fhuair sign ar sàth dheth---> aroynted

furia rain trod ducessi
saddle sets vir avertir
polyisocyanurate

runo nota chordo
fishlife uncountable
lysenkoites

alchomical ilkimys
inquireris stökigare
ultraconcentrated

transnatabuntur loping galleon
twong they alpine depressed gogoics
teakwoods heliced to Archimedean sail

swiss trireme pocket katana
max ernst
illegal alien

Hoftag Skin The Aterraste

parody gland housing
much clam for oily ducking
the hanging of the hologram

sere endurcir
seize andean cyst
glamour rotates elegantly
on a warted foot
while fleece if gold
gifts a shrunken tease
with head

Jokajdon escludersi habitarit
for the thin ivory ribs
are the rungs
of an enclosing ladder

Langenuen adsimulo cohibieseis

Masturbation Before the Idol of Ideal Depression

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZ6HQe1wyvJJhJVoFDP3pixnWtL0hHC2lf1G5TDsdPpA-kRzmV6bhfmHdJLVUzm8FedPURfMrBj_jMo-VFxa48io_6cP2Fq956iUPUUNpLyDe8NYlUhldPrf37kjMT0zL4DOgcsRm6E8q/s1600/hutlerd.jpg

whose population queen
will be alchemically savvy enough
alcarazza locos bozo in logos
you feel so svelt and supple
in your super soft pants
and so we stand in glory
at the gateway
to the interincredible
future

heat climates meteors
within a unified victim
less crime less earth
no criminal reduction
in forces results
fascism starts with birth
and ends with murder
as innocence
depicted in certain noh plays

the masked wizard
with her jangle of electrodes
which reach back
to the web's new
double standard
of facing page tablets

is any reduction in human life
actually a crime no matter
its procedure?

you cannot be human
and be radically pro-earth,
or is that radically wrong?
Today we have 3 experts
demonstrating the proper care
and maintenance of weapons.

Weapons must be cleaned and oiled
so that oxidation does not promote rust.

These issues aren't pretty, but
poetry isn't human, it transcends
not only humanity, but any specific
assemblage, conscious or otherwise.

Poetry is roughly cognate
with the lyrical reality
of our material universe.

That universe is difficult.
It is encrypted, one might say,
and it resists decryption
actively, although it allows
a certain level of unpacking,
but remember:

from every bright and logical explication
there extends the acute possibility
for renewed morphologies of latency
which tend to obfuscate the original
explication, and are further obfuscated
by faux explicatory processes
which not only enhance the creation
of polarized subjectivities, but in fact
render all subjectivies provisional
instantiations of conflict rendering
a canonical principle of spatiality.

Space = Conflict.

Posting From Home

I guess its morning again, and she's wandering around in one of her plain work brassieres, ironing things in the living room, and we've looked up our pirate potter, and found his marvelous tankards still being sold, but not the green glaze, only the ebony, and he makes some pirate's excuse, it's all an inside joke, and a particular delight, pirate culture is much more Brechtian than seapunk which seems more sea monkey and pop, but we're still more Eno and Hassel, or 'Marcello' via Elio Petri's L'Assassino, or 'various' / the soundtrack with jazz musics by Piero Piccioni, ah, what contrivances, The Superpowers are the world police \but the chimney sweeps are scheduled between eleven and one, and saying this to her I look up, and see a book over the hallway entrance, five hundred years of British chimney sweeping, and I read her a passage about a condition called 'soot-wart' which is actually a cancer of the scrotum because of friction in the pants, sweat, and constriction during soot sifting resulting in many gelded sweeps, and many deaths until a decline in soot use in the 19th century, but not the violence. Chimney sweeps are often mean, and many turned to crime involving climbing, or hiding out in remote and closed spaces, like anchorites being fed food through a two brick hole for months, then changing their name, and going always dirty, their 'black face' being an elegant disguise, but rough on the scrotum. Hopefully today, these gentlemen will be using a vacuum cleaner, and anyway, the dog, the big fat old spaniel called Pepper was finally able to jump up onto the bed, which we only encourage as a sort of cruel sport to see if our diet is working, the dog it can be said is a vittle junkie, caring more for viewing 'the eater' than involving himself in good natured play or affection. It's food over affection every time, and by the way, dogs are like architecture or art, they impress an idea upon you very directly, but subtly, but really they enunciate nothing, or they are involved in a meta-enunciation, it makes me think of blowing big horns in a cave, or listening to Italian with no subtitles, I pick up a few words, face', or facchia, or they grunt, or sigh, or become excited, but I imagine how the words feel in their mouths, and the certain easy precisions (it's precious!) evinced by long practice of the tongue, and things like corroded buildings, or the shining principle, the latin alphabet is like a shining principle (which) enamorates the english tongue, the western tongue. Today she kisses me as she leaves for work. For two nights in a row, I have marinated and baked tofu, and tossed it in a baby spinach salad as fingers with carrots and radishes, and serrano pepper ya ya ya, and cucumber, si si si, and tomato snakes pour like smoke from underwater chimneys, and the broken windows are replaced by planes of diagonal silver fish or baby conger eels? Why do I write? I'm not popular. I see a color i enjoy. What awaits the world is being a world, born of fire and storm in a void, a complicated snow globe held in the hand of a dirty chimney sweep child whose sooty cancerous scrotum like our sun was once young and supple, but now burns like a cigarette stubbed out bluntly in a rock, and swept away by insane ecstatic singing from a comet of jumbled jewelry, 'offended'.. Carbon Monoxide and raccoon. Crooked antique dealer. Nice kid.

Mardi Gras Wombats Sail Inflatable Book Ends (mApfuloraonch)

white ferns obscure the perfumed blowhole mobbyahaba bihiliniti obfa doooon! greeth greeth wahails the sailfort robin und kundyurcoccoon sawails the sussurusty mail all obsuddianlee go the wire mouthed muthkins to lurribjunt land and on chin-heels dance the duncy bongos brasp'd with feral lily hands apistils slapping the hollow hang gliding origami snowflake chimes that magnetically fold their blusoms shaggy coats colliding to meadow twisted menhirs in the night luminous wax paper parthenons [CANDLE USAGE]paramohaw guffreftjuhull float above the canal where the beak boats deliver their chattering urchins lamtrem urnlichtpaw to the purpose of radial bristling antennae but no guff fiuls a fuller filling fooled and there galactose gets gulled for the mole pops up from the mountain burvinthy kakaw weheewee where the dawn photons all let warmth be invisible unless a ratcheting peccary encloses its breath purkolointerlitter or therefore dorsal all homes in a porcupine of snow barber poles of babylon harbor stout teflon springs goggalonging bhulku symba brathling umpkump misty glitter in their mattress feet all grails are double camel and the humps are hives of tookus fives where the naredewwells go swelling a steel donkey head ends the hose and the ears are the handles put a crank in the jaw and the hy-phen slaffs a wampus, for when the hose bucks the heels are tapping, our lace tympanum now a labyrinth over interfocussed manes snapping out whaords beforfleecesaythem drawns pucker a doddle loop

meeting house 1454 cubic centimeters

drink pay fen
where the comet and asteroid
toy the gray balloon in hand
stark contrasts rector many rewards
as links pay willingly their feeble chain
all oppression luminous beneath a greater leaf
soul found empty before
and after all
a hurtling colossus

thatched with any appropriate gander
what come
what will
when mediumship
should lose its oars
among the meddle the meekness
and the méfiance

auld this cold bow
before the velvet heights
to inspire
look inside look deeper
what touches
oh did you?
certain.
its theme should map a high peak
nothing is uncovered in nature

An Ogress Pops Out Smiling Where The Joey Once Jangled

paha loopa lumen to el mo mir rimmed in mud domed motleys silelaheering rololongolanga anga apu du 'something' pala du dala pu 25 jelly forks hovering the water lens distorts its friend the hunchbacked lemur now a stockinged woodpecker red lotus prince and white lotus prince mahala gungvodo no finer ogress in teeth made of sugar here come red lotus in his big wooden skull buggy leaving flowers for the children homnavakatooki using lungs for crutches the quick sand silvers foxes and the quack sang sweetly where the blood once boiled nachtbuhilli tihighlili mibibethra ekomikonkobinongalingi linking bikini thrispy poul snee gritty gummibonti bonthi elephants in the high grass connect ink splatters on the crooked stones cum cobblers cum barrelers cum benthi biscuits and brooms for all hages mimibati bahe' ogress shakes the stalk and many naughty children fall in her pot clank clank what a fine happy pot to gobble don't watch ogress stretching her yeti lobster lanky limbs nahalabobbi dungaree fate bells a dyne fungu and especially cancel any yu deem for the conqueror is always conquered by the desire to conquer and algae mugukang the mountain its pabbly nexter O O a stirrup of twisted orange vines

More Testimony From the Kangaroo Courts

fledged im mithra bobab bao billed what hoo kbill can cuchulain as agate where the viewt opt optic coot wa cutie dill nab dollar bwome cube replication collar gives patented aquarium under water library enter by worm along the appian whey you cloister habab boba unvab bulvab bababvu vobeen litter the letter luminuous monuette ulmonitory hulmony lummons wa sew seel ha ful zoe and zen ness peirce et nec im ullo lullonomnivorated heiligestonure sack placqu bulb yard by hilly dint of varnities its flint sentence ruled to the thrat oat neck not cut but word cat talking hax what heck conslurred to bunion's tone floot eat fee sop poseon flurce and gulden negrithonts leaf building cappillarie odd endloss at staircase stumble then vein vase solid eyebaal heck clean cow abominy propellers round the collar bones to flick the lapels to wet saliva thought pals tips spitting gurmulanck plotted out fine as devil's eyelandshes froot penrod the roc's hyle caste wot bambre a thin transparent and dear hoyment for ointment flur clude the dim white pencil farms a swumpnet pedalling glabrous candi at docto telor murshinnihye yay gleep gleep round backed squared beards gleep gleep gleep patrolling helium barbell trees their starfish decanters' solument clasping gill hands breathing eyeball bubbles said nostovillimancy

Congressional Freshman

your mother reminds me of you

up a ladder and each of her arms

with its own Martin house

the wind vain appealing

the thunder unmarked

her absent eyebrows

permanently raised

braille for those searching

for a self no doors no windows

just holes she uses a hook

to close them down for winter

some other bird type

will occlude

ladders and legs

store unwieldy can't say we

said much to each other

out in the rolling oceans

of indefinite lawns

where roses ink as coral

all the metallic hoverings

bee dragon maple winged

a deliverance into days

some scarf that treasured

her attentions

the meander boll would cotton

its own organized clutter

and rumage til she held up

two flashlights like binoculars

Minstrels Hide Upon the Garden, But Vowel Who Sing

the virago said
to the cadeberiz
there are no virgins
here sir
but the cadeberiz
stood fast
gazing on the sun's distaff
all eternal spinning
to blindnesses wed
the brightest of all
the maiden heads
and he said

what young are laid in gems
but the hissing of mules over eery rum
these cones like minutia exert sere eros
it is the property of a woman
to use scoldynge

and the minstrels then peered out all around in the garden
bearded women and hairless men and ghosts making chains
of paper dance like flames and all the while
Bar-Thalamuse Spranger could be seen
as a molten golden foetus moving inside
the golden capped acorn whose bell
of clear glass looked amber holding mead
and beads of honey fell from its tip
like a nipple to drip and the minstrels
were timing the whole hibernation in pitch
the heels of Achilles replaced with gyroscopic spindles

farrago, O
snow sculptures
of 1511 Brussels

Jogging With Roussel 15

By the 1950’s, Cantarel had not exactly grown bored, but had on the contrary conceived of an homage to the boredom of Theophile Gautier as conceived in the novel Mademoiselle de Maupin, specifically in the chapter ‘Rosalind and Orlando’, where M. Gautier had described a ‘strange theater’. Not wanting to recreate the life of Julie d'Aubigny (MLLE de Maupin) as an Opera, nor exactly to endeavor to write new music and libretti , he conceived to include both M. Gautier, and the mythical MLLE de Maupin in the audience of a thoroughly visionary enterprise. Cantarel was a devoted admirer of the composer Faucillon, and especially of his opera, Daedalus, so with certain elements of M. Gautier’s ‘strange theater’ in mind, he set out to both build his audience, and his miraculous set as seductively and strangely as might Daedalus himself, and which would be built, hopefully, at the opening of the real labyrinth in Crete, where he hoped he would find a wide enough plaza, or area for his living stage-play to occur.

Cantarel was especially fond of Faucillon, as he was well versed in humorous chestnuts, jokes, and stories based on cryptic word games, and applications of arcane distributions of logic, or logoic, as Faucillon styled it. One of Cantarel’s favorite stories was told to him upon the night of their first meeting in 1919, only a week after Faucillon’s Daedalus had closed after many months of constant praise in Paris. Over various glasses of wine, Faucillon dropped hints that he was a descendent of Jesus Christ, but that the name Jesus Christ was in fact, a coded message to obscure the true nature of the divine being’s actual identity. Attempting to nullify the brash man’s assertion, and jovial blasphemy, Cantarel nonetheless went to work attempting to discover the meaning of such a cryptic statement, and Faucillon allowed one last clue, “Why do you think it is the blood which is so important?” Cantarel being no stranger to the machinations of the theatrical class, started with the idea of the publicity stunt, and laid his mind on the figure of Daedalus himself, and inspected his own memory for clues, first and foremost thinking upon the labyrinth, but as the party continued on, Cantarel noticed that Faucillon continued to glance upon a painting that Cantarel had hanging in the study, an odd, and extremely rare work by an unknown artist in the manner of Cornelius Gerritsz Decker, namely a rural scene of a watermill, but when one looked closer, there was an even stranger image, very much like those practiced by Romeyn de Hooghe, especially in those dual portraits where inverting the image reveals a second portrait. Cantarel had discovered this oddity as he was a great admirer of de Hooge’s work, and owned a rather shabby print himself of de Hooge’s  zes portretten van hoofdpersonen van het Rampjaar. The painting that Faucillon’s eye kept wandering to contained one element that it seemed Faucillon slightly favored, namely the element of a small white kite, being flown by a raggedy peasant, whose eccentric dress was only outdone by the outlandish detail that the kite was lovingly dressed in feathers, and a small scantily clad boy was tied to the kite seemingly in an echo of the divine savior.  It was then that Cantarel put it all together, and he asked Faucillon politely, “Is your opera Daedalus based on family history?” To which Faucillon replied, “Were Daedalus my son, I would be proud!” Then Cantarel proceeded more  directly, “Is not your family name itself a coded form of ‘Faux Scion’ which sets in motion a decryption based on your earlier statements, namely, that Jesus is really Icarus, and God, Daedalus?” Faucillon roared with laughter. “But I am a theater man!” Cantarel immediately grasped his meaning, and chimed in sheepishly, “Ichor-ruse?” Faucillon was pouring himself another glass of the deep red Bordeaux which he then lifted in a toast, holding up the wonderful sky-blue steatite goat rhyton which Canterel had gifted him concluding the final performance of Daedalus. “To Canterel, and the transubstantiation of  ‘He has crashed.’” “And to ‘Dead, Alas’,” chimed in Cantarel, more assured their ironies, and humors had become cognates of cheer..  But there were other stranger reasons why Faucillon had been staring at the painting.

When Cantarel had noticed Faucillon looking at the painting, there were several long moments when he himself was not looking upon the painting. It was at this time, that the Cantarel of 1955, had caused to be inscribed upon the painting in large white letters, “Say nothing / It is I-C / Let’s take the opera to ancient Crete / Wait outside tonight / Or fly a kite”. Soon the evening was over, and all the guests left, except for Faucillon who seemed extraordinarily happy, and a bit drunk. “Shall I have my driver take you home, M. Faucillon?” “Well, it seems as if I am supposed to walk,” he said chuckling, and clambered out the door and into the darkness. And he did as he was asked, and not five minutes later, Cantarel stepped out of a pale blue glass doorway that opened in the air with a curt sucking sound as if one were opening a decanter sealed by vacuum. “By Daedalus!” exclaimed Faucillon. “By Doctor Welles!” said Cantarel, and he helped the shocked, but good natured old composer through the portal, and into a space Cantarel had prepared so as not to shock too deeply the fragile, yet talented personage he so admired.

Next, it was to be Theophile Gautier, and anyone else he might snag from the era. After some weeks preparation in the neighborhood, Canterel now stepped out into his new office in 1836 Paris, where he had styled himself as Leret Nachtmarj, a Pomeranian, lately of Chile’, and a brash literary agent and fantastical poet of symbolic noises, and a frequenter of Bousingot haunts, dives, and the Latin Quarter, to contrive to give several performances of his symbolic noise poetry at the regular meetings of Le Petit Cénacle [The Little Upper Room] attended by most of the standard members, and the usual bohemian types, though no one yet called themselves that, as most of the Bousingots were not much more than rough and tumble pions embracing libertinage and radical politics, though there was a new spirit of Art for Art’s Sake in the air. Cantarel was welcomed heartily into the groups because of his strange mixture of Pomeranian and South American Andean dress, the odd instruments he could pull out of his pockets and play.

One evening at ‘Jehan Duseigneur’s’ studio, the famous Le Petit Cénacle, Cantarel had decided to do something spectacular, and had brought along a new invention which was in point of fact a clever trans-temporal matter-transmitter disguised as a fanciful blood red suit of highly tooled leather armor. Canterel looked something like a cross between a medieval knight and a mythical mayan demon bird, and later, Kali. The suit was built so that Canterels from other time lines could access the suit which was infused with Erythrite, and reach their own arms out through especially adjacent sockets, or place objects in secret pockets, and then remove them as well, and also cause certain flows of materials to exit from what looked like vents, but were actually well defined trans-temporal ports. With his studies of Avestan and Mayan, and other ancient languages, Cantarel began to perform a strange dance and to chant long and winding phrases, and had even contrived a trans-temporal poly-vocality, wherein several of the other Canterel’s voices could also be heard from horn-like protuberances which projected from his bird-like bat-like helmet. It wasn’t long before luminous transparent spheres began to pop out of discrete holes in the suit and float around the room which he had darkened somewhat for increased effect, and though the rowdy Bousingot elements were already jeering, soon a silence a pervaded the crowd, as it became known that the strange bubbles were unbreakable, and even stranger could not be moved from their seemingly random and gracefully edifying paths. It was in fact as if the bubbles’ actuality was a complete inversion of their perceived sense as delicate, and fragile, if miraculous, nonces. This was no ordinary parlor trick! Gautier and Nerval were beyond entranced, and Jehan looked as if he had seen Satan himself, but there was further mischief. Soon more and more, and tinier bubbles began to file out in all directions, like a radiating fan or tail feather section from the base of Leret’s spine, and he could extend it, and snap it closed to become a tail, or bend it forward, to engulf the helmet in shimmering transparent bubbles. Then four arms shot out on either side, and Leret began to juggle singing somewhat reduced versions of his own head, all clearly alive and speaking, and then for the finale’, the heads began vomiting even more bubbles until the room was awash with them, until finally Leret let out a piercing almost Tuvan throat chord which shattered all the bubbles at once, which promptly turned to a glittering and microscopic dust, the dust of innumerable oneiric suns.

After the lights had come back up, there was awe and silence, but eventually, the youthful and lively nature of the audience held sway, and the drinking and carousing continued in earnest, but Cantarel had planned well as to be the last of the performances that night, for his was certainly a show-stopper. After he had disrobed, and discretely dropped his more dangerous items through a time hole at the bottom of his trousse, he returned to join his new bohemian comrades, who were not too much younger than he, or at least how he appeared to be. When Gautier and Nerval approached him with open, and admiring faces, he said at once to them, “I am very much interested in your ideas for the theater! Could we meet at my office to discuss this sometime.” After a few polite, and restrained comments of wonder, the three all exchanged cards of introduction, and Cantarel let them know that any of their friends were welcome as well, and they would all be pleasantly surprised, he hoped, for he had an offer, ‘of a small adventure.’ Cantarel then left amid a tidy clutch of boisterous and waxy bouzingo hats to retire and prepare.

Since time was of no matter, since they could enter it whenever and wherever they wanted, Cantarel and Faucillon began training the singers and musicians and building the strange costume which would become as well the main prop, and indeed, the set for the entire production, for Cantarel had now further conceived of the production as mobile, the role of Daedalus being given to Cantarel’s best baritone, none other than the Chlorlock named Professor Majesty, who was immediately interested in an opera whose singers and musicians would be completely Chlortronic, and whose set would be his own complex mechanical suit, and whose subject was very close to his own heart, being as he was somewhat directly descended from Socrates, who, while historically disagreeing with the Daedalusianism of sacred kineticism, had now reformed somewhat, seeing in kineticism a kind of Platonic ideal in itself, an immovable reality of absolute movement which he reconciled by means of Heraclitus’ teachings, and tempered further by readings in Taoism, and quantum physics. And so Canterel went about constructing another trans-temporal suit which would act as the stage for the chlortronic version of Faucillon’s Daedalus, little walkways, and fold out sections of the palace at Knossos, and the various backdrops that would appear both in front of and behind Daedalus’ face covering his body from head to toe.

It was not long after this that Cantarel, after plotting his apprehension of the astonishing figure of Julie d'Aubigny, set off to collect her, having already made arrangements with another astonishing figure, and a friend of Cantarel’s since the 1920’s, Luigi Barbasetti, whom Cantarel had known best when Luigi had become the fencing instructor at the Automobile and Golfing Clubs of Rome, which Cantarel sometimes visited, taking lessons from the frightfully spry and wonderful personage. The elegant gentleman’s worthy book, “The Art of the Foil” was much treasured by Cantarel who saw in its driving and methodical explication towards perfection in technique while remaining faithful to the ponderous and irrefutable lessons of history, while at the same time creating a contemporary and subjectively fresh approach, a thing of much value. Cantarel, knowing of Luigi’s passion for sword collecting, found an easy mark as he presented Luigi with a seemingly brand new sword from ancient Japan, though while unusable by this master of the Italian-French school, nonetheless pleased immensely this scholar of the metallurgy of sword craft, an avid collector of oddities. Cantarel and Luigi set off for Paris 1688 to hatch a plot to win the heart of the notoriously fickle and mad, Mademoiselle La Maupin.  Appearing at the scene of an illegal duel, where Julie’s lover, and fencing teacher, Serannes, had just killed a man, and were being chased by a quaggle of angry and fence-worthy noblemen which Serannes and Julie, being only two would not likely be able to quell without much injury and perhaps even death, Cantarel and Barbasetti arrived in a marvelous coach of yellow glass whose doors were themselves trans-temporal portals. Luigi, ostentationsly dressed in period costume, leapt through the portal, and immediately put down one of Serannes and Julie’s opponents, and then rapidly two more, while Cantarel circled in the bizarre carriage whose horses were actually eloi-equid-chlortronic cyborgs controlled by Cantagraelians within their bodies. Calling out to Julie across the stumbling mass, “Mademoiselle La Maupin, Serannes, allow us to be of assistance, and make your escape before the Police arrive!” Eventually all parties had clambered aboard the carriage, and at once the entirety of that far away place and time were gone, the carriage rumbling noisily down an immense white and purple marble hall, babbling robotic busts filing past at an astonishing rate as the carriage clambered on toward the room that Cantarel had prepared for these erstwhile lovers, and Luigi beaming over two foils he had managed to steal from the angry and somewhat, it can be said, drunken, opponents who were no match for the matchless expert of the fencing sport. The event was coming together marvelously.

The last and final piece of the puzzle, Canterel thought, was to finalize certain preparations he had made in ancient Crete. The problem with all of this, was that the myth of the labyrinth was, in certain respects, absolutely true. Canterel had been introduced to Daedalus in a formal court setting, and subsequently had been allowed to visit his workshops, and while primitive, they were certainly far ahead of the curve for his day, and Cantarel had begun to plot a way of preserving this marvelous man and his work, creating a magnificent Eloi body, and an entire tribe of Chlorlock craftsfolk to house his mind and skills, and those of his top craftspeople as well. Since Daedalus was also the commander and caretaker of the labyrinth itself, he would need to be safely removed to fulfill his plan. Also, there was some discrepancy between the rustic, yet lively actuality of Daedalus, and the Minoans themselves, it could be said, and the mythic version presented in the opera, which would indeed be at odds. The opera would have to be performed only for the eyes of Cantarel’s selected audience, as the Cretans, though wonderful, were in fact, compared to most modern persons, closer to what one might call ‘cretins’, they were lovably primitive, but a bit rough. Daedalus had indeed created a sexual prosthesis for the bizarrely promiscuous Queen Pasiphae, and while she may have actually had intercourse with a white bull, she was still using the contraption, as her fetish  was not simply to desire that great beast, but to be mounted as a beast, and over and over it seems, and she had produced an entire plethora of deformed children, mostly due to the seed of one man, who unknown to her, and Canterel for a time, was a trans-temporal variant of Henry Ford, who called himself Sherlock Ford, or Phoseon, and whose imperfect rendering of Dr. Welles temporal technology had made his own genetic material highly suspect. It seems that in one of Earth’s innumerable trans-temporal timelines, Henry Ford had used espionage to steal the secret of Dr. Welles’ time-machine, and was using ancient Minoa as a perverted sexual playground and ‘production floor’ for mythic monsters. The greatest of the Cretan Fordian monsters had turned out to be the Minotaur, a hirsute yet wonderful boy, who had begun to grow horns, and successively grow more violent and primitive as he aged, until he began a killing spree, becoming a monstrous serial killer, which King Minos and Daedalus had asked Phoseon ‘Sherlock’ to catch, as this was how he was known at court, as a wily  detective of mysteries, and not as the very progenitor of many of the court’s most shameful secrets. Eventually, Cantarel having sent numerous viewing frames into Crete for an extended time, had discovered the awful secret, and had decided up a plan to rid the ancient past of Henry Phoseon Sherlock Ford, trans-temporal pervert explorer detective. He had a replica made of Daedalus’ prosthetic sex cow, then fashioned a mindless Chlorlock goddess to inhabit it, but one whose vagina was coated with an amazingly powerful hallucinogen, an anxiety producing hallucinogen which would render Phoseon impotent as long as he stayed in any timeframe but his own. Henry Ford would only be able to achieve erection in his own correct frame. Acting boldly, Cantarel, or Phaneronoemikon, as he was known delivered his ‘Trojan cow’ to the home of Phoseon Sherlock Ford, and within months, the terrible sexual tourist was eliminated. At the same time he instituted a range of genetic therapies to assuage the pain of the monsters that Henry had sired, and even contrived to soften the burning libido of Queen Pasiphae by importing a rare breed of dove, known as the Zenaida dove, which Cantarel had genetically altered so that displayed on their bright orange breasts, each dove displayed what looked like a random brushstroke’s version of an ancient Egyptian Ankh, Canterel having originally made these doves as a linguistic pun on the word Zenaida itself, being both an admirer of Verdi’s opera, and Zen calligraphy. The doves’ powerful song had a history of itself, having melted the heart of a famous pirate in the Florida Keys, causing him to mend his ways after hearing their song from an alligator-apple tree, the Anona glabra, or Pond Apple as it was also called, a well-known story of the 18^th century.

Finally the day came, the night before having been the happiest celebration ever seen at the Palace of Knossos, and it could be said with some veracity, that every single person for miles around was passed out drunk and sleeping deeply except the Minotaur, as Canterel had delivered a minor ‘Phoenician’ miracle for the celebration, a gigantic amphora whose innards were a complicated temporal portal allowing the contents of an entire winery to flow through time and out a single spigot. People of every class and cant and cast, had come from miles around to fill their jugs and wineskins with Canterel - Phaneronoemikon’s excellent trans-temporal Bordeaux. Cantarel had asked the Minotaur to turn in early, so that he too, might be able to watch the early morning Opera, which Canterel had set to be performed at dawn.

As there were too many wandering revelers in the night, Canterel had to content himself with building his operatic stage within the labyrinth itself, in the chambers of the Minotaur, who would be attending the performance, since in the meantime, Canterel had made much progress with the young man’s education and genetic therapy for his brutish animus, rendering him almost foppish, or at any rate, good-natured and curious, and besides, Cantarel had provided him with two lovely Chlorlock mistresses who were, unknown to Minotaur, and themselves, versions of the Minotaur himself, to assure rapport, and to wryly give continuance to at least some version of Minoan perversity. “Professor Socrates Majesty,” was billed on the Programme in the main role of Daedalus, and his excellent baritone voice was a paragon of richness. Who could have known that within the historical genetic figure of Socrates was the throat of a born Opera singer! The other characters were many, but they were all more or less, smaller versions of Professor Majesty himself, though some were simple chlortrons, and others, the musicians, were Chlorlock-Eloi hybrids. This was to be more or less, a “table-top opera”  as only Socrates Majesty was a full-human-sized individual. The other actors, who were mainly various versions of the traditional Greek chorus, all popped out of Professor Majesty’s trans-temporal time suit-stage set, a thoroughly Cubist affaire, all crimson wool, and faux marble foam, and Daedalus himself wore a golden grasshopper crown, the grasshopper having bonsai tree horns filled with miniature versions of more Zenaida doves which were trained to coo in various interludes to soothe the audience after louder sections.

The Minotaur sat in the center of the audience area, front row, as it were, his two Chlorlock mistresses like svelt green feminine bulls, fully female, but having horns to echo their lover. Canterel was seating everyone he had brought according to a list which functioned boustrophedonically:

[Julie d'Aubigny][Theophile Gautier][Mcinotauress 1] [The Minotaur][Mcinotauress 2] [Gerard Nerval] [The Baroness Dudevant][Cantarel][Faucillon][Jehan Duseigneur][Serannes][lady Bousingot 1] [Bousingot 1][Doctor Orson H.G. Welles][Pablo Picasso][Salvador Dali][John Ashbery][Luigi Barbasetti] [Romeyn de Hooghe][Raymond Roussel][Charlotte Dufréne][Giuseppe Verdi]

As the opera was in French, the Minotaurs would certainly not be confused by any mention of their jailor’s person. Daedalus-Majesty would sing in the center of a rather smallish area about the size of a large dining room in an ordinary Parisian townhome of the upper middle class, and the Chlortron orchestra would in fact, sit atop a beautiful baroque mahogany table the rowdy Bousingot couple had been good enough to steal, but which later Canterel would return discretely. Since there were miniature elements to the production, each seat had growing before it a large mutant lily from whose golden pistils hung various sizes of gigantic dew drops which served as opera glasses to see the tiny chlortron choruses and orchestra. The seats themselves were ‘mother of pearl stalls’ as imagined by Gautier in his ‘strange theater’ mentioned in ‘Mlle. de Maupin’, while the curtain was a trained swarm of butterflies whose density and dispersal were controlled by a pheromonic harmonica that Canterel controlled. Glow worms took the place of footlights in the cavernous labyrinthal dining hall, and a golden mechanical scarab played the part of conductor. Professor Majesty’s transtemporal stage suit also included any sound effects like thunder or lightning, but there was only one scene where this was used, during the inspiration song of Daedalus where he conceived of the powerful idea of the labyrinth as an extrapolation or echo of the cardinal directions themselves. The proud and wonderful Doctor Majesty then wended his way through the entire opera which went off without a single flaw, and by 10 o’clock in the morning when the first Cretans were lazily awakening from their own night of debauchery and excellent wine, the entire opera was completed and dismantled, and only the happy grunts of the Minotaur and his maids could be heard outside the entrance to the forboding labyrinth.

Jogging With Roussel 14

It was January 19th, 1889, the day before Raymond Roussel’s 12th birthday. Raymond Roussel was the gifted child who Canterel had seen at Ernesta Wallace’s children’s soiree a few years before, acting so brilliantly in the little Orientalist play that Abu Dakni had reconstructed from old Elamite sources, and Cantarel had published, and Ernesta had found so charming, Ernesta being the eccentric niece of the famous art collector, and philanthropist of the Siege of Paris, Sir Richard Wallace, who had donated so many of those wonderful drinking fountains now called ‘Wallace Fountains’, to the city of Paris, and who was nearing the end of his life, as Raymond on this day was fidgeting with his mother’s maiden name, writing down a little scenario in his room at his family’s country home in Neuilly. At first, Raymond, took the name, Marguerite Moreau-Chaslon, and turned it around in his mind, Nolsac Eau Rome, but by and by, began to think of the Moreau name itself, and of his brother’s book on Gustave Moreau, the famous painter, and to add this spirit to his thinking, and suddenly thought of “Mademoiselle Ars Guerrite on a chaise longue of Moreau.” After he had carefully written this down, he went to find his brother Georges, the artist of the family, who was sketching in the garden, and an actual student of Moreau’s. “Georges, can you draw me an ‘odalisque’ in the manner of Gustave Moreau, whose body is made of an unknown mineral called Guerrite, which though beautiful, appears to be at war with itself, but even so, may lounge serenely upon a velvet divan, or chaise longue, and which might have as well, a little brass plaque that reads, ‘c’est la guerre’ (that’s war, it cannot be helped)?” At which, Georges, having grown somewhat bored sketching winter trees, pulled out fresh paper and laid down his pencil at once, laying out the contours of the guerrite crystal odalisque first, its surface a tumult like one might see in certain battle scenes of Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonier, or Édouard Detaille, not G. Moreau who abhorred war, the crystals and micro-contours at war with themselves, then filled in the rest, as little Raymond had suggested. Raymond beamed! And Georges went back to work sketching trees, Raymond running off to dream, of the strange, heavy and serene, crystal of war, a truth within a fiction, within a truth within a fiction, the latter truth a conviction, and the latter fiction, a will.

Jogging with Roussel 13

It is December 5, 1930, and Martial Cantarel is having a small intimate dinner for some of his friends who gather regularly to discuss Orientalist subjects, and to hold infrequent show and tell sessions bringing in objects of curiosity. Among those present are Dr. Lucien Proin, a local alienist and exceedingly good-natured curious man, Nedda Skariovsky, a mysterious Eastern European woman whose magnetic presence and knowledge of ancient Eastern languages was profound and intimidating, Francois Postel, a vibrant young man of 20 descended if only dubiously, from the great 16th century Orientalist Guillaume Postel, Abu Dakni, an Iranian painter with a far-ranging knowledge of Persian Miniatures, and various students who popped up from time to time to listen to the sparkling conversation, and view the incomparable rarities presented. This evening Martial Cantarel, Nedda, and Abu Dakni had been very involved in discussing the vicissitudes of Pre-islamic Iran, and then the Pre-Zoroastrian cultures as well, and finally, in discussing the Yaz and Margiana cultures in relation to a text that Martial Cantarel had shown to the group some weeks before, an Avestan spell book which Abu Dakni was keenly interested in, and had promised to elucidate further with an amazing discovery of his own, which strangely, Nedda Skariovsky also seemed to know something about, if only in the vaguest manner, muttering a broken phrase, seemingly in Avestan that sounded something like “Nivoir etyeti nizbayanguhanmana,” which Ab Dakni translated to the astonished group as something close to, “Why do you conceal praise of my wondrous home?” As the group had gathered this month, Abu Dakni had four art students carry in a marvelous, and seemingly very heavy trunk which was of an extraordinary construction and shape, like a regular round topped trunk that had been extruded into an oval, or toroid, and which did not hinge, but had only viewing doors placed around the circumference, and sections on top which slid open. After an excellent dinner of pheasant, and various eastern salads, the group retired to the large Cabinet where Cantarel held his show and tell sessions, this time only allowing himself, Nedda, Abu Dakni, Francois, Lucien, and Abu-Dakni’s main student assistant Marie to enter the private denoument of the rare and exceptional object. Abu Dakni then told a story about how he came to acquire the object before he would reveal its contents.

It seems that many years ago in 1899, Abu Dakni had been collecting old Persian books in the region of what was once Bactria, and had found an exceedingly rare volume by Ferdowsi of Tus describing the impetus of the Persian tradition of ‘miniature painting’ contained as an added section along with the normal selection of stories one finds in the Shahnameh, or Epic of Kings. It told of an early Avestan priest who had used magic to shrink himself and his palace, and all its inhabitants down to a small size, and by doing so render them virtually immortal, but the story went further and told the story of how Rustam, the well known hero, had by accident discovered the miniature city, and wrested it from its hiding place high in the mountains, and brought it as a gift to a young princess in the city of Herat. It was then that the Princess, a young girl at the time, fell in love with a tiny court painter who lived inside the city and whose paintings she coveted, and which were given to her willingly on account of her great beauty and fearsome size. The princess fearing her precious treasure would be discovered as a blasphemy kept its real nature secret, but introduced to Persia the tradition of miniature painting which lived on, though its origins had receded into obscurity. And strangely enough, in the back of the book was a roughly scrawled map of some contemporaneity which Abu Dakni endeavored to follow, and hired porters, and guides and went into the mountains of Afghanistan where he found remnants of the old Durrani Empire in a high mountain stronghold where he met an old man who spoke Avestan, and who sold Abu Dakni the trunk and its contents with a warning, “Marhka makha mahi, madhomaethana hukereta,” which Abu Dakni could make no sense of. The old man then said, “Beware of licentious women!” which made Abu Dakni smile, but not laugh, as he wished to show the old man a great deal of respect. For years, Abu Dakni said, he had thought it only a curiously carved stone, and perhaps the doll house of a rich member of the once great Durrani empire, though he could not see how it could have been possible to carve such an intricately manifested object with so many perfectly formed parts.

At the end of this rousing story, Abu Dakni ceremoniously began to unlatch the intricate trunk covering to reveal a stunningly carved mineralogical masterpiece. Made of obsidian and alabaster, there was a perfectly round center ring whose tubularity was ovoid, as if an egg’s silhouette had been extruded to form a solid ring of obsidian surrounded by a miniature and exceedingly detailed alabaster city of a multitude of tiny but elaborate multi-story buildings which all curved in one direction as if they were perhaps meant to be read as a form of cursive calligraphy. There was another outer obsidian ring which was also a modulated calligraphic architextural hybrid and was both a palace and a wall around the city, so that when you looked at the entirety there was some sense of a visual pun, namely, that the convention of a city around a walled castle had been mutated to become a wall that was also a palace surrounding a city. The Orientalist group pulled in close to view the elegant and rare object, and Cantarel and Lucien were down on their knees looking into some of the little windows and grilles through which marvels could be seen, when all of sudden, standing completely naked in the center of the city was Nedda Skariovsky, her hair standing up as if electrified, and then she spoke these words, “BAODHO AD ADHAOYAMNO,” at which the city’s alabaster uniformly lit up as if from an inner light, then, “AHMAI GEREDHMAHI GRAMTO,” at which the city began to vibrate and lift off its trunk pedestal floating up to where Nedda could manipulate certain of the city’s buildings like manual controls. Next, she said, “HAPTANKHAITIM HARAITHYO SPENISHTA,” and the city unlocked itself like a puzzle, inner and outer rings growing farther apart pushing everyone back against the walls of the room, and wind began to blow out from some of the turrets in the city loudly like horns, and Nedda’s hair began to grow upward and twist into a vortex and pass into a purple cloud studded with emerald flashes of lightning where it disappeared disconcertingly, the cloud growing larger to fill the entire upper region of the large room. Then came the final words, “VAYA FRAKAFRAMA RETHREMCAYOISH,” which seemingly froze everything in the room, including Nedda, and there was a stunning silence, but as time passed, something even more curious happened, a new kind of light came from the alabaster or into it, rendering the entire model a living x-ray, so that everyone in the room could see that around the perimeter of the tiny city, little spherical rooms were lighting up and inside them tiny beings were being raised from miniature sarcophaguses, each wearing a helmet fashioned in the likeness of a snail’s shell. All of them began to file down to a passageway leading to the navel of Nedda Skariovsky whose insides one could also see. Inside of Nedda Skariovsky there were already scores of tiny snail helmeted little beings, some holding complicated astrolabes, some musical instruments, and some of the little beings were holding things which looked like both. Looking closer, Canatarel and Abu Dakni perceived that these tiny beings were in fact botanico-gastropodal hybrids, plant-snails, their pale silver green translucent skin revealing tiny networks of purple veins inside which, and Cantarel had put on a pair of telescopic goggles to see them, shell-less aquatic snails floating like flying carpets, or nudibranchial Spanish dancers. Then, the little helmeted beings began to file out into the city into diverse regions, and some went inside Nedda, and the city became more articulated as the puzzle piece quartiers slid along invisible pinions and linkages into revolving and counter-revolving rings of architextural calligraphy, and Nedda’s hand began to move certain buildings as the erstwhile controls of an unknown process, and the entire assembly began to move upward, including Nedda, apparently its pilot, into the purple cloud, and disappear! After the event was over, Abu Dakia looked at Cantarel who was chuckling, and said, “And to think, that thing was found in a region originally called ‘Derangia’ by the Romans!” To which Cantarel replied, “Never a dull moment in Orientalist studies, my friends! Let’s drink and sing the praises of our Parisian Persiana!” Khóng-dek-lèn had wandered in from the library and was rubbing up against Cantarel’s calf with his bald feline head. Francois Postel chimed in, “She seems to have been the ‘licentious woman’, and she certainly took much license with your property, Abu!” “Yes, completely the reverse of easy come, easy go,” said Doctor Proin following Marie out into warm carpeted rooms, sphinxes of stained glass and marquetry like marbled endpapers. “Something I never expected,” muttered Canterel, “trouble with the trans-temporal natives! I would certainly like to meet one of those snail scribes, and hear a little more about their remarkable journey!”

Jogging With Rossel 12

It was precisely 3 AM when 70 or so, of the Cantagrael Chlorlocks were sleeping soundly in their physio-impoddities within Cantarel's first Eloi vehicle sometimes called Eok Own, when they were awoken by internal signals from the other 30. Eok Own had his own suite in O/x space within the pyramind of Deep F.R.E.D.. A message had come by dove that an extremely beautiful world had been found by one of the timenauts at about 14 million years out, the timenauts were already calling Atlantis. Eok Own got up quickly and dressed in a little silk nightshirt lovingly and calligraphically embroidered with genetic and temporal algorithms and slipped on a pair of ragged and tassled moccasins  and went down to the viewing room to take a peek. There were a few Chlorlock scientists already taking readings from the instruments, and Eok Own spoke to his favorite, Professor Majesty, an enormous Chlorlock mind-plant made from various splices of venerable figures from history whose face resembled that of Socrates himself. "What have we found Professor Majesty?" "It appears these marvelous beings have built a single immense city along the central axis of the earth through its core, or perhaps they are two connected cities, for the structure flanges out at the poles, and seems to be powered by the magnetic core of the Earth itself! They also seem to be able to control the inclination of the planet’s axis via magnetic modulation.” “Have we ambassadored yet?" "Nobody available at this moment," said Professor Majesty. "What are they," said Eok. "It appears they are meta-amphibian pixellates," Professor Majesty mused, "Snake-like or eel-like beings furred in transparent metallic silicon that cluster into larger pseudo-bipedal forms, and communicate exo/internally by means of electric charges generated dermally, and they are water breathers. We’re calling them Eeloi Yeti." The Cantagrael Chlorlocks were in a bit of a quandary as their forebear, Cantarel was possessed of a morbid fear of anything remotely snakelike. Suddenly Eok Tone, the Eloi vehicle which housed Doctor Orson Welles entered the room in a Jules Vernesque diving suit replete with bio-mimicry elements so that he appeared to be both 19th century and obviously biotech.. "Tone!" "Not that crazy thing!" cried Own. "Listen, said Eok Tone, let's do a Chlorlock transfusion, and get you suited up, I want to see this thing!" The two disappeared down a large vaulted hallway covered in mosaics of teeth.  Taking a side corridor into a little drawing room, some of the chlorlocks from Eok Tone and some from Eok Own traded places within their hosts to offset Own’s chlorlock’s inherited OCD tendencies. “Own, they look like Yetis anyway! Let’s get you suited up!” “Call me Ispolzuette,” Eok Own chortled, “Dr. Hernesque!” “Hirnest, and Honesk!” declared Tone / Welles. Soon the two intrepid would-be time-nauts were clambering down the totem rigging and out onto the massive braid that dangled 14 Million years in the future, which was closer to 80 million years in the future from O/x space itself. Emerging deep under the sea near the South Pole, the two friends began clambering across the short space to the massive gleaming white structure that was the city of the Eeloi Yeti. Finding no guards or sentries of any kind, the two entered into the city through an ornate baroque oval frame teeming with sea life, all luminous squirming coelenterates and dendritic ambiguity. Suddenly, they were seized in a luminous rainbow whirlwind of silky silicon fibers, surrounded by hundreds of free-swimming Eeloi  whose silicon fur turned out to be something closer to spider’s webbing, and was emitted under control, as the Eeloi’s skins were covered in spinnerettes! In a more or less gentle fashion, Own and Tone, or ‘Ispolzuette and Hernesque,’ were taken into the lower city of Faonduul.. Own and Tone had fallen into a chromatic trance, and were both babbling like idiots, when the colors finally ceased, and they found themselves inside of a long capsule like room, their primitive suits removed and laid in a heap. “We’re breathing normally underwater,” said Own. “I doubt very much that it is water,” surmised Dr. Hernesque. Suddenly, an elegant Eeloi Yeti figure appeared at the far end of the capsule and beckoned them to follow. Down several short hallways whose moldings seemed to be made of living plastic coral, the pair followed until they were led into an underwater library where a massive Eeloi Yeti was waiting, and there was the added strangeness that there seemed to be exact echoes of everyone in the room made of single, animated holographic airbubbles which served to act like shadows. Own felt a tremble of fear, but Tone spoke right up not knowing exactly if his voice would be heard, “We are here as ambassadors of a cryptic organization of Courageous Explorers of Temporality!” “Indeed!” replied an obviously human, and female voice, and at that, the Eeloi Yeti began to disintegrate, the individual eeloi falling away from a beautiful 5 meter tall Ginger Rogers whose bright crimson skin the pair recognized as Erythrite based genetics. She was beautiful. Tone stepped forward to kiss her hand, when the woman pulled aside her elegant luminous silicon gown to reveal a pale green rectum-navel which was already opening, a long fingernail gang-plank coming out, and 6 little Chlorlock versions of Agent Ray Echenoz-Bolger marching out smiling. “Welcome to CIA headquarters, boys!” Own was shocked. Tone /Hernesque looked to the left of the Erythritic Eloi Ginger Rogers to notice a large glass case full of miniature, and slightly modified versions of his own time machine, like tiny powerful toys, each a fully functional time craft he surmised. “It’s time we joined forces,” said the little clade of Echenoz-Bolgers, “We’re taking an enlightened approach to history construction here..”

Jogging with Roussel 11

It was sometime in the Fall of 1965 that CIA agent Ray Echenoz-Bolger had agreed to meet with a man named Ninrutas Erbaf in a café not far from 15 bis Boulevard Jules Sandeau in Paris called Les Niobmol. He claimed to have a strange object and story which he wished not to make public, but to turn over to the American government on account of his love for his wife, an American woman who had recently died. Agent E-B made note of the man’s curious appearance after the meeting in a little notebook whose pages we still have:  wildly flaming gray hair as if shocked by electricity / a mustache vaguely tinted green and twisted / into two points like those of Salvador Dali /and wearing only a tight cotton undershirt / to reveal a musculature like that of an acrobat / from the circus, and a scarf of deep crimson - a leather satchel with an odd rubber handle / Mr. Erbaf then began to recount the details of a shocking story, one whose contours Agent Echenoz-Bolger was acutely interested in, namely that of an alternate timeline that involved Canterel himself illustrated best by describing  the thwarted siege of Paris by the Nazis. It seems that Canterel was very worried that Paris would fall, and not having had time to muster his resources to protect the whole of France from the terrible madman’s forces would in any case reverse history and protect Paris. As the Nazis approached Paris, Canterel began to bring in beings he had made from other timelines, the first was an enormous version of the cat Khóng-dek-lèn whose brain and nervous system he had been able to genetically encode with erythrite. The enormous animal who had descended from Canterel’s original pet retained all of the loyalty of the original but contained much more ferocity and intelligence. Instead of the dull metal cone of his forebear, this new Khóng-dek-lèn wore a shimmering metallic crystalline cone bristling with dendritic emitter arrays. Able to foster powerful magnetic fields, the creature could not be damaged by any conventional projectile as its native field was super sensitive, and could react minutely to any incoming object. Accompanying the animal were four divisions of Erythrite Hoplites, red skinned soldiers of ancient Greece whose minds were primitive but fell under the control of Khóng-dek-lèn as foot soldiers. Designed under the tutelage of none other than Nicola Tesla, these electrically powerful beings using only specially designed spear analogs could release their Erythritic charges in exquisitely powerful bolts rending flesh and metal equally. Canteral released Khóng-dek-lèn and the Erthyrites and saved Paris. Agent E-B was very skeptical: “How did that timeline fail to become the main reality?” “It is the main reality,” claimed Erbaf. “The timeline in which we find ourselves here is a darker hybrid line instigated by Nazis toward the end of the war.” “Then why did you come back here,” queried Agent E-B? “Because of you!” Erbaf exclaimed smiling, then chuckling. At that Erbaf pulled open the rumpled old leathern trousse, and revealed a rather large portrait bust of Agent Echenoz-Bolger himself as an old man made completely of Erythrite. Accompanying the bust was a mechanical box, and a smaller sack of attachments which Erbaf laid out on the table wearing a silky pair of green gloves. Agent E-B noticed blue sparks of electricity dancing at the ends of Erbaf’s mustache as he handled the bust. As he built the mechanism, Ray Echenoz-Bolger could only stare with open mouth at his older self  depicted so nobly. “Take hold of this bar,” said Erbaf.  Erbaf had taken out a waxy metal bar and connected it to the box, and then to the bust, suddenly Ray Echenoz-Bolger was in contact with himself in another timeline. As Erbaf worked the controls and knobs, Ray Echenoz-Bolger met nearly a hundred different versions of himself in teletemporal communion with the bust. “I will teach you how to operate the controls,” smiled Ninrutas Erbaf quixotically, as a tiny blonde-haired woman came out of his hair and sat down on his shoulder.

Jogging with Roussel 10

O/x space: In an endless desert of pink sand, a pink rubberized C3PO android is kicking a large rubber Mickey Mouse android head towards an enormous mirrored obsidian pyramid in the distance. The Mickey Mouse head keeps saying, “Prometheus Minnie!” over and over. Finally, pink rubber C3PO opens a flap in the back of Mickey’s head and pulls out a little green mouse, pushes a button on his own forearm and opens up a time pixel box hanging in the air and puts the mouse inside. “Decorrupt!” says pink C3PO to no one in particular..Out in the desert, one can see other pink rubber C3PO's wearing the big Mickey augmentation helmets used to dowse for spice worms for the zithers. He skints off toward the pyramind of Deep F.R.E.D. and the Ginger Herm. Up through the rosy dunes he goes and into the lavender waterfall that pours from the mouth of a black granite sphinx with the face of Canterel with the luminous turquoise colored eyes of the Fremen, to enter the long approach hallway through the plinth. After many hours of negotiating crooked, infuriating passages, C3PO reaches the dramatic inner sanctum, a vaulted massive geode space whose several flat floor-like facets are connected by jewelry-like lapidary bridge structures that all fall away from an amazing ‘optically distrurbed’ altar-like area where various thrones and fetish objects, and instruments and machines are clustered. Deep F.R.E.D., called “Don Cantagrael” here in the inner chamber,  is dancing to a song written by Maurice Foret called “The Dance of the Diamond Doll” played by an orchestra of pink rubber C3PO’s. Don Cantagrael is an Eloi-enhanced super chlorlock host and stands about 50 meters tall. Dressed in a shimmering gold thread tuxedo, his face is a hybrid of Fred Astair and Red Foxx as young men. Every so often, Don Cantagrael will stop his wonderful dancing, and pull out a pair of diamond scissors and snip off a small section of hair that constantly pours from the surface of the smooth black monolith itself about 55 meters tall, its hair falling, growing, down into a luminous mote that surrounds the monolith’s dais. In the lower regions of the pyramind, this hair is braided into 2-5 “deep time” braids that form the originating exposition of Deep F.R.E.D.’s oracular deep time colonization, which allow special Chlorlock timenauts to explore ever deeper arenas of the temporal flux by crawling along these braids into portals held open by the powerful forces of the monolith’s ginger hair strands, which are of unknown construction, but are thought to be made of something called trans-temporal hyproteomics.. The  ‘Ginger Herm’ was the first monolith discovered in the modern earth age and was uncovered on the Moon at the site of an unnaturally powerful magnetic field near the crater Tycho. It was called the Tycho Magnetic Anomaly 1 ("TMA-1") before the monolith was discovered. After this was discovered to be an alien artifact, its name became the "Tycho Monolith Anomaly 1" (still TMA-1), but after Don Cantagrael slept upon it in the year 2018, Don Cantagrael having come back in time to do so from 904, 321, the Ginger Herm was born, and it opened up O/x space, and they began deep oracular time dowsing using braided hyproteomics.   The dance of deep F.R.E.D. Don Cantagrael and his diamond scissors used to cut ‘non-ginger’ lines is part of one of the monolith's temporal shamanics programs it was set to enact millions of years ago once it was able to generate larger hybrid beings like the Eloi-Chlorlock lines. The music has ended, and the Ginger Herm takes a break. The pink rubber C3PO’s are putting on human skins they pull from a hollow diamond on a stand filled with opalescent waters. After they are all ‘nude humans’, they begin to play “The ballet of Glory” which is when in the lower levels, Chlorlock timenauts begin to explore the latest strands to test whether on not to attach them to the Totem of Transtemporal Glory, the TTG, or Megaxl-O/x. The Chlorlock timenauts wear special suits fitted with breathing tanks full of Melange spice-gas birthed from the worm zithers of Don Cantagrael which fill one of the many levels of the pyramind. Sometimes one can hear the powerful drone of the spice worm zithers as they sing out the time-folding Melange.

All Sagas 11

sauropod
one single gland
a disunity
form (und mirtillo our landlordess)
in force
without the rest
their vulgar today
the offal [all sages monsters /like/ perfumed bibles)
be your own divinity
as universe *(genus)
closed

or talk leaf
with the Sauvegardes
the story compressed
the foolish line filled only
with itself
sabicu
the rape of the Sabine
vermin
outrage vaccine (its spiry mirthles)
chandlier
Buddha Beddoes mudra meadows

where yellow grapes
involve a volcano with a sign
a girl looks into drama
or Adam
thinks sable fish
darkest
Sweden (above her ankles chalked the rosy clay)
pronunication the hulk
all sabulous light
in junked mouths
the strand

strangely pineal
a brain like a funnel
torque word
Sagakomi (seek all ideology yes O miryachit)
clerks put in their sacs
only individual emmenagogues
tears of cum for medicine
poetry cannot yield
as omnirational the lightwave
pillbox [informe{
its lyre (nature uninformed but only information)

11 the color
all color 11
as rational signal
grande habit
none more organic
real (one argument, integument, sea muscled bell, skinless iridescent screaming)
wholesome dead
dynamic
soucar (mewrthris to a high endemon'd glossy fruit)
what is interpenetrable
the capable surface is all hybrid

collapsing clap sing
idiots (it's protein to gravid my aesthenia)
economies
soul sick mouth of soup
sounding void all embrace
all reject
all efface (social disinterest fully) [mostly]
toward its water board
the junky even worse
sun fair (twilit lox all miry in lovely and delicious whormonyns)
to Nabob Argot

supplement: cavalry
11 sagas (before the absent powers)
the whole art
and mystery of banking
beard toward the sea
and out of me (niblick's head all chattering, a clam in soup who hefts praise for bunkers)
Izarra splashing finely (thick coats, spooned indifference, ribs showing, buying cameras to hide)
E.G. Izod your mineral tilting
Capra jaala
whazzat [M spark prime of Miss Jean Brodie, hye thee to gongs in wells)
Jacobian ellipsoid of equilibrium

Jogging with Roussel 9

It was 9:25 am on the morning of September 11, 2001 that a secret meeting was taking place between CIA Black Ops ‘Time Czar’ Ray Echenoz-Bolger, and the US Army’s head of the top-secret ‘Temporality Division’, General Bernadette Syrenee, lovingly called “Fitzy.” Held in a non-descript outer office of the pentagon, on the wall is a painting of Ginger Rogers in full nudity but in the guise of Hermes, or Mercury, wearing winged silver sandals, and a chrome helmet with wings. She is carrying a caduceus staff, but it is lumpy and misshapen, and is in fact, a mutant caduceus vegetable whose crown appears to bear the tiny head of Red Foxx with a pink anemone’ mohawk which is smoking a cigarette. Instead of a navel, she has a pale green rectum, and out of it are flying, in a halo belt, a ring of Oz’ finest winged green monkeys wearing Roman leather armor and golden helmets, some of them chewing on short stubby cigars, and carrying machine guns. Agent Echenoz-Bolger looks up from his computer’s monitor and says to Fitzy, “Canterel and Welles are cross-breeding their Chlorlocks, and we have six of our agents in the mix as well, giving us something like a 12 percent chance of correcting the Oz colony at 1M/GsubX if their hybrid gene-lines are not detected by the Anubian symbionts.” Fitzy adjusted her brassiere subtly, then, “Do we have trans-temporal support from deep F.R.E.D.?” “Yes, we’re capping Canterel’s Locus Solus resurrectine mine in 18 temporal zones, beginning in 2013, I believe, but there are trans-temporal holes in our technology, so it’s a crapshoot at best..” “Is deep F.R.E.D. with the Ginger Herm in O/x space?” “Now and forever, we hope, and the Chlorlock-Haqq-Sanfordian Rangers are accessing the gene lines needed to fulfill the damaged time lines of their Queen vehicle, Blonde Amateratsu..” “Does it gives us back the Mayan Eloi lines?” “No, but it does effectively block Spanish incursion into the new world in 6 of the trans-temporal variants.” “We are making great headway into a total Spanish-Vril route of the main synthetic trans-temporal space, allowing for Mayan-Chlorlock space colonization.” “Is that Eloi enhanced?” “Can’t do it any other way, Fitzy, frequency blonde rids us of blood sacrifice for 10 thousand years!” “Thank deep F.R.E.D.” “And the mesomidichlorians.” “To the great SOAP..” “To the ultimate pulp..” [9:37:46: Flight 77 crashes into the western side of the Pentagon at 530 mph (853 km/h, 237 m/s, or 460 knots) and starts a violent fire. The section of the Pentagon hit consists mainly of newly renovated, unoccupied offices. All 64 people on board are killed, as are 125 Pentagon personnel.]