raised to that Wond'rous Eye said, "I say..." EXACT GENETICUT DOUBLES My son was shaving me, his slight hands moving in inconceivable filigree, the snowy foam ridging in palpable sorts of curls (arranged in depth conceptual folders of a disgustingly inconceivable polytypology by A. Brethrand Forques III during what they never came to call The Era of the Inconceivable Mind, during which everyone stood round shaving one another, the shavees' heads lathered and collared, the waste shavings, like my waste shavings now waste shavins now "falling" toward a distant, metaphorical globus of an azure "earth" that "earth that" dreamt below like an artificial child I mean An Awful Child), I mean, I knew this was symbolci, what with me weeping uncontrollably and all, and what with‑‑what did was he his say was his name? Plock? Plock?  Plöck, maybe.  Plöck would make good sense.  But the fucker saisd "Plock," and I was weeping with my great and apparently evergrizzled or gerviezrzled or egvreirzzled jaw ajibbering, and I was apologizing in this staccato ways, and‑‑well... Plock was saying in what I must say was an ungainly sonly wainly wade of a Waye, "Stop apologizing, Dad.  Stop.  I'm trying to get you up to our smooth standards.  I know you feel as if you feel as if you've plumped into some smarmy far-soisant futur, but this is the way things have always been.   You were just too fucking bloody snotty sulky liquidly sick to see, and now you're wetting down me suds with your whingey wheeping and making the whole fabric, as it were, of the face, as it were, we've as it were built soften and shaken.  So stop apologizing, dad.  This blade can rip your whole face off, you know.  And it will..." And he trailed off at that‑‑just, I think, to see the paragraph end, or rather feel it end, for we down here in the universe of this plane you astare dawn-unto like so many crystal razor blades by witch I meeng so many crystal ficets neath yer underfeet don't really see the paragraph end, but merely feel it as a sort of onslaught of dizziness as of the fury of the earth, back when it made these hurricanes meaning tornadoes meaning they were going to suck your lungs right out of the basement you were cowring too‑‑and he kept on shaving me as if I were some perfection of ice, some bloody I mean blöggy I mean bloughey "ice sculpture" he was whittling down to a goddam Giacomettisch Gnubbe, till I finally ripped off the scarf and scarf and stood up and trembled and stuttered and apologed once again, whereupon the skin of my face ripped off. Plopp crox his örms, yes he does, he doth look welle pleas'd, and he nods and nods to his young and twentyish "friends," all of whom are his exact geneticut doubles, or treble and quadrolloles, if you will, and they laugh and slap one another on their backs, only they have no backs, only the unseen paragrewntic quasiduplicates of soemthnig no geneticist‑‑much less a jailed human being‑‑hath scene. "Cut!" crows whatsisname, in the bend of the crystal column of his iris-hurricane Eye. THE OPRHGYASNIICCAALL POHRYGSAINCIACLAL or LIGHT-EMISSION VOMITINING So my TEN bright teamS fight my constantdying aging‑‑they fight the dying physical and the organic muck that keeps on raging, outside the cube, seeping into the idges of the cube, creeping in on an afterthought like some sort of semen, disgusting us into vast displays of vomiting, which is of course itself of coarse rahthah physico, but we try to see it as light vomiting or light-emitting vomiting or <light-emission vominiting>, for no one here want-stough blieve in the Organic Physical, but the Organic Physucal or Pohrygsainciacl or Oprhgyasniiccal or Oprhgyasniiccaall Pohrygsainciaclal just keeps on seeping its permeative little flough here and there‑‑you know, the all-too-familiar Viruses (Dooby, Hojugh, Flo, Ploppey, Marrarrs, Granque, Frickle, Teave, Litredome, Phyreckisole, Brippole), soppy-faced (and unshaved!) bacteria‑‑Jomoe, Bem, Hareekee-Ouph, Jij, Hok,  Plopple (no relation), Plopple No Relation Plopple Know relation, Andsoön, and Ongle‑‑the fungi families of Fairview, Benson, Brapple, Soleo, Noneeno, and Cripple, the various grenouille qui creep beneath the asses of Youre Moste Sopping Logges, the logs standing in quartetes and singing in buggy harmonies, the inebriative uh er happy smell of the forest, the flowerless trees and brittle avenues of light, the filtering of the red giants as they daze the faces of the odd toads hopping in and the Odd Todes Floipping Inne and the Odder Toads Plopping Ing and the various delirious berries known as Feverberries and the fever from the berries and the gradual realization that to be alive is to be in a fever and to be in a fever is to be dying and toi be dying is to be tortured and torture is life is breath is this red bloody forest that has ifested my fucking EYES! and that there will never be peace, never be light without tiny toads hopping happily within its glowe, without torturing toads working the tortures of the infective infestive Torturing God Damn Gods and the gods torturing their own eternal flesh just for the fucking hell of it, and the ten bright teams of lgiht‑‑my happy-go-luppy Ten Teams of Perfect Light patching up not just the cube Quarl fulms me ing, but also my face, my beautiful and youthful face, its cheekbones tortured up to ultraalluring heights, my face which just keeps braking out with the screech of a breaking bat with various ugly pleating crags and pustules, carbuncular pulsations and fumish eructations, my bright and perfect hunky face turning into no one's torturous nightmares overnightmares overnight. SIDLING YOUR UVULAR ASIDE Things were very hard and real and brittle here, sans those dream parallels, them dream equations, them-there dream analogues that kept turning the burnished future of one's languid passed visions into revrberating erverberating deverbeating pellucid see-thru walls© of digital information behind (which means within) digital information‑‑a function, so my old you-will-re-member White Shrink Nieongluoss my old friend whose face himself seemed to sheem with screen within screen of falsehoods, aple realities, subsistences, vagaries, and by day I was helping the nice, the now-nice or The Now Nice and Quite Wifeless Mr. Quarl (there were no women here "of profuse & immoderate vitalty," as my rich yuppy son Whatzisname segued) make his white snalls, snalls so clean and pure that the enhanced whitenesss of your face was pancaked nad paddyquakled unto the whitneess of the walls ebeneath you and the whitneess of the shadows moving under your chin like so many thin and brittle nonexistent whales whales whales, I'm sorry to repeat ymself, but by the same token and by "night" I was 1) either trying still to dig up the by-now-dried memory of those sons some said I killed but whom I like the stolid artichoke of myth swear I do not remember having either a) sired or b) killed, mucks lesh c) cured to some sort of leatherness and d) buriéd 2) or talking to Nieongluoss, my White Shrink, though you'll recall projectile vomiting we call them flinches here, so I was, the unheard verb-thicket word-forest Vortcopse of my mind talking to my White Flinch, only it would be redundant redundant don't you know, to call her "white," so I was lying on the Classic Couch, rappin' to my flinch, dontchyaknow, but this time he was most empathetically not that hideous bag-lady rifling through the drawers upon drawers of perfect underwear never worn by my bright Inhuman Repetition Team, the team that was trying to keep this pure bacterial relicke of the Past (me) pure enough for to make this snall which seemed a cultural event in the making or sick sort of obsessive artifact that was like an endless sentenc euite important to them, so they were washing me off while. I tried washingly augh to dream of finding the dried sedimental segmented fossil remains of the children that would prove I was, once, human enough to kill, so you might say‑‑except for the hand-washing that went on till the white hands were not only a) dead but b) gone, the hands washed quite off I was that bag lady dredging up a bag or to, each bag containing bags and bags of memory, and I might yawningly adingly decrepit evil criminal memories, but they was awashing me more and more toward death, my whole essence being in effect bacteria, germs, bugs, and hairy slimey worms en effet like that big dick that just keeps sidling your uvular aside until that big burst of explosive cum spurts out your nose, while your cheeks baloon comically,and you can't breathe, and you think, They're going to kill me, and no amount of washing will move either closer or farther from the death inside, the death within, or the death brother sliding his big cock right through the slit in my little chin. SNUFF-FLIMS I was clearly a prisoner in this pure little concentration camp of love‑‑sans story, sans brain (they'd put a bloody vacant blue tub in italics! there) and I was in italics there in the great blood pool of my bloody brain which 'd become the brain of this like gneius artist‑‑thsy'd like yanked Kandinsky's brain right out of his head like a great eye in the suck of his owne frozen tub! sans anything but this great and bloody brush, covered, fortunately, with "the blood of a thousand races" give or take a few, blood taken from the bloody fascist faces we'd goddam bloodied with our own ripped and fucking fists, so I was painting a billion multipliéd fist-fucking faces in my colorful Fist-Fucking Faces period, featuring the ecstatic and not-so-ecstatic grimaces of the faces of a billion corpses flicked in these snüff-flims in which the great fist of power as the rhetoric-covered-with-a-dove doth say, representing the combined combinaotrial Hoover-damnationisch power of our whole bloody senseless brainfucking goddam race, but‑‑brainless or naught or brainless or naught or brainless-oer-nut or brain over brown or brain over cunt‑‑I was painting with my palette into cunt after cunt, obsessing as I say brainless or no! over whereabputs the late Maaeeaa  not Maeera was.  I mean I knew she was dead‑‑Maaeeaa not Maaeera's deadness was hardwiored not to be distraken for hot-wired into everybody's I-guess-you-d-callem circuits that Maaeeaa not Maaeera is dead!, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, Maaeeaa's dead, and so on‑‑but I wondered as my brush denied the now-illegal, now-defiléd Laws of Fucking Physics, dug into the faceless bushes of the cunts of the wide-open faces my unh brush was cumming on, and I was   thinking, All zi am doing is writing a dirty book, all I am doing is is "writing" a faceless book, a funking buch, a dry fucking cunt of a dirt book, and yet I was delving deeper and deeper (Kandinsky-style‑‑wink-wink!) into the inchoate shapes beyond the canvas, where I stood, engulfing the canvas or whatever that was painting me or whomever, and my grammar was pristine and senseless, and I stood with my big dripping boner facing the cunt of my sister, droooped on her knees before me ("Looks like your sister needs more air, Bub!" a stranger dropped into the frame to say) just before they arrested my sister and me) and destoryed my sister) destroying me) destroying me) destroyihng all of me) unquunt uncoke. I kept blowing my brains out, over and over, except the colorful expalatiun of brain blew off my cover‑‑just completely blough augh! my coveur?‑‑and I was this eight-year-old clutching his Color Ball, whilst this smiling guy who bore a smoking desemblance to Quarl but who was not Quarl smiled and bloughed me with his flamethrower cum blowtorch cum memory-monster whilst pellung off his own rubber helmet or rubber face, revealing for a moment (and we have some very intense MÖ MEANTS here) here) here) here) here) here) the sassiest goddam skull you ever sore, then becoming as MLBs (Morphemic Light Beams) MLBs replaced his Notquarlisch "face," smiling as he rapped. He was also hosing me down.  In sequnetual parallel universes of love hosing medown with fire, hosing me with light, hosing me with his own great swollen Hose, hosing me down with sparkling water fizzwalter-Fitzwalkers, hosing me down with Some Cool Brew, hosing me down with dawn with some mostly Cruel Breugh, hosing me down with icy water, goosing me with an ice-water enema, hosing me down with liquid helium, hosing me into a Brittle Crystal Skull Butchering Itself, just butchering itself out of all sexual desire, hosing me down with sexual desire, hosing me down with Sexual Desire Herself, hosing me down with black death, hosing me down with pure brown undulant goddam shit, hosing me down with the blackness that crushes the uh back of my skul in the night, every Sundayt night, hosing me down with ice cream, hosing me down with circular zeros, hosinng me down with loose syntactic monstrosities containing nothing but the nightmare goosing you, all the while rapping (while I went through these crystal universes, you understand (one within the other(and he keeps rapping about how you left such clear stipulations that you were to be woken up in the event you feel into a sleep segued into insanity or fell into insantiy [keepin mind now the hose is going still] or endless inturning brackets of Cheerios© or fell into the morass of a hopeless novel‑‑that in these or somesuch similarly indefinable 'events' which are to be defined as '          ,' we would as they put it 'pull the plug,' which is why I am hosing you down with pire incandescent pain and hosing you down with the righteous cleansing torture of the Rolfing God and hosing you down till you craw through hthe muaso of that gri reality, death, the only reality. "Well, thank you, man!" "No problem.  Don't mention it." "Mention what?" "Me hosing you down with Pure Reality and hosing you down with the sweet and comely Lethe of forgetful sleep and hosing you down..." "I get the picture." Hosing here. "She's alive, you know." Hose hose hose. "Who zalive?" "Your sister." Paws. "And who might that be?" "Maaeeaa.  She's your sister and has been all along.  Man‑‑you were trying to fuck your sister, man!" "Was not!" Hose. "Were!" "Was not!" "Were so!" "Not!" Ahnods esoh oosne fhoors ea hwohsielehose... (I wasn't trying to fuck her or possess her you, know, even though I did, even if I did‑‑all the more not so because I fucking did.  Stay with me in these parentheses for the rest of the novel, for if we can't get out of the novel (and we can't get out of the novel) we can hide within this color ball‑‑a simple usual sort of child's eleeosynary Color Ball! an exciting fantasy entangled colorball an endless inturning sort of clored thread of colorbal neuronic serious colorball threads within...) UP ON {END} "You're just a brainless tick reaming deeper into hell." "If you slice up your children enough you will wake up fucking your sister." "Everybody knows that.  You wake up with her sweating all over your thin inebriated skin." "And the satisfaction of slicing those children up into nonexistence makes it a smashing good fuck." "My sister is a jolly good fuck indeed." "Except you've never fucked her." "What?"  You should have seen my hairs standing up on {END}.  "Have too!" "Have not. Have ab so lute ly not.  Because you never finished slicing up your kids.  You left pins of your kiddles all around." "My head is smashing back.  There's no head left in .BAK.  I have no files initialed HEAD.  Where's the {HEAD}?  I can't seem to ascribe very much." "It's just us talking, bub.  And me, hosing you down with the liuqid blood of sa thousand slaughtered infants, blood." "You calling me an abrotionist or a murderer or what?" "I'm telling you you're my brother, bud, and I'm gonna purify you if I has to kill someone." "I seem to remember fucking her.  It was in a dirty book, or the dream of a dirty book, or somesuch, and I felt our mutual sweat slipping our cheeks far apart..." "That was not Maaeeaa or anybody else, Chab'.  That was just an inflatable sex marienette Quarl made so's you'd fuck for the camera, fuck for the camera, fuck for the camera, fuck for the camera, fuckfuck for the camera, and which you most certainly did.  Hell, we had to cut out most of your fuck for the sake of eternity!  [Laughter.]  That's me, little brother‑‑laughing at you, just laughing and lying to you, and still the white hose lingers its desolate spray." "Spray?  What the fuck you talkin' about?" But it was just some brother tooting his spray all over me.  I was dead and gone, you see. Novel by Kirk Hampton