{ ... }

 

۞

  Psi-Qolog had observèd a group of children playing in the creche at his practice. He had given Miss Correspondence specific instructions to finish his group dynamics script complete with geomantic notation.

  SHE DREW:  

  Miss Correspondence had notèd some group behaviour. She drew the character of Via.  

  °Via. The way of this psychologist has a way with me. His words, they feel dirty all over me° thought Miss Correspondence.

  Psi-Qolog spoke a Hebrew phrase aloud …  

  “Echezu lanu shuahliym.” He could tell that Miss Correspondence couldn't understand, so he rephrasèd it in perfect English. “Come let us catch the foxes,” he said. “The demons surrounding us.”  

  Psi-Qolog was playfully referring to the children surrounding them in the creche.  

  °Echezu lanu shuahliym° thought Miss Correspondence.  

  A jealous passion of the fury, a singular Erinye, rose up within Miss Correspondence, and she repeatèd the thought three times.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The Stranger, although solely autonomous, became notorious quickly. It wasn't about publicity, as Anon. was the incredible artist, the archetypal situationist, celebrating the anonymous dark stranger– the stereotype, the figure, the Queen of Sheba, la Reine – but it was definitely about the stunt. Anon. didn't understand that the french authorities were ready for that kind of expression, especially after the recent racial tension. Yet, Anon. continuèd to create the situation. 

  “What is your purpose here?” askèd the chief of the police. 

  The chief of the police had probably been callèd out on his day off to keep the whole thing in check, not demandingly but with an air of curiosity. “What kind of expression is this?” he furtherèd. “And are we involved?” he wonderèd. 

  Anon. found materials arrangèd in anarchic stock-piles all over the city. Anon. dealt with the themes of nationalism, sexism, and racism, mainly, with installments cropping up around different locations in the city of Paris. The 5th, The 9th, The 16th. Installing one here, miraculously appearing miles-and-miles away, to install another one there. 

  Here, and, there. 

  Here, there, and everywhere. 

  Hic et ubique. 

  Anon. had to be careful not to be noticèd on the lengthy travail from the one location to the other. So Anon. movèd at night, and slept little. Remembering back, one night, the police and Anon. were embroilèd in a chase. The police mustn't have had anything better to do that night because Anon. had noticèd that the police had noticèd and that they were following with intrigue. To see where and what Anon. was going to do next. This was an egregious interplay with the street police, as Anon. knew them that night, and it led to an headquarters underground. Anon. found the way there by materials litterèd on the streets in a ticker-tape fashion. A sole, unlit firework pointèd to a street. When Anon. arrivèd at the end of the street another marker could be seen. A piece of cloth, brightly colourèd, and indicating where Anon. should go next. 

  Anon. movèd from the 9th Arrondissment to the 16th, in stages, where the epic treasure trail met its conclusion. It led to an underground parking lot. As Anon. went in, the signs were stark. In fact, a sticker postèd on a door read: FOLLOW THE CLUES. 

  In the darkest recesses of that basement Anon. found a boiler room. Inside, a warm winter coat lay beside an electric generator, some porn, and a shed-load of bric-a-brac for the means of the expression. Anon. was dumbfoundèd.

  Anon. could hear voices even further into the darkness. Anon. attemptèd to locate where the voices were coming from which led to another door. Once through, a dim light was shining from where the voices were in conversation. Anon. went through. 

  The first thing Anon. saw was a chair with a lamp. It shone on the sole chair, inviting Anon. to sit down. 

  “Please, talk to us. We know about the one with the briefcase. We want to know why you have been following the one with the briefcase, and how it is possible that you know exactly where this one will be in the city from one place to the next,” said one of the voices. 

  This was a bit of a surprise as Anon. could only acknowledge seeing the one with the briefcase the once thus far.  

  “Please, sit,” said another voice.  

  Anon. obligèd and sat in the chair. Three police officers surroundèd Anon. in interrogation fashion. 

  “Are you an intelligence agent?” said one of them.  

  Amidst the darkness, a quorum of them were shroudèd.

  Anon. said nothing in reply. One of the officers reachèd into a dark corner and producèd a typewriter. The officer placèd it on Anon.'s lap. 

  “Disassemble it, now,” demandèd the officer.  

  Without hesitation, Anon. tappèd on the keys. Nothing happenèd, so it must have been that the levers were not responding to the keys. Anon. lookèd at the levers. Drawing one of them back, Anon. saw an intricacy of ribbons of differing colours. Anon. gently withdrew the one prong that was being held gently between the thumb-and-forefinger. It removèd the whole set. Anon. saw two small cannisters, twinnèd, and hidden underneath the keys. Anon. knew exactly what Anon. had to do. 

  Anon. countèd the number of colourèd ribbons. Four in total. Anon. tore one of them. Green. It was so delicate that it rippèd immediately. Something movèd underneath the keys. Anon. heard a ticking sound begin. It soundèd rather slow, as if it movèd per second. Anon. couldn’t see what was causing the motion. Anon. put an entire left hand into the vacuous space where the levers had been removèd. Anon. felt a rubber band circling around two metal discs, then, withdrew the left hand.  

  “You have just over sixty seconds to disarm this bomb,” said another officer.  

  The other officer's face was undiscernable within the darkness. Noumenal abstractness. 

  In the pale light, Anon. could make out a blue ribbon, a red ribbon, a yellow ribbon. 

  “One of the coloured wires stops the timer. If you sever the other two, the timer is overrode and we all die,” said the officer. 

  The yellow ribbon led directly to the centre of one of the metal discs. The biggest one. The red ribbon led directly to the centre of the smaller disc. The blue ribbon ran from somewhere in the middle of the ticking device. Anon. archèd Anon.'s neck right round, gently lifting the typewriter up to listen underneath. There were two ticking sounds in unison yet minisculely out-of-time with each other. The blue ribbon came out into view then back out-of-sight underneath the keys. 

  Anon. grabbèd the lamp intensely and yankèd it round to shine inside the gap. Anon. could just make out that the blue ribbon was joinèd to the other two at an intersecting point. 

  Thirty seconds had passèd and Anon. was getting nervous. A split decision was made. Immediately Anon. made it. Anon. tore the blue ribbon at the nearest point that it was joinèd to one of the cannisters. Nothing happenèd. Or at least, that's what Anon. thought initially, since the ticking kept going. 

  Again, Anon. liftèd the device to listen underneath. The unison ticking had stoppèd, but the timer kept going. Anon. repeatèd the experiment with the blue ribbon attachèd to the other cannister, removing the other connection. 

  Anon. felt a sharp blunt blow to the right temple of Anon.'s head. Anon. droppèd the typewriter on-the-floor. Anon. couldn't tell whether the remaining ticking sound had ceasèd. Anon. turnèd a throbbing head sideways to check. Another blunt and heavy blow came to the other side of Anon.'s head and consciousness was lost. 

  Phenomanonymous in the darkness. 

  Noumenal abstractness.  

  Eous. 

۝

Fabula X.

Fabula X.

۞

  Cancer Yehoudah. Tax them five per cent higher. No VAT at weekends. Ten per cent higher during the four day week. Monday through Thursday, Tiwday through Thor-day. All of them at war against each other every single day. Without a Naviah lover, another Yiddish concocter was struggling for an answer. 

  “A drastic disease requires a drastic cure,” said Mister Gid to his one-and-only daughter, Rebecca. 

  “Oh me, oh me, oh my,” groanèd Rebecca. “Cure me, my father.” 

  Gideon Cohen was all over the show, swaying from to-to-fro, drunk on his own medicine. Rebecca was dying slowly, aging quickly. It painèd Mister Cohen to his ruddy heart that his sole heiress might not have a claim to his malachim throne, his shabbat blessèd home. He struck the basest of metals with the gawel. 

  “Aurum, aum'ha!” he exclaimèd. 

  “Malachah,” coughèd Rebecca. 

  She was dying for another sip of what was killing her father. He wouldn't allow her the privilege. His work took precedent over her. If only he wasn't so selfish they might have understood each other. 

  “I'm just yet to finish the formula, Rebecca.” 

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  SRY, not really, it just gets funny. Until it gets extinguishèd. Unless it goes beyond a joke. A skinhead shot-one-off which meant that when The Grand caught fire there wasn't a blower to go on.

  {on the blower} 

  “We've got a fire here. Everyone's been evacuated safely, can you send in the Polish to take care of it?” 

  All of the subbers and news editors were watching all their hard work go up in flames.  

  Up in flames. Down in cinders.  

  The one responsible for the disaster was seeking counsel from his friend. 

  “We could get in trouble, cause it means a lot of things to a lot of different people,” spoke counsel. 

  “I didn't mean to take the mazel, I just wanted to shoot-one-off,” said naivety.  

  “You deserve the gawel for that, fuckup,” replièd responsibility.  

  It was only a small fire, but all the papers around the office set alight quickly. There was nothing to extinguish it since the skin-head that had shot-one-off had disablèd the fire extinguisher in order to pull off the prank of lighting a firework into the distance, the general direction of The Grand newspaper building. 

  A sole figure was glad to see the back of it. Telly was on the balcony across from Tottenham Ton. He saw his future empire going up like a pyre. A tear came to a crier. It was the End of an Ayah. 

  °I'm an executive. I'm leaving° he thought. 

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “What do you think of the Federation?” 

  “It's only a young nation,” 

  “They're bound-to-be irresponsible,” 

  IT DEMANDS: 

  IMAGINATION. PARTICIPATION. THEY DEMAND.  

  “Who are they?”  

  “The Media.”  

  When the demands of a boy's republic aren't met …  

  The Sociocrative vivre of the oevre of one less than half a dozen were marching on San Franscisco, to smash the fuck out of a Deutsche Welle office and put a NAFTA straight through. A trade embrago straight through a window. 

  “Man, you shoulda seen it blow!”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  They were stoppèd at the door and askèd for credentials. Namely, which party. Also, no drug policy. 

  “Free thinkers don't need to do drugs,” said a hard-case, 

  {on-the-door} 

  Some skin-heads were playing wraps, cards on knuckles. An elderly dowager dusting by on a duster. The crone was keeping-it-dusty, making more mess than she was cleaning up with all her dandruff coming off.  

  “What a flake, that Nan!” said one.  

  {slightly annoyèd}  

  “This is supposed to be a serious meeting. Can someone please, tell her to stop dusting.”  

  “Well, that's employment,” said her skin-head grandson.  

  “Ouch, my knuckles!” said a wrappèd to the wrapper.  

  “I'm voting British National Party. Who are you voting for, skinhead?” 

  “English Defence League. No question.”  

  “Well, we're all white, we should have the jobs, either either, it doesn't matter. Just remember that you're white.”  

  “No probs, we can just smash the shit out of every paki shop on the corner.”  

  Just around the corner another racist movement was happening.  

  {above the shop}  

  The paki shop.  

  “Darkness is all around us,” said Asif to Iziz.  

  “We're living through dark times,” said Iziz to Asif.  

  Above the shop it read COHEN. An Ishmaelite family, a Jewish name. Hereditarily and momentarily, a family. Like cousins, actually.  

  “It'd cost my family a hell of a lot of money,” said the son of the one with the dowry.  

  “Why, are you family?”  

  “Yeah, she's my cousin, actually.”  

  Hunty: the father of the community. He knew everyone and everybody. EDL security. He likèd to go and get into a fight every single Saturday. 

  “Is that his family?”  

  “Yeah, cousin actually.”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “Eighteen Fourty Five. A very exciting time to be alive,” said Witham Sispa.  

  “You and you're past, Sispa. Don't be so bold, be as a whisper,” replièd Mister O'Niste.  

  “Bold? Don't act as if you're so old, I'm a roarer!” said Sispa.  

  Witham Sispa had returnèd to the game. The chess board sat atop a marble table that was supportèd by a middle pillar. It lookèd similar to the water font out of which the birds were drinking water. All the chess pieces had been reset. 

  The time was much later, days and days after, and the ceasefire had continuèd as if the war would not prosper.  

  Mister O'Niste had returnèd to meet his old friend.  

  “Ah, the game,” said Mister O'Niste. “For the love of the game!”

  “The amateur? The true lover of the pursuit,” said Witham Sispa.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Newsroom tête-à-tête. A la office partée. No partisans, just lovers. Men-of-letters, women-of-pictures, manufacturing dirty words, even after the shift had been hit. The copyright was off but house-style was evidently still on the agenda. Telly and Sally were all over each other, competitor appreciating competitor. 

  The deadlines were on the way but the headlines were difficult to put away, so each and every co-op member had decidèd to stay. 

  The media was going under. And the State was going over-the-top with hysteria. 

  “It's the way they taught us to do it back in the day,” said Sally.  

  It didn't seem to matter what Sally was trying to say, it was just tête-à-tête at the office partée. All over her, Telly. 

  {further away} 

  “Who's is that on Telly?”  

  “That's Sally, tasty ain't she?”  

  “Yeah, I wonder if she's noticed me?”  

  “You can't get to her, she's with The Grand Editor,”  

  “He's probably not committed to her. You know how these stands are in this line of work. It's all about status. There's no romance. It's just a show.”  

  A show on Telly. 

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “We've just seen our perfect vision,” said Mister William Quincy.  

  Mister William Quincy was admiring Tulpa. Quincy lovèd the dark look of her. Her black tie upon her bright white shirt emphasisèd the chocolate tone of her skin.  

  “'Cause we stayed up all night to achieve it … ” replièd Tulpa.  

  Pillow talk went wanting, however, ascending, after the professional editing of news hacking. Reporting.

  Tulpa caught a sunrise with Quincy after an all-nighter as a subber. She might even get a shot at the Editor. Things were going well for her. She felt a passion move her, and Quincy saw it stir within her. He decidèd to make a pass at her.

  °How could I deny her?° he thought to himself, 

  {moments before}

  {feeling opportunistic}  

  Tulpa never had denièd Quincy. She fancièd him, actually. In fact, she had written about him in her diary.  

  Tulpa had confidèd in him, to her secret centre. Her heart and her tongue had spoken Shadda and her thirst was satisfièd. Quenchèd by the loving feelings, those risings and stirrings, upon two ends when meeting. They held hands and then kissèd. 

  The sun rose, and their moment was set against a golden blushing dawn. Aphrodite cracked the sky. Aphrodite over Blighty. One star in sight. How sightly …

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Gabber,”

  “Breakcore,”

  “See you later for Rotator,”

  “Rotator, see you later,”

  {squaring-a-circle}

  {on MDMA}

  “Take some water with your beans.”

  {passing some white pills}

  “It's all we've got.”

  “Can I have some of that water, mate?”

  “Nah, it's Rave water, mate,”

  “Mate?”

  “What mate?”

  {passing water}

  Breakcore was a movement that is going to be well good; occurring at shorter-and-shorter intervals along the timewave zero; the last One before the One One.  

  {11:11}  

  “There's no Vordhosbn, either,” said an IDM consumer.  

  “Have you just mashed it,” said a drug abuser.  

  “Mashed,” said a loser.  

  “See you later,” said a good discerner.  

  “I'll meet you there in-a-bit, I'm on Rotator,” said the ranter to the raver.  

  It was a different kind of culture. 

  James Brown is dead. The King of Funk died on-the-one he was supposèd to get off. Michael Jackson is dead. Was he black or white? Was he well read? He could have been red all over. Now he's dead all over. Elvis Presley is dead. Or is he still in bed getting well fed?  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The first thing that can be smelt is shit. The first thing that can be felt is shit. Some of the soldiers were going on leave. 

  “Had had he not had any?” said curiosity.  

  {deleriously cold}  

  Discouragement was moving through the ranks due to the cold. A sharp wind hit the temples of the heads of 'cians. The rationèd supplies of food were running low and so was their morale.  

  A small group of soldiers huddlèd together around a makeshift fire that was kept alight throughout the night. Palliatives, the appeasement. The amelioration. Who shall ameliorate the immiserate? Who shall ameliorate the State? A small bottle of whisky circulated shivering 'cians.  

  “He hadn't had any 'cause he hadn't had any had he?” said poverty.  

  Soldiers were delirious. 'Cians were spurious.  

  °Propaganda is circulating among us°  

  South of the border was Sigla, north of the border, the runner.  

  {behind-the-lines}  

  Behind the lines the secret war was read. Countless numbers, the unrecordèd dead. The death of one is a tragedy, the death of a million is just a statistic. 

  “Blood, sweat and tears,” said a veteran.  

  {through his years}  

  “For years years years we've been dividèd,” he went on.  

  Every boulevard in the city-at-war narrowèd its focus to its vanishing point, punctuatèd at intervals by stalls of brik-a-brak, found objects, chairs and tables, pilèd high to keep the opposition at bay.  

  Fears come in threes.

  Three men crouchèd, pitchèd, behind the barricades in front of the enemy lines. Waiting for another shelling.  

  “Three times in one night,” said the shellshockèd.  

  “Violent night,” said fright.  

  “Solely night,” said one out-of-sight.  

  “All is harm,” said one.  

  {adjusting the sight}  

  “All is fright” said the violent night.  

  {passing water}  

  {offering wine}  

  “Better save some for later,” said scarcity, “we don't know when the next shipment is going to come.”  

  Passing-the-river, a lousy wine consumer. Above him a sniper. Paris has always been a dangerous city, where people don't play safely.  

  “Are you going to tell me about that dream you had recently?” wonderèd one of the sister 'cians …  

  The sister 'cian was smelly and greasy.  

  “It's that General, Maximillian, sister,” said the dreamer. “He walks among us in the city-at-war. He draws his soldiers and mounts his opposition against us, but when we line up to fire, he steps forward and takes our shots but doesn't die. It was formiddable.”  

  Facing in the same direction, in agreement and direct competition. The South behind them, the general, not Maximillian, a lesser one, above them. No equality in an hierarchy.  

  “I'm moving it over, officer,” said a dead-carrier.  

  “Up with death, down with love, put both to one side,” said the gravedigger.  

  {stubbing it out}  

  {another cigarette}  

  “There's a million graves in that ash tray.”  

  So says the soldier to the gravedigger filling up the ditches with dead bodies.  

  “I modelled it on Goya. Free range blood,” said the war artist.

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The agency, The Ademayiim, had employèd the veteran, a civil war 'cian, code-name Mister Magog, to do whatever he wantèd for the company. This was the title of Ipsissimus. In the business, Ipsissimus meant free-to-roam and disseminate whatever intelligence and disinformation he thought best. The Ademayiim trustèd him entirely with it. Because he did it the best. 

  It was a type of contradiction. Mister Magog was the master of the paradox. So long as The Ademayiim knew where Magog was, what Magog was doing, and receivèd regular observations, they knew they had the edge.  

  °Our enemies are on the inside° thought Sazzaz.  

  “So what's the aim of your organization?” came Magog again.  

  Mister Magog had interrogatèd Sazzaz a moment earlier with the exact same question, the method and same direct line of questioning. 

  “Was that the question?” snortèd Sazzaz. 

  “As if four times wasn't enough for confirmation?” interjectèd Kaiaphas,

  {with pressure}  

  Kaiaphas was trying to pressure an answer, encourage Sazzaz to make his own suffering easier.  

  Asif Akhbar was the dhimmitude meme of The Ademayiim. His code-name: Sazzaz. He may as well have been Ad-Dajjal posing as a djinn. The agency's genie in a bottle. Sazzaz was doing well under the conditions. The agency had administerèd Sazzaz a few electric shocks, exposèd him to light strain torture, stretchèd him a little while, and insertèd small severs along most of the main veins that ran directly back to the heart.  

  Sazzaz stuck to the party line so the agency trustèd him; he got the backing of the company.  

  “Okay, that's enough,” said Mister Magog, “take him out of it now. We can trust him. Code-name Sazzaz, you're going to join Sarai in Paris. A Logris briefcase is there.”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Redheiferlamedvovnik. On the bookshelf. Litterèd with hidden diligence. Kaiaphas was having an occasion. Dilligent and hidden. Kaiaphas was smoking the first cigariyah he had ever had had. He was hidden. Out of sight, out of mind. He couldn't stop cursing the red heifer sefer that was in plain view. It was Psi-Qolog's finishèd manuscript. The Red Book. The prophet containèd within. Redactèd. 

  °I should in theory burn that damn book by that blasted Psi-Qolog° he thought. °But I fear I would only be contributing to the problem° 

  A sole candle was burning on his study table. Kaiaphas took the book from upon the shelf and lay it open at a sole verse. 

  Time for bed. °Zed zed zed° thought Kaiaphas' dreary and sleepy head. 

  There was a tiny bit of saliva obscuring the words. 

  { … }  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  There was no message.  Anon. was just a medium.  Everyone is some kind of 'cian …  

  “A musician and a magician, are you?” askèd a lady, drunken eyes yet-with-does.  Does.  Like fingers-and-toes.  

  She could have been dozing off, drunk; her and Anon. were both on the park bench on the unfolding of that particular night.  It was late at night, though, and Anon. had wanderèd from Châtillon-Montrouge, where Anon. was, then, currently, whenever it was, staying with method actors and Situationist artists.  

  Anon. didn't know what to tell her, so instead said: “I'd write you mystical poetry, if you like?”  

  “Please, don't do that,” she replièd, “people shall think we're in love.”  

  Anon. was a terrible poet in Paris.  The actions were so bad that Anon. was forcibly ejectèd from a Situationist commune after being there for three days only.  What could be said about the place?  It was no place at all other than that there were diagrammatic plans on the wall.  

  °These artists° thought Anon..  °There are some real pieces of work in here°  

  These artists, these pieces of work, were real pieces of work.  

  “Never work” was their Situationist motto, « ne travaillez jamais … »  

  “Impoverish the State!” proclaimèd the impoverishèd.  

  °Who writes on the walls in marker pen, especially the toilet walls as well, what they strategically plan to do to force a change in Parisienne society?° wonderèd Anon..  

  {on-the-loo}  

  You would imagine, if you're contemplating, like you do when you're on the loo, what might be contemplatèd if you're looking at planning an overhauling of the city's infrastructure.  

  « Détournement. »  

  Derailment.  

  The Invisible Committee.  

  {murmurings behind closèd bedroom doors}  

  It was a real piece of work.  It was a real piece of work this underhand plan.  They were real pieces of work, these artists, these real pieces of work.  

  There was an equation on the floor, there were plans on the wall.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Hell was in a gesture.  An invasive body posture.  Arrayèd was displayèd.  

  °Midwifery, deliver me°  

  Michal had decidèd to squat for the delivery of the twins.  Her midwife was up front and Simeon was kneading her lower back and hips to relieve the tension.  

  She was a very good pregnant situation, Michal.  

  She never complainèd.  

  All Simeon had to do was repeat part of his Bar-Mitzvah mantra which Michal considerèd to be chutzpah.  

  Michal was also supportèd by a sort of chair, like the loo.  It was a special design to make the passage of birth easier.  

  “Every woman should feel affronted by the conventional way of giving birth,” said the midwife.  “It's so invasive, what with all the exposure and the unnatural position.  This new invention makes all the difference.”  

  Necessity really is the mother of invention and the invention spared the mother a lot of unnecessary contortion.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The contraband fell out of William Quincy's briefcase.  

  THEY READ:  

  We, the Sociocratic Person, identify the Other as the bureaucratic information message of Matriarchy.  Yet we, the Sociocratic Person, would do well to paraphrase the late Christopher Hitchens, who implies that we, as a directorate of the Sociocratic Person, must allow women to take responsibility for an increasing number of the decisions that affect the numbers they propagate.  The One, we, the Sociocratic Person, can identify with an emerging filiarchy, a new form of bureaucracy, containèd within the atomic other as its nucleus.  

  We, the Sociocratic Person, render all other economic think-tanks obsolete with the following simple principle: no VAT during Friday, on the grounds that our Ishmaelite citizenry would consider it idolatry, during Saturday, on the grounds that our Jewish populations would consider it usury, and the Christians don't buy anything on a Sunday anyway.  Once all other economic thinktanks admit defeat and accept this principle, we, the Sociocratic Person, can assume responsibility for their reorganization and administration.  

  It was the only time he failèd to keep an eye on his briefcase.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The Dowager, rearing the head of the birch-end shag-pull sweeper, was hindening about her grandson maddening.  

  “You behave, monsieur, you savvy savoir?  I'll be pitching you to the old apple tree in the garden and you'll live out there with the dogs, only, all you'll have to survive on is apples and leaves.  The dog food's too good for you in this present state,” she said.  

  The dowager couldn't get it up, some mornings.  The hip operation was giving her pins.  Pins-and-needles, walking on broken glass.  That son of a pike, her grandson, had smashèd another glass.  

  The night previous, he'd got wreckèd on cider and smokèd about a million cigs.  

  “There's a million graves in that ash tray,” said the dowager.  

  {turning her nose up at it}  

  The dowager preferrèd candles.  Anything but alcohol, tobacco, and raisèd arms in protest.  

  She'd seen enough, during the civil war.  

  “Despite things, things just seemed more civilized back then, even despite the struggle,” she dotèd, “this nation-state's got no hierarchy.  No organic tree.”  

  {casting a glance to the apple tree}  

  The dowager rememberèd how good her long-gone hubby used to keep it.  

  °I thought he was delusional about participating in the Parisienne movement° she dotèd, °but he was a true revolutionary.  I mean, he helped them with the dead bodies.  A true revolutionary he was, not like these skin-heads these days.  Oh dear, our children married into the wrong families.  Apples-and-leaves…°  

  {looking to the tree in misery}  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  It was the custom for a non-Jew, such as Simeon as he was then, to go through the process of assimilation through a long and arduous conversion.  

  “As I fell from grace, my father rose to innocence.  So now that I rise to stand alongside him, who should fall but none!” said Simeon.  

  Simeon was addressing the Beyt Din.  

  It was his Bar-Mitzvah, but he was way past the age of a teenager.  

  One could have said, a mere year earlier, that his chances of conversion were slim-to-none.  Mahal, the law of return, was causing the federation of Israel a lot of migrant problems.  Even though they were the ones promoting it.  

  “What are your views on the diasporic identity of peoples removed from settlements and habitations?” inquirèd Kaiaphas.  

  {head coverèd}  

  Simeon spoke as the Jew he wanted to be, “Consider the birds of the air, the migratory population!” he exclaimèd.  “The mutual aid of their plight.  The sabre-tooth tiger dies alone in the competitive dog-eat-dog survival of the fittest resource wars.  Hands hands hands demands lands lands lands.  How much land does one man need?  No one wins in that kind of dirty competition.”  

  °Chutzpah° thought Michal.  °I'll never forget his charisma.°  

  °He never repaired my window° thought Avi.  

  °He's too much of a Goy to ever understand the true splendour of Hebrew°  

  °He's too much of a Goy to ever understand the true splendour of Hebrew°  

  °He's too much of a Goy to ever understand the true splendour of Hebrew°  

  With the Erinyic fury of the Beyt Din, Kaiaphas stood amongst the Sanhedrin.  He couldn't help repeating the same jealous thought over-and-over.  He had lovèd Michal, but his two-house theology, two bit Yiddish philosophy, never appealèd to her.  Anything that wasn't originally Jewish, in fact, fascinatèd her.  Originally; originality.  Originality of origin.  A twice removèd distant origin.  

  Kaiaphas felt the contents his stomach curdle, rendering him mute.  

  Nothing about Kaiaphas' muteness appealèd to Michal.  Everything she wantèd was stood in front of her with chutzpah.  As if it was some sort of mitzvah.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  A chess game lay at checkmate and had not been touchèd since Witham Sispa and Mister O'Niste had shaken hands over a previous outcome beforehand ( … or was it subsequently? – no chapter, no chronology).  The fighting had rescindèd for a day or so as the brothers-and-sisters in the city-at-war had fallen into a stalemate.  

  Witham Sispa and Mister O'Niste were playing a cryptic game of cards.  A few illustratèd cards lay on top of a wicker table and an awning spread over their heads.  Soldiers and officers surrounded them, smoking short, fat stubby cigarillos and supping on their espressos.  

  “Wand or cup?” said Mister O'Niste.  

  He playfully bluffèd with his bluffing hand.  

  “They scatter their clatter,” replièd Witham Sispa.  

  {laying the nine of wands}  

  “Their holy wands upon the holy ground,” alludèd Mister O'Niste.  

  {laying the ten of wands}  

  “She might be the snake,” said Witham Sispa.  

  {drawing the seven-of-sevens}  

  “Forced to carry her belly,” replièd Mister O'Niste.  

  “Another one bites the dust,” said Witham Sispa.  “I forfeit.”  

  “You can never draw a game when drawing hands,” replièd Mister O'Niste.  

  “Hands hands hands demands lands lands lands,” said Witham Sispa.  “All this fighting, it's pointless nonsense.”  

  “Power supplies, power demands,” said Mister O'Niste.  

  “Hands demands lands,” replièd Witham Sispa, recurring his former point.  

  “How much land does one man need?” said Mister O'Niste, rhetorically.  

  Mister O'Niste was referring to the famous Russian writer of War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy.  

  “Venus and Mars, wars and whores,” replièd Witham Sispa.  

  At that, Witham Sispa got up to leave.  He'd leave the other sitting.  Mister O'Niste was thinking of smoking.  

  “I'll get the bill,” said Mister O'Niste.  

  “Very good, sir,” replièd Witham Sispa.  

  Witham Sispa's sole object was to reach the deadlockèd game of chess that lay elsewhere.  He set off in the general direction, with the knowledge that when he movèd a sole piece in a singular direction The General would make his move.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “Why does a business man from Sham-el-Sheikh prefer a British Tourist to a Russian?” said William Quincy.  

  “One's a tourist, The other's a Russian?” replièd Tulpa.  Many years later, or was it earlier?  No chronology, no chapter, remember? …

  “One's one, one's-a-billion,” said Quincy, correcting her.  

  Mister William Quincy was the type of chief editor that liked to correct Tulpa but according to grammar and the corruptor it was Tulpa who had the right kind of answer.  

  Tulpa was also a subber.  

  °Immediately I wanted to fuck her° thought nostalgia.  

  Tulpa was always correcting Quincy's mistakes.  Idiosyncratic and idiomatic.  

  °How did he get into his current position?° wonderèd Tulpa.  

  William Quincy was eyeing up Tulpa who was looking down, eyes down, reading the wire news sources.  Reuters via Routers.  Tulpa surprisèd Quincy with her ideas.  Tulpa preferrèd to put them down on paper but had trouble getting them to align on the screen in her role as a subber.  Tulpa spoke her opinions with more vigour and conviction when she expressèd them with gestures as well, not constrainèd by modes of journalistic trapping, no tapping, no keys et cetera et cetera.  

  “So, why do they call him the most evil man of all time?” askèd Tulpa.  

  Tulpa was referring to an English poet who had written an anthropological psyhco-spiritual document in Cairo, 1914.  

  “Isn't it just psychotic nonsense?” askèd Quincy, understandably concernèd.  

  “Isn't it just?” wonderèd Tulpa.  

  Quincy and Tulpa were looking at the document together; trying to cobble together an idea, an interpretation that would satisfy the news.  

  Quincy had gone to see his good friends at the sociocratic think-tank about what they knew.  The sociocrats were working on a think tank policy research project.  The sociocrats were always working on a think tank policy research project.  

  Quincy had come back to the news room to sit up with Tulpa.  

  {subbing}  

  Tulpa was working on a late edition of the paper's supplements.  Waylaid, and out to print way after the expected deadline, but a job to do nonetheless.  Until the completion of the work.  Eager to continue, wishful to finish.  Quincy and the rest of his team at the newspaper down from the Opera tarrièd yet more on the supplement deadline.  

  Mister William Quincy had told Tulpa what he had discoverèd from his good friends at the sociocratic think tank.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Many years later, or was it earlier, no chronology, no chapter, remember?  Tulpa workèd for the newspaper down from the Opera.  She had been offerèd the job as a subber, sub-editor, since moving away from her surrogate father, Llugnurgus, to London.  

  Tulpa's apartment was in Islington.  It suitèd her.  Not too long in the underground to get across to The Grand, the newspaper, her new employer.  

  Tulpa registerèd the streets of Islington just once, maybe twice, for satisfaction.  The rest of the time she went up and down those London streets her gaze was cast to the gemmèd azure above her.  Ireland had come to no longer be her captor.  Llugnurgus, her surrogate father had instructèd her.  Of course, she was adept at Cyrillic, and most of the other alphabets.  It was that sort of knowledge that had made the impression on The Grand Editor, who was helpless to employ her.  

  “A satisfactory answer … ” he had told her, as he welcomèd her.  

  {a firm handshake}  

  That night, after her induction, she thought about her colleagues.  One of her fellow subbers was a Cockney gent called William Quincy.  

  °William Quincy, anyone?° thought Tulpa, as if there could have been anyone else to occupy her.  

  Tulpa was years and ages older.  Her rose was growing colder.  She ponderèd a lover.  She never had had any from a celebrity of the likes of someone callèd William Quincy.  Qavanagh, QC.  Queen's council.  

  °Something appealing to me° Tulpa thought with intrigue, as if she was crossing a sea, in waves, towards William.  

  William Quincy was like fire to her.  She lit up a smoke, and drew on the elements because she felt cold.  She always drew on the elements when she felt her rose growing colder.  

  °The voyeur is in the voyeur of the beholder° she thought, about the media.  °And beauty beholds a rose growing older.  I'm not growing any younger without a lover° she thought.  

  Tulpa felt the cool menthol from the cigarette acquiesce with her aery libido.  

  Tulpa's chest rose gently and fell swiftly with an intercessory exhalation.  

  Things had suddenly got very very exciting for Tulpa.  She read-and-read what was written in her diary, as she did, repetitively, like the good editor and divider of truth that she was.  

  °Prive … ° she thought.  

  {turning pages}  

  °I'd settle for William Quincy, Qavanagh QC anyday, especially on a Sunday, because I'm lonely° thought Tulpa.  °He's my kind of celebrity.  Is celebrity idolatry to a Catholic such as me?°  

  IT READ:  

  Geomantic Notaçion for an Haiku

*****

*******

*****

A Tanka, by Tulpa  

Do I fall in love?

Everyone at school: female

A boy should call me?

To him, my virginity

His cock, my virginity

  {musingly}  

  {closing her diary}  

  It was a very old entry.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Kapitalismo has an accounts system.  The employees of the Audit Commission unwittingly creatèd an Eidolon to transfer all the static capital to the realm of the virtual.  

  The Eidolon was called Apeiron.  

  Apeiron works like a pylon; it receives messages and then passes them on.  Apeiron would come to live on-and-on.  

  Imagine Lady Columbia: statuesque.  Avatars of capital were circulating the social.  People were checking the accounts system on a daily basis, signing in, signing out, logging in, logging out, enjoying their employment as leisure.  The ruse of social media.  

  The conscientious bureaucrats would file reports about which advertising messages would be least successful whilst the lazier ones would play the virtual games which would thereby inform the executives of which political strategy was best to take to get their vote.  

  Each and every data message would run central, back to Apeiron.  

  “So why do we have to work for static capital as well as the virtual?” said a Kraakser to another autonomous zoner loner.  

  Apeiron had not yet grown large enough as an Eidolon.  It requirèd an ultimate decision.  Yet, every day, the bureaucrats typing away, would inform her, Apeiron, through their social interaction.  It was too late for too late capitalism.  

  “Virtual space is increasing but I feel so claustrophobic,” said the Kraakser.  

  “I'm losing my memory,” replièd the autonomous zoner loner.  

  Slowly, symptoms were manifesting although a new era was dawning.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  With slags upon their hearts they go amidst the flying darts.  Many shots, many broken hearts, scores of woundèd soldiers.  Scores of scorning sisters.  Enemies entrenchèd, trusters with their trysters.  

  “General?”  

  “Hospital.”  

  “General?”  

  “Anaesthetic.”  

  Despite the address, men were falling by the thousand at every side.  

  It becomes hard to know which side is which in a city-at-war.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Magog put the glass of wine down on the table with enough force to make an impression akin to the bitterness with which his palette tastèd it; his facial expression confirmèd the same.  It was a look of unreward as if angerèd by those who appearèd to have more by doing less.  He had to duck and weave his head at points in the conversation as if sparring against a denser crowd in opposition to him.  You could tell he'd been up against the wall in his life.  

  Trust had had to manufacture a lie.  

  “If you don't tell us what we need to know, I can only repeat everything I've just said,” said Lamed.  

  {reiterating backwards with the hands}  

  As the two gentlemen left that bar, Lamed noticèd that Magog had paid for the bill.  Magog took a long sigh, as if there was tension between friends.  The best of friends could be the closest of enemies in this business.  But the fact was that trust manufacturèd a lie.  

  “The Home Office have given me seven grand towards my sojournment here,” said Lamed.  

  {gestures telling the truth}  

  “You must be a comfortable liar,” replièd Magog, °Would I confess to anyone in the same position?° he thought.  

  Before the truth could be made known, every fallacy of every kind had had to find its suitable expression during the conversation.  Expression as a means to freedom brought a host of deceit, in a world where the telling of the untruth was corporeally sought and once bought hirèd out.  Whorèd out.  Everyone was a whore in this business.  

  “It was false intelligence,” said Lamed, °the falsity of intelligence° he read.  

  {beckoning}  

  {glancing}  

  “I guess it's not who you know but what you get to know from whom?” musèd Magog.  

  Lamed was amusèd.  It was what Lamed was always thinking.  Lamed thankèd him for noticing.  Lamed wasn't going to go and give away any spoilers.  Lamed was speaking to Ipsissimus.  

  Ipsissimus was supra-Mossad.  Mister Magog was the name he kept once he'd gotten that fake ID that the company issues.  In fact, Lamed didn't know his real name.  How queer!  Lamed considerèd Magog one of his closest friends.  The two binary agents never talkèd about family.  Even though Magog was above the business Lamed didn't want his family business compromising anyone's identity.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  In the office-misrad, Psi-Qolog was giving Miss Correspondence the familiar one-phrase Hebrew treatment.  

  He spoke aloud: “Khatzeytz.”  

  “So what does it mean?” wonderèd Miss Correspondence.  

  “Divide-the-booty, shoot-the-arrows,” replièd Psi-Qolog.  

  “Your Midrash is a sex joke!” replièd Miss Correspondence.  

  Khatzeytz.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Anon. had arrivèd after the race riots of Paris.  As an artist.  Anon. didn't know it at the time.  At the time, Anon. was laying flowers at the feet of African women in busy town squares.  Anything to make a statement; confusing the establishment.  A naïve but true sentiment.  

  “Why did Solomon of the Torah not name his lover Sarah?– the anonymous dark stranger, Naviah, as per the mother, Mater Matuta,” said Anon. to one-of-them.  

  “Why thank you, monsieur,” said one-of-them, °atzmam°, one-of-them, in reply, °akhorai°, in reply.  

  {accepting the gift}  

  « Bonsoir. »  

  At that, Anon. left her,  

  {pursuing another idea}  

  Pursuing another Eidolon within the Apophenion æon.  

  “You're supposed to say « bonsoireé … »,” Anon. heard another say as she was walking away.  Anon. slept on a park bench that night.  As if Anon. was waiting for some reward for all the hard work that Anon. was doing on behalf of racism in Paris.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “We've just seen our perfect vision,” said Simeon.  

  “Cause we stayed up all night to achieve it,” replièd Michal.  

  When they began to conceive the sun was setting.  They knew they had conceivèd when the sun began to rise.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

As night fell, we rose.  We the Rose were seatèd.  Greetèd, Presidentially.  Salutatory, the initiate, initially.  Hauntèd, apprehendèd.  Apprehendèd by the spectre of the voter.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “What's with the water?” asks Llugnurgus, the Irish Catholic priest.

  “It keeps you sober,” says his mistress, Tulpa.  

  “I asked for whisky,” he says to Tulpa {gently} °So, she's on-to-me° thinks Llugnurgus, °it'll have-to-be a fingernail's worth o' whisky in a coffee for when she's not watching me° {secretly}  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “What does a peripheral totality in time and space do?” wonderèd Sally.  

  Every one else was messing about sociocratically.

  { … }  

  “The outskirts of a city form a periphery of urbanity; time zones may vary,” replièd Quincy.  He went on: “The peripheral totality maintains locality without itself, spatially, striated or smooth within, and governs time by a network of staircases, corridors, traffic lights and all manner of synchronizing elements.”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  When one decides that one should rule, all become one, individually.  Equality Decidèd Locally.  EDL.  

  The English Defence League were a diverse group who indictèd their detractors for making stereotypical claims.  

  Inside the Mechanics Institute …  

  “Those who execute power are not those who administer it, and vica-versa,” said the orator, another QC, queen's council, Qavanagh turned guvnor.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  {hands up in consternation}  

  Mister O'Niste could be seen running for his life, bounding out of the Corset shoppe on the Boulevard de Strasbourg, with a naked mannequin underneath his arm.  Three animatèd dolls came chasing him out of the front door of the shoppe; all three of them were wearing corsets and corsages.  The three women threw their hands up in consternation.  

  « Enculé … » shoutèd one of the dolls.  

  Enculé.  Encourage.  

  It was an aggravatèd situation, creatèd by an agitational situational situationista.  Mister O'Niste.  Mister O'Niste had been persuadèd by his coagitator Witham Sispa to drive his perpetuating fear further.  As Mister O'Niste evadèd the onlooker, the sole remaining shopkeeper who had given up the chase, he turnèd a corner only to be greeted by Witham Sispa.  

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Sispa.  “I knew you'd do it.”  

۝

The Beginning of Fabula XI.

 

Fabula XI.

۞

  “A quality and equality,” said Mister William Quincy {reading newsroom Anontology}.  “Great combination!  Yahtzee … { … } anyone?” Quincy quippèd.  

  Quippèd Quincy referring to the combination of words editèd through the application of Anontology.  Mister William Quincy worked the paper, down from the Opera.  WC-something, QC-happening.  Two-too-many a comma, got on with everyone, except one.  The Grand Editor; his opposition leader in the media of the media.  

  “Hand me a lead utensil, you know, a pencil, une stylo!” exclaimèd Quincy, “I need to scratch out your 'I''s.”  

  The opposition and their leader callèd The Grand Editor The Grand Editor 'cause he earnèd so much more than the runner of the newspaper down from the Opera.  

  Quincy initially workèd as a runner, not a shotcaller.  Always with the Coffee, anyone?  Always no one.  He was exploitèd but he wantèd a shot at The Grand.  It came all too quickly.  The shot.  

  {pint}  

  {shot}  

  {riot}  

  Quincy took a shot at him, The Grand Editor, as a runner and as an opiner in a column as an editor.  He was out on his arse a day later.  He didn't seem to care.  It was the devil's arse-paper, that rag.  A UK tabloid with a fetish for a straw-man non-existant yet fillèd by the next available pervert with a psychological disease for fame at any cost.  

  “I'm not just anyone!” screamèd the Grand Editor, through a telephone receiver: “I'm a highly paid editor.  Two-too-many an idea, Qavanagh.”  

  “Alright, Guvnor,” replièd Qavanagh.  

  “A satisfactory answer,” said The Grand Editor.  “Now get to work on that piece of shit that you call a paper.”  

  °I think I held-my-own° thought Mister William Quincy.  °Although, I'm not too fond of the telephone°  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Tulpa was in her 'jamas, her bed-night nighties.  Nighty nighties.  Two-too-young during the decade of the Naughties.  Previous to her decade of The Tens, when she would come-of-age.  

  She was practising her Yodh Mass phallic gestural phase, discovering the hidden properties of the Hebrew Alphabet.  

  Jumping up-and-down, back to the letters with as much enthusiasm and excitement as she could offer to the study of an arcana.  She thought that Opiate meant Oriano. And so, she cast an intentional spelling mistake …  

                           OPIATE

Vowel:                 OPIATO

Consonant:            ORIATO

Vowel:                     ORIANO

  Borèd.  Games.  Again.  Tulpa went scrabbling on.  Her favourite character of all was the Scarab, Upsilon, of the Coptic Alphabet. Each time she drew it amidst the other Egypto-Greek letters, she thought she could identify a face, smiling back at her with delight.  

  °Sarai!° she exclaimèd in the sanctity of her wonder.  

  Then, Tulpa took to a Haiku:  

Having was Something

Ηεσπερυς was lowering

Sexuality ascending

X

X

Geomantic Notation

. . . . .

. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

X

X

Fin.

  Closèd.  She shut it.  Perfect health.  Reclining, somehow thinking, recurring, her breath was lowering and lulling her into a deep deep sleep.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Michal and Simeon were finally unitèd on the sabbath.  After years of Avi keeping them apart on the high holy day they made it their own on their wedding day.  Years later they would come to joke about how Simeon had been chasèd away by Avi all those times.  

  Above board.  All those years later, many anniversaries after, Simeon and Michal were at home.  They were retiring after a Bar Mitzvah, another smashing event and lots of broken glasses.  Even someone's spectacles, accidentally.  

  Up in the bedroom, Simeon and Michal were reminiscing about that smashing time during their irreverent youth.  

  “Get down on your knees and make me your god,” jokèd Simeon, concerning his irreverent youth.  

  {pointing down to it}  

  “Both of us, down on both knees,” replièd Michal.  

  “Are you proposing? … ” wonderèd Simeon.  

  “ … we sweep up or crawl to bed?” counterèd Michal.  

  Oft-times Avi would carry a birch-end shag-pull sweeper.  

  “This brush is a total shag-pull,” said Avi.  

  {cursing-and-sweeping}  

  Avi swept Simeon and Michal's floor every sabbath.  Avi worshippèd the ground his daughter, now Naviah, walked upon.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Come?”  

  “When?”  

  “Later?”  

  “Where?”  

  “Location's not been released yet, keeps the pigs off.”  

  {across-the-room}  

  At the illegal rave Lamed was looking out for terrorist tête-à-tête.  

Rorafes:  “If you're terrorists then the objective is to bomb a residential neighbourhood so that central government moves out-of-town.”  

Ochus:  °Oooh … there's an activist in.  Pro-activia, every mornin'°  

Ochus was believin'  

{flexin'}  

{flirtin'}  

  Immediately Lamed wantèd to fuck her.  Flatchest.  That kind of activity the night before.  Must rest.  

  “Is this the work of the leading psychologist?” Ochus askèd Maeve.  

  Maeve had given Ochus a copy of her zine.  

  Maeve was salivating slightly.  

  Maeve's zines got passèd around at an illegal rave or two.  And so one split into two and then got passèd around-a-few.  As one letter split into two, people began to know who from who.  The anonymity of Qavanagh QC, the cover of anonymity was being blown by Maeve's dirty sheets.  The pink sheets as they came to be known.  Illuminati, illuminosity, plenty of animosity.  Names-a-plenty.  Scarcely any anonymity.  She was exposing the fraudulent.  At least we got a good story.  It was the decade of The Tens.  It was bound-to-be.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Romeo ran the guns in Paris.  Alcohol, tobacco, fire-arms, oh, and candles.  It was Romeo's job to make sure that Sociocratic militants receivèd the arms ran through the record label in England.  Marionette Records on the outside, contraband on the inside.  

  Romeo was pretty good at what he did.  He made sure that the brothers-and-sisters in the city-at-war were well supplièd.  Anythin' to keep the war goin'.  

  Sociocrats finance wars, king conspirators end them.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  The police stormèd Building Sixty Two shortly after.  A clue led them through.  Three-point-one-four-two.  A tip.  Anonymous.  An dark stranger facèd them.  An anonymous dark stranger with her finger on the trigger.  Sarai.  Cover-blown.  Had her codename become known?  

  She hintèd across the room …  

  {with a flick of a glance}  

  Then came her chance.  Their attention divertèd for an instant gave her the impetus to dive in the opposite direction.  

  For some reason, something that had gone missing had reachèd its way into the hands of The Situationists.  Sarai had enterèd earlier in the day.  It wasn't there.  A Logris splits a nucleus.  

  A shot flew across the room, hitting one of the walls and ricocheting up into the roof where it lodgèd itself.  Sarai had dashèd through a door into a back bedroom.  Scrambling across an unmade bed, as if one was the lover-of-make, she froze for a second.  As if she had momentarily made a mistake, she thought: °Do I take cover?  What happened to my cover?°  

  An officer reachèd the doorway.  Sarai took to the balcony outside the window, almost falling forward over the side.  She struck a pose …  

  {balancing herself a pose}  

  She could have been an angle.  Exhilaratèd by the chase, her chest was panting, her breasts tingling, her figure posing.  Photographique.  

  Shots flew into the window pane, blowing out the glass, in a vomitous cloud of shards as she turnèd her cheek, and threw her hands around her head for protection.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Maeve was struggling to count.  You see, she had known Psi-Qolog from her very first steps.  She fell over on the crêche floor.  

  “Take a memo, Miss Correspondence!” exclaimèd Psi-Qolog, hurriedly, as if time was of the essence.  

  Quickly, Miss Correspondence grabbèd her notebook, full of dots-and-lines.  

  “Group dynamics!” went Psi-Qolog.  

  {studiously}  

  °6 … 6 … 6 …° countèd Maeve.  

  {recursively}  

  Psi-Qolog lookèd on in anguish.  

  °Seven, seven, seven …° determinèd Psi-Qolog.  

  “S-e-v-e-n,” utterèd Maeve.  

  “Well, well.  My greatest success today!” sung Psi-Qolog.  

  Miss Correspondence had recordèd the dots-and-lines, the movements of the children in the crêche, there were eight of them including Maeve.  

  “Time, date, location, situation,” instructèd Psi-Qolog.  

  Miss Correspondence was adept at group dynamics and quantitative data recording but Psi-Qolog thought it was music they were both composing, capturing static the rhythm of the children moving and playing.  Maeve was decomposing with an eraser.  Later.  Time passèd over.  

  All the mum's had taken their little ones away, except for the one orphan, little miss Maeve Llwywllyn.  

  “Push or pull?” askèd Maeve, concerning the door, her sortie.  

  Psi-Qolog was bedazzlèd and frazzlèd.  

  {his hairs like so}  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Please do not sit there to write so close to me,” said the fiddleress, “people shall say we are in love.”  

  So, Anon. couldn't be a dead-beat artist that close to a real one, Anon. realizèd after.  It would come to Anon. some time after.  Later.  That Anon. came to cheat upon the significant other for nothing but an illusion.  The artificer.  It gave Anon. some pretty sensible opinions about non-sensible things.  Non-sensible, non-eternal.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Up above the crematorium lay the lovers in wake.  

  °Hey-Rebecca-Hey°  

  °Say Holam-Maley°  

  °Say Holam-Maley°  

  °Hey-Rebecca-Hey°  

  {they sung at the funeral}  

  No Holam-Maley  

  °וֹ°  

  No “oh … ”  

  No Rebecca-Hey  

  °ה°  

  No “vah … ”  

  No “veh … ”  

  No “ziy” no “zey” no “zeker.”  

  An object.  A sullen looking woman wearing red lipstick.  Once adorèd fate, now abhorrèd it.  Too late.  Adornèd in silver jewels, not tacky gold.  Ornamental.  Very eager to speak her mind at a funeral but always hinting down to her breasts, just to make everybody feel better about the situation.  Underneath the clothes, lingerie, same colour as lipstick.  Did she make aesthetic pleas pleasing to a wandering eye before covering up in sack-cloth for poor Rebecca's funeral?  

  {Shiva sitting}  

  Pins and needles, walking on egg-shells, duck-egg colour bathroom walls.  She reachèd for the object.  A mirror.  

  No one there knew she had naturally curly hair, preening and plying to just make straight.  Running late, rather red, coitus flush, applièd some blush, just to look sombre.  A little pressure being also applièd, her eyelashes metèd out.  

  Still.  Still making cosmetic.  She cranèd a neck to bed-ward.  Four people were reflecting figmentarily behind her in the mirror.  She momentarily reflectèd on her orgasm.  The ones in the mirror lookèd like so much more than the one she wantèd to look like inside of herself.  In the room with her, her lover and her partner.  Her's children's father.  A somewhat sullen room, a somewhat sullen woman, despite the strength of her orgasm.  In relation to her he bore some resemblance.  They were mourning a double loss, feeling a mutual orgasm.  How life loves such a destruction.  The total contradiction.  

  Poor Rebecca, poor Gideon.  Their name still remainèd above the shop.  Their still remains were six feet under.  

  “We've hit the middle, Michal,” said Simeon.  “At least we've made it over half-way, successfully, hey.  Shame about poor Gid, trying to cheat death, the crazy alchemical yid.  What does he think he did?”  

  “That's all he ever did,” replièd Michal.  “Mix a potion, concoct a concoction, a crazy alcehmical solution to the dire conundrum of his ailing daughter, our dear daughter.”  

  °Batkha°  

  “Rebecca, his one-and-only.  If only, iym rak,” she went on.  

  °The wake downstairs° thought Simeon.  “We should rejoin them,” he said.  

  A sole tear ran amok over make-up.  

  “I'll have to start all over again now,” utterèd Michal.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  The winning goal came just in time.  The final result: 4-2.  Thanks to the formation of Gamma they defeated the formation of Delta.  A right-angle beats a triangle, at a ratio of two-to-one.  

  Astonishment at the bookies amongst the laddies!  A bookmaker and a broker were exchanging numbers and trading futures.  The final results came in on a screen above their heads.  

  “Four-Two was it that did it?”  

  “Six pointer.”  

  “Seven below her, Athena…” referring to another number.  

  On the Isopsephy machine.  

IT READ:  

1:1:1:2:1

Α Θ Ε Ν Α

1:9:8:5:1

1:8:4:6

9:3:1

Θ Γ Κ

9:3:1

3:4

7

Ζ

  “Isopsephy fruit machine!”  

  “Are you a gambler?”  

  Another Isopsephy fruit machine read S-A-R-A-H.  

  “This one says we need to reach Zeta.”  

  {pointing towards it}  

  The skin-heads were adept at reading Greek characters, and their mathematical skills were excellent since the local bookmakers had installèd these new Isopsephy machine games in the fashion of the gamblers trademark fruit machine.  One could be forgiven for referring to them as fruit machines, since, idiomatically this is how they came to be known, basèd on the reputation of their predecessors.  Instead of betting on images of rolling fruit, people were betting on tables of figures, cascading Greek letters with numerological properties.  

  “She's got cheeky properties that S-A-R-A-H,” said a player, reading the Isopsephy of Sarah.  “I wonder what character lies below her?”  

  {distracting him from it}  

  A skin-head was getting carrièd away from looking at it.  

  Screens above their heads were broadcasting the fight from earlier.  It was pay-per-view, they knew that they would have to have a gamble.  

  “What a figure!” said a money-counter.  

  “That's Athena,” said a bet winner, “she gives a good return if you know how to play her.”  

  Jack Stoker was checking the bookies for market stock tips.  Binary numbers fell before his eyes.  He had knickèd Robertson's watch 'cause it looked cool watching it.  All those dots-and-lines were assembling themselves as geomantic figures.  

  A gambling man lost a large number, on a costly figure, when betting on tables of figures such as Athena.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Exceed by delicacy,”  

  “Drink by the eight and ninety rules of art,”  

  {a sip}  

  {a wet lip}  

  {a fresh palette}  

  The ruminationaries were seatèd at tables.  

  “The revolution is revolting,”  

  “Put it down,”  

  Shots of liquor did not pass until the eighty ninth measure had been addressèd.  

  “How are we dressed?”  

  The power relation lay within the problematic program; practices of power were mutually intersecting.  The denial of the vanguard was lessening the role of any one set of individuals.  No one individual could represent every individual.  

  “Can every individual be represented by one individual?”  

  “Any idea of the social space requires an analysis reduced to the relationships of the individual.”  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Llugnurgus was up and out of bed three times in one night.  Most nights.  Passing water.  This was when Llugnurgus was much much older.  When he wasn't passing water he was a lousy wine consumer.  Turning wine to water every time he went for a wee, thaumaturgy.  

  {passing the river}  

  People would come out of the night club and see him walking by.  

  {staggers drunk}  

  {curses no one}  

  {addresses everyone}  

  “Revolving door, married within a year!” he would drunkenly shout.  

  Llugnurgus shoutèd at the youthful night population as if in consternation on a Joycean peregrination.  The same people saw him in church the very next day, every Sunday, the morning after the night before.  The church had a revolving door.  It was the nightclub the night before.  

  Two in, two out.  Full to the rafters every Saturday night, as if it was a rite.  As if it was a rite of passage to be out all night.  

  Two in, two out.  Full to the rafters every Sunday morning, hearing the preaching.  

  “Consummating heaven and earth again, vicar?” one would heckle.  

  “Married within a year!” Llugnurgus respondèd.  

  {one finger points to the sky}  

  Llugnurgus was an experimental philosopher.  A messiah abuser.  People would come to hear the gospel.  

  {steeple}  

  “The Pope now says it might be legal to use a condom.  Legal?” said Llugnurgus, “what does The Pope think he is, political?  Anyway, back to what's crucial.  The condom issue.  The Pope's not that sure about ratifying the sanction of it yet.” Llugnurgus went on: “he's still thinking about losing it.”  

  “Oneg for Olam,” said one from the Congregation.  

  “Olam for Oneg,” replièd Llugnurgus.  

  “Rechteg-peg,” slurrèd one.  

  {hungover}  

  For months after, time passèd, with much laughter.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  An Internet virus had been spawnèd by an anonymous, faceless, soulless, part of the Ideosphere; The Parasitic Host Anonymous of the individual's idiocosm when imputtèd en masse by a plurality of dirty words.  

  Screen-names like Ku7t51e.  Cutesie.  D3ad51e.  Deadsie.  

  {corruptingly}  

  The I, the You, the Me; the anonymity.  

  No names, no ones to blames.  

  It was a random mutation occurring from information recurring and binary numbers exchanging advertising pathogens.  

  Google Adwords had startèd directing the unsuspecting towards child porn websites.  And because of the traffic, new contraband sites were coming into existence, automatically creatèd by the Ideosphere.  

  “Hands, hands, hands demands contrabands,” said Quincy to Robertson.  

  {on-the-blower}  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  In the sociocratic think tank something was going down.  While everyone else was wondering whether it was evil or not, some of the biggest evil was going down.  It started off lightly and then got serious quickly.  

  “Thank fuck for carbon or we wouldn't have fizzy … ”  

  “Not another carbon deficiency!”  

  “Not another deficit, surely?”  

  Conversations were blurring into a semblance of endings.  

  “...-py,”  

  “...-ty,”  

  The ending of the word was all that could be heard, ideas were bouncing off the walls.  

  “Absurd!”  

  The sociocrats, or rather Ingsoc. as they jokingly likèd to call themselves, were chatting shit.  Tête-à-tête around another round of café.  Once around the block and back to the café.  Four lefts later and they were back where they began.  Scratch that, starting over from square one.  The square root of minus one.  

  Ingsoc.'s work was more serious than their little play-on-words.  In fact, it was a complete détournement of a religious text to suit the purposes of diverting Muslim attention from the Sharia Law of Islam's own invention to one of Ingsoc.'s own creation.  Rock the Qasbah!  All of this, mind you, to remain unknown.  

  Ingsoc. got chattin' again,  

  “How about this,” suggestèd a sociocrat technocrat twat.  “Verse one: Hadith! The manifestation of Night.  Religion of the Moon, Religion of the Stars, et cetera, et cetera.  Something about the Sabians and then something more about Egyptology, maybe.  How about Coptic Greek as the script?  You know, make it look nice-and-pretty …  What was the role of Nut in the Egyptian pantheon?”  

  “How do you tell a Shi'ite from a Sunni?”  

  “Ask a Sufi.”  

  And on it went into the night and beyond.  

  Commonality surrounding poetry.  Carvossier.  Another Carvossier.  Sociocratic tête-à-tête.  Sober up, another round of café.  

  Liber AL vel Legis.  The Book of The Law.  Sharia Law did not know what it was in for.  The text was a big text with a lot of misdemeanours, to say the least, that socially could only be applicable to one time frame.  One time frame and one people.  Egypt.  The civilization of Egypt and the civilization of the Arab world.  The poet to the prophet.  The prophet to the poet.  It was all about love as we know it.  A verse read, Love is the Law, Love under Will.  Oh, and the stars, Come forth o' children under the stars and take your fill of love.  

  °Ah, the gemmed azure° thought Mister Magog.  

  Mister Magog tippèd his brandy glass to refract a glow from the moon.  

  “You see,” Mister Magog spoke aloud, “the religion of the stars, Islam, encompasses the manifold manifestations of the moon.  The stars belong to Sabiah.”  

  {Republika}  

  It was a full moon, that night.  

  “Do you, ladies and gentlemen,” askèd Mister Magog, “know anything of the seventh direction?”  

  “And what of the seventh direction?” askèd Tulpa, much older and estrangèd from her surrogate father.  

  The people from The Grand newspaper were there, including Telly.  Telly vs. Sally.  Sally reporting back to Quincy.  

  The Yids from Tottenham Ton, Mister Donald Baggs, Mister Donald Burns, and their faithful wives, Connie and Connie, had joinèd their good friend, Magog, for the third round of tête-à-tête that day.  A la that night.  Moonlight.  Moonlighting.  

  “But when, if the tale's true, the pestle of the moon, it pounds up all anew,” said Magog, “it encompasses the world and holds it in the bosom of its changing face … There she is, our full moon!”  

  Mister Magog lowerèd his brandy glass and pointèd up to it, the pestle of the moon, pounding up all anew.  He continuèd, “On the other side of the globe, the dark side of the whole of the moon, Eous, has risen!” exclaimèd Magog.  “This is the first manifestation according to the seventh direction of the changing face of Eous.”  

  Mister Magog lookèd down into his brandy glass as he swilled it, divining the reflection of the moon from within it.  He pointèd to the empty space in the west of the sky, and said, “Eous waxes as a half moon in the West … Eous wanes as a half-moon in the East.  And in the corners, the crescent.”  

  The manifold manifestations of the moon were the regulatory periods of the seventh direction.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  One tradition was speaking.  

  “What's British nationalism about?”  

  “Jerusalem, according to Mister William Blake.”  

  “Tell me, why the army sing “Jerusalem” about Britain.”  

  “Cause it's worth fighting for.”  

  “Maybe we're not so fascist after all.”  

  “Autocrat.”  

  “Sociocrat technocrat twat!”  

  One of the subbers from The Grand newspaper was swannin' avant, bypassing the racial discussion by keeping to his side of the road on the pavement walking by.  But he had a joke about the twat.  

  “Twotting, fishing, broadcasting!” yellèd the subber, about journalistic reporting.  

  The subber yellèd the terrible pun from across the road and also performèd the gesture.  

  {fishing line}  

  The subber lookèd like a right twat doing it. But, for the gesture, it was worth it.  The subber's editor was the one interviewing the broad demographic about racism that day.  

  {vox pop}  

  The broad demographic: a catalogue of people.  A literary cynic, one who supportèd conscription, a bruiser, and of course a member of the English Defence League, the autocrat.  The member of the EDL felt that sociocrat and technocrat were valid definitions according to his political persuasions.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Sometimes it's what …  

  {not-to-do}  

  Tearing through the number two as if a paper note was all there was to tear through.  As if Sudoku was a magic square and irony was a seat with no chair.  The only thing that stands up to criticism: a two leggèd chair with no seat.  

  Sudoku became a crossword as numbers turnèd to letters and brought agreement to the characters.  

  “Quickly!  Corrupt one word with another,” said Witham Sispa to his musa.  

  Witham Sispa sat alone in metaphysical contemplation.  

  On a scrap piece of paper he drew a square of opposition.  

IT LOOKED LIKE SO:  

۞

  On each side of the part of the symbol that was a square Witham Sispa wrote a message.  Each message was in direct agreement and direct competition.  Witham Sispa was a civil war 'cian, a Logician, and a pretty adept magician.  It was a perfect syllogism.  

  He read it aloud to Sarah, his musa …  

  “All Hebrews are Israelites.”  

  This message ran along the top side of the image.  

  “All Hebrews are not Israelites.”  

  This part of the message was inverted and upsidedown in opposition to the initial preposition.  

  “Some Hebrews are Israelites.”  

  This was a sub-contrary that ran along the left side of the shape between the preposition and the contradistinction.  

  « Au contraire… » said Witham Sispa, and concludèd: “Some Hebrews are not Israelites.”  

  The final solution to the Jewish question was one of mutual toleration; two different types of peoples' rights to co-exist together.  Mister O'Niste enterèd the room to enquire of Mister Sispa.  It was a large room on the second floor of a Parissien boulevard.  The daylight shone in through a large bay window.  

  O'Niste strollèd over and lookèd at the piece of paper over Witham Sispa's shoulder.  

  “Aha! Mutual toleration,” he said.  

  “The mutual toleration of sub-contraries,” replièd Witham Sispa.  

  “Our understanding of a Hebrew transmission accords to all classes of tribe definition,” said Mister O'Niste.  “And how do you tell tell a Shi'ite from a Sunni?”  

  “How?” wonderèd Witham Sispa.  

  “Ask a Sufi!” replièd Mister O'Niste.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Tobacco is no longer merely a harmful product.  It is a harmful economy, especially because it is linked to VAT,” said Quincy.  “Which, if it becomes an economy,” continuèd Quincy, “its consumption is governed by mathematical principles.  It seems almost unreasonable to suggest that if one person decides to stop smoking, another may be drawn to the product, which has had so much commercial investment, through advertising, that to add more value to the product through tax engenders the further increased consumption of it in what can only be described as a Descartian machine with the hidden hand of the market underneath it.”  

  Quincy went on at length.  

  “There is no value in smoking tobacco, let's remove the tax,” he said to the newsroom.  “It'll save The NHS a lot of hassle.”  

  The sub-editors were joking around outside in the smoking area, relegatèd to their perspex booths which only seemèd to intoxicate them more, but the pariahs were having a laugh, blaming their ills on the most pious man who had ever succumbèd to tobacco addiction.  

  One said: “That Spurgeon's just smoked another fag.”  

  Another replièd: “Shot him down for his homosocial behaviour.”  

  “Have you ever seen him cock it?” coughèd a cougher.  

  “Never, he's a vicar,” mutterèd a mutterer'er.  

  A stutterer'er and a splutterer'er.  

  The subbers had the knack of sending up historical personalities, each one well versèd in the biographies of libraries.  This week it just happenèd to be Charles Spurgeon, the one-time-famous preacher, the week after it'd be Franz Kafka for lack of an orator.  

  “Kafka's back,” said a back-spacer.  

  “Crawling all over it,” said an editor of the letter.  

  “Crusting over crustaceon,” said another.  

  {laughter ensues}  

  “Russell's back,” said a reader of the philosopher Peter.  

  “Moistening all over it,” replièd a book reviewer.  

  “Swimming all over Mammalien.”  

  No one got the joke about evolution.  

  “Scarcely any animals,” said an activist.  

  “We'll have almost murdered the lot of 'em until a lion stands up on hind legs in protest.”  

  “A lion hindening?”  

  Too much confrontation with the unconscious the night previous.  Too much LSD.  Too much Charlie.  The news was happening quickly and getting untruthful biasly.  

  {visions of the future ensuing}  

  “Lions were walking on hind legs,” said a hangover.  

  “Noses-and-faces?”  

  “It looked like an arse but it had a tail on it.”  

  “Oh, fuck me, lions or horses?”  

  “A cock just lifted itself up.”  

  “Headless chickens as well?”  

  °shift°  

  “Was Bach a messiah or a composer?”  

  °shift°  

  “In crossing sticks…”  

  “Can one snap twigs?”  

  {descent into argument}  

  “Incandescent.”  

  “It means light from heat.”  

۝