erebusThere exists a place.Netherworld, they say it is called; but I have heard only rumours of a name-then again I have only the visions of a prophet.Some have gone, though never they are heard of again,never return those;(but then how could the tale come to be known?)Ah, because like me, there be prophets;with visions that raise whirlwinds of dust.I say, and take heed,there be a place. It exists, it is- a place,where a love called Death sits on a throne,and a greater one rules from above, from the dark and the earthen.I have seen the three-headed creature,crowned in fire, fed by flesh and machines;and I have made love
icharusHere be I, in front of this blank page again.I say, think, hello, old friend,old foe old curse-you're the honey I'm drawn to,you're the wax my wings are made of.I, again, have no plot between my fingers,just an itching.I, again, am friendless waiting forsome sound to cause an echo, becausebetween you and I,it's so still here. But you know, therein hides the comfort.Well, as it always happens, I will leave this page blankthe door unopened and unclosed;the air breathed but unstirred,the sand trod but without footsteps.It's true that there's nothing that stingslike evidence like a blank page:a someone not cow
papuanuevaguineala niebla se arremolina en las copas de los árboles. Allá arriba, en las montañas, viven los espíritus.La selva pasa de griterío a catedral en segundos, y todo es verde, y del suelo asoman hongos y cadáveres putrefactos.El hombre es salvaje,y salvajiza a los que intentan civilizarlo...Afuera la civilización es lo salvaje,y salvajiza a los seres incivilizados quequeman sus nichos sagrados;talan sus bosques sagrados;matan sus aves sagradas,y al final,al final de todo,civilización y barbarie possen lo mismo;ignorancia y nada.
southwardsDavy Jones lives in a palmtree hut beneath Antarctica.He smokes his pipe there, and plays the banjo when the crew aren't looking.He has an army of crabs that cook lobster for him every night, and they prepare it wonderfully and it tastes like the constellations.He knows that the center of the Earth is liquid iron, but knowledge and happiness sometimes don't go together.He has a wife that speaks creole, that talks to the seals and never washes her face. She can make the sun go up or set, and she can bring people from the dead, because she invented voodoo.They're not people. People can't live beneath Antarctica, because the weight of
Antarctica IX(preface carved in driftwood)An ancient voice calls my namein creole, so I don't understand.I'm fishing octopuses on my paper iceberg.Well hello down there,underwater world!Once, I was a Swedish colony.Now I'm playing hide and seekwith voodoo dolls anda school of oil tankers.I'm dancing with my Thanatos on someparallel yonder the 65°S;but he's transparent and I'ma gutless reader of fantasy stories.I recline against dear Antarctica.The embrace feels cold,but love don't alwaysnest in the heart.south south east(this is another story)I put on my white cap and set sail south south east.A fine morning,
I was riding the kraken when..zombies from the center of the earth ate my brainsI'M FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE