WURP! INFERNAL MOTHERS' EYES Yea well, this Wurp! who sounds like hiccup, pronounced like a goddam hiccup hatched his own ass out of a testtube, except it was a Jolly Big Retort of a lusty tube, gravid & turbid, by God, heated by some of the Batteries of Fires of the Batteries of Fires which existed in the form of disks which if you stared at them which you never ever should looked like Infernal Mothers' Eyes, only these were machine mothers, more magnificently maternal than you might think, but still just machines that mothered him, automatically, caring not a turd for the Dismal Infant. So you might say Wurp! was "Mothered by the Absence of Thought," yes, you might say that. Go ahead.  Indulge yourself... Whelp-Wurp! grew up in a kindly forcefield of no-thought, basked constantly in illmined pleasaures, pleasures deep & vast & & & & of a constant certainty, pleasures just a bit spooky in intensity in in in in, then taught & tutored, also without thought so that the young man where man indicates Vacant Utter Lunacy grew up feeling that his thoughts were not quite his own, bloughing out into the Vacuum of the Absence of Thought, thereby imprinting him with the self images of the Creator of All Thought, which certainly gave him power, it certainly did, give him ego-power, as he grew & grew & cowered & cowered in his vacant interlunar cave, the cave later even later than this writing to become famous will-to-have-become allover famous, as Drake, the vacant interlunar cave or vacant interluniar cazave, as the kids today (safe within their force fields) say. At the age of seven, he thought Now I am sentient, now I am outside of my repast.  He meant past, of course; I personally don't know why the little geek keeps pulling apart words in him hambs, the words bleeding true pure hysterical metaphoric blood, & he was atearin' up them sentences, too, smearing the syntax all over his face, doing the same sort of monstrous experiments on them that etc.  Suffice it to say, he was not quite mature has he thunk.  I mean, he was big, deliberately "all grow up" in the Seventh Splinter Inkling of a sigh, one great big gaspeous sigh containing a lot of purblind love, a sigh deep & capacious, deliberately set for him, to deal with this growing up too fast. But I tell you, he grew up fast, very fast indeed, & he did just about lose his mind when he discovered 1) that his past had been taken from him, even before he'd, well, not-lived it, & 2) that all the caring & nurturing, the unfailing love, the constancy itself, was automatic & without thought.  I mean, sweet but without thought, as in Nobody home, as the kids today (wired into their infratructural artifixial neurons as they are wont to dew) betray. SLANGÉD WURP! To make long story short, he grew up the doubtful frenges of a sea so planetary it flowed unto flippant, fliquant doubt, Fliƒƒiant Doubt only once in a century & not more than three (3) fwa per millennia, in the form of strata or getstratia thrust clearly if somewhat queerly up to the up to the ripping the "skin of the 'skin level'" of this iss iss strangely stickly, frangely fticky, fomewhat puppylike, clear-as-a-translucent-dog loving liquid O, ugly spiked & spiny rocks, so keen-edged as they stared striated into crumped wonderment which is an emotion we have here at the eleven (11) Grouped Hysterical Suns "feeding on one another's energy" which is a thing we do here "feeding on one another's energy" though we try up the point of self-torture not to do it too much, do it at all, do it ever o'r e'er, whilst full or formal Huntchwurp or shorthand or colloquial Hunched Wurp!, or shorthand slangéd Wurp!, his brain a stupefaction of contrary impulse, controrie images, words fall apart, the sentence cannot hold, mere blargy loosed upon the world, big ol' Wurp! one of the less sexy experiments by the three-head team of Ilafial, Opaqua, & Keb. They sighed & groaned a lot as they put the wurp-gener together, then ripped them apart, then rammed them together again, then peeled apart the helices of his FPCG‑‑the mighty, stretchable cells that made up the gemrinal plasm of our hero here‑‑then thrust & jiggled the strands about, smooshed bimeanl acid curlicule molecues or moluricles in elaborately massive fingerstrokes of paintspokes of heavily painterly finger strokes, roiling the sarcoplasm up to a great light-fringed, tri-pronged climax of triple-voiced Doric disharmonies, whoch echoed through the, well, sort of a cave sort of of light, except that it was smokey, it was a cave made of smokey light, which they floated like one of the loosome, independent eyes of Eyeberg II, sometimes called the "eye-factory" or "the plantoid of lost eyes," or the garavity-well of the hapless eyes or the eye-forest or the eye- garden or somesuch shit, but they didn't sigh too much, these sensual scientists, Morphic Science being the sexiest science known at thrusting its big dick into the unknown, etc., to use some humanoid genital-sexual metaphors, just for the ploy, & they lost interest it rolled, like nothing so much as a tiny eye, under the scarf of the scapping oan edgy, eletric irritant table they would spreadeagle each other out on, & speaking for myself I where, abnormally, I means myself, unlike the normal "I" we have here, which can mean a number of things you don't want to hear about‑‑ don't want to hear about) & POUGH! turned into ridiculously nubile, shaped harmony self-ingulgient "smoke," sorta, which is how they sleep, at which intertice Wurp! was successully born. SEVERE CONSCIOUSNESS DAMAGE So there's this seven year old, 1) thinking he was adult 2) & in physical ways really being an adult, 3) discovering that the real world outside his giant crib, with its magic atumanic mothers & soft clean towels of love & love, involved quite a lot of fighting with others' thoughts, quite a lot of mental force being expended every which way‑‑4) a reality that quickly drove him insane & into these space-things that suck the life from you 5) we call books 6) we call you books, 7) it is you, Book, I am speaking to. But no one listened, because of course no one had ever listened, not really, not with a heart, & his thoughts were a wrong shape & magnitude, the wrong shape & magnitude, to fit in without severe consciousness damage of a type never hincforoth gnome. SHIFTY MEANINGS The second thing he did, did Wurp!, did he do when he was eight was swallow the Memory Pellet, though by this time he was riding very loose on the rails & probably headed for the tank again, but he gobbled this hypoallergenic, enteric-coated pelluƒid Memory Petal that he'd carried about with him for O, say, Eighteen Aimless Years, where Eighteen equals eight equals four suggesting numbers have, not no meaning but certainly a fairly shifting meaning and/or shifty meanings, & he got to see this memo, as it were, from his parents long since killed in the Boredom Wars, which were these wars they had which were supposed to be entertainment, but involved some very serious dying, & his-Wurp!'s parents-experimenteurs get-received their fair comeuppance they'd had coming to them since the get-go under these great luminous amarillo-yellow rays of tedium shot at them by unonown oppressors they had probably themselves‑‑re taking their obligatory parental Forgetter Pellet. So he understood better than he wanted the dire shortcomings of his ah nurturing ha ha years So, what with this knowledge nurking its Itchingly Irritant Way underneath his still blue layers of still-fairly-immaculate, calm-as-the-face-of-an-equanimious-pool perfect fair-thee-well askin, & the Forefronts of Counterthought‑‑that's right, friend‑‑the Forefronts of Counterthought driving him nuts, Wurp! went into this Silly Drowning Phase, with many a Silly-Sad Drowning, what with meladramashtix hurtlings of himlittleself off the Seamless Radiant Balustrades of the Veer-Vaulting Arches of the Silvery "Light Bridges" that they had in Wurp!'s still nameless world probably a Sleep World, probably undoubtedly one of those Worlds Borne of Desperation, as we have here, doctors & ex-friends, with this Wurp! in his sillyilly suicidal phase. & inasmuch as he may have even been hitting liquids with these various much-film'd & endlessly tap'd & talk'd-a-bout self-hurtlizations, he was certainly not built for drowning & while he went round feeling, poxxibly smellick, & certainly looqugangen muchlike the proverbial Drowned Rat of Rats of the Land of Rats, telling her children stories with his pince-nez pinching indeed her wrattery-unflattterie-gadnoze bless you! his repeitiitive I mean repetitive submersions, while qua futile immerziums, got better & better reviews until the critics existed like hailfire rimpling his Fine Browe even as in captive laughateurs he lalupt or lilaupt, it was getting old, & soon everyone ignored himself. "He's not getting anywhere," the people or whatever they were said, or whatever they did when their thoughts leapt oerdemswelves to none, & the taping absolutely stoped. So you have Wurp! there for a while, mad as a batch of mercurial hatters, flinging himself like:a:party:tied together with grunts surrounded by the equally munificent metaphoric grunts or grintz or grimmaxes duxiolence off of one breathfrakingly beautiful bridghe upon another, wihtin one another, & on an in unto finer bridges, bridges-in-a-bottle, unbuilt conceptual bridges which again & again proved themselves mathematically too perfect to be built, as the little fuckers always do & on into the Bridges of the Ether Realm, which were a pleasure & a privilege to jump o