NeverEnder Space Epic Poem – Book III – Chapter II: LXI – LXVI


M “I cannot drink this water, though. I loiter
on the steps and pray.” K “Mother, in your
honour, this epic has been written in byte code.”
O ” As we tether toward the event horizon, un

certainty is greater. Hesperos calls us to dinner.
E “Strange parallelisms, the cult of Chtlhu – what
happens next? ‘What mad pursuit? What struggle to
escape?’ ” Exeunt the lot of ’em – Enter golden Danae


Perseus sits brooding under the light of a tree bulb,
whose roots clutch the corpse of a sculptor, on
a verdant slope of Mount Maenalus, in Arcadia.
D “The mountains yonder call you to great deeds,

my darling son. You were born to slay evil serpent
girls, make them your trophies – ride towards the
moon, deliver a killing blow to the ugliness in the
oceans, show the white whale its tomb and be king.”


“And so, why are you here? Paralyzed under a tree?
Unable to fulfill your destiny? You are my son, not
some beggar in the street. What pretty whore has
swallowed your balls, now, darling son? Speak, now.”

P “Mother. I must confess. Many years have passed.
I did not kill Medusa. I loved her since, for what
she is.” M “Nonsense. Look at all the signs of high
history. The paintings, the tales about you. You are”


“the hero that delivered us from Athena’s monster.
Have you failed to perform your duty? Have you
challenged your destiny? No-one would commit such
hubris. Come now, tell me the truth. My diary

does not lie. And in the diary, I wrote here –
look – that you did slay the dragon – beg pardon –
the Gorgon. You bagged the head in the wallet and
boom! You’ve been bandying it about ever since.”


“Are you drunk? Or stoned? Now speak or I will be
cross. And then you shall have to cut my head to
shut me up. What nonsense, you are saying. I can’t
believe my ears. You are the hero, the son of Danae.”

P “Mother. Who is my father? Tell me truly, I have
lost hope, I am confused. I have dreams. I am so
angry, and yet I do not know the reason. I think I
am mad. You once told me that my father was a God.”


“And then you said that I did not have a father. And
then, another time, you said that – that fish-monger
that you slept with for a few years was my father.
This troubles me. It has something to do with my

identity. I think I do not know who I am anymore.
And I realized that I cannot love a woman because
I do not have a core, or a heart, or a soul, or an
identity. Curse you, mother, for lying to me. Now…”

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NeverEnder Space Epic Poem – Book III – Chapter II: LI- LX


G “Until you solve the question of your birth – Perseus –
you shall be incapable of loving. ” exits the Gorgon
P (alone) “Accursed am I, and no sense of humour. How
Greek of me. Who are we? Are we clones of our ancestors?

My consciousness is a liar, my unconscious a freak. White
clouds buffering thoughts unknown, fast disappearing. I
will be a cloud, then. What we call a demi-god is only half a lie.
Half and half, committed to nothing. I refuse to be led on


By my mother’s lies. I have no father. Not man, not god, not
any other liar. I shall confront her. I can’t confront her.
I am a fat whale on land, I can’t navigate this desert.”
There is too much grief inside this shell-shocked imagination.

But now Chubby shifts in her imaginary seat in the black
hole auditorium. She is worried and angry. Being pulled
from history and thrown in a black hole is most unpleasant.
She thinks about it. Since the uncertainty principle does not


allow the values of both the field and the rate of change
to be exact, space is never empty. It has a rate of minimum
energy, called the vacuum subject to quantum jitters, with
particles and fields quivering in and out of existence.

Chubby feels jitterish, her mind is in a vacuum. Can
consciousness exist in a black hole? It is confusing to be
so close to John C. He and she and the play are both dead
and alive. Desert Storm feels an itch, the Spartan is asleep.


He snores, like the thunder of a thousand Persian soldiers
advancing on the pass of Thermopylae. Vacuum fluctuations
in John C’s mind. All of this is strangely familiar. “Dammit,
This black hole is giving me a headache”, Chubby thinks aloud.

“How long do we have to be in suspension? This reminds me of
the Murakamian well. I’ve waited for ages down that clogged
drain.” John C knows what he is talking about. “My computer
was destroyed but the memory cells are still floating in the


solar-system wide web. Too many downloads floating around.
So many sick thoughts of planets these days. And it’s all up
in the air. This black hole Murakamian well experience is
different though, it is a collective mindfuck, a tour de

force in the collective deadconscious. Some effort must be
put in following a plot thread.” “There is no freaking plot”,
intervenes Monkey, still suffering from separation grief
from Gawain and from a purpose of living. “Life is a series


of random events. Space-time is not flat, and I refuse to
sanction any art that pretends to follow a pre-ordained
structure. Mr Mamet can eat straw for all I care. It’s
an amoral thing to do. Not enough Becketts and Joyces.

Aristotle stopped the trade so long ago, I am still sea
sick. And structure is very much a purpose second term,
before you get sacked for lack of popularity. Mr Yeats’s
expressionism, two paintings after meals, says the doctor.


The play continues, if you please. “ὥστ᾽ ἔγωγε, καθάπερ οἱ
ποιηταί, δέομαι ἀρχόμενος τῆς διηγήσεως Μούσας τε καὶ Μνημοσύνην
ἐπικαλεῖσθαι.” Enter Mnemosyne, daughter of Uranus and Gaia,
Memory’s personification, mother of the nine Muses. Surprise.

She was taken by none other than her nephew Zeus. And so she
speaks. M “Zeus loves, Zeus talks, Zeus walks. And then he
forgets. But I do not. Daughters, stop prancing around.
I seek revenge: I may have drank from the wrong fountain.


You are goddesses, you give the Arts their rightful place
in the multi-verse. Kalliope, you are the brightest, inspire
me to epic journeys on the far side of model-dependent realism.
Ourania, show me the way among the burning gases and the waves,

the plasmas and the gravity of it all. Fixed luminous light in
my mind’s eye is not enough to stop this grief. Erato, let your
words dance, let my spirits be soothed by your loveliness. This
fountain, the hoof’s delay. Pegasus once stood here and kicked.”

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NeverEnder Space Epic Poem – Book III – Chapter II: XLVI- L


Desert Storm reads, Ariadne digs, archives and dreams;
John C explores, Fortune Lobo ponders, Cicciotta
Copies. Monkey makes busybees-ness. Tierra Madre
Wants to enjoy herself, but ends up doing nothing.

The Spartan wants to beat someone up, and jerks
Off in the meantime. So much steam. The black
Hole lulls them into a gentle sleep, gently rocking
Away, unaware of time futurepastpresent. Rari


Nantes in gurgite vasto. In the black hole, everything
Is simultaneously true, and they get to face their 
Fears, dark thoughts and dead ends. Hell is one's
Everyday. Samsara on the toilet, on the way to work.

An illusion like any other, the black hole spins them
Into consciousness-motion, where reality is one 
Day on the planet Solaris. Tierra madre, ship-wrecked
On the shores of Lybia, faces the issue of abandonment.


Can that truly be separared from betrayal? Desert Storm
Wants to be loved, retraces her childhood on a board
Of chess. "If I castle, I might build a fence against the
Mighty multiverse." They witness a play, spouted by the

Black hole, trickster that he is. Look: a mischievious spell.
G "It was not meant that we should voyage this far, Perseus."
P "The lies of history have not captured us, my love. In the
Underworld we have met and we have fallen for each other."


G "Instead of turning you to stone, I have spared you my wrath,
You are not like the other men." P "Gorgon, you have conquered
My heart, I surrendered to your wisdom. It is true that your
Appearance wants in perfection, so to speak. Yet as we age

The serpent skin moults, and my hero's grin falters. I want
To devote myself to you, and yet we are unhappy in this
Underworld." G "As you well know, Perseus, you are no hero.
Killing people, lying and receiving undeserved gifts from


The Gods is not a hero's feat. And the question of your
Birth is still up for debate. I do not love you for what you are.
I love you for what you could be. The better part of you
Has spared me, even if you had come to my home to

Slay me. You have loved and betrayed a thousand maids.
Athena is my witness. Today, 'tis true, you want my heart, 
Tomorrow you might want my head. Now until the light
Comes back to this underworld, I shall not trust you."

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NeverEnder Book III Chapter II: XXXIV – XLV


At night the galaxy is loudest. Privy to its 
Secrets, Cicciotta has come to planet Vashisht.
Unfinished business, the spirituality rabbit 
Chase. Too bad many researchers abandon ship.

The mirror is dark. Great research is never over. 
Dig deep into the folds of 
Time, Gravity, Electro-magnetism; the coordinates 
May change, but do the laws change also?


Once, I found a mini blackhole in the cupboard. 
It was 7 o'clock. I fell from the chair. 
Finnegan and Watt helped me up.
Legacy, dreamt Ariadne; guilt bricks.

River petals; evolution: angular and tragic.
Dreams are amalgamations of everything.
In euclidean space time, long range
interactions between this and that flare up


With potency inverse of square of distance.
Standing at the seashore of spirituality,
The drift of the atoms lurks toward the event 
horizon. The laws of right and honey.

Everything could end at any moment. Time
out. My ancestor awakes. He was a prick. 
Hesse and Jung, double dose; will cure
You of family. Monkey was born into pain.


"My heart is an anvil to sorrow" quotes 
Monkey in Ariadnes dream. "Generosity
Youth Leisure. Eloquent intelligent patient.
Overcomes mighty adversaries. My CV."

In no way does monkeys ego mingle. I swear on 
Rust'haveli's word. (Cicciotta copies the 
Dream word for word). Love is purely
Platonic. You, ravisher of my reason! Desert.


In a desert I grew to Gullivers proportions.
The multiverse is plagued with Yahoos and
Ariadne just dreams, Cicciotta just copies,
John C wanders, just. The sound of the souls

Is deafening. Could we tune in some Endymion,
some thing of beauty? This poem sucks. It is
Inane. It dillydallies, it stares at you. Monkey
just suffers. Night grows darker, and stars hide.


It began when Desert Storm, turned historian, 
found a mini black hole in the City of Griffin, 
amidst the echoes of SM di Castello. The monks

had long gone. Not so the history. All
Stories untold, uncorrupted, came forth in
A Hawking memoranda. On planet Vashisht,
Noted Cicciotta amanuensis, everything had


Changed. It had changed for it to grow, else
We're not really living. Consciousness can be
collective, a loud stream in the valley.
My mind, dearReader, is a tiny bell

oscillating in the wind. The last time 
Cicciotta copied, Desert Storm read, and all 
The other characters of this story were in
Alignment, the stars were close, and I had


Much love. But then, I still have much love. 
Consciousness is in layers, peel away at the
Surface and the skin will come off. Another
Layer, and then another. There is a certain

Melancholy in the act of peeling, a certain
Sense of loss of identity, gain of function.
Human life, a meaningless conglomerate of
Memory fragments? Almost all of our life


Is passed in a more or less unconscious state
Waking up from the constant dream, on
Occasions mountains rise in the distance,
Roads and purposes clear up. Successive

States of unconsciousness. Deep space reads
The one sweet page that is us, then shuts the
Book. Information-echoing probes move on.
Planets spin frozen, so Desert Storm reads. 


If time progresses, axes tilt. Suns set and 
rise again. The wheel is spun once more. It was
Then that Tariel wept and loved. The higher
Space called him, the emptiness above.

Heaven called. The abode of I dunno wot.
But then there was a gravitational, narrative
Collapse. In a great exercise of blackhole
Dustbusting, all characters, matter, juice


Of story-telling - everything comes now
Round to pounce away, midsummer-like,
in a giant singularity (make sure your black 
holes are big). "So good-night, with lullaby."

Thus, amidst great fanfare we witness
Reversibility in time. Theseus and Hyppolita
Are yet to marry. Perseus is yet to perform
The sexist act; that is the power of drama.


"Lies!" cries the philistine in you! "LIES!"
But, dearReader, in this neck of the multiverse
everything is possible. Granted that symmetry and time
Reversal give us space, given the gravity

Of the situation, let us line up the characters
each with his or her toil, anon comes clarity.
Guarding alertness, Shantideva roĺls the drums,
The elephant of the mind comes bumbling forth.
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NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter II / XXVII – XXXIII


In Μεγάλη Ἑλλάς, the Spartan and John C
Have become stranded onto a space islet.
The comet currents are strong, the rocks are
Edgy. Strict Catonian dialogue between the

Two itinerant soldiers, who are now
measuring up to the faults of their forefathers.
The echo of their bones is Beckettian.
A fool’s errand, the search of the White Whale.


Lost in the sea of time and space, they watch
Ariadne’s dreams floating by, a long night of
Forrader stars, past present and future ideas
Howling in the galaxy, longing. Aliens, viruses.

Memes waiting in the shadows, their shape
Unknown. History is unchained, the unbridled
Phaeton ride, Icarus flight, Leander swim.
Ripped up old stories, rehash’d vision-spectres.


‘Now as I was young and easy’, quotes John C
‘A lifetime away, a good night’s sleep. Spirits
came and went. Methought a serpent ate my
heart away.’ Spartan smiles: ‘Look at Ursa Minor,

now we know how those stars are arranged. A
moment’s illusion. Any coordinate system will
do.’ John C is not satified: ‘ Thus, cocoa needs
cooking in the saucepan. I shan’t die a naturalist.’


‘Let me tell you a story, John C. I shall be a reliable
Narraror. Maybe. This feels very much like the
Endgame. There once was a silver mine, and you
Were privy to its treasures. You were king of the

Castle.’ The Spartan; telling unreliable stories,
Weeping like a panther-knight, impervious to
History. ‘History is bunk. That is the beginning
Of the tale. After all your walks, and key-boards


Your cats, your dogs, your myths and Dogs,
You have come to shore up your ruins onto
This rock in the ocean, sharing your fate with
Me. I pity you, John C. Your memory is befudged.’

‘But more of that later. I have read the stars,
And it doesn’t look good for you. You’ve lost
Ground. The upper balance of your Psyche is
Besmirched with confusion. Let me set it straight.’


‘We shall begin with the tale of your origin.
Whence have you sprung from? Froth? Licked
Out of salt stone? Do you know anything at all?
I tell you, your spirits are off the chart. It is time

To redefine your course, to trace the illusion
Of your identity, so as to cure yourself of the
Sickness of ignorance, confounded conscious
Ness. Your lake is deep and cold. Now, swim.’

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NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter II / XVII –XXVII


the Archive of Myth bubbles up, Ariadne
is in pain. Time must have a stop. Where
is Monkey? The siege of Candia. Welcome,
refugees. Dog fart, rabbit squeak, God

through Russell Brand. Timelessness,
dream-Shakespeare. Tempest-consciousness,
Know Thyself. All those monsters; Tauros,
deviations. Egoes in broken mirrors.


Ariadne pauses on the screen, the stars
in the image burst out laughing. So bright.
The Archive of Myth on drugs. What an
experience. “When the doors of perception

are cleansed, everything will appear
as it is, infinite” And some do it by
meditation, some by walking, some by
mescaline, some by action, some by


dream. Ariadne, you just go ahead and
push the button. Push the button, goddamit!
Incest, betrayal, abandonment. Lost.
Identity crisis. Monsters are born of

absolute spiritual evil. It exists.
A potent lamia. A curse. Ariadne’s curse.
What is the nature of her curse? Betrayal
of the closest relatives, death by fire.


The gravitational influence of planets
on cells. Electrons, atoms, spiritual
waves. “I need a hero. I want a destiny.
The monster within me. The fiend in the

mirror. The demon inside the child.”
Salvation through action, magic, and
doubt. Fear, heartache. Defeat in victory.
Neurotic patients burst an iron ring around


the heart. Possession is a structural
alteration. Public personalities possessed
by shadows. Possessed by animas. Naming
is reincarnation. Reincarnation of Gods

in planets. Chronos. So too did Chronos
take Uranus unawares. The discarded genitals.
Destruction of civilization by earth-quake.
Destruction of spirituality by multi-verse


shake.Touch, energy transfer. Spiritual
transformation. Zeus is dead. Dead by
transformation. Purification by water.
Cynicism is anti-matter. The Goddess

epiphany: the creation and recreation of
Myth. Cosmic union of all beings. Conflict
is dynamic. 4000 years of history, dealing
with threats. Deconstruction of stories.


Palaces of creation. Centres of Myths.
Myth as civilization. Everything flows.
Magic energy stays, it accumulates.
Holiness by creation. Ariadne returns

to Labrys harbour. She clings to form
but a wooden Buddha cannot go through
fire. She’s anima-possessed. Charged.
She cannot stay. I send you unto this


world as sheep amidst the wolves. I
don’t want to leave, she says. Earth
quakes are the end. Immortality is
real. You just have to push the damn

button! “I realize now that all my
existence is a delusion. There is nothing
but this island in the sea, Labrys Harbour.”
Way before and after everything. Time


is an illusion. Waking up to the timeless
island. Put on the kettle. The multi-verse
is compressed. All time and all happening
at once. The gravitational mass of a body

is equal to its inertial mass. The displace
ment of spectral lines towards the red
can be traced. The potential is there.
Gravitational, time collapse. History


and identity are annulled. The X looms.
Everything is simultaneously true. Let
go of the meat. Karma will dissolve.
We are such stuff as wormholes are made

on. The Archive of Myth is palace of
memory. It collapses into nothing. “…
of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers
bending over the corn, or the grape


gatherers threading through the vines,
of the grass in the orchard made white
with broken blossoms or strewn with
fallen fruit: of these we know nothing,

and can know nothing.” From such profundity,
the depth of the Well, the length of the
multi-verse, the scope of consciousness.
Ariadne is in bed. She’s asleep. She dreams.

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NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem / BOOK III / Chapter II / VIII – XVI


Ariadne sits up, emotion’d, eager to speak.
“I remember Dionysus’s kisses, still burning
on my skin. No. If I’m honest, I don’t. Not
right now. For a short while, I felt a purpose.

Not an important cause, not a revelation,
but the midnight curse of Finnegan’s wake.
I was summoned to appear before Death, I
made a plea for forgiveness, and I lost.”


Then Chubby tells the story of the download
and the infotechnician who had merged with
his own data. In this tale, there once was a
young cadet whose heroism was cut short

by the jaws of a whale: he was dismembered.
Chubby makes a mental note about Fortune
Lobo. His death by digestion was, by Zeus, most
El-Greco-esque, and yet his spirit lingered.


Ariadne is aching to tell the story of
her revelation, and yet dry words fail her.
Every moment she thinks herself to be
steady, to have finally coped with the

idea of having walked the tight-rope walk,
her mind starts to wander, and the continuity
of karma is discontinuous and inaccessible
to memory. She is wrestling with her own


Rebirth. We are all able, at least potentially,
to remember the facts of previous lives, and
the rites of transformation. Young Fortune Lobo
was dismembered;  yet, like Osiris-Dionysus, he

came back as a field of green wheat. “Truly, the
blessed gods have proclaimed a most beautiful truth:
Death comes not as a curse, but as a blessing.” We
are surrounded by Big Mind, the mother of all facts.


Ariadne’s revelation is asleep. An idle lover,
here and there, looks inside the s’elf; but for
all the rest, the multi-verse, unfathomably
fair, is a darkened cave; chained, barking dogs

outside. Ariadne is now sober, and at peace
with herself. The star cluster she’s looking
at in the palm of her hand is exceptionally
bright. Lightlets at the bar, glowing irises.


The numen, satellite of Mind, holds its
course. No deviations in sight. Smaller,
sapphirite starlets trick’o’treat in the
void, and the voices of ancestors shout.

Ariadne is resolute in her choice of
enduring whatever is coming. With edge
in desire she lunges into the mythical
space where Archives and galaxies merge.


For every ritual of rebirth, Fortune Lobo’s
rising from the astro-gases, transcendent
as a green man, innocently wet in the well
of eternity, has a mystic value, it is the

action in which, you reader, and I, writer,
as spectators become involved – Bastian-like –
though our natures are not necessarily changed.
It is a dream in which the dreamer may be trans


formed. Ariadne’s deficit in the balance
of Pacioli is her own waterflea robbery. She
lost her soul at low barometer reading, and
that is a presage of bad weather. One became

two. She was born as human, turned into a Goddess,
and yet fell. She walked the tightrope walk in a
moment of deadliest peril, and without realizing
it, she forgot. And then she forgot that she


had forgotten. On the self-same tree, two birds
perched, watching with invisible eyes the forces
of revelation at work. Chubby drinks from the
misty gases of Titan, Fortune Lobo sways as green

fuse in the winds of Planet Carnuntum. Ariadne
is deep in her own stew, cygnus-like, floating
in the drink she drank. The bar is empty. Outside,
a Philosophical Cat is about to embark on a mission.



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