KAe & Nama

“They wouldn’t be able to find my body, back on earth.”
Kae didn’t look at the muppet before her.
She looked at the light at the end of the tunnel, in the debris house of ihiir.
The tides no longer move in the hall.
One of the planks covering the south window has fallen.
The place is lit but also in darkness.
“and now you want me to leave my child body with you as i leave this house to find the finale priest.”
“correct…” the muppet said, head on the floor, hollow body standing against the eastern wall.
“”and you have to give him the syringes i gave you. They are for your blood.”
‘why does he want my blood?”
“that answer, NAMA does not know.”
Kae thought about it.
looked at the door. looked at the door to the bedroom where the nest lay sleeping. or listening.
The headless NAMA fumbled around for his head. Kae helped him put it on.
“Does he know who killed me? She asked.
NAMA walked to the light at the end of the tunnel.
“That answer, nobody can promise.”
#epicide #irvingpaulpereira

4th eternity

the second foot appears.

but you should know the proper history of the first. it stands near the mountain of evening, a blue foot, like a mountain itself. one circulates around it / it could belong to the corpse of a giant / it has no other purpose other than worship, because – largeness, monstrosity, un-realness –  are virtues in this kind of world where  great feet appear like biblical signs on a prairie or field or irrational drugged dreams.

now the second foot appears.

it changes the onslaught or ‘going forth’ of everything, especially the tongue, the eyes, the meaning inside the head. stability is here, both feet on the ground. of putting the foot down. to march. it does not jump nor squat. it stands watch (or poised for action). a sentinel. a sure footedness. urine will not unusually run down these legs in such and such a manner. this is not a child or sick elderly. this is just the second blue foot on the hills.

then all is monochrome and ashen, ruined eyesight, darkened cornea of the world.

once, in a blue tent, a man of septu plucks numbered circles off a calendar sheet, puncturing holes in a space-time ticket that fits in his quivering hands (because of the cold sea water he emerged from.) once, he arranged the holes in the paper, blacking out dates and years and the sequencing turned the paper blue – as if exposed to heat – and the blue (not the same blue of the foot) but the blue of a dress, became a colour coded call that called upon The KAE.

She who is nymphoic, muse, or spirit.

the second foot descends because of her. anxious for her lips. a giant comes to see her, eagerly estranged, but you should know the proper history of these feet. they have no body and hence no tongue, the eyes, no meaning in the head. without body. the body had already gone through the fire.

once, in a blue tent, a man, who is the wolf-septu, sits with the man who is a minesweeper, the one who wills and is astray. “how the shoreline has changed.” he would say, “after the strange singing of people arranged in chairs in rows before flowers.’  there is wayward lightning (it is noted and/or rooted.)

there is a death oceans.

a dog barks in an Intensive Care Unit in another dimension.

the dog has left the bedside of the beach, left the baboon on white mattress sheets, gesticulating with wild sadness. The dog is calling a man, whois a general, who is a fadre of the silences. this changes everything.  with the sign of the dog gone and the appearance of a young muse in a blue tent, materiality shifts. paper calendar, now full of holes and changing size (passport to regular, to A6) eyesights are ruined. then all is monochrome and ashen.

“we of, we,
faithfully departing the beach
in a vehicle borrowed from a cliffside parking lot. no sirens.”

KAE is left in the boot. (or is born or sleeps there) our eye sights are failing. skin of septu turning darker, bit by bit by the sun but also by changing of blood inside, ‘of the in-bod’ they say. maybe the minesweeper does not follow them, but the car is dashboard lit by midnight. going and going. KAE is a muttering possession. she should not fit straight in the boot but she is there, face up. Her aura are shoddy colours of dirty silver, soot coated chrome, metal oxidised grey – something of something smoke remnants – a man,. maybe of septu, or a suit like apparition defining itself as septu, leans over the KAE and is transcoding Obosos Noxion into a rectangular mirror which she holds. it is also a tablet. a small computer. a page from a metallic book or truths or realities of templates.

I am in a vehicle that moves in a kind of night fog world. maybe the thing she holds is a map or handkerchief.

there is no apparent driver, just bodies slouched in seats, leaned back as if phase shifting backwards into olden, into ‘a predecessory universal’
the mystical steering wheel turns, the wheel of jupiter turns, Jesus takes the wheel and we’re silently swerving sharp bends on sharper cliffs, ascending some holy mountain of nought into morning light. we are in a hearse, or waiting for a hearse or looking at a hearse parked by the ash collection center. we are transferring bodies.

it is understood that KAE is elsewhere too (or before the time of the travellers or fetal curled in the boot.) she is the house that she has built from outrunning darkness. She builds from the forests, a residence above ‘all known basement archetypes’, of unlit caverns or ‘the catacombs of club a.m.a.l.g.a.m.’ the house that once was cored into the confusion of jungles now rise above its canopy, like an insignia of glass and the entrances of pure nature light. no more underworld.

she is eased and earthen and clean, among the sounds of trumpets, notational air songs simply floating through the air-conditioned coolness of her barefooted lover, an ‘installed’ man, a yogic, brutalism, minimalist in mind and disposition. is he a sculpture in movement or one who sculpts? a young avatar of the grey. musculature, a nimble. articulated  ‘preseance.’ an artist.

Noxion transcodes back into KAE. Her womb is a ruination of temples. she sees to me upon a sickened bed. i am desperate for a destruction. she breathes out smoke and i take it like a hungry child. “the aftercare makes you well.” she says.

I am shamanic breath of the deathless.

we park on tarmac, runway, the lost airport. Fadre had once spoken to the men who made these dominant roads for the behemoths of the skies. “not the omanyacons” he would later tell me. “those dream legions touch no earth, they are not of our spectrum. we are merely invited as witnesses and not as partakers. we glance and we are at awe but we shall not compute.” we leave the vehicle, doors open like jaws, like wings or minds unhinged. we leave the engine running. we go elsewhere nearby, a stones throw, lit by headlights where once burned the circle. reminiscent of the crossroads from a time just recent. i get an afterimage of a skull faced man, a gentleman of the dying, in atop hat asking for a cigar. I offer him an honour, a beedie. He is thankful.  i think suddenly of the dog by the beach. Anubis. It occurs to me, though i did not think anubis to be curly white furred and yapping.
but now, it has come and gone, dirty, foretold and accomplished. we sit in a circle of fires, past. soot and ashes remaining, bones of our ancestors crushed and smeared on the brave but not on us.

there is charcoal, there is a finished memory of smoke.

I hear waves on a shore and the astray man has gone home to his trees, to his lifeguard houses, to his yellow tower by the breakwaters. KAE and running mascara, pale, saddened, dress a little drenched from a forlorn rain near a tunnel. I will follow her home to her afternoon delights. The parakeets. the small ornaments, baked and scrumptious.

there is perhaps stars or distant lights. a sound of whales. no helicopters. the vehicle is perhaps gone. the blue feet and the mounts are nowhere to be seen.

KAE Hole

Would it be fair to have a sky blue sparrow in the palm of my hands? See, my dark blue nail polish is chipped, worn out, as if by digging or fingering myself. Thirty days since the ocean’s turn and I’m still the only one in the family awake. but I am not entirely alone.

Outside this house:
* sleeps the sloping forest, pine trees bent uphill to the other mansion.
* the jungles of Daeken also lives, where it had once rained needles;
* the parakeet sings of a time belonging to a clan, a destine group, a family from the revelation phases or end time gathering.

All these nodes cross into the way I uncross my legs here to let the red serpent, Samantha, slither out of her wet cave, to play with sky sparrow, who is restless and eager to find Septu on the other shore. Is there a shore here too? Like the small bodies of water, remembered now, churning between the islands three, jungle islands where mad Monroe houses himself as shaman and overseer. This jungle surrounding us is the archetype, expressing itself in so many episodes. So many possible paths.

I feel electrified by this myth that calls me into being.

I feel electrified by this ‘dreaming’ or ‘reconstruction of realities’ from the mind space that permeates this damp and cold afternoon in the dark wood hut. I wander slowly in the snoring house, nearly naked, in flimsy translucent underwear, past the door, slightly opened to reveal darkness and the sleep of Mother nest. More exciting is the door to the left, the classical room of Saul, the black hole event – who is in the room but also not- who is the temple satellite, the man who became a planet who became a god who became a book. Special is this room of the man who now calls upon himself the mantle of tespu. Tespu who sleeps his 99 sleeps, dreams his 99 dreams and is now out there in his 99 realms as Septu.

I want to knock on the door to wake him, to crawl upon him, to see him again as a child sliding across these marble floors of the past, sliding on water, on soap, from one wall to another, pushing off with his legs, happy as a child before the nuclear thing, before the sickness thing. I don’t want this boy to enter these hardened times but the calendar has other plans.

I let Samantha curl around my soft, tender pale thighs. I’m devouring the smoke of my ancestors, the black flowers. I’m squatting in some un-nameable corner, hungering for their sacrifices and offerings. I have my fill and then some more. Monstrous inhalation, like a passion in some burning church, breathing smoke like the dragon of old Daeken. (According to the calendar, this is a true variant of a false fiction.) According to the calendar, the time is very near to awaken the septu on the shore who has fallen asleep under the spell of a minesweeping man, the astraying man. Samantha gets excited, her flame body glows, a desert fever descends upon the sleeping house, she us curling herself around my right wrist, her face in mine, in my blue hair, in the blue smoke emerging from my mouth.

“You go to the blue tent,” She says, “Septu is chancing upon the correct date of your birth in the square calendar.”

She enters my mouth like a cock.

“You awaken the septu within.”

Something in the third room stirs. The young man who smells of nail polish and turpentine and cigars. There is salt, sandy and timeless on his soles. He will be the second in the family to wake.



Septu is naked
Septu is in the flood of an OBLIVIONIC Ocean
That cross-mythos current swirling in and about and through the bodies of Septu.
Septu, analysed by the neural satellites of EPICIDE


studies of wet suit = radiation = energy signature of nuclear lantern
pattern denotes repetition of cycle, of ‘the portal, engulfing’ = “the apocalypse of Saul”
studies of parking lot cctv = magnetic tape erasure following blind flash
military vehicles, police cruisers, electronics, weapons =  o.k. = absence of flesh / bone  = target specific ‘for the taking’


Septu is naked and confused
“Why doth they hunt septu, to hurteth Septu?”


For Septu is the aeged one, the outher one,
burdened with the all texts
from the
-time-mines of ‘he who was prayed for’
-three minds of vontinuum,
-of the log codes from night clinic,
Septu becomes the hunted one, for the erasure of datum,
to upset the programs of tespu the inevitable.


“Where doth Septu sendeth these violence of men?”


To ‘Septu of the river beneath’, to the sediment of river ga; not by commandment of Septu, but by that of Gadarah, goddess of the neck, snapped.


There are waters in the lung of Septu
Septu / oblivionic cross stream /
great turning, inbound tides
of a shoreless universe


There are waters in the lung of Septu
of origins
of the creatrix Hallucienda Oath
the bridge, the crossing
the cosmic mother of Daeken
birthed through the fog
of chemical mindspace



Septu of the depths, from another species in time
in the un-land, of ocean_friction,
submerged in the earliest of nodes


“there were shores then.
of glass shards in the sand,
of the woman,
barefoot with sadness,
of the woman, waist deep in death,
of flowers in the air, thirsting
of the bride form the film of CCLAON, weeping before the drowned groom

cross referencing complication
cross referencing complex



Septu on a shore reaching out, letting go. always night.
the nightclub, in-land. the silver haired mane of a cyclone, of ancient jester.


nodes of the river in the house in the desert
a descent into the crevix of –
into the hallway of-
through doors to the ocean, aira


Septu submerged with the white fur’d beasts
in the sea sleep of night society
on the banks by the buried forest
where the slit throats of sex workers gape
opened by the songs of EPICIDE


Septu taken by virtue of  n-nuclear light, by the wormhole of tespu


Septu is now washed up upon a shore, another shore, a familiar shore
found by the minesweeping man, the straying man, the man from a blue tent.


“Are you cold monsier septu?”


Septu is blind and naked, in him an oblivion ocean, settling him down into three dimensional space.
Septu as stargate
Voice of septu, hoarse disorientation.


“There is lightning above a sea that is not ours.”


“The dog and the baboon on the bed said you would come, but they did not prophesy lightning or a change of seas. You are surely hungry, Septu. Rise up, like your Red Christ once did.”


They walk the shore, barefoot in sadness.
Networks open in the mind of Septu. Open the eyes of Septu. He knows this place as ‘the chasm between coastline and city, marked by the unseen wall, a wall where 99 tespus sat, waiting for this age to pass into present.’


He asks the stray man about the gates, about the ‘truck of Wing-Dar’ and about the Guards.


“The great crone from the age of the festival had come to take her children. They were all waiting right about there,” he pointed to a far field, away from the sanctuary of trees , away from the cyclic paths and breakwaters. “They slept in tents, consumed strange minerals dug from the charred banks of the chasm, they danced with erratic abandon and waited for Grandmother spider to appear on stage in a vast silver box. I cannot forget that box, towering like a building, like it was meant for a shuttle launch, like it was from another star.  And when she came, even the tents and gates and walls were taken into her womb, then she herself departed, alongside the stage, the box, the noise.”


“And Yet the earth and seas and you remain.”


“Yes. I am made here to be the perpetual one, to hold the memory of this place, to hold it for what purpose, I never knew, until the dog and baboon spoke of Septu.”





“Septu the great.” amerrican nocturne. Red/blu swirl flash of light. amerrican nocturne. Big, black, rain falls. “Septu the bastard.” Police cruiser. Doors open. Gun shot wound to windscreen. Spider web cracked hole. Abandoned parking lot on plateau of cliff. Oblivionic oceans crashing deep below. “In blackness, Septu becomes. Septu in an envelope of light.”


Elongated fish tank on table legs. Struggles in its water.
“A septu. yea. A septu.  He, who is the counterung of tespu. an opposition, a clone,
a shadow beam to the spinal arch of Tespu. Night serpent air to the Day Vu earth of Tespu.”


Severe splashing in fish tank. A blind and biting wind. Loss of human crowds.


blind police siren
a whistling of air
police scanners going
speaking of tables
speaking of tables

“Septu is a body in the trunk of tespu” *association. “Forest fever. How it first began. Needles raining near the tent of Daeken. The naked girl fleeing in the forest. Barbed wire bound. Soggy in blood. Body in fish tank. The gentleman tuxedo in a high hat. The gentleman in black, walking through the forest with a small curved blade for small curved chest of naked girl. She is lost, running, half bent, wrist barbed to ankle. She is crying for god. Only Daeken appears.


“Septu is the body evidence of tespu. loss of human crown.”


The girl hides behind Daeken. the gentleman appears. the rain of needles, the rain of needles, Daeken and his Golf umbrella. The gentleman falls.


windswept lot
tumbling plastic bag flying over edge of cliff
plastic tarp flapping
There wil be no body of girl in fish tank or suitcase in a well. Only the body of septu. Trashing. Becoming. In an abandoned lot surrounded by pillars of salt.


/E P I CI D E/ is a code that runs in the template of Septu. Cross mythological node map of triggers. Oceans crashing below the oblivionic line. Red plastic chairs now arranged around the cruiser. Engine running on empty. Red/blu lights swirling with blindness. Radio scanners going. “Sires in the distance. Sires in the corset of tespu”  A line of lights / moving horizon. Military trucks camouflaged by Amerrican nocturne. Include the searchlight of chopper in the blind above. Include the gunships. Remember the rain of debris from blasted tower.


Remember the man with the lantern who falls. He, who ends the forts of enemies. Remember the nostalgia of gunfire and steel and beatings.


“Remember the nuclear light of lantern.”


Septu, the anthologeist, the hive of books written by astral. Septu, the start of this universe. Septu in latex emerging from fish tank, dropping astronaut helmet. * association: construct in the west. The desert of naked ascetics, sprawled like lizards, feeding off the sun. The desert where ‘one is buried in order to be born.’


Septu the barefoot. Line of lights approaching. Red/blu swirl of panic. Military weapons hot. Septu and the smell of a new world. Septu on the great tarmac of Balthazar.  Septu the difficult persuader. Septu, the library of onslaughts. Septu circled out by searchlights.


/hands where I can see them/


“Hands. Of the masked Nurses. In the ex-room. Nurses in the eden pool feeding my young.”


/you shut your mouth/


“Storm doors.”


Weapon to the knee, dropping of Septu.


“You, who are they, who killed the knight. Fire arrows to the stone hut. Defilement burning of dead queen body. Wife of our favoured god.”


Weapon to the head, Septu,  prostrate.


“We, who are the heretics. We, who you try to kill over and over.”


Boots to the stomach. Tasers.


“You who do not understand the imminent immortalities.”


Gunshot wound to the head.


So many times. So many places. Before the final food. During last sleep. On the mountain. At the Malls. At the gas stations.


/why the fuck won’t he-


The man with the lantern hits the ground. Remember the nostalgia of nuclear lantern. That singular light. The opening of red door to Ai-Fi, of Ihiir, of XOL.


Why the fuck won’t he die.


“For now is the hour of Septu , the first of immortalities,


of  E P I C I D E.”