glass bodies 51 60

Some say that everyone has a thing that shapes them. Makes them who they are. For me, it’s the war. When I was a child, I lived under a dictatorship. I loved football, I watched the World Cup, supported the valiant versus the bullies. Not much has changed since then. I am now an engineer, a migrant, a citizen of the new world. “If you have no memory, then I want you to remember … the good times that we had. Crowns of violets, and roses, and crocuses.” On this planet, those who walk heavily, carry their needs, or lack of them. I want to renew this unspeakable grief. I want to help others. I really do. And yet there is so much to do. Going back to the sources of evil, I stumble on my ego. I was really good at making things. Taking them apart, and then building them back. One day, I was helped by a professor, he asked me, what my grief was, and then gave me a book. My family are all dead, or they are here, with me. Except for an old auntie, who said, I am too old to start my life anew. Being an engineer is about knowing how things work. That gets me closer to the Truth, and perhaps being close to it, it makes me more likely to know how to help others. The war, it’s the war that drives me. My brother stopped living, he just sits. My father and my mother, they live a life of relative comfort, in a minuscule apartment, supported by our government. But no longer. There are new laws being drawn up. War refugees are parasites, they said. The prime minister of Europa is out and about, telling lies about migrants, about refugees. They say that soon, we shall be sent to Jupiter for rehabilitation. The old dictator back on Earth used the very same word. As an astronomer, as man of God, I can say what Rumi once said: “The astrolabe of God’s mysteries is love.” Compassion is my telescope, and equipped with that, I am to see the spiritual dimension. That is, if they do not chop me up in pieces before the year is out. Yet there is hope. On Tyche, the hypothesis planet in the Oort Cloud, the human species has been able to create a new Palanese society, where ecology and psychology are core issues. We can stamp it out, folks.

”  ‘I’ am a crowd, obeying as many laws
As it has members. Chemically impure
Are all ‘my’ beings. There is no single cure
For what can never have a single cause.”

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glass bodies 41 50

the ever smitten star-gazer is in love with far-off gases. he breathes in decaying moulds, gets high on ancient tales. he’s a lonely scientist, of the ancient breed. what is macro, can be observed in tele, down the gullet of his mighty magnifying lens. and what is micro, can be observed in petri, slithering on agarose. and yet the galactic gaps, the small crevices, they fit within one single algorithm, a fractal base to all spiritual belief. discovering gaps in multi-verses, and feeding slime-moulds, breathing their spores, maybe seen by our gentle reader as a single experiment. “now wherefore stopp’st thou me?” you may ask. “the drop that wrestles in the sea forgets her own locality”, that is the answer of the poet, and the scientist. and we, gentle reader, we plead “me” in the cosmic scheme of  things. the astronomer is a good friend of mine, I can see him from here, in this tiny room overlooking the Old Kent Road. the astronomer’s powerful, arresting images are snapshots he takes of the multi-verse, petri dish to satellite, comet to the comical. his trusted advisor is a small talking water-flea. she’s very wise and she has published many books. her doctorate masterfully handled the subject of soul-theft, a theme upon which this manuscript in your hand (“glass bodies”, we like to call it) does indeed elaborate at length. I read in the news that hundreds of whales have washed off the coast of New Zealand, dead by some mysterious reason. the astronomer has probably seen this from his station on Europa, and himself spell-bound, is busy looking (professional lie-detector that he is), for a good guilt-by-association agent. waking up after an apocalyptic night, the astronomer has a gigantic hangover, like a wart growing on his forehead. He has confusedly dreamt about Lamia, and Mombie, and soil-scientists doing some field work on the shores of Orion, unreal readers doing their usual lie-detecting, and real-readers doing their salutary tea-drinking, and unexpected gardeners attending to the wedding guests. Upon a time, before the fairy broods… Thomas Paine collected common sense, and the Age of Reason might have shone. Now dark times in the future haunt the tripping astronomer, and responsibility gnaws him, just as Coleridge stood by, and cried out “slave-trade”, so the nekomata (a two-tailed undead cat) may come to overpower you, and then your body may rise again, spell-bound, and you may in turn perform the magical operation, you indeed may go from oppressed to oppressor. witchcraft in the future is pretty much the same, and zombies can be mothers, too. A revenant looking for new victims… “et vivo temptat praevertere amore; iam pridem resides animos desuetaque corda.” A scientist poet storyteller anthropologist, marketeer, teacher. The astronomer, and his water-flea. the ever wandering spirits of Echo’s bone are calling for the ending of “The Hunger”, where our dear departed come back to haunt our past abandonments.

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glass bodies 31 40

A rubbish collector talks to tiny mid-air voices,
bacteria are whispering to him, spiritual man
that he is, and viruses in a chorus sing to his
malady, the ills of advertised and marketed

society tumble in, as he sweeps the streets,
young, unfettered, and unafraid. He whistles,
unknowingly the reincarnation of Momo’s
sweeper. Today, he listens to rumbles of the

Ruminococcus, and feels cozy with this
planet’s new Faecalibacterium; then he pauses,
Rosarito! He lets one rip. It is Odoribacter,
gentle fart halo in the morning air. Happy.

Life is good if you are a planetary rubbish-man,
as passers-by think of him, cosmically himself
a by-product of artificial society, a lesser being
scrounging the leftovers of arch-consumerism.

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glass bodies 21 30

sisters, fuck…

my little skanks dont pray to God, for they are ill suited for the sixth dimension. i am their superior mother and they do not obey. fear of the everlasting has not crushed them, goddamit. there is an innocent girl, looking dour. there is a blonde bubble-maker thinking of nothing else but the world beyond our galactic gate. then a pathological liar, telling stories to amuse her companions. there is the reader, a girl with weepy scornful eyes and wandering hands, leafing aimlessly at dead-end papers. and then a girl who likes to screw every strutting, all-talking man-child. so then, of course, there are more. these are my babies. in this fast forwarding future, monasteries still hold the Truth bound together with a whole army of capital Lies. probe seeking wars may rage outside these walls; stray rape and murder may fill the skies with nuclear exhaustion. and yet these little shits do not fear the impossible. they know nothing of it. they still read forbidden literature; they play with their inner organs and make whistling sounds with blueberry-smacking lips. why dont i reach for a cupful of truth, move the hand of God and cram some holy sense down their fallacious, cum-guzzling throats? yet i take one look at them and i know that every day i fail at delivering anything toward my spiritual oaths. tell me off then. i see these goddamn owls. they are ubiquitous, white and reproachful. flying in the fog-infested night in squadrons. they are the only animals with whom we have a relationship within these fucking monastery walls and towers. i want to bang their miniscue fucking skulls against the eternal. or against the centrepiece of our yard, our cupful of blessings, the medieval gemstone. yet that is the false truth.

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glass bodies 11 20

I am a terrorist, frightened to death, looking to ease my pains.
Every day I find myself in a different place, looking exactly like the one before. And crawling through files of corridors, I grow angrier.

We the army, a collective force, we.
We give hell to the bad guys.
Enter the false truth. I used to fight for my country.

But I am a renegade. I stand alone, friendless. The enemy soldiers are already dead.
Stationed at the village ‘neath that castle hovering in the sky, I skulk about in search of direction. Bureaucracy is frustrating my efforts. I have key information for our Generals.

But of course they are hard to reach.

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glass bodies 1-10

A thin fog was slowly sliding on the seashore, amidst the broken glass, a miniature desert of colourful marvels. The factory workers, lined up in the cold, had been imported  for the purpose of building multiversal screens. The effort on this planet was not so much colonization, but exploitation of resources, as it was uniquely rich of liquid sands. There was no use in importing people for permanent relocation; everything worked in cycles.

Xin had been selected for her build, and while transgendery was tolerated in off world factories, it was banned on earth. Building multiverse screens required a high level of skill and physical strength, as well as a measure of creativity. She was insecure because of her teeth, slightly protruding from her jaw, and because she lacked an education. Yet she was determined to make it in the galaxy.

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NeverEnder Space Epic Poem – Book III – Chapter III: XXIV – finale


Zot. Chubby pulls the plug. ‘Snap
out of it, Mr John C’. The Borovoe
download has long finished, the left
over files are sql-dumped on this

floppy drive’. In the % identity
that’s left on Titan, the hologram
flickers, and the happenings inside
the black hole take over. Time to


Take over the Precision Tower. Medusa
is frightened and angry, she advances
towards Mount Olympus. The length of
her alignment with her stars is unknown.

She runs, as an individual, as a woman,
as a dramatic figure in an advancing
sketch. Now words are falling over into
the abyss. ‘I must confront Zeus – he’s’


‘the devious architect of this injustice.’
A thousand mobile phones appear in the air,
and swipe her to the left. She picks up
where she left off. ‘I must resume my %

identity, losing track of my ideals and
my memory is what chauvinist Zeus wants.
So the king of gods swoops down, ending
her ascent. Medusa shivers, ‘My rage, cold’


‘bloodless. I need strength, yet all I want
is to give up. My knees would rise to rival
pyramids.’ Zeus smiles. ‘My darling, little
woman. There is an ocean between us, and

what you need to do is pause and crouch,
cover your mind with yellow double duvets,
let your heart shit your compassion out,
we in Olympus frown on your little insurgency.’


‘I am most disappointed in you. You should
have died a witch at the hands of my half-breed
son, and be done with it. All this wondrous
name-calling, pow-wow spinning of poetic

narcissism is most unwelcome – you’re just a
voice in the maelstrom of twittering and face
booking. You’ve been swiped. Your % identity
is all spent, you have shed your beauty, hence’


‘you are no longer part of this world, your
diagram has long been cancelled, because no
one is watching. You’ve been misled. I know
you think you have some sort of power in your

mind and some sort of agility in your legs,
and yet can you see that cloudless sky, that
Acropolis of power, it kisses heaven. You do
not belong there, you belong in the muck.’


‘Wake up, from your hateful fantasises, all
the bones of the slain surround you, the
authority lies in the sky and you may never
reach it, my power spreads idly below, your

blood may be hot, and coming out of your skin
now, but soon, with time, it will be dried
like painted hair on your perished skull.
The snakes in your heart will be fed with my’


‘landmark thunderbolts… you see Medusita,
you are a gargantuan failture, you have built
a fortress in your heart to guard yourself
against the sweeping machismo of the world.

what a fool you have been, your place is
not in this room, or another room, your place
has been erased from the floppy drive, the
precision Tower is multi-threshering your’


‘time, your ideas, your shadow. I rob you now
of your shadow, because I can, because I am
mighty, because I am king of heaven, and because
you do not deserve a waking life. I condemn

you to a comatose existence at the bottom
of yonder garden, in a shallow grave, unheard,
speechless, robotic, wiped clean from the
board of wild-life, from the natural world.’


‘Your memory will be erased, the memory of you
shall also be spent, and in a thousand years,
while your sleepless haunting continues, I shall
review the best way forward, whether to let you

arise from your purple tomb and let you crawl
at my feet, or to unlock the wrath of all whirl fucking
winds, and spin you to crash onto a volcano, or a
half-decent man, who – I will ensure – will subdue you.’


‘Wake me up, John C, from this nightmare.’ Chubby
is stunned to hear of The Nation’s authoritarian
wars against the spirit and the flesh. A gigantic
bomb has wiped out a section of the multi-verse.

John C is only half-human now, the wires have taken
over him. And while the computer wires take over
his mind, Chubby drinks tea, alone in her consciousness
that in the real world outside that Titan window


The debate between Ahura Mazda and herself is still
raging, and the Griffinese ships are readying themselves
for yet another plunder and sack, and pirates of the
multiverse are roaming in search of treasure to hoard.

In the darkness, she weeps at the sight of the methane
boils bursting from the lake below, and she knows that
dying in the snow a long time ago may have been a good
choice. And yet, looking at the mountains she is somehow


reassured. In the black hole, the legend continues.
The multi-verse spins and seems to burn and spear the
reflections of atoms into a ghost of purpose. Will you
sit with me on the Acropolis of Corinth, looking past

the ridge, to the advancing waters, lapping now here,
now there – until the winged horse will fly once more,
and the dolphins may once more rescue guitar players?
Aphrodite, come back and continue wandering bright.

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