Luminous Tendril of Celestial Wish

The modern voices of cosmology are bent out of shape, twisted into heliocentricish patterns that, quite literally, make no sense. Thus, as an example, the bird-like warblings of Janus Durkharden and his absurd postulations about the form and nature of the fourth universe. Plus, also, the kind of intuitive grasping that is carried out in the absence of cablis firma and is, at the least, part of the suppression of the desire to be part of what used to be called the bigger picture. As a result, it has recently been felt by the cosmological community that it (the cosmological community) and its attendant offshoots would benefit greatly from an attempt at extrapolation that takes into account some of the more neglected areas of study: metaphysical eschatology, universe denial theory, spiritual cornering, cosmogony barks, andro-physics.

The Moon.
Okay, the moon. It is the receptacle for all manner of devices and thingies, aimed from below out of the poor tired hearts of young lovers and old lovers. And, of course, these days also from the hearts of poofers and other derivations thereof: lesbians and stuff. The moon, sure of its glow, hangs there still, inviting salutations and worships that would, quite frankly, be rather vulgar were they aimed at some of our more spectacular heavenly bodies. You wouldn’t, for instance, see Sirius basking in such ersatz warmth.

Celestial Cracks and Thunder Bolts.
Captains of the Clouds and Thor-like thunder Gods are a common sight above the common where they play out their ritual pitch battles in preparation for the true test of whatsit, Ragnarok. But for now, sited somewhere between Midgard and the old school playground, these monster gods are a scene for all eyes. But beware, Mjolnir has been known to slay even the innocent.

Divinity Dry Puss.
A: This is the way here, yes. To the back. In the corner over there, beneath the small table. This the kitty you look for. Yes?
B: Yes. My Divinity Dry Puss who, possessed of nine tenths of the universe’s evil, is enough to destroy us all here. Except for you, of course, our underworldish guide who has led us here in the best of all good faith.
A: Yes, all good faith.

The Big Bang.
As the universe rapidly expanded in less than the lessest blink you can barely imagine, all of it was there, as is, formed and fantastic and much more than the likes of you could possibly comprehend. Before the existence of the universe there was merely emptiness and nothing, and much less even than the nothing that resides inside your head. Less than the nothing that dwells within your barren loins. The universe gave birth to a monster and the monster’s name was you. I mean, the monster was you.

Human Naturists.
And God said: I will strip you from out of the earth and airbrush you out of the bigger picture. I will teach you not to hide the loveliness that I have created and that is my whim to gaze at whenever I deem.
And man said: Fine. Pass me my pants.

Ghosts #1.
Apparitions at the bottom of the stone steps. I fetched my torch to them and they scattered. Later, as I slept, my wife was carried from her bed by unknown hands and placed upon the kitchen table. Her screams when she woke were enough, as they say, to raise the dead. Gone before I could reach them, the hideous things seemed to match the description of my stone stepped apparitions. Years later, after my wife had passed, I discovered that the house had been built upon the site of a former Victorian workhouse. Whoooh.

Ghosts #2.
My wife is prone to all manner of silliness.

Cups That Brimmeth Over.
They are either half full or half empty, depending on how you look at the world. It’s either a clean glass or a dirty glass, depending on who you’re trying to impress. (In The Road to Utopia, Bob Hope adds the following line to his request for a glass of lemonade in order to give the impression that he is, in fact, someone to be reckoned with: “In a dirty glass!”. He wants, in fact, to be thought of as Sperry. Or McGurk. I forget which.)

The Fourth Universe.
Paralleled, somehow, to our own universe (the first universe), the fourth universe is either a huge cosmic gamble or a metaphysical kick in the teeth. Containing fully functioning mirror replicas of all aspects of our own universe, it exists – if it exists at all – as a kind of astronomical yardstick by which we can measure and, moreover, better ourselves. Do you see the ‘you’ over there, caring for the sick and the disabled, discovering the cure for cancer? It could be you here. If we only had the know-how. If you only had the brains.

Immortality Plays.
When the Big Bang banged, I was there. When the universe implodes/explodes, I will also be there.

Fragments of a Rainy Season.
The water falls and all bodies not yet wet avoid the drops through careful mapping and lightning speed. Why they would want to avoid the water is anyone’s guess.

Heathens in Heaven.
You can catch the canticles at broadcast and, you know, spirits would lift you as you trod the clouds and bounced the celestial sphere, where would it take you, where would you go outside the Pearly Gates where Peter waits you on call with a list of your past sins and outside games the way you touched people badly and presented yourself as other to what you really were, did you imagine you could make the escape with all this horror and hatred stacked against you?

The History of the World.
From when it began in Roman times and even well before, the world was a seething hot ball of filth, badness and evil. In time, over two thousand millennia, man walked the earth and bade the fearsome forest before him a stately goodbye. Thus scythed and burned, man proceeded gingerly through the remnants of wood and fossil, picking apart the past and making himself a tool of history. Soon, hamlets and villages, gatherings on the banks of rivers. Then cities and civilisations. Come the kings and their bad queens, ruling nations and people, taking their crowds by the hand through the twists of philosophers, artists, architects, musicians, writers, computer technicians, landlords, illusionists, medicals, scientists and tailors. And then, the whole world at man’s feet as he took on the skyways and rode the celestial mechanics higher, higher until the very stars. Goodbye cruel world, so long!

Wisps.
I see faces in the sky, I see faces rolling by.

The Time Lords Make It.
We are trapped, all of us, within this realm of uncertainty. There is forwards and there is backwards. There is right here. Movement is possible. But not recommended.

Ex-planetary Notes.
They left, the last race, boarded their ships and left. Neither trace nor hair. The planet’s surface as smooth as the surface of a ping pong ball. Rocky terrains and deepest undulations rendered irrelevant by the sheer terror of scale. As their ship sped on, as the residents looked back, the palpable waves of regret enveloped them. By the time they reached us they were stone from pain.

Cars and Planes.
Man crawls, walks and drives. He flies. He flies higher and further than the birds.

The Coming of the Climate.
Over a period of twelve thousand billion years the earth’s temperature will rise to nine months above the lateral sea level of carbon footprint dating and analysis. Which is to say that if we don’t stop using tea bags and breathing out too quickly we will very soon reduce the planet to a nothing mess of ash and fire. Or, alternatively, it may be reduced instead to a ball of yellow ice as cold and as impersonable as those piss ice cubes in my freezer. If we don’t get a grip and return to our caves, become one with mud and rediscover our affinity with all the noble thingies that can barely crawl, that have been the victims of our greed and oppression, we will perish like the pissant, backward-looking drones we truly are. See the stars? Fuck them. Fuck them good.

Money Makes The World Go Around.
Or does it? There was a report the other day that suggested that what, in fact, makes the world go around is young men and their sexually frustrated fuelled aggression. By 2010 it is reckoned that there will be 30 million young Chinese men who, by sheer force of mathematics, will be without partners, sexual or otherwise. And all that negative energy, they say, will have to go somewhere. But where? As for the rest of the planet’s young men, they will surely continue in their time-honoured fashion of not only committing violence and other bad things but also creating the very best of the very best that has ever been written, made, thought or said. Young men? Please fuck them good.

Tiny Tears.
Visible even from space.

How I Wrote ‘Elastic Man’.
I was sitting down at the table, sipping my first coffee of the morning, when I, Jack Cole, came up with the idea of Plastic Man, an ex-baddie who, by dint of his new-found super powers, decides to become a superhero. A flawed superhero. An insane superhero, of sorts. Immeasurably powerful. Will go on and on until the end of time. His powers: the ability to become anything he wants by stretching and manipulating his endlessly pliable body. And you would think, wouldn’t you, that the name Plastic Man would be easy for people to recall? Not at all.

The Sun.
Life giving. Hot. Yellow. Avuncular. Round. Afire. The centre of all the known universe. The thing that burns the back of your neck. Hides behind clouds. Once got into a competition with the wind to see who could get the man to take his coat off. Sometimes puts his hat on. Is a symbol of goodness, of happiness, of purity, of life. Is worshipped by all sorts - from the backward retards in the jungles and the deserts, to the city-slickered sophisticates who make our capital metropoles so great. Rises in the day time, sinks at night.

Ghosts #3.
A ghost descends the stair case. The assembled throng see it yet see right through it. The room goes cold. Somebody falls dead. Caskets are unearthed and centuries of family history are pored over. Who could it be?

The Rich, Their Money and Why They Are Cunts.
The rich have the spoils of all at the expense of decent working men and women and would grind you and your children to dust for the mere sake of making even more obscene amounts of money in order to keep their stupid fat faces ever-filled and grinning. They hate you more than you hate them. We have one life and they have it. Take it from them. Take it from them now.

Science.
In yes and the arts are all but diminished save for the remnants of art. The power of art: absolutely no good.

Religion.
Religion is the refuge of backward pea-brains such as birds and worms. Religion is a cool comfort to fiery-tempered bigots and sex-obsessed lunatics. Religion is where hearts are cut open and eyes are blinded. Religion is where you could go at any time to have yourself reduced.

Poetry.
Through the ages of man, a word here, some music there. No rhymes though, please.

The Triumph of Death.
It flirts, death, with life. That is, it plays at the edges of life, encroaching enough to remind us that the paths we travel will one day come to an end. Ah, some kind of keep off the grass analogy. Maybe another mention of the scythe. The bitter end.