{ ... }

۞

  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.  

۝