Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

Meanwhile the adversary of man and machinery, with thoughts of naked butts and mean pain, puts on swift wings and crosses rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death, a whole multiverse of abominable creatures, to the end of life itself, where the pale rider resides, breeding with worms, maggots, flies, slugs, bacteria, viruses, what have you, in a prodigious, yet spicy, orgy that causes our hero to pause for a few moments and say: “wow”.

The double-swing doors, the adversary of order, as confusion consistently ensues via egress and ingress, mounted an evocative defense against his distended thoughts, as the onslaught of scepter to chrome, like two dueling homosexual whale onyxes, perpetuated the swift stasis, before he’s caught mid-balestra by the frieze broadening the contours of the distant fortification, of umber partitioned starkly against navy waves, dark boundaries and calligraphied distance, a neutral survey of sandy highlands filthy with frosting swirl mounts and confined, prison shadowed valleys, deep fissures thick with metaphor and desperate heights emaciated of allegory, tumbling down into wild wrinkles splotched with steppe and flora green, capsizing into anthropological pampuh, awfully discriminating hemispheres tantalolagnical in their suggestive virginity tugging him beyond the fleshy recesses and into the forbidden fissures, which contrast Menelausly with the coastal squalor and even more so with the misplaced urban sanctuaries, attempting so desperately to Linnaeus or bathe the organic withdrawals, but he retreats beyond mystery, yielding to that final conduction zone, into cobbles and bones, until he has dropped, humid, horrified, under, into the navel, and although there are unknowns, this foray into the true unknown, where fear is sovereign, like a child pushing the profound limits of allowed territory to simply glimpse the forbidden and finding it, despite its familiarity, a scene of great awe, with its different lawns and strange homes, and being unable to breach its boundary only because of the law, is profound, because a limit is constant, protection, maternal, and that point in which it is violated is transcendental, where the human gateworks collide with the limits of the unreal…

Who do you want it to be beside the great dooryard? Surely not your child, your father or mother, or pet renovated triumphantly, dog or turtle, cat or goldfish, surely not your friend, your spouse, or rival jangling keys. She’s none, and altogether Rockwellian in her plump waste, doughy raised raisins moistly staring eagerly, capacious chest and vast belly bulge, the hidden cauldron of children bones and the listing stern of her haunches, a kennel of a womb, wherein he can hear the angry bark of lost dogs chained to her spine, and lastly, the blushing lunar vacuum of her charms.

The other figure, shrapneled via luminescent echoes of the commune of the street, reversed in shadows, and distended beyond the corona of fluorescence, shook an inked crown as if calling for a new jester, and once he’d traversed the threshold, the space contorted in a wrathful gait, the rustle of pandemonium raged, and the racket of eggshells rioted.

Sometimes, Joseph soars over the right hand coast, right passed Bengal, watching the merchants in sweeping camel caravans, following them on their ancient route, right into Ethiopia and down to the Cape of Good Hope. There, he makes a few loop-de-loops around the small lighthouse, thrilling the tourists with his dogfight-like aerial acrobatics. He has several pictures, probably too many, of him standing behind the sign: “Welcome to the Cape Point, the furthest southwesterly point of the African Continent”. Then, before sundown, he heads for the pole.

"…of course, you must see at least one of the islands, but I would try, if I were you, because I’ve been a few times over the years, to see at least three… yes, they’re divine… so much to do… but you’ve picked a really good time of year… the weather… yes… oh, the beaches are gorgeous… warm… the water is so warm… you’ll be just… maybe one or two blocks… with a view… palm trees and beautiful sunsets… just beautiful sunsets…"

"You are not my father! Who are you? Why do you torment me? I have to pass…"

"…hold on… yeah… wait, hold on… there’s… just one moment…"

"Why? Why are you doing this? I have to pass…"

"Kathy… can you? Kathy… sir, I’m not sure… if you could just… calm down… and let me… hold on… Kathy? Sir… I don’t know what…"

"False fugitive? Grow more… I’m not afraid… your scorpions do not sting me… your pestilence does not ail me…"

"…I’m not sure… sir… Kathy? Are you? Sir… I assure you… I’m not… calm down… let me… hold on… are you okay? There’s nothing to worry about… I’m not… I’m not sure… what you want… how can we help you?"

"Going on a trip? Can we help you?" (the clatter of her keys)

"So strange… your words… orphan voices accusing me of your birthright…"

A threefold gate of infinite layers of brass, iron and impenetrable rock blocked his path, an all-consuming fire of blue light circling it. Joseph lights his wand on fire and like a teenage cheerleader dancing in the state championships, he causes two great black clouds to rise to the nose-level of the giant.

"The gate? It closes at 5 sir… we’re not open as late as the mall…"

"Oh, dear, dear daughter… we’ve fallen so far… from our mutiny… all of us… from them I go… on an errand unholy… to a vacant room, or some such place… shhhh… this is a secret… once I find it, you can come too… all of us… as soon as I pass… I will send for you…"

"I’m afraid the gate is closed sir… at 5… we’re not allowed to open it… by law… there’s an alarm…"

"Are you my daughter? Do you want to escape this tartarian gloom? Take your infernal key… and unlock the forbidden… here you are in perpetual agony and pain… release your gate and reveal the bliss… let me coax your lock open…"

"Sir! Please! Sir! Don’t… no… I… no…"

"Whoa there… no… leave her alone… Kathy…"

"Come to me my ravished daughter…"

"Kathy… open it… open the gate…"

"But…"

"Let me pass…"

"Kathy… open it!"

"Oh! Stay away…"

"Permit me passage…"

"Just a moment sir…"

"Hold on… wait a moment…"

She opened the gates wide for him, and at that moment, time and space were lost, as Joseph stepped out into Chaos incarnate and anarchy’s brood. It was Epicurus’ wet dream, a case study in the facets of chaosology, probable systems rapidly impacting as a range of elements glided by in a meteorological ballet of stardust. Energy never dies, but here on earth, it becomes bodies. You could be swallowing a piece of Leonardo Da Vinci’s eyeballs with your next breath. Joseph, perplexed by the creation of embryos from ether and debris as unnumbered as the deserts of Cyrene, looks out from his vantage point in utter and complete awe.

My next obstacle. “This is the world only half done.” Little Chicken Little will have her retribution. Joseph steps out in the mall hallway, collides with several impatient shoppers and falls over a woman’s parcels. It is a horrendous, unfathomable fall, his arms spinning, his feet attempting to run, his body twirling uncontrollably. For ten thousand fathoms, right into the Leviathan, the deep end of Poseidon’s bathtub, where Neptune and Triton lather each other up in giggling, flirtatious sea sponge melees, slapping each other’s asses like fraternizing sports heroes, pinching nipples, tickling scrotums, exfoliating each other with cleaners from Syrtis. Joseph goes right by, bouncing off of Neptune’s shoulder like a drunken fly, neither god noticing. Joseph’s able to slow his descent by clutching the ribbon from a riotous cloud from within the woman’s bag.