From within The Spy's enfolding spire,
There emits a glint of fragile light,
Revealing an unreachable, mist-fading city—
The vivid incantation of unutterable occult rites.

Before the riptide of the shore,
Illumed by the light of his flickering flame,
The Spy collapses into his spire,
Only to emerge once again:

Now past the water's glistening edge,
Having scaled the city's sky-flung walls.
Now moving between ancient shadows,
Following the light of his vermilion flame.
Now seeking catacomb chambers
Where, among dismantled skeletal bones,
The master of the slumbering dead resides.

Reverberation:
The pilgrim's corn. It is illuminated by the Harvest Moon.

A reverberation:
What old Palmer saw when he drew his pilgrim cooling in the warmth of a circular Sun, in the early light of the Sun.

Reverberation:
The industrial fields— they swell— where, once, the Harvest Moon hung— amber— like the swell of the midday Sun.

Samurai blade!
Swing!
The Moon cuts the Sun in two. Inside we see the rings of the Sun.
God drew these rings with his steady hand, for his art is soft and tender.

"Good day, Sir (or be it the night?). I work the Harvest. At this present moment I am resting in the heat of the midday Sun. You may use my body as a sundial, for my shadow keeps pace with the steps of the Sun.”

And, as the old worker of the Harvest settled down, he looked up, in meditation, and he saw Blake's sun-flower— golden!— keeping pace with the steps of the Sun.

Part 1

Upon this strange land we beheld organic structures of oblong intonation and mosaic, bio-organic design. The trees grew in irregular shapes, reminiscent of cones and gelatinous globules.

From the shadows, the honourable Nipslip Cockhantuu would now align with us! Nipslip Cockhantuu kindly offered to be our guide— our emissary!— upon entering the sacred village of Tok-Tuu. He would be a conduit, as it were, between us and the strange customs of the Tok-Tuu peoples.

Now we come closer to the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu, its minarets looming before us as in the dreams of secluded architects. Birds of vibrant colours soared above our heads and danced in strange formations, communicating in a language close to our own. Upon entering the village, Nipslip Cockhantuu granted us the honour of rubbing his dark ******* before the statue of the village's founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy. Nipslip Cockhantuu's ******* were soft and delicate, possessing a gentle, bumpy texture, very much like our own human *******.

Such wondrous celebrations ensued! And we knew our arrival upon this strange orb was a success, and that there would be many discoveries to be made!


Part 2

My companions, forlorn, left Remus Primoid— disappearing like vultures into a Sub-Saharan vista of the night— and travelled back to Earth, missing the the life they had once lived. I, however, had no friends or family to sustain my sentimentality and decided to stay upon Remus Primoid, within the village of Tok-Tuu, hoping to create a life for myself upon this distant world.

In my fifth year as a villager of Tok-Tuu I was permitted to learn the oblong mutterings: sacred chants created by the pre-eminent founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy, who uttered these chants as he carved the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu and the hidden statue of Tei Romuloid-Papatemuloid, the mother of all life on Remus Primoid, a statue hidden within the depths of the ancient tombs, situated deep within lost catacombs.

The mutterings were as follows:

"Oblongboidoid, Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Boid, boid. Bashin-gore— I sustain my left foot. Boid, boid. Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Helmonstap-hablefoot, caress carefully."

Upon my learning of the sacred mutterings, I was initiated into The Society of Sculptors. Such joy I felt, in this, my fifth year, to finally be accepted, truly, among the people of Tok-Tuu!


Part 3

In the gloom of the Mindfear Caves, my chanting echoed throughout, and I could see the Seven Heads hovering before whilst I uttered the Oblong Mutterings. In here I could become one with the land of Tok-Tuu and its spiritual soul.

Having reached the culmination of my meditations, I emerged from the caves into the warm breast of summer, passing through Tok-Tuu's ancient orchard on my journey home. There, seemingly by fate, I met a gentleman who appeared to be in the process of painting the lifecycle of the Bulbous Tree, a tree which grew into full bloom and expired in the space of mere hours. He introduced himself as Outside-Inwards Jenkins— a descendant of Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy— and had been cast from the village of Tok-Tuu for practicing occult techniques in the manner of the forbidden doctrines, using these teachings in the creation of his artworks.

"You shall become my pupil, Earthbeing, and accompany me on my iminent journey into the jungle of Vorboon, in search of the Abstract Scroll. Within its writngs are techniques that are crucial to my artistic progression, and I shall share what I learn with you. Once I have learnt the teachings of the scroll I shall finally be able to complete Emerson, The Great Water Lilly, and apply the finishing touches to my homage of Rotondo The Clown."

Our words had been spoken and I would begin to embark on a quest that would be of great importance to what was meant to be in a time when we would begin.

We began our journey in the evening, when the air was cool and the Bloodfang Mosquitoes were perched high in the trees. The jungle of Vorboon was dark and abstract, especially at night, when winding vines and hollow trees could lead lost travellers deep underground. I quivered in fear as Outside-Inwards Jenkins led me deeper and deeper into the heart of the jungle. However, though fear pervaded my soul, I still saw an inner light transmute within my mind's eye, morphing into the form of the Abstract Scroll. I allowed this image to guide my fearful heart.


Part 4

Fear moved with us into the bleak jungle of Vorboon, the canopy above eclipsing our throats like body-clung latex. The torturous heat ushered from me crystalline salt of the sweat gland, cascading in hallucinogenic fragments of mirrors reflecting refracted light, curving around us and confusing the spectrum of amalgamated forms.

"Outside-Inwards Jenkins, please, I cannot take this any longer! We must leave this writhing jungle!" I wept one million tears of sorrow and fell to my knees in lamentation.
"Do not weep-weep, earth-being, for we have arrived upon the temple's entrance."

The temple soared above us as if in the dream of a secluded architect, creating cataclysmic structures within his slumber. Its beauty was truly beheld, by us, fading into mist-forged fog, reminiscent of the Marabou stork or the Shoebill— the fog's imperious gaze.

Upon the temple's steps stood the long-necked man, Scatard Acrosdaune. His countenance was elongated with sinister elation. He was unquestionably bizarre in every conceivable manner. Everything about his appearence was long and disconcerting, as if he were the echo of an echo of a man. His lecherous strides were reminiscent of The Ghost of a Flea.

"Please, thou welcome most unto the existential temple of the Abstract Scroll. Scatard Acrosdaune, he who is I, shall be your guide within the depths." Now, with a foreboding resonance, Scatard Acrosdaune paused in ominous contemplation, shrouding the mechanations of his frontal lobe.

"Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll? Walk in mine footprints, before the Bloodfang Mosquitoes quiver and awaken, as the shimmering sunlight fades."

Within the temple, cyclopean blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous alignment of masonic anticipation, partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the Sea Horns. We would head deeper still, deep into oblique chambers of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our collected mental cognition.

With cascading light faltering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable catacombs of dread— between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and totem poles transpiring against the unification of collected consciousness, inspiring gelatinous brain matter— had overcame us.

Sliding through abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge! Subsequently escaping through pores of sweat coagulation! We allow silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation and culminating in continuous arachnid dread!

In each vault: a fifty pound note—
How fragile our consciousness must be!
From each well: an overflow of oil,
Gently trickling into the village's stream.
For all their wealth, no sons to be seen;
No daughters frolicking across the effervescent green.
Only weapons adorn their mantlepiece.
No pictures of family. No memories amassed.
No records for spiritual esteem.

It had been many weeks since I had seen Tokyo, and my gentle rowing would lead me back to Tokyo, back to a semblance of a piece of mind.

They had been frying the fish and chicken in the same oil at the local chip shop.

O! what is this? That was not chip!

The Wyg burns the separate strands above a wooden pyre. The Wyg ushers in The Line.

Mixing new colours with a robotnik slave-hand, the Wyg manipulates The Line as no other in existence has done before or since, except for Exalted Steve Ditko, he who studied with Exalted Paul Rubens.

The Wyg pays credence to the commeroration of Mars, watching over its distant skies and hallowed sand dunes, which burn as only fires can; but those of us with eyes where eyes ought to be can only see the embers that scatter across the land, settling as the hallowed, red Mars-dust.

In communication with the Mars Moth-Man, on the nights where Earth-glow streaks across exalted Azuul, the Wyg scrapes Mars Moth-Man's moth wings for the powder of the scales and uses the powder for hallowed rites of manifestation. Only in the temples of Azuul can one conjure The Line, and many materials are required.

This clean cup! I washed the cup then drank from it, leaning against a leather wall. Eight whole years of prehistory, searching for a cup of swilling in the night air. When it was found filled with sawdust and feathers, we rejoiced!

Blotted starlight from sunken Heaven
Aligns separate suns with black-hole-being
Under simmering fires of flickering, flickering,
Fading into condensation breath.

Totemic— the drowned **** rises from the blasted shore, linking the severed heads, the spinal cord and collections of scorn.

Reaching into the higher worlds
Through the slabs of consciousness.
Peeling apart the astral membrane
Of eternal, transcendental splendour.
The visions!
The slabs of consciousness!
The rotating, interlocking dawn!

The muffled barks— craving sleep—
Stir weary eyes on sodden streets.
A desolate man on heavy feet,
With cigarette roll clenched between grey teeth,
Mumbles to himself in the dead of night:
"'Tis three O'clock. I have lost my soul."
Words uttered through mist if truth be told.

When the transcendental died, Cézanne howled to the moon;
But Cézanne, he knew the truth:
He saw, in his eyes, that life could not die—
In his early work he displayed this truth.
But, he was corrupted by Camille Pissaro,
And his palette was lightened to boot.
Yet there still remained, on his most turbulent days,
Everlasting darkness that strained,
Winding its blackening roots.

We can hear: "Caw! Caw!" as the crow flies.
Caw! Caw!
Ping! Ping!
And we revisit the bust of The Wiygg—
The Wiygg who knowest thou.
He who sings when we deliver a burning sword to Sanjeet and Romesh Singh,
Those who beat their blood-soaked wings.

Once that particular door has been shut, and twilight begins,
Lang, Rita, Jamal and Hatesh P. Benjahmin,
Where will you call home once the end of the night begins?

What we learnt from the Masks:
What we did with our freedom:
What we saw when we took up the pen.

Shall we learn what we had learnt once again?
I don't think I could stand another night
Locked inside the shadows of Earth-den.

Subsequently, the Masks coiled around us,
And we set down our penmanship in the shade.
They beckoned us to sing, once again.

I sit here, amidst a darkened hall,
Congregating with the darkened rats,
Sipping upon a darkened drink— blood-drawn.

Now I rub my ******* and feel them swell
Amidst a rally-call within this darkened hall,
Possessed by a demon’s hypnotic call— his rally-call.

We shall echo the points that scrape the skies
Above the streams of Wonder City.
On the streets below, men shall shift through time,
Watched on by soaring concrete;
And in the steaming sewers strewn beneath
These streets— O Wonder City!—
Rats shall run the labyrinth of the sewers
To find the traces of a world
Before the life of Wonder City.