SLUTTER GUTT

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 deliverance from this post-end earth, for the next in our evolution.

“go
froth.” They said.  

So,
In the elev
enth 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.

 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 didn’t 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.

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 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, 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.

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 didn’t 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, 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 didn’t know this thing. Hobo was wary.

“names, names, that’s 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.

“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?”

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 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.

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. Wing’d 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 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.

Holed up from the
storm in CAFÉ 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.

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 baby’s 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.

“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

“now they’re all still sick” my beloved said. “one by one,
they’re 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.

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 baby’s
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.

“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 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t 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.

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.

“don’t 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?”

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.

“you’re alive!” he said. Eyes gleaming. He turned his head
to call out to another, “he’s alive grandpa!”

Hobo stepped into my view. Older.

 “and thank et
for that.”

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.

“I’m 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. I’m 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 you’ll get to hear. But now you must rest. The
hospital has already found us a safehouse. 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 shouldn’t panic jon” (again the old name)
“the thing that attacked me  took
your legs. It thought it had slaughtered a wandering man. it’s 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 I’ve seen the replacements. No
other tech-forward planet I’ve haunted has such precision. You shouldn’t panic.”

I tried to breathe normally.

Camr began talking. “I tried to salvage your limbs but the
flesh was poisoned. The bones corroded. They would’ve 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 didn’t come back
to be their god. I came back to deliver them but also to move on.

“we’ll 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 couldn’t 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.

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.

God
wakes up screaming.

Brutal.
Startled. Jumping up. Escaping grip of nightmare.

HOBO,
the ghost. Real before me. I’m 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 I’m seeing differently. A
little more clearly than usual.

“are
you ok?” the ghost inquired. I could not answer. I didn’t 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.

“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 isn’t 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
didn’t 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 you’re
experiencing are false.

I
was drained.

Head
not on straight.

“why
don’t 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.

“something’s
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.

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.”

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:

“from
my father’s 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”

 “Daeken’s 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.

“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.” HOBO’s 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.

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

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, O’KL, OH’TE) of the gutt were not present.

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 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 child’s 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.

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.

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 city’s 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.

“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.

 

 

 

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