by Deadboy
In November 2003, a poster known as Deadboy, writing from a Norwegian server, released this Discordian scripture to alt.magick.chaos, alt.discordia, alt.fan.rawilson, and alt.magick.serious. The text is structured backwards: it begins with "Here ends the Book of Inanities" and concludes with "Here begins the Book of Inanities" — a recursive joke that is also its own cosmology. Three books are nested inside: The Jeering, The Eater of Shit, and The Rise of the Spidering. The language moves between mock-scripture, glossolalia, and genuine chaos-magick ontology. Choronzon appears. Maya the Obscene. The Fly of Carrion. The World-Corpse. And yet the whole lurches toward something — a kind of laughter that is the same as understanding, or a kind of understanding that is the same as laughter.
Here ends the Book of Inanities
I: The Jeering
Chapter 1.
To the Woe is all owed.
Therefore is this that.
Therefore are you here.
Therefore am I neverwhere.
Therefore do they grin in much pain.
I AM ME.
This is the axle around which nothing revolves
and within which nothing swirls in glittering darkness
and thus vital for limited understanding of the eternal Woe
about which everything revolves and neither nothing nor everything
succumbs to in the beginning.
And the beginning will herald what came before:
the splitting of the Eye and the scattering of the Stars.
Two glyphs intertwined and formed no beings in the aftermath of confusion.
Nothing resulted yet all digressed. And so was nothing achieved
and glory was ever after sought.
YOU ARE YOU.
Such is the Woe that it is not otherwise.
Such is the Woe that this is not so.
Such is the Woe whatever it is. I care little.
Why are you breathing? There is no air. Exhale.
Why are worms floating in the quiverings of lathered air?
This is not a public information bulletin.
Return to your homes or be inviolated.
I AM NOT ME.
This is superfluous information and should be dismissed out of hand
as no possible use could be had from complete understanding.
Ignore the following:
The red is the coming of The Jeering which not-me will suffer most painfully.
Follow not the red but pluck thine eyes out and stuff them in thy ears
thus effecting a wide reputation for inferiority and naught else.
YOU ARE NOT YOU.
Wherefore dost thou not complain and uselessly bang thy head on the ground?
I am not here nor there nor everywhere. Where are you and where hideses me?
There was a monk of the maybe-persuasion who sat wildly blathering to himself
the most obscene nonsense. Another asked him who he was thus addressing.
Myself, the hungry giantess replied. I do not know myself. Ah, the other
consolidated vacantly:
Who does? Yes, was the answer spelled backwards: Who does not know himself?
And there was much fornication.
Chapter 2.
YOU ARE NOT ME.
Where do the ill-formed sprites of nether-years gather
with ill omens and inarticulate gnashings of teeth?
Where are the straits of tortured souls
reaching into the silver apples of the moons?
Gather nonsense as the squirrel gathers nuts
and forget much for most is soon forgotten
and nothing is preserved for the past
by constant reiteration of vacuous passages
of the Book of Inanities.
I AM NOT YOU.
Though I am in and of the rain in colours of blackness
reduced in conformity with thy will
I am not strictured within your onomatepoems.
Some will understand but theirs is the sin of restriction
from in of out and back again.
Thus are the words deviously arranged,
that everything is as if it seems,
and nothing seems as if it is.
YOU ARE ME.
The hordes will darken their hands with coal
and burrow in their spouses within their minds
instead of extricating the blue nothingness
from out of remembrance into the clouded day.
Say as a girl with ribbons in her serpentine hair:
You are my delusion and I am not here nor there nor nowheres in sight.
I AM YOU.
Comings of the finite mind will internalize the wars of motes
and banish the obscene infinity in unlocked houses and submerged boats
from within these humble hands of tightened cords.
The grass will wither and come alive in streams of red-cold nets
throughout the uninhabited nether regions of somewhere.
Chapter 3.
And so the confusion is everlasting repetitions of inanities
hollered from taped-shut mouths,
through chopped-down forests
and around floating abstractions,
in the words of the Polybrother of None.
And so the end will cease to end
and the beginning will destroy the nothingness
from which we are but shades of pygmies
and ants in the beards of moronic gods.
And the copulating twins in the Circle of Death
shall be flesh and escape the growth of order.
So do the Sisters of Liquid say: The art of nonsense is profane,
nay, I am not the vessel of my self, nor the skeleton of your perception,
for the mother you will be was transfixed in the darkness
and the goat of evening dew drunk but little and quivered not,
and its milk was bitter in the throats of the barren wives,
sadly rejoicing in their immortality whilst whistling such as some others.
Verily, stupidity is ubiquitous.
Then Aren the Windy did soliloquize for aeons on various subjects,
and Jay the Nay-Sayer did grumble sorely whilst refuting his misery
and did stay until the end and the bell did toll with finality.
Though who cares?
Did Baal not whine most pityingly, and did not the Holy Cow his Imbecile Son
die for your virtues? Is not your skin branded with nonsense
and smeared with the putrefying blood of Grandfather, She Who is not in your mind?
II: The Eater of Shit
Chapter 1.
The mountain of eyes
gazing contentedly at cold stone
and the pit of fingers
twitching.
There is the peace of insanity
and the whistling of the flutes.
There is not wisdom
nor purity of the soul.
Banish vision and sink into cacophony.
Listen. There is madness.
So spake the gremlin with much wheezing and deceased breathing.
Then did you scream for silence and lo! The waters of Ubik receded
and encompassed the finity thus never having brought about the giants of
never-years.
And there was mute celebration.
No! This is truth. Disregard the evidence and search for falseness in everything,
for truth is death, as fire is the harbinger of silence,
and the stars the many-faceted Eye of the great Old One,
the Fly of Carrion and the Eater of Shit.
So look further unless ye be already dead and deaf to my reflections.
So listen for the whispers of the demons who are the voices of the Father of Lies
and the Bringer of Light.
So feel the gropings of the shadows from out the graves of the gods
who yearn for what never was and you are still
but not for your sake but theirs.
For you are but the screams of the mouthless.
So taste the sweetness of the future reflected in the past
and struggle in the net of the black spiders, thus clothing yourself in the void
and escape death by embracing insanity. All will lose, but who will win?
Thus do the Inanities grovel and plead for the light of the Sun,
that the Father shall slay his firstborn and swallow the Wastes of Life.
For therein lies damnation, and the Gullet,
in which all things are mashed most thoroughly.
There the unwary may pass unhindered and tread through the Shit,
thus tricking the Old One most grievously and earning His righteous wrath.
I say unto thee: The Fly is Shit!
Let him who understands forget, and he who laughs weep.
For the truth is not to be found in the Book of Inanities,
as the snake is not to be found in the grass of tomorrow,
and the Widow of the Past is not courted by the living.
Chapter 2.
Is the exo-structure of your mind translating into coherence this blathering of sound?
Is your searching for order in the following parts
and the whole and the relationships of the whole to the rest
sowing the fruits of the beginning before the cleansing of sin
and the rise from the dust?
Do you read with much concentration and little spite?
Then is knowledge yours and nothing shall be yours that you wish for.
Do you gaze dumbly over the pages and care not whether understanding comes?
Then is everything yours and bliss everbefore the fact.
Leave not the boat for the spectre of the shore but sink into the bosom
of the whore of illusion, Maya the Obscene, Mother of Incest.
Drift through the idiocy of growth and death multiplying,
and rejoice with the living on the mountain of their rotting ancestors.
There will you find the Tree of Dreams, bearing Life upon its floating branches,
dripping spheres of numberless Universes into the piles of death
in which they flow thickly and without hope of escape.
Sow not your seeds in fertile earth but in the sterile emptiness between Woes
where the pyramids twirl about the decahedron of points
and the sphinx of no-soul blinks on/off without notice, saying to threeself:
Not here nor there nor everywhere but somewhere near I's hear.
Copy not the truthful paths of your betters but eat their minds and crawl
into their skins
thus evading capture by your lessers in hordes, and wars of the particles of flesh
captured in the light of decomposure thus hastened will degrade you.
He is not of Us, nor are you, but of Them,
as are all who do not carry the emblem of dissociation
but the rest and the Others and They
shall neither nor never by this profit,
for loss is its cause and effect its parsimony.
Nay say you not nor I for who knowest not the meaning
of neither-neither but the never-knots
in the drooping cords which stifle quiescence
by infernal rebellion?
Giggles and hiccups follow ignorance of not-this
but some will agree and so nothing is uncertain.
Chapter 3.
Above the grotto of goblins lies the fornication site of holy men,
and leering ugly upon unholy visitors shimmer the sprites of imagination
through the void unsought-after.
Such lies are true in every orifice but one, that of reality,
for which the holy men carry with them immensities of spite
and countless witty insults.
Below the grotto of goblins lie the fields of spectres,
droughting much dryness in the everlasting wronging
of straight-jackets.
Such straighting makes not the wrong right,
but the simple complex and the many one,
for ingestion by the Eater of Shit
in its crevice of stricture.
As all comes from shit, all returns to shit,
and the Eater of Shit devours and excretes all.
Hail be to the Eater of Shit!
or, as some prefer,
Damned be the Eater of Shit!
Lie not in-between the Woes of Life, but squeeze and breathe
with much waste of energy that you may slip,
much reduced, between the damp folds of compressed dust
and enter the vacuousness of circles uncaring.
Stomp the shattered glass beneath your feet in screaming ecstasy
and spew your life into the Abyss, in which the Fly sits mindlessly waiting,
its mouth gaping wide.
And so you offer your benediction to the Great Excreter,
and wait in silence for rebirth into the Shit.
Enough of the essence.
Follow not the argument through
for fear of little men, and goblins and ghoulies
and things that go bump in the night.
See not through the masks of illusion, nor the lack of existence
but die while dreaming the sleep of life
and wake not to trains and cars but fresh carrion beneath your claws
and maggots slithering through the World-Corpse
'twixt their siblings the gods of life.
For life is ever the scratching of sores
and pus flowing in darkness.
III: The Rise of the Spidering
Chapter 1.
A face through the net
gurgling and burbling
foaming the waters of infancy
crying with your voice
nebulous imitations of death.
Some never die
but live uncaring
and silence their thoughts
from the spiteful gods
of Choronzon's progeny.
Silly is the putty of life
not caring for death.
So gather up the giggle-cream and smear thy genitals,
that suffering shall brim the pond, and the Spidering rise therefrom.
And the black spiders shall click in vain, for beauty
is ever the well of superflousness, and clickety-clack shall
sound encircle the ring of spiders.
The Circle of Death gathers not life, for what could enter
the Northere Province reeking the lack of cold and dark?
Suffixes didst comfort the croakes, rustling theirs
silently glimmerings.
Thus paused old age, thrilling its wondrousness
and straighting its beaks. There passeth it all
from memory of burklings of frogs, and only
the elder newts tread carelessly throse the Sire,
It that politely declines.
Clippings of thorns solube three, thrice thrifted —
trabsences of cloud-filled scents instate doctreaces
since timeroal, yes, tribulate the reasons that shiver
surrounded by fire.
Death is the kinder of Fire,
the Sun of that which is, raining from its father's throne,
and chievously throning those sought in hollows of mine,
aye, who will know?
Who will mine through the abscesses of threels and queels,
so the Net may infold the stricture, crampling over simbals
that shattret sillick?
Surely the Mine is steep, and the Sire vanscendent in blue
that shimmers hot and tremblest.
To he who capturest Sirest all clickety-clacks
in all sponginess that comest not.
Here begins the Book of Inanities
Colophon
Posted to alt.magick.chaos, alt.discordia, alt.fan.rawilson, alt.magick, and alt.magick.serious on November 11, 2003. Author: Deadboy, posting from a Norwegian news server. The text is an original Discordian mock-scripture. The recursive structure — beginning with "Here ends" and ending with "Here begins" — is the joke and the teaching. Choronzon, Ubik, Maya the Obscene, the Eater of Shit, the Spidering: a complete chaos-magick pantheon assembled from absurdist theology, PKD, and the Abyss.
Message-ID: <[email protected]>
Archived by the Good Works Library. Scribal work by the New Tianmu Anglican Church.
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