slutter gutt vs Boil or hour ZERO in the lab of et.


GODS at the mountain of et, gave me new life. Raised me from my death state, and changed the course of my eternal wanderings. All this for the quest they have blessed, for our
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deliverance from this post-end earth, for the next in our evolution. go froth. They said.
So, In the eleventh machine, I tasted foredoom. the hard bubble bursting against the leathered skin. Grey, wrinkled, tough, breathing. Shuddered, the body, shivering in the heat of the base waters. Respiratory machine pumping air, lungs expand, contract, breathing under water rush. Weighted water, black waters, clear waters, the looking glass against the face. In the eleventh machine they cut into me like they first did when they found me. My insides tasted their metals cold, elongated, alive within, probing, piercing, cutting. Light, above, the white scream, circulatory, beaming down into me like they once did. Lowering the lanterns into the gut, stomach writhing, eyes a silver-golden, crystal, diamond. The sutra. The suture. Staring at the hermit thing. Their light , the base liquid, the hero blood coursing, veins stretching (rubber) plastic, malleable, shining membrane. Twist, convulse, stabilize. Light of the lantern, infected organs, infecting memory, brainwaves (light) shaking. Face banging against the glass. Studying me. touch its face, touch its face. In the water, buried, in the water, embryo, giving birth to (from) metal incision.

Melodies. They played melodies for me. mahler, la monte young, satie, voloro, paganini. Something else. Drones. Shackles. Bleeps. Groans. Murmuring. Wires outreach from the twelfth machine. Snaking along the arteries, across the nerves (reproducing pain as a sensual sexual sensation) I come. Forgotten. White slime floating in the tank, bubbles, rapid, mixture, slime attached to the looking glass. I study them. Skin across my eyes. Metal removed, tubes searching. The suture. Fire. Stare at the door. Listening. Paranoid. Smoke. Suture. The door is pregnant. Access, is eased. Access. Enter. Searching. Suture. Blood re/pumping, feeding brain. Glass window watching. Door unopened, recall, searching. Sheets burnt with hole. Fire. Searching, recall. Hand slips from mine, sticky blood, collapsing, loud metal, falling. Recall. Poles enter, piercing. Wires extended, copper cutting. Signals. Electric. Fire. Recall. Black. Convulsing, contracting, murmur. Rapid clicks, noises, rephrase. In the eleventh machine, I existed freedom. Cold. Scream, concaved. Internal. No-pain. Watchers. The glass. The glass window. Bubbles obscuring. Breathing underwater. Memory. Extracting. Searching. They studied me. tapping. Entry. Memory and data. Pictograms. Scene. Searching. Black. Her hand in mine. Warm. Gone. Searching my daughter.

Breathing. They promise. Going home. searching. Understood. Light of the lanterns, cyclical. Forgiving. Flicker, fire, crashing. Recall. Concrete breaking, silence, fire, blood, trembling, quake. I saw her eyes again. Recall. Searching. Black. Never said goodbye. White light above, blast. Glare. White. Recall. Death wave. Released. Delivered Through the doors of the hours, through the womb of gatebox. Into the courtyard before SLUTTER GUTT.

GATEBOX-(or the courtyard of slutter gutt)

It smells of abortion here in this cell. (but i am born again) Of babies trying to scream as their flesh is broken and sucked out from the womb.(but I am constructed again, in womb_one. mother-satellite birth cave. 5

 Yet this is just the gatebox. The beginning. Not even before the entrance to slutter gutt. Tolerance for the sick energies of that cursed environ is tested here. The coffin before continuing into the actual city. Like being trapped in a microwave, the heat building up. The ghost HOBO hovered by my side, mostly untouched by the horror (for he was once such a horror himself). The slimy soot metal walls appeared to be closing in but I knew it was just breathing. Exhaling its vapid breath upon me, trying to make the diseases set in. I let my blood boil, bubbling under my skin. I let my organs groan and fail and sputter back to life. I didnt give the gatebox the liberty or joy to watch me fall to my knees, bleeding from my ears mouth and nose. I felt my last fingernail pop under the pressure. Pain was just another animal in my cage. Gums tore. I dealt with it. tis not good that we enter by abortions wind. HOBO said, trying not to let his spiritual kingdom lurch out in wet messy pieces from his vibrating form. The energies were trying to distort him. My head felt like it was breaking. no other gate for a few suns,I explained, gurgling part of the blood flooding my mouth from breaking teeth, only time is now and here. This is the road of heat and error. there are monsters outside this thing, HOBO reminded me. I could hear the distant howling. The further it sounds, the closer they were, and the sound outside was like a whisper. 6

I stripped off my travel wear, exposing my wounds and scars to the metal walls. It breathed me in, the raw red dried blood, the toxic sweat, the dead glob of sperm excreting from my poisoned knob. HOBO stared at It. they want your lineage, they know who you are. The air in the confinement thickened, heavier below my waist. My groin glowed with an unruly heat but it was never truly alive. The atmosphere wanted me. it took me out of my form, into a mess made on the floor. It stroked me, wanting my occult offspring. The whispers outside almost became a silence. Halogen light burst from above, like the sky suddenly in flames and glare. My stomach tightened. Outside, the monsters screamed. An unseen fog scourged through me like a strange submarine through mud. I drowned in the gatebox. Ears jammed and rushing in the head. Skin crawling. HOBO telling me to breathe. As above the light took me from the below. A necromance in my gut, filling me with the lust of abortion. The unborn baby screams. The air raid siren began. Hazard zone. Stay away. The metal box, half sunken, stuck out of the grey granite sand like a tombstone, its door 7

opening, metal screaming slowly and churning. A horror show in the dark. Anticipation. Like flesh and bone torn from wombs. This is the hell on the hill. The peak upon which the gatebox stands. We begin at the top of the accident, holy mountain. Instantly in a deviant divine. A gross and mistreated temple. Half roman pillars broke out of the ground, agedly painted, rising with the shrill of the air raid alarm. Like a monster erecting with the moans of troubled earth. The mountain was warning the haunted villagers of the descending. The second coming of their twisted mythology coming through/true. The return of ERCONDUS, their wandering god. I stumbled out of the box, a broken man, but not finished. Ragged doll dragged down by the lure of the black earth below. The soil of slutter gutt calling. Granite stones broke into my skin. Hard fall. Head split partly open. Undead (for I have died and died before till immortality claimed me.) The starving grounds tried to pull me in as I fell but I pulled away hard, skin tearing, bone scratched and chipped. Torn flesh crawled back with the prayer sof HOBO. He drifted above me against the tide- skies, eyes black and swirling, a horror in ragged clothes smelling of the street and toilets. A haunted ghost trailing above me as I went down. Never ending. Car crash cycles. Accidents. Train wrecks. Earthquakes. Bombing raids. All the deaths replayed, un-chronicled, 8

various spectrums of pain and crushing and searing. Flesh falling off or blown off bones and skeletal. Jesus died. Lennon shot. Mayan priest stabbed/beheaded. Witches burned at the stake. Ragnarok. Death of the blind god oseus. Cata- cosmic. Cataclysmic. Everything occurring. End. I am left in the shallow end of the drowning pool. Out of breath. Lungless (suffocation bound and gagged) hillside stranglers. Awake. Shores lapping at my skin like a dog. Awake. The ghost HOBO above me. the courtyard has tried you. it said. walk on from dry land. To the gate of slutter gutt. Its was HOBO the messenger, possessed by the will of the gatebox, of the holy mountain trembling and brutalizing its visitor. The cycles were over. Accident hill retreats. I was fully naked, disused, but was now free to enter slutter gutt in their endless night. Some of my wounds were opened.

 Continuity collapses in error, the ground unstable but I walk on to the gate. The abortion wind had already come. It reached, howling at the gates. The gatewoman was weeping when I arrived. She was impaled to the ground, in her black witches robe; a punishment, a sentence to pain, like a poet sacrificed (metal spike up her crotch). Her arms frail and pointing with a bitten finger, pointing the way beyond the shattered gate. Spears erected, at its head, blowing in the abortion winds were dresses, burning, casting light upon my dark and bothered home place. From the skies came the wailing of women, abortion mothers weeping for dead children. The impaled gatewoman pointed the way. With another diseased grey hand, she pressed into my hands a torn page, a cursed excerpt. Burning into my flesh, acrid smell of skin of writ. The collection of the book had already begun. Her lips pallid, her eyes sunken, she shook her head, adjusting pain, telling me not to open the note. I could hear the blood running down her legs, dripping like an open tap on hard floors. Black blood that smelled of pagan hurting. Black pool forming, a mirror to our ways. It flowed past the gates, crept like a snake, curdling, frothing forward. She pointed its way and we had to follow. The page pulsed in my hand. Torn. Bending my will. I opened it. 10

Song of edith Thyroxcin the No.

I peeked, and my eyes bled. listen to the woman, HOBO said. my guide and counsel and demon. I shut the paper. A name haunting me already, Edith thyroxcin the no. Wiping away blood like tears. To see with unblemished eyes. Slutter gutt will never reveal itself completely during the period of winds. There was no monument or tower or burning dump I could identify from my childhood. Had the gutt expanded or vanished like a lost city (lemuria/atlantis)? Had thegutt become just a memory with ghosts? I treaded on blindly down the forking paths and the burning grounds. The people were hidden, the walls undisclosed themselves (those that were left standing.) I could see no signs of the camps. had the plague been washed over the place? HOBO asked, I do not recognize the earth here. the plague didnt touch this quarter, something else alters this place. Hands clapping/startled from the darkness. High abortion winds rose, as if the claps had ordered it to. bravo bravo was a voice. good talk from a well travelled man. A twisted mess of knotted foliage crept out of cracks from the ground, forming a disturbed bush. It was cold and dry and black and bulky but a voice still issued from it,

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like a blasphemy, like a surrogate voice of god. No fire, save the enthusiasm in its voice. o prince ercondus! Such poor greetings this place gives its lost son! The twig breaking bush offered as it moved towards me, using its roots. where to hide now where to hide?! it continued, such a vile wind rising. And after the abortions, come the funereal. An even more chilling wind! Such dire songs! Death is high season now ercondus, you come at such a crude time. give me your name, since you know mine. I said, not liking that I didnt know this thing. Hobo was wary. names, names, thats all you ever wanted. That is why you are here yes? To find books, to find names. I started to suspect it was a jester god behind the shape before me. speak your name, thing. or you will hurt me yes? Magic me back to my hell. But there is no hell here but slutter gutt and I have no name other than HORIXX! Like a bad acid trip trigger, the name exploded in my system. The venerable mutilation god horixx. Of the seventh gut of slutter. of the god pantheon that only rises when a greater death visits. Something or someone or someplace was dying in slutter gutt. what has brought you here speak now. I demanded.

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such a rush such a rush it said, before ambling off. You should follow me then to the desires of your den. Of your past and horrible house! Come! I looked at HOBO who seemed assured that this way was no more dangerous and error filled than the others. My guide agreed. We followed the rustling black bush. We wound down the paths. steep and dangerous (but i would not fall again.) To my left I saw other flagpoles, greater ones broken off dead ships like sentinels guarding the ways. At its foot were piles of human bones, skulls, even smaller skulls. The raving bush uttered: these were the pregnant women who had come to find the hospital of the gutt. They fall here, snapping ankles and knees and with their unborn child, they die by the flagpoles that once hung their respective dresses, ripped from their bodies as they were raped and impregnated. They return, nearly nine months later, always and in truth, to the scene of their crimes, to die slowly, their babies kicking in dead wombs seeking escape that will not come...are you to free them? I could not answer what I left behind. And the rambling bush knew. It went on. Slaughter gott, our adjacent sister city came at us on the night of the knives. Taking down our angel. She is now diseased, in a loop rambling in a stitched up spell, unbroken. She is dying ercondus. She who had watched you as a child is dying. We are now going to her. But Have you come to save her then?

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I could not answer it as we progressed. I heard the beginnings of her incantations like an echo from a jammed record player. Broken fragments repeating. The stitched up spell unbroken.
such power your winding slithering roads of tar misunderstood. Logic is a ballistic and tempo the great winding slithering gate to and Price your rhythm tap-in drown in the electric Progressive dominion Logic is a ballistic, Psychedelic ever sold. stentorian sychosia! edit in tap-in drown such power your winding slithering gate

we ask humbly for fire. The roots grumbled, interrupting my focus, A delouse. A fevered favor. I unfolded the paper in my hands, sensing a connection to what I was hearing... from the echoes of the dying angel, to the babbling bush.,,, in light of I are veins electric Progressive. So feelings of magic my call And I have caught trip stentorian sychosia! The opening lines gave me an immediate fever. Sychosia. A psychedelic spirit. A lost zeitgeist. Caught by the author of this note. The name hits me again. Edith Thyroxcin the no. trip forward! Trip forward! the bush cried. I continued reading the letter,
Psychedelic ever pain comes to all rush of that spirit Desperation attends the confessional muse and great alien

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I seek the natives in thought evil thread, dominion, I who is found such power your winding roads of tar misunderstood. Logic is a ballistic and tempo the great gate to and tap-in drown in the electric Progressive slithering dominion, Psychedelic ever sold. Price your rhythm stentorian sychosia! edit in the distrust pulsing long ago.

Horns from the ships unseen bellowed. A mourning thing. Drawing my attention to the paths on the right where rise the windmills. A field of death. Turning wheel. For by each windmill (that stood in unending rows, unending lines far off into a black horizon) there spread-eagled three women ,bloated with life. Their legs open to the gaping window at the foot of the windmill. The blades above turned hauntingly in the winds as the women cried and gave birth, delivering their bloodied baby into the hole. Infant form sucked in and crushed by the steel gears within. Jagged teeth crunching. I recalled my other nightmares with such sights. The dark sin of the machine taking all first bornes. I remembered the red skies in Sodom, as I journeyed through after The Almighty had struck it with his red hand of Destruction. Between the screaming of the women witnessing the death of their child, came the words of the dying angel, now closer, a little clearer, reflecting the words in the torn page in my hand
Hear abstractions and meaningless multi code remake of et.

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the Hea is coming with their dark call And headlights of por. Out the movement complication. Logic is always my semi-undiscovered soul of the lights world. Open be thought. source download done like a guilty footsteps. intellect spot prepare build mapping, intelligentsia fractional methods i hunger for sychosia!

Sychosia the delirium thing. Taken over the mind of the angel watcher. She who had grown me from my BITCHED birth. Wingd mother speaking in tongues of.
O sychosia! Psychedelic muse great strong, straightforward, precise works, a trance Convert then my eyes Psychedelic the nightmares that spirit with break Convert then my Signs with and yet showers, return me cry to the skies in mistaken ideologies and so A life in can, to the Dancehall ascend from them burning your terrace of With your mind, psychedelic me in front of your exit, the lanes spinning deepest alien secrets? Fear I type out in thought enlightens me euphoria for I wish lights world Open space, memoriam. Was mercurial beats thy info unidoor Sychosia!

The sickness was getting worse. The wind was Harsher / colder as we moved on. The windmill scenes ended, now hidden again by night of abortions wind. The voice of the spellbound angel decried with the barking of dogs,
Hear my pay in the neurotransmitters become in my walls so night that trail me intellect then my rush the Dancehall of how the eye and face neurotransmitters indigo lights and The ant and the into my veins electric to all meister Flood dark watchtowers. In voice roads of tar all my veins electric Progressive lights with names and dokterr Keeper the empty glance secret name in hopes the fix-it, re-arrange orchestrate is like a drug, ravine filled with multi have found such power forth ballistic and mind, psychedelic spider and behold called in memoriam. wrought the terrors with the greatest lie who your scholars intoxicate from my call And headlights to

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Delucia. Epicus. Epilogue. the lanes spinning webs threatening to break from Verging tempo hear Lamp fire sonar of towers gone pass your omnipresent names and fever methods your neon sounds together to conquer me I Convert then my complication that wrought the terrors fragmented the monsters from Verging on the neon flowers behold autopsies You foray into the ancestors and the source download wilderness opiate subterranea Where Desperation attends with edith Thyroxcin the No.

my blood froze again at that name. We had arrived at the nest of the angel. She was reciting my arrival, incantations from her ghostly voice, taken from the page in my hand. Word for word. Yet, she did not write it. did not dream it. it had become a virus and it was already possessing her. The desperate ghost of edith thyroxcin the No. VONTINUUM. Like great beasts we stood before the nest of the angel. The vontinuum house it is called. A strange web upon her door, like a spider queen. Claws crept out of the black mass gate. Uttering languages and signs. Scratching the surface, writing words once uttered by its previous tenants. A strange place, a strange person, a strange creature. I cleaned out the gun with thoughts of the three. The triune sequencers called vontinuum.

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Holed up from the storm in CAF NOISE, I peel back the layers of false and inserted memory to arrive at scatters, inserts, extracts, recollections. The vontinnum memories. They do not haunt but they are there. Triggered by cheap drugs and troubled sleeping. From the opening pages of the delirium diara The unmanned flight into a fevered mind Dislocating space time death To the bizarre poetics as issued by the count of CIRQU There is a discontinuity, most favored by the three king things . The strange place seek its home. The strange person, its treasured companion, And the strange creature, longing for a master to relieve the weight of its destiny. let us be in! saith the twisted foliage. A kind fever for the queen awaits. The rains began as the gate lived to see it open. A foul moist air escapes like a dying breath and lures us into the trap. My beloved. In the dark already I could sense her. A burning of dried root told me that she had taken the life of the bush by my feet. HOBO receded. Thinned out. Stayed as a small rumbling in the desert, away from me, from us. My beloved. 18

In the dark I could feel her wing moving. Her sweat crawling on my pores. She is whispering in the dark.
Must it always be too late? Too quiet? Too sudden? Will you not drink from my blood and still live? Can you build me a kingdom still?

my beloved I heard her suck in her breath. As if she was blind not knowing I was there, and she was still just rehearsing her speech to me if I should ever come back. my voice had startled her. my death is hastened with your love. She said to me. I found a pink babys shoe on the ground, as if lit by her weak joy. The light moved away from the object and just as it caught the edge of her black feathered wings, she drew it in, hiding from me. you find me now, in such a terrible state...do not look upon me. my beloved... She gathered more strength to shriek. why do you come back to me?! why do you gloat at my dying?! she began to weep. I could hear the way it spoiled out of her.

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ruination! Ruination! she wept. It was not her yelling, but a thing that possessed her. The smell of clean medicine wafted through the air. what has happened here my love? trying to get through to my guardian I once knew. the song of edith thyroxcin is just the first no! the song is the first instance! she yelled. I hope it was her. I think it was her. I felt the paper burn in my hand but I could not let it go. I found a black feathered coat on the floor. To hide my nakedness. I dressed and told her I could help her. slutter gutt is no longer yours to help for its people are no longer hers and she is no longer the people... She flapped her wet sick wings against the ground. I still could not see her but I felt death approaching her. A radio interference swept through the place, bringing static and noise and lost transmissions. A voice repeating from a transmitting tower in the heavens They said thyroxcin will bring the medicine They said thyroxcin will bring the medicine

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now theyre all still sick my beloved said. one by one, theyre dying again and must speak their tongues upon you. this is the prophecy revealed to me at the time of slaughter, during the night of the knives. The nest started swaying in the half darkness. There was a crashing of waves outside, a sea sickness. The vontinuum house had shifted origins. I heard the rough storm over head. I knew we were now lost at sea. The next was a vehicle and the dying angel had extended her mind into the nest. Sychosia was setting in more deeply. The delirium has taken control. It wishes to take us down with her. Mad sychosia. It was too late to call upon HOBO. She had both taken me and the angel out to sea, to meet her death. This is the end journey. The ship cast into the storm. slaughter gott had made the mistake. Who kills the killer jon? my blood chilled as she used my old name. did they not know that madness is always greater than murder? Look at us now jon, look at what our enemies have become, look at what their holocaust hath done to us! The wail of the goddess was terrifying. Then shut off suddenly. And the room stilled (as the seas stilled) and death fled with its prize.

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The loss of her was too sudden. Disturbing. There was no goodbye, no greeting, no memories. Just an invalid occurrence, an unfamiliar haunt. HOBO materialized next to me in the vacant room. The babys pink shoe was here again, half burnt and half bitten off. By something. The light from orange candles lit the room(but no candles were present), wood planked walls and floors and ceilings. Black cobwebs loose and lifeless between the cracks. Illumined abandoned nest. A swirling of torn pages on the floor by an unseen wind. I picked and counted six of them. folded them. shoved them into my black feathered coat. what was all that then? HOBO asked, the house had vanished and now a cabin returns. Where is the angel? taken. Was all I could tell him. I walked out through the door ajar, into the deeper night. Said no more. Moving on to the next place in slutter gutt. In mourning. Noise number 3 the first oration to HOBO, the demon. Stars fell through the sky as I exited the now cabin post nest. Hobo followed me and I told it I had to begin the first oration. should we be needing a resting place, a place of protection first before this oration? he asked, justly. He was right, but i feared I could not wait. 22

slutter gutt is like a parasite. I said, It eats the memories of the visitors. Lives off them. you are an entity that cannot be consumed by slutter gutt for you are like it. a ghost. A demon. This is a demon of a place. It will not cannibalize its own kind. if that is your case... he trailed off, preparing itself, signaling me to begin immediately. We moved to the bank of the path (to avoid ghost trucks from killing us), walking in an Indian file, hobo was before me. I gathered my thoughts. Spoke into the back of his head. be called then the first names of the lights world; sychosia, epicus, , delucia. Remember first these names...then the lights world. a post-existence I believe. Like a heaven. The author of the first page found here in slutter gutt is marked as edith thyroxcin the no. currently recognized as a form of witch...sychosia is the delirium zeitgeist, possibly of a world (which is not of lights world) within which the names epicus and delicia may have dwelt. Their relationships are uncertain, as much as their origins or species or kind/type. My beloved, the once angel watcher of the gutt and of me when I was a youngling, is dead. Killed first by an attack, then of a possession then of a sudden deliverance to the sea world of death. Pertaining to the attack, it is currently know that the slaughter gutt, a sister city, had attacked slutter gutt, but some kind of intervening force had finished off the invaders from slaughter gutt. No related sign of their reign is

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witnessed here, now, on the night of abortion wind. The night of the attack is known as the night of the knives. stop. Hobo said. Stopping too in his tracks. I snapped out of the oration. what is it? a different moon is on the rise. I didnt see any moon. are you getting a signal?I asked A warning from somewhere? Hobo was silent. I do not know if he was thinking or listening. He looked to the ground, moved aside. I saw the insects. Cockroaches. Three maybe four of them scuttle out from the darkness by the banks. My skin suddenly crawled, my stomach lurched. Not because of the insects. But from what they were fearing. Then it screeched out from the darkness skies above. One fell swoop. A shadow. Mammoth bird of a shadow. A kind of elemental terror, I couldnt say. I fell flat as if to avoid it. it returned sharply, swooping past overhead again like a giant flying monster. yet so swift and terrible. Screeching past deafening. Then gone.

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I retched heavily. Twisted black bile and unrecognized meat, upsurging, spilling from my mouth. As if the noise had coagulated something in my empty gut, then forced it out as it materialized into meat. Whatever I threw up bubbled then came to life. Flopping like skin fish. It attacked hobo. He could not feel pain but his screaming came from the damage being done to his soul. There was a disturbed and mutated face in place of his form. Black smoke were forming around the face. I did not recognize it as hobo. dont look into it! a voice erupted in my head. I did not recognize the voice. for love of Et stop looking into it! I broke away. It was the name that pulled me back. Et. A name I had forgotten to include in the oration. A name almost immediately eaten. Et. I saw a hand thrust into the contorted face of black smoke screaming. I was passing out. Silence. Nothingness. why do you cry like a howling thing? 25

I woke to that question. In the air was a howling thing. Weeping in noise. I woke to an accident. Red lights swirling. I turned my head. The two smashed cars. The open burning ambulance. The tarmac torn up. Knotted steel and glass in face. All vehicles on a broken slab of road, twisted, half buried burst. In the middle of a wasteland desert. Dark night. Another passing memory of slutter gutt. One of her illness.illusions. Yet, her realism. The bleeding living cradling their bloodied dead. Weeping. Crying like a howling thing. I woke up again. A pretty boy face. unblemished complexion. Soft skin boy looking down. Almost breaking out into a relief laughter. youre alive! he said. Eyes gleaming. He turned his head to call out to another, hes alive grandpa! Hobo stepped into my view. Older. and thank et for that.

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The hospital of the gutt was still around. Its smell dug out fresh memories. The same place I was brought to as they dug me out of the concrete womb that birthed me. I was born in a tomb. Made in the gravehouse of my ancestors. Existed by the hand of a wandering god. Now I was being reborn again. The young boy brought me tea. I looked at the older hobo. Queried. grandpa? time shot forward when I was attacked. When you passed out. When this boy saved us. Time shoots back to now. He explained. Im camr. The boy offered his hand. I took it. I could feel time in his blood. Something else unnatural. He continued, I was programmed with all your stories. The prophecies. The times and places guessed for your returning. programmed? I sat up with the delicate china cup in my hand. Dizzy a little. yes. Im a time-a.i. I looked to hobo. many things changed in slutter gutt he said to me, camr told me stories, which of course youll get to hear. But now you must rest. The hospital has already found us a safehouse.

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A protected place. We can continue there...when they fix you legs. I looked down to find them gone. Amputated. the prosthetics here are advanced. Camr said, noticing that I went a little pale. HOBO said, you shouldnt panic jon (again the old name) the thing that attacked me took your legs. It thought it had slaughtered a wandering man. its a big game prize for those things. Your dismembered legs were its trophy. But camra killed it. brought us here. I was out too. Blackhole, as camra explained. but Ive seen the replacements. No other tech- forward planet Ive haunted has such precision. You shouldnt panic. I tried to breathe normally. Camr began talking. I tried to salvage your limbs but the flesh was poisoned. The bones corroded. They wouldve killed your system if RAYZORIA stitched them back on you. (the name hit me like a memory) so we kept your limbs in a worship glass. At the temple. The feet of our wandering prophet. he paused,almost scared to say it our lost God. They remember me for the wrong reasons. I didnt come back to be their god. I came back to deliver them but also to move on.

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well have to talk ab out this god thing, son. I said, but now I need to rest. And let them...give me back some legs. It was almost blackly comical. A strange feeling of laughter seem to pervade the room. And that name RAYZORIA, seem to be holding back the laughter. Like it was not right to laugh after hearing that name. I tried to remember why. Then doctor RAYZORIA came in. a seven foot transvestite- witchdoctor in a sleek body hugging long dress. My own doctor. She/it/him who had brought me to life as I nearly died, being born in that tomb. been a long time luv. He said, pushing her long hair out of her mannequin face. Gloved hand and scalpel. My groin was on fire. THE RAYZORIAN HOSPITAL couldnt offer cures. Only temporary relief. There was no cure in a city built from disease, be it cosmological, mystical or biological. The relief of seeing hobo and the grandson was purely narcotic. Drugs wearing off quickly, The truth has evolved into nightmare. RAYZORIA stabs me in the eye with the silver knife. Gas mask heads hovering above. Static breathing.

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I am ritual. Hemorrhage dance. Twist of open wound portal. The horse is sweating. The rider heavy armored. Stomping feet. Dust insects biting legs. Ritual initiating. Silver bloodied wand. Pain burst nebula. Open portal. Twist of wound. I am hemorrhage. Ritual dance of the knives. PULL OUT JON! I am the knives. Hemorrhage dance of the ritual JON! COME ON! I am the dance. Ritual knives of the hemorrhage. Small granite stonesin lung. Rupture. Cannot breathe. Lung wall tearing. Blinded. Blade in my eye. JON! I opened my eye. Retina tearing. Something ghostly reached into my face. GOT TO DO THIS, SORRY! An apparition touches my mind.

Ostradamic hut.
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God wakes up screaming. Brutal. Startled. Jumping up. Escaping grip of nightmare. HOBO, the ghost. Real before me. Im sweating. (I recall the horse. The rider.) unreal. In the dark. A tame and mellow bon fire. Cold wind. My nose was bleeding. what the hell happened jon? There was a screeching shadow, a sudden flight overhead. Then you vanished. I found you by the docks. South of slutter gutt. I thought the tribals had taken you...you were gone for weeks, then in a comatose for a long while. Thank goodness the atmosphere appeared to be feeding your energies. I could do nothing. Then you started jerking back to life just now, about to die again before me. I had to pull you out. Confusion mounts. The gutt. I remember where I am now. But what had transpired? I remember coughing blood and meat. I tried to get up. I touched my left eye. The stabbed eye. But noting was wrong. Yet. It seems that Im seeing differently. A little more clearly than usual. are you ok? the ghost inquired. I could not answer. I didnt know what was ok or what was not. My head and soul felt like it was somewhere else for too long. That this place, strange and dark as it may be, was almost nothing compared to that nightmare place that seemed so real.

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where are we? I finally asked after silence. in an abandoned hut., a little way off the southern docks. The 47th house its called. There were...scavengers about. I traded some light magic for their help bringing you in. I wanted to take you to the RAYZORIA hospital but they told me it was post-haunted. Destroyed on the night of the knives. Something shivered down my spine. The hospital seems gone. But I felt like I was there. the hospital isnt destroyed. I said. I think it was displaced. And we need to find it. I stood up and entered the stratosphere of the hut. Thick memories ate into me. recalling scrotum surgery. Vacant screaming eyes as the balls were cut. Testicles removed. I Sickened. Sat down again. Legs numb. this was a torture house. Hobo didnt agree. its implanted memories. I felt out the zone before I brought you in. this was a flower house. Old frail family used to live here. The memories youre experiencing are false. I was drained. Head not on straight. 32

why dont you rest more? the ghost guidean suggested, The post-abortion winds are dying out. When a cross-wind arrives, we can move again. A loud sudden bang outside. Like cars crashing into each other. Two, three more crashes. I stared out the black window of the hut. nothings happening outside hobo said. somethings wrong with my consciousness. I rubbed my temples. Hobo sounded more concerned. do you know what really happened the time you were gone? I still could not answer. My legs hurt. I vaguely remembered the amputations. Checked for scars and signs but nothing. Bones intact. Just a nightmare. The I touched a peculiar wound near my knee-cap. Something spoke through me. An oration, suddenly occurring. Hobo stared at me as I entranced with foreign tongue and tone: a rupture. A rhetoric. He heard, For what secrets did epicus hung? A strange creature shot in death. His was a confession. 33

Of a delirium. The ravings of an immortal man. Confused with memory and nightmares. Alternate states of consciousness and comas. His is of ghosts and thought and memory, hallucinated, implanted or otherwise. His words belong in truth but his truth may not be ours. He bears a different sigil, and his is not of this world... A weight lifted as my oration ended, a strange visitation. I was bleeding from the nose again. Felt like fainting. nothing seems right in slutter gutt. HOBO said. I shook my head. Tried to pace but I would not stand up. The atmosphere was thick with false memories. Panic was hiding in unseen corners. I heard the child weep from there, the starving child. Muttering. the riders came...the riders came... I crawled on the floor like a serpent, sloshing against piss on the floor (as exited by the weeping child.) HOBO warned, the urine is poisoned.

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But I knew I would not die. who are the riders?I asked the unseen child in the unseen corner. Who? I uttered, a fever taking me again (urine poisoning my blood, warming it) the knights of black omnibus. Black omnibus. The child said. I shivered. An Echo above. the knights...the knights.... The boy (who is my memory child) had come to learn of the knights of black omnibus. A rogue isolated group that, in the period of my vanishing, rode through slutter gutt and never left. Trapped like a poltergeist in the confines of a curse. Riding with them was a blind boy (could this boy be him or is he my offspring?) and a large retarded man (was I that man then?) They manifested in the corner now. Unseen, now seen, now unseen. The hunting of this hut. Unseen. Seen. They sat naked and sweating with books sprawled before them (in the corner of the weeping child). A shadow hiding their faces (the shade of memory). They were repeating titles out of the books. (of paths I had to walk, of the other doors opening...) They took turns speaking. A low boom from the retard, the high pleading from the child . He was first to speak: 35

from my fathers house on the mountain of et in hotel 100 microcosm Bot attacks the consciousness starship of et Of mad razoria reliving the tower of graheg The butchered queen (d) The memory library of ocean_friction Daekens gate chrome of the time phasers (in the house of ihiir) the knights of black omnibus Then without warning the man and the child fell silent. And they began to defecate themselves out. To deflate. To be nothing but a wet mess. Discharging their material forms A sad face of the boy flattening out, the retard tongue dangling/ body growing smaller. airless, a crumpling into skin. The books turn to mist and sand and small insects. A droning. A buzzing. A shuffling. Boots crunching small stones. Shoveling (like exhumation) Time was up here in the corner of the weeping child. Unceremoniously, the stench of the ammonia heightened. The corner was gone but all the waste remained. The hut returned to darkness. HOBO had nailed himself to the wall, staring down at me.

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has the messiah ended his visions? he stared, blood dripping from his own crown of thorns. I could not answer. Energies draining out like into a black hole. Into a black hole.... In orbital sleep I drifted as HOBO orbited my sleep. On the cold hard floor of the hut I dreamt of the broken sequencing. Of the experiments in the lab of et, to the naked priest offering me VONTINUUM, to the death of my angel-mother- lover. In the dream there was the lights world and the lurking of sychosia. I was sick for a while in the dream and there was a nightmare involving graheg and it is mad priests. I found the burnt pink baby shoe on the dream floor and the flight of the monstrous bird overhead taking me. I recalled boil and hour zero. When I was abducted then. To the missing time and the recitation of the titles. everything rearranged itself in the astral. Then interruptions. Waves crashing. an other wind rises, it has no name. we should leave, master. HOBOs voice creeping into dream, slowly prying me from my coma. master...it is not as darker. it is apt to leave. I swam back into consciousness. I felt the ice cold around me, like the space chambers of the vontinuum (the starship, not the word but from which the word is derived) cracked and stretched the hard limbs. Staring at the ceiling, unrested.

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HOBO insisted we have outstayed our welcome. The hut is restless... My throat was dry (although I never required water) I got up, acknowledging there was no more false memories. The cold shrunk them. denounced their molecular structures. Memory was dangerously diseased. I did not know why i was in a hut, I did notknow where I was going but I knew why I was in slutter gutt. To piece together the book and names. Not so much to understand it but to complete it. to empower it with the finished so that the names, though scattered through the hundreds of pages and thoughts, were at least bound within the same continuum of vontinuum. The ghost and I left the diminishing hut to its own desires.

THE MARCH OF BURIA

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The wind that rose was funereal. A funeral. And at all funerals gather the consorts of the departed. Strangely as the void of the night of abortions wind ends, the paveways and streets of slutter gutt begin to fill. I see entities and post- people appear shortly, suddenly, slowly fading into view. They do not see us, for we are not yet truly alive in their dominion. We move on through them. I recount them. they are all heading for the funerals. So many infants lost. Entrails hung from unlit street lamps like party banners. The soil bubbling marking processions. Tears begin to rain upon the gutt. the hours of mourning are long HOBO speaks as we join the throng. Shadows, elongated, alien heads, mammoth animals, witches and dealers, snakemen, paralyzed giants, footsoldiers, sasquatch like humanoids, engulfed children, stranger fiction roam with us, all heading towards BURIA, the highways of the cemeteries in slutter gutt. Following that deserted moon that rises. Joining us were the armies. Platoons in silver suits and screens for faces. Odd and even numbers like time flashed on their l.e.d. eyes. Dark knights on darker horses roamed like rabid sheep, gruff, male, malevolent the knights carrying spears and broadswords, masked like an iron beast. The theramagicians (GRA-ATO, OKL, OHTE) of the gutt were not present. 39

There is a great slime on the road, following the crowd like menses sliding down a girls thigh. the oil melted off the paintings of a world so that world melted off too. Came a passing voice. Ghostly figures in somnambulism. where are we going master? There is no moon to follow now. I find there are n other signs. No way. No marker. I do not know what is next. I asked HOBO to engage his zeitgeistic memories for the elements surrounding a funereal wind then to possess me so I could study such environs. When he was ready, I licked his ears. His eyes. Kissed him on his lips. Kissed the ley lines of his mind and he took me. I who was a walker embraced he who was a drifter and we merged. Oily sensastions up my spine. We merged. if the histories are correct, the villagers are off to pass the shores of buria, then to the overhang to witness the wreath tides come in. then mass suicide. I understood. We had arrived in slutter gutt during one of their seasonal death states. This is the period after the killing moon (that visited as abortions wind) just before the burial moon. (as visited by the wreath tides.) the figures stooping on the side of the feeding hill proved the path and season was right. It was half death and half life happening in the dark, Adjusting to the dark I found the squatting mothers 40

and their half-children. Upper torso of the child (with deformed head) was drinking the sour pus from the slime lips of mother-clit. Lapping up the living muck. Half the childs body was a new born calf still covered in blood and birth- slime. Hind legs twitching. I found another mother-figure lamenting. The child was motionless, not sucking her clit. Dead. Belly exploded. A half-infant hung out of the gaping mess, head twisted. Dead. Killed in abortions wind. Lamenting mother. Lamen-thing noise. The congregation merged like a river, now marching through the fields of buria. The stone markers were mossed and decayed. Names in hieroglyphics, scratches, burnt out holes. Guardian insects black and stick like lurched upon the stones, watching the mournful eyes that studied them as they passed in droves. Lightning thickened the pollution above. Giving shape to the pool of grime shifting in the skies, overhanging, occluding the sights below. Horns sounded like the cries of defeat. Harbors melted at the sounds. We moved on. Like a monster raiding the land. Heavy footed. The boom of the waves crashing alerted us to our destination.

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The burial moon was high and the drifters of slutter gutt heightened their pace. Hymen skies opened and rained down on us its displeasure. Struck of the angel was the signs made as the moonlight cast its glance upon the standing stones nearby. They appeared closer as one thinks of them. they appear and submit their unhappiness. Struck of the angel. Struck of the angel. They wanted to bury the watching winged first, my beloved who is dead. I let the lights of moon burial progressively take away her memory (the congregation stopped to watch) the women lamented at the loss. I could not weep. Some rose on hurried grounds to speech about the gone angel. They declared holocausts, sacrificing soul time, given up memories for the angel-queen. mother mary deliver us. Some said. Others said she glowed with an orange light, and that light brought them home. hobo said. I cannot explain this ritual the hymen in the sky closed and the lights grew dim again. Everyone moved on dreamily. As if to the next parlor where they would again stop to lament, to eulogize and pay respects to those gone from slutter gutt. We observed them as one entity, taking in their rituals and invocations, storing them for the upload back to the GODS. To form the book out of the chaosma of the words. To find the names between the orations and the witnessing.

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We moved closer to the overhang of the cliffs. Beyond that was the wreath tides, the ocean of death and recurrence. The pool of regeneration/evolution. There was a hollowness in my gut, as if this journey through the death state of slutter gutt had drained the powers from within and only a little sea was left instead of an ocean. Something had to fillm e up again at the end of this road. The overhang was closer than before, and the ones that wandered ahead found themselves at the precipice of their cycle. The season was ending soon now that her people had been brought forth. The burial moon quickly heightens at this stage, in preparation for the rapid descend in allowance of the next and final death moon to rise. The killing moon. The burial moon. The death moon. The three siblings from the dark imaginations of slutter gutt. The diseased citys opportune three formed nightmare narration. The fabled road to Golgotha where the three crosses stand. By earthquake. By volcano. The gong of the end began and we witnessed it. the mass leap off the edge of their world. by the sides we watched, for this was not our way. Something else began watching closely with us . HOBO and I felt it at the same time. A third compatriot. I began to hear it panting behind me. I heard its saliva drip acid like unto the soil. Its mind was of an old soul. Its spirit was of a future place. Its form was of the old world. and an old god. The dog. 43

I am a god breed from afrioca it said to us. It looked to the mass suicide happening in the distance. entities walking off a cliff. there will be those who are left behind. From them, you will build your book as they rebuild their kingdom. I saw old long travels in the dog. Recognized its power and timelessness. The great white dog whom I had dreamt of before in a time before this wandering into slutter gutt began, before being called by the gods of et, before my prior death. And even before I had become immortal. the dog leads the blind master. HOBO said.

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