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God's crazy parlour of sweet consent

God’s crazy parlour of sweet consent

Written by Dean Moriarty himself

Copyright 1968

Edition number eighty eight

Unabridged and re-written many times

It seems to be the in-thing now to have one of my books on the shelf, so here’s another book for you.

Solitude breaks you open and is not for everyone and the longer it goes on the harder it is to find the pieces of what you once thought important…

This book will blow you away with its brilliance…The Cardiff Poet

New York best seller…The New York Best Seller

A ghost of a story to make you shiver…The Ghostly Herald

I sniggered…The Quiet Virgin

What a smoke dance…The Holy Donut

A Barabbas love boat sailing down the river of life…The Old Newspaper

You won’t put it down until you’ve drunk all the coffee…Shout

What do you do when nothing seems to be working out?

Most of my books are about that place you come to when you’ve reached the desert of all you know. When nothing seems to be working out and you find there’s nowhere left to go.

When all you’ve tried has come to nothing and no amount of effort brings your goals any closer and where the questions you ask appear to drop dead at your feet.

When all has become a grey mist about you populated by the ghosts of all you once loved; where do you turn?

This story is a quarter of a grain of truth and ten ninths of a torpedo that can’t tell the time and rushes around trying to bite its own tail in the all is well department.

“I have been in many tribes, and left them all. I am not one that fits in a tribe. I wander through you all and see you for what you are, and I rejoice in that, as you do. I do not trouble you in your growing and life, even when you ask me why I am so rootless and try to capture me with both sides of your eyes that you have built to show your courage and your love.

I learnt long ago that I do not fit in; you all showed me that, and I thank you for it, for without that I would not have been able to go beyond all the circles and be free in this that I am free in…but sometimes I miss the company,” said Ning-Ning lost now in the annals of time and a legend.

FORWARD

“Ning-Ning,” said Miss Pretty.

“Very-very,” said the story opening up.

“Chop-chop,” said the river of time.

And then fourteen miles of river opened up under the story and took it far away; but it doesn’t matter where you are; if you’re nowhere, somewhere or anywhere, when enlightenment comes you’ll find you’re really only where you are.

In the night of one eye and two-step sure to please on Jagan-oo-dee beach where the story stood in patchouli sandals by the ocean it came to a pause all of a sudden when it ran out of fuel to carry on.

“Safety first,” called the golden virgin from her book of romance.

But the story didn’t want to be safe, it just wanted to move.

The wound was a full moon of incremental pathways of its choosing that took it closer to that clarity and away from the huge illusion that had surrounded it since forever.

But we do not pass Andromeda this way without singeing our toes and so when the night came we asked to be forgiven and took our sack full of treasure home with us and in this way the dreaming became pure and then, when the singing tree asked for its tune back, we gladly gave it and all the better it was too for having been sung, and sung so well.

It was the ghost of all the old beliefs that said this from out of the deep dark pit where one day escaping, they came to fly on the ocean huge again and glad we were that it did so, for long it spent in that dark, bloody pit making moans that kept us awake.

“We are not amused by your secrecy,” said the X-ray dog to Miss pretty; “but we have ways to make you talk.”

Shivers Saturday in the divergent test and 2nd grade erection assistant to the shovels of the night was speaking topographically out the back of his mouthful of pie just then and almost caught what was being said.

The X-ray dog and his triage of four exited the train in a straight line dead at three in the afternoon of it all and was immediately assaulted by the baggage of noise and sights in the station; and if the angels had any messages, he’d not hear them.

“Get me out of here,” he threw back over his shoulder to the gang and then ran for the exit.

The gang grabbed the luggage and followed as best they could and were not heard about again until near the end of this story.

“Shade your eyes then and bend into it the broken burdens one by one until your head is too heavy and the doors close and you scream, and if the big mister comes and comes to take you away then scream some more in the elastic echoes,” said the X-ray dog trying to frighten Miss pretty who was lost and would not say anything just then.

Ribald and taciturn were a pair of musketeers, and 30 shirts for an echo was a thief who had a big bucket of death and carried it around with him wherever he would go and scratched it on walls high and low grinning fair.

Oh what must we do with him in the diary of a diary where the big huge plankton grows?

Nothing; let him die his own death alone.

So down into the deep, oh the deep he was sown, to sit in the shadows of the grief he has known with the elastic echoes; and for this that can never be we have a machine that will turn you and turn you.

No-no don’t frown at the cow, you silly man you. You must have had cheese for breakfast, now look what you’ve done.

Oh what can we do with you?

And now the man with the grin is on the turn and here he comes, racing up the street on his rubber motorbike.

Run boys, we’re in trouble now as we walk down the backstreets of the life full of those elastic echoes.

And the wind of the raging father shouts many encounters deep with the dream thief, and the other one we don’t talk about much, the sacrosanct bitch of loneliness.

“Where is this that is not that for a stranger in a strange land?

Dream me this beneath the diary sighs so I can turn you into concrete where your appetites confirm you live so small and die this every day until you’re dead and lace up this shoe with your arrogance.

Tie up that sign in the centre of your universe to make the small smaller and the hole deeper, and wind up that rabbit and let it loose into the fray of your thinking.

And snip at the edges of all you hold dear until it turns away from you to let us live here now in the riches of all this and sing the praises and for the love of god give me an apple so I can eat it with my teeth,” said Miss Pretty to the stupid dog that wouldn’t stop talking.

But the goal was the journey and it calls like some whisper from a friendly place; stronger and stronger it calls until it is answered by Miss Pretty:

“What am I answering in this place too joined and sure or sailing blind,” said Miss Pretty all chatter-gun in the spiritualism pie.

“Something still alive in this one boys,” said the half-moon burbling in the heat.

“…and a bottle of your best pain killer to spend the night; and take that cigarette out of my face before I die,” said Miss Pretty looking for a direction to head towards.

Miss Pretty didn’t care about what was being said, all she wanted was coffee without mildew; not a crime surely?

IN A PLACE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

And above the wind where we sleep there is the murmur of the tides turning…but tonight we have the fitness machine that plays with words and jumps up and down and goes: woo.

So, it is night and the machine has an aversion to being fit and it has a voice. What else is there to know?

Perhaps there is more going on here…Can the machine cry? Hmm.

Right, now then, you know children are not snails, right? I mean, they’re faster than snails, aren’t they?

Anyway, enough about children and snails…

The ego is a dump set in the hierarchical interstices of the brain that can’t transcend its own boundaries and as such seals its own fate.

In time it comes to know this but through fear and denial it chases its own tail in an illusory world it builds around itself.

The first step towards being egoless is to understand that the ego is no more than a passing fad in humanity’s evolution.

Until then the world is full of ghosts that come out of the wood-work at dawn to sharpen their spears then chase along the circular patterns of their run-ins.

OK, I think we’re getting somewhere; but is it worth a pound of hay? A saucer full of lobotomized mosquitoes were swimming listlessly towards the edge of all they knew and couldn’t say in the dungeon deep where the shackled prisoner was shouting that he knew, but no one could hear him. As luck would have it a little mouse crept into the prisoner’s cell and began a tap dance that calmed the prisoner down which enabled the story to be carried on.

A plain huge, big as an ordinary smile of love sang a song of the blue light of destiny as the boys from the up above of down below gnashed their teeth and scribbled all was well on their blackboards of the missionaries who were proceeding, always proceeding in what died a long time ago; and if the love-rats from hell had their way there would be bells to announce the second coming of the virgin who was a prostitute and a good farter to boot.

A big smile raised its head about here and said: “this is a strange story.”

The Gravesend gang who were all dead and buried long ago readily agreed that this was so; so let us proceed as if one life wasn’t enough and two would be better.

“How many would you need anyway,” said the virgin, “and why would joy die like that, taller than the sun and wide awake as you are to say such in the scrambled face of eternity?”

The holy grocery machine in the oriental had time for thought and so thought about the usual stuff that came from nowhere: wouldn’t you like to go to all the places that you’re in love with, and wouldn’t you like to find yourself there? All aboard the genetic chicken train then.

And now let’s talk about love bombs and smithereens to sign into here then a moment a minute.

“Excuse me,” said the x-ray dog from next door.

“What is it?” said the baloney sandwich waiting to be eaten.

“Depression as a lemonade bowl full of goodies looking into the ecstatic eyes of a long day can be a tad boring if you do it for too long,” said the x-ray dog from next door.

“I agree with you entirely,” said the excruciating agony putting in an appearance.

“Hoy!” said the x-ray dog, “we don’t allow that around here.”

The baloney sandwich looked on with a bemused expression that said it was not going to dance to any of this.

“I entirely agree with you,” echoed a voice from out of the blue.

The x-ray dog walked off to look for a bone, shaking its head at all the messages that were appearing from nowhere.

“We come by here so frequently to dash ourselves against these walls and you can see it in the eyes of pain of those who can’t find a way out or grow wings to fly.

Are we the experiments of the generations that came before and thought to make us as they would have us?

We are undoing all this and all their scheming has been for nothing…

But I am visible and they can see me in my nakedness where my tears talk so loud in the shivers that assail me down my face and in my heart.

So repeat after me: I am in joy and this is not my inheritance, but theirs, those sleepless ghosts that cry in the dark to be heard.

Death is not the end…we can still hear them…justice comes,” said the voice of the x-ray dog from next door with a bone in its mouth.

“The sex machine was in a quandary with her legs up to her ears, for how would she fit into what could never be said? But not to worry, the menu was written long ago and is not up for improvement and so now we know the difference between half a pound of what we don’t have and the longing to find the fire and jump in and be burnt to dust and then come back again as more than we can ever say,” said this about the sex machine trying to fit it into the story somehow.

“I guess that in the tertiary adjuncts of the mind where we wander lost and alone re-cycling the masks we wear into more durable beliefs and too where redemption is another polished word doing the rounds there are few doors and none we would choose to enter.

And unless we are blessed by that touch of grace that enters our hearts from the secret place we will wander without sanctuary or a place to rest and tasting only the meagre scraps of what we once thought into being.

How would one fall so low from such heights of privilege?

Perhaps in the unconscious dictations we let distract us there is that which listens and sets into motion the thoughts that get away from us and those that just come and go.

Maybe there’s a certain irony in this that if we could understand what is happening we could turn it around and have it work for us instead of against us; but how does one capture the quicksilver flowing of our wishes to bottle them, for as soon as we see them they are gone or turned to stone?

I do believe we are best answered by that inner voice, the one that has always been with us and in knowing that the outer questions become stepping stones over the little river of life.

60 or 6 then becomes the same,” said an old drunk who had seen better days and was just then passing the garden.

“Ah, if only we could bottle it,” said Ning-Ning.

The garden was sniggering in the background and trying not to make a sound.

The baloney sandwich sighed softly as it went into the gardener’s mouth to disappear forever.

The x-ray dog and Ning-Ning who were the bones of this story met the old drunk who was just passing by the garden gate.

“The end of the world is nigh,” he said and clung to the gate in desperation.

The plastic lateness of an abandoned hour moved inexorably to catch up to all that had been left behind and as it moved against time the jaws of a doomed rock and roller chomped down on it and bit it in half so that there were then two pieces of eternity that couldn’t find their way home from there.

“Join the club,” said a silver dollar that had been lost for a hundred years, its voice moved by the doom of being in a storm drain for so long that it had lost all hope.

The hundred years that had grown up around the silver dollar groaned: “doom, doom,” it said.

And then the doom said: “I’m so tired of you.”

A packet of soup fell down into the drain from out of the pocket of a passer-by and the groan shouted in glee: “dinner time.”

They all set upon it hungrily, all except the silver dollar that couldn’t do anything but watch as the soup was devoured.

The x-ray dog and Ning-Ning together with the old drunk looked to see where all the noise was coming from but saw nothing out of the ordinary and so turned their attention to each other over the garden gate to slide this way and that as the dreaming tumbled them into the sea of their aloneness that crashed upon the shore of where they had all ended up.

The old drunk was a scow who couldn’t help himself anymore and had passed through the veils one after the other until there was nothing left but himself and a pair of rusty boots full of holes that couldn’t go any further.

The debt slave of their imputation was hanging about near the rubbish pile of all this and hoping to pinch something to take home and call it a trophy of worth; but the trophy of worth was a pile of dust on the mantel-piece in the front room of an idea that couldn’t go any further either.

“There are more laws than we can break and all of them were made to protect the privileged to the detriment of the rest of us,” said an ex-government agent swimming against the tide and wishing he’d stayed in bed.

“The government is a joke, and if you can’t see it then you are lost in their power; furthermore…” he said, but got no further, as the last of his strength ran out and he was washed out to sea.

A man with flowery fingers and one leg so short his pants rode up his leg to his knee had a fixation and was talking to it as he crossed the road to the other side.

“Oh bless us for what we collectively dream in the hive mind of humanity; we are all on this little planet called Earth and our fates are joined, even though sometimes we live on the island of doubt.”

The x-ray dog heard this from the man as he passed by and so before any more could be it said raised a red megaphone to its lips and spoke into it:

“Now hear this, now hear this, I hear what you are saying,” said the x-ray dog trying to find something to say through the red megaphone that was broken.

The megaphone squeaked and said: “If you can’t be here then be there.” And then it said no more.

The broken script of a seeming stray circus of exclamation points began to expound for want of a word to explain the concept that had no word of explanation and so became lost in all the other words that came along to fill the vacuum.

Along the seventh parallel of this blue moon of a thought that was cave diving under the waves in and out of the luxury of a good stroll in the park, surrounded by all the ghosts of old ideas the quartermaster could not be found to account for the exception that was trying to get in and say something.

Under the floorboards of all this, the crazy gang were holding down the concept that could explain everything. The concept was struggling mightily, but it was no use, there was no escape for it, at least not in this story, maybe the next one.

The x-ray dog and Ning-Ning held hands as a rumble shook the ground. It was a rumble that had come all the way from the far reaches of this story and was on a mission to devour everything from within.

Closer and closer rumbled the rumble until it could go no more and then without a backward glance the rumble turned into a sinkhole that swallowed everything down into its black depths that was so deep that not even a word could escape, except one burp to show its appreciation.

And the moral of this story is: there’s always something to appreciate if you look hard enough for it, and sometimes even when you don’t look.

Anyway, Gustav Strontium 99 had more ideas than could be counted by the ordinary man and he wanted to share them bad but a suitcase full of money made an abrupt appearance falling out of the sky and so Gustav Strontium 99, being nobody’s fool picked it up and escaped all the way to the magical wood and turned into a tree.

After an ageless age of just being there, a wooden house sprang up next to the tree so the tree knocked on the door and was let in by a nervous old doorman who showed it to a back room where it could belong without getting in anyone’s way.

The compressed urge of a tarpaper of love slid gently down into the depths of all this and wound itself around the tree’s roots where Harry Houdini was escaping from the after-life.

The secret agent called Joe with only one tooth left was hiding in the bushes of the garden by the wall of the wooden house and spying on the Sasquatch mouse that was playing in the cider of the sundown.

The faceless idiot was also hiding in the bushes over on the other side of the garden. His grin, which someone had stuck on with glue when he was a child, stared in complete happiness at the mouse playing.

The sun was going down fast and making deep shadows race across the ground.

At the back of the house, Arthur the electric lemonade bottle was building his escape rocket to Mars and had got as far as securing a jar of dandelions for fuel, five rusty nuts and a hammer which was quite an achievement all things considered.

He was scratching his head and looking up and wondering which way Mars was and would he need to take a pair of sunglasses with him when he went.

It was dark out the back of the house so the moon shone bright as it came up above the trees.

“Maybe I should go to the moon instead,” said Arthur to himself and put the hammer he’d been holding down beside the rusty nuts and went inside for a cup of tea.

The secret agent yawned with nothing to report yet and the faceless idiot lay down and went to sleep.

It was twilight in the front garden; the moon not yet raised enough to shine there and the mouse had gone inside to its nest and a large piece of dried cheese it had found in the kitchen the night before.

The holes of an encyclopaedia that was abandoned behind a rustic armchair leaked secrets that wanted to be found by anyone that was looking for them but nobody was looking just then, they all had their own ideas to follow for better or worse.

The secrets spread out around the room and hid in the shadows waiting to pounce when the time was right.

Gustav Strontium 99, in the middle of the room and who was now a tree was unmoving and silent and truth be told was fast asleep.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck a peculiar hour and said: “bless us for what we may dream until that time comes when we are but a memory of a memory of a memory.

The deadly duo, who were all but indifferent to all and sundry except themselves and were called the Doomson twins were the cats whiskers of the opening doors of their mother’s eye for them, but she had passed on and so now all they had was each other.

They were so alike that is was as if they were talking to themselves, when they used to talk to each other that is; these days they never said a word anymore, just raised an eyebrow when the wind of an opposing thought raised their hackles, which was not often but more than a month of blue moons.

One day they were out riding a motorbike when they came upon the endless sinkhole and down they fell until they reached bottom which hit them unexpectedly.

After they picked themselves up and got back on the motorbike they rode around in circles hoping to find a way out in the pitch black.

A clock on the tower of their dreaming had rusted away to an ecumenical shine somewhere at the back of the midnight quire and was making hand signals to Leonard Cohen to say the sixties were over and can we stop singing now.

In the downtime between this and any other tale that can be told, the dance of Zen gang can be seen rowing their boat along the horizon and singing: “row, row, row your boat…”

“And I will be taking the next train to sunset with emergency hope,” said the revolution that was not getting off to a good start.

Government agents came then and fixed a manhole cover of doom over the sinkhole and abandoned everyone to their fate.

And now for the fishing frequencies of Ning-Ning:

CHAPTER ONE

Very far away but too close were two beards in the peanut butter all eyes with looking and not keeping in tune.

And then suddenly, self-consciously on fire in the mind’s eye, the middle of the day swapping, and seagulls calling too came this that went away.

One moment more and the next moment will come, and here it comes full of this…”Oh if I could but fly another foot…but I should have brought a wheelbarrow for all this sun,” thought Miss Pretty to herself but no one was there to listen to her but herself. “And I wonder where I put the honey.”

Thoughts like these came and went in the thronging crowd that passed by.

And smoke dancing about from the charcoal grill next door brought the smell of sausages cooking.

And they were smoke-dancing too and not to be disturbed with a strange fascination that came about sniffing the yarn:

As Miss Pretty stepped outside of this yarn with a black herbal tea the fruit bees came to trouble her and buzzed around brandishing things, like instant replica cameras that recorded through crystals all that could be thought; and they carried wallpaper underneath the bedroom door to remind her not to come home too late.

Funny strange to beat up this when what she was waiting for was riding the escalator up to the top shelf where all she had before was waiting and all she could ever want could never take the place of this: that this idiom of gravity fell out of the dustbin labels that can never be found when the fruit bees are around.

But now she must step back into the yarn, it must be so in the largess for the broadside or she will drown away never to be found again.

“Come look through this window to see what isn’t there where we have dates that simmer in the sun and we have barracuda timing and ideograms in the points of rust to shake your gates as you yawn,” said the Sultan selling dates.

“And, here’s an ice cream for your friend come to live in the broom cupboard under the stairs where the strawberries ripen, so don’t live on the edge anymore where the ice is a curtain for your awakening, come, look in this window to see what isn’t there where your breath draws a crowd of ingenuous followers to stand beside you and hold your hand.

And of all that’s gone before let this be what has come after that we can have all that we can be in the dawn of our redemption, and so saying it is 50% off in the morning’s breeze; oh come, you know it is so.

So many in the 50% in the morning’s breeze of the mothers who would go there with all that clutter that speaks too much and never holds the tongue.

And a receipt for the summer time, there where the wind doesn’t blow too big to get you where the daisies turn over in the hollow grove and the life expectancy is a prognosis unmade and never said to find some returning where there is none though the clouds come deep and thick to marry this and then return it to the sea on the rocks where the moon shines in the old photograph that was lost somewhere far ago, an image of reality of a sunburn that fades to become a legend where 500 buy the 50% in a morning’s breeze forever.

And this is who we shall be to take this light to break your tongue on the steal and dare one whoop inside thunder, the other there where all’s fair, with the green bottle of the moon crossing our path.

We have not moved to be still here, no, there is where we’re not, but we will still be here, as the river follows its own path to appease the hungry fishermen with their poles to thank you not and ask for more and then crack the nuts that come in from the sea.

So this is who we shall be under the bridge and up the tree; and they say we have lost our touch.

Oh towers they build so high that fall from the sky, like it or not to stay here only as long as we can stand it and then move on; this is who we shall be.

And now shall we go down to the great eating away with its mouth all closed over and its eyes agog?

Or shall we stay at home by the flaming brilliance of heartland security?

These are the transitions we are offered in the jungle of who knows me where I go and hold on to your hair it’s a big show.

Come, we will appease this of who we shall be,” said the Sultan running out of breath.

“I’m not sure if I should,” said Miss Pretty.

“But let us not be indolent here where the wind is fair to hold onto the tree and not fall down even so or ever so as the case may be with one foot on the ground and the other lost forever.

And then call this what you will for we have no light left to see, to see so far; and then within the dark with the birdies gone to sleep we shall retire thank you very much.

This is what we said to present our case to believe us in the inebriated dust of our sleep when we’re not awake anymore way down in the hold.

And we didn’t need the ghosts to help us there neither.

I do not think we could be more here than there even if we tried to be in plain sight; but the angel feathers are blowing away and I am at an end with them.

But wait, here comes another one on the wind this way swept.

Does this mean you haven’t given up on me and that you’re hiding where you can’t be found in plain sight?

Come to me plainly, and not in hypnotism, and let us adventure before it’s too late.

Let us be seen together, and I will photograph you for all to see in plain sight of their noses in front of them to show you who they are so they’ll know of you in their religious arcade of self-belief where the monkeys fight and squander the precious moments of light.

We met briefly, and then later, briefer still, you came to say goodbye.

Or was that the deep hole I found myself in when the bottom fell out of the spiritual equanimity?

But these analysing thoughts are what did it, for you are not thought, and thoughts can’t go there where you are in that deepest place of all.

I am hypnotised by the strange beliefs that do not serve of the thought processes that evolve from some squatting duck in the dark.

That like some old dark belief that still cries to be free so long after the cause has gone away it remains in some corner of the soul to get out.

Ah, the lonely infant in hurt, the child in pain, the crazy adolescent, the madman in the wild, and the long decades of denial where life was on hold, the wings clipped to the breakdown of all reason until the heart cried out and kept on crying that the child is in need of comfort.

What would make me come alive after twenty one thousand days waiting in the rain for that comfort?

Yes, even I deserve to go home,” said the Sultan finally running out of words.

Miss Pretty ran for the exit of this story but the door slammed in her face; and then she found she was stuck here.

CHAPTER TWO

“I would be saved, beyond the carnival of all this, the ideas of wrong or right, the doubt where the fear creeps in, the self-withdrawal and the pain.

Let me find my place then and all that would bring me alive and not be misperceived in the rain.

***

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God's crazy parlour of sweet consent

One day of Ning-Ning that is written on the wall for all to see: They tell me things that I have to believe but they've told so many lies that I don't believe anything they tell me anymore. And then they showed me a map of progress with all the reasons why I should and I had to ask them what they were trying to sell me and who it would benefit? They walked away then, shaking their heads and saying I'd never get the rise with an attitude like that. I thought about it and decided that if I had to call today anything then I would call it my day and let all good things come to me on my terms. A heap of enjoyment later they marched back and said I was asking for too much and that there wouldn't be enough to go around for everyone. So I asked: "how so?" They said the world was on short rations until it had paid back to the banks all it owed them. "How come it owes them so much?" I asked. "That's what banks do," they replied. "But that's madness, to put the whole world in debt; what are they trying to do, make everyone slaves?" "It's the system," they said, and took out a huge book and wrote my name down under subversive.

  • ISBN: 9781370418381
  • Author: Dean Moriarty
  • Published: 2017-07-26 15:50:08
  • Words: 31077
God's crazy parlour of sweet consent God's crazy parlour of sweet consent