Previously, Peter Hipwell at HCRC/Centre for Cognitive Science, University of

Edinburgh wrote:

Sick of this bunch of goddamn characters from GOTHIC NOVELS. Just go

cracking a few million more MORBID JOKES about worms and disease and

death, obsession with DECAY and IMPROPER ADVANCES Jumping Space

Barnacles that stuff is hundreds of years old for FUCK'S SAKE and I'm

not talking about WHEN the Originals occured, I'm talking about RIGHT NOW

How It Feels, FUCK'S SAKE a little variation would be nice WHY can't

SOMEONE get a 17th Century obsession and START SPEWING on about

hermaphrodites and MONSTROSITIES OF THE HUMAN FORM or terrifying

emotional cataclysms that are topped off by a triple wedding or Something

preferably something a little bit more LUSTY? like that SOMETHING that

just SHOWS a little bit of FRUGGering VariBLOODYation. Hole Me This, I

don't want to BE IN RECEIPT of a Whole Bunch of NONSENSE produced by

freaking VATHEK GROUPIES. Your Retromanticism, Your Hebegenerative

Augmentation produced by the careful Positioning of a Few Handy

Skulls, a couple of Dung Beetles, a Worm Gnawing Upon a Corpse Bloated

With The Gas of Decay, and similar ORNAMENTATIONS that are OVERLY

FAMILIAR, TRITE and PITIFUL is beggining to Get Me

Down. Imitationality, the very Image of Itself and you can't tell me

that a whole shagging parade of people in fringe uniforms is any more

of a GOOD THING than Men In Design Uniform advancing towards each

other in a quite efficacious attempt to BLOW THEIR BRAINS OUT but you

don't care, you Romance-Feeling that those VERY Ornaments become MORE

IMPORTANT than the Original Message NO, it's not WHAT you convey it's

the way you convey what you're trying to say. And if that is ALL then

the BIG ZERO of your locked down, buttoned up, Trapped little mind

SCREAMING up and down little bleak corridors under the Mansion, is

BURIED ALIVE there is NO hope for anyone when this No It Doesn't


And you can count your blessings that no one really Knows or Cares or

EVEN BEGINS to Know or Care why you do the things that you do THAT

SAME OLD ROUTINES Who's on Next in a fucking TAPE LOOP over and over

again and the Custard Pie keeps splashing but there's a mouldering old

scamp in the corner with a ghoulish grin who's KNAWING on your Bone

Collection which is CONNECTED by those Strings which your HEART is

twanging more than any Country and Western singer sewing machine

stitching together your lips are a cushion for mine eyes and in this

manner there will descend from the skEYES the Giant $ sign which is

shaped like a 9 mile high X in blue neon, quite a nice blue I might

add, robin's egg, none of that eldritch glowing stuff which actually

b'longs in a TOTALLY DIFFERENT SPECTRUM-CONTINUUM and makes your head

go All Funny, MA it's all funny IT MIGHT HATCH and produce a Secondary

Sky that Papers over the first one -- the SECONDARY SHELL OF THE SKY

that HIDES all of the Real Cosmic Dwellers from the REAL HOT SPACE

ACTION because we have been deceived by a machines that is overlord of

Years Hidden in a Papier Mache coccoon that was TOO TASTELESS to be

gnawed out of and when the BIG FLAP comes, the one that scares all of

the COWS into COWED SUBMISSION with the greatest Men of the Planet, so

decreed, marching out to meet them they Suddenly Find that there is a

Gigantic Funnel which sucks out all of their Unctuousness and DISTILLS

it into REAL Greaseballs, slippery and slidery all the way past the

the BIG X the time when the ELECTION occurs and the Ballot Papers all


TO DO THAT PROPERLY and pretty much everyone sees that it's All Too

Late to go back now because they're acclimatized to the Weather and

the warts of Dead Hair and Greaseballs and Barnacles that have become

SYMBIOTIC with the face of Existence itself a Crusty old Sea Dog

sailing on the fantastically glittering sparkle of the fizzy-popped

cherry cheery Light of the Spheroid Sea in the midst of the ventricles

forming a vertiginous parallel with Gigantic Floating Balls Of Life

that MIGHT JUST be a metaphor for existence itself wherein the STARS,

the real ones in the real sky that is behind the SKIN of the SEA DOG

which is the COCOON that is the FALSE SKY just in case you're not

keeping up to SPEED with all this fucking crapola which is ONLY A



Fools with your notions of WHATEVER THE FUCK IT IS YOU CLAIM TO HAVE

NOTIONS ABOUT, it never made much sense to me -- so that is these

Balls which are in constant motion behind the HITHERTO-UNMENTIONED

third cocoon which is also the first cocoon as well the I'm talking

about the eyelids, are agitated and blurrrrrrred like a dream which

can gradually if you TRY HARD coalesce into a fixed interpretation of

dancing that actually Looks Good after all Anything Is Possible if you

just screw up your eyes and BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT without being in

Service to a mascot or a Nameless Thing that EATS IT and leaves you

there hollow, nauseous, cold, and the blank eyes telling everyone that

once there may have been a Locked Room Mystery but in fact the walls

WEREN'T made of glass, they were just AIR carefully disgused to have a

heavier refractive index than the surrounding media so all those

things that GLISTENED at you were really just SHAM, PASTE, BAUBLES,

but you didn't realize until after you'd already developed that Magpie

squawking somewhere just RIGHT NEXT to the Internal Mirror Mental

Cochlea which is ALSO just a construct of windswept air in the mirages

that you hear some kind of pattern in the TICKING and the TOCKING of

the cogs grinding away to MAKE THE SUN SET FOREVER on any glorious or

partially-glorious things of when there was a Dead Body LYING THERE I

could have SWORN that there was going to be a post-mortem about WHAT

WENT WRONG although perhaps it was something to do with the dead

goldfish that swim in the Spheroid Sea and I want my subParietal

"Ticking" brain BACK NOW.




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