Archaeology (Part 2) by Jim Meirose.

These finding-frenzies are slabs’ly frenzy-narcosis common to pro archaeologists and most judgeships alike; they alter consciousness and create great waves of greediness and hilarity all ‘cross-out most dig teams, courtrooms, autopsy rooms, embalming chambers, and boss Boyingtons alike, especially when the deeper veins of the issues being probed become unexpectedly rich with high-value jury verdicts, cash awards, and legal rulings, as well as the more commonly found when real digging’s involved, archaeological artifacts—such as the actually proven to exist by this particular effort, a complete Prongs of Torment Vintage Fast-Management Early-style self-coopering ball-binding gameset—prune—as well still tightly wrapped in its tendon; with all sixteen levels fully intact, never ever been played over, and! The pressure driven by the radical wing of the free press to find foul play to be the root cause drove the shovelmen to a higher blur of action, causing the immediate realization that the gameset was not just the standard issue, but, amazingly, to be the red-bound number, of which just two were made—

My God! The red-bound!

—yes, us too—with the first having long ‘go gone to the bottom in the hold of the M.V. TitrationMaster, the deepest yet bulkywide vessel having proven to really ever been sunk. That type ‘f deep-in unexpected and sudden dental work and or dig success can have a narcotic effect on the dig team and is sufficient to trigger such effects when the archaeologists have gone in sufficiently deep, where the fluids flow freely, and are already profoundly fatigued when the digging suddenly turns rich with high-value discoveries plus one emergency root canal—this drove the big doctor-lead of the pathology team to slice quicker to reach the frontside of the

spine quickly—and the message received from the main man of the day, up topside, that they’d reached the rarified air past the danger-threshold of fifteen thousand shovels of earth out ‘f one dog in a singl’ day had been exceeded with no pause at all, as a matter of fact the rate accelerated by the onset of finding-frenzy ‘cross most of the team—and as the head free press reporters stood slavering for a story, the main man advised the deepteam, that the shovelmen would be shortly relieved. Prune; however the coroner’s pathologists, whose skills are uncommon, should be told to prepare to push through to the end—but that extra snacks and beverages would be sent down by stripteaser-vessel; prune run u’, eh; which was the best could be done ‘hat-t day. Never. Jacquee-line Pup-mutt, the greater free press leader-devil, sounded out that news to a frightened small world, but; as that story was premature, it was buried accordingly. Prune.

No point mousing-down the public with fat answers too suddenly—but. Run.



Buck uck kcc u’.

Meanwhile, the professors, who’d burst their bag and receded off to a safe distance, came out of their shock-frozen states, which had been driven by their orders to hold off being so blatantly ignored, backed off o’er their horizons and sat ‘cross the town elders in a crisis meeting hastily-called to formulate a pushback on the crazed over digmen—because they shared bothwise ‘cross the wide table the ‘owledg’ that if the cause of death was ever extracted from the cache of artifacts hidden long back but now being so rudely and illegally exploited—much like the crime of the Elgin Marbles. You know?

Perhaps, but—and here she exhaled deeply and inhaled, and again—making sure to have these appear contrived for effect—with the added dimension of the overall criminality this threatened to uncover, action was necessary. They can’t be blamed, do you think?

They both turned to the window before he could reply, caught by a loud rising and falling siren in the distance—they turned back, with one saying, Here—in this book. It’s—wait.

A thick book came into his hands from the small oak carved table between them, and he paged into it, finally laying a forefinger onto a page, and read aloud, And they formulated the phraseology and for several years multiple drafts of the order were produced, each one smoother than the last, until the final plan lay plainly scrolled out between them, et et—okay that proves the first thing. Then, here—let me see here.

As he paged through again, she raised her hand, saying, No, there’s no need. I get the point. You win, all right? Come on, the bell’s about to ring. I’ we’re late we’ll catch hell.

No! Here—listen—finely printed on expensive paper, bound and illustrated by expensive artists, and housed in fine leather with gold studded trim—wow. How ‘bout that?

A bell rang in the distance—she rose, saying, Come on, break’s over. We got to go back now. Or else we’ll get dinged.

No—listen, it gets better—yes toward the end they worked furiously, burning through multiple fortunate but weakening second and third winds, but, the effects of their continuing on unrestrained, with no one watching over to back them out o’ their mass mad delision, uck, their purpose dimmed back to nothing; and, today there remains just a low grassy mound, which no one remembers the reason for, or what may be buried within it, but but t tu tub bup, prune; but, regardless, the dig dug down deeper seeking more over more—the ribs cut through easily; the lungs glistened with health; as did the various organs, large and small, which were removed—a

process that passed quickly, thanks to the lead technician’s deft and precise scalpel work—a curious structure resembling a small storehouse became visible—all gasped with excitement; the sudden urge to dance and shout for joy, was restrained. These men were professionals—slowly, the precise series of shovelthrusts and long cuts led to one sudden opening; the spleen sprang open as though a key’d been turned—and, the mother lode of trinkets lay exposed for the forking-out—or it did seem so a’way but—they ought of gone slower an’n all ‘cause—danger ‘llway’ rises when-where it’s ‘ease ess-pecctedt—as.

Calm team, calm. Let us be careful.

Let us not be fooled.


They silently beheld the massive haul; Who’d ever have dreamed; is-it for the his’ s’ ‘torial books, or not, gas—these and other such cries rose from the deep hole, where on half-darkened bottom they stood nearly knee-deep in the mass of their discoveries—their spades having hand-excavated the hole, being nine thousand four hundred and seventy-five cubic scale model feet in size—ten minutes prior, the riches around them would have been enough for most other expeditions to call it a day, gain the surface, and move forward rationally, but. Prune; the revealing of the indescribable contents of the final spleen, tightened the deep-dig finding-frenzy permanently around them, never to be reversed. The riches the spleen had rewarded them wi’ could never be rationally described, in any language, or in any medium—at last, the professional demeanor of the leader finally gave way. Shovel thrust upward, he seemed nearly to glow; his face rose, and from his mouth thundered upward, Thank you, lord, for the gift of this spleen—not just any spleen, but this one. This one and only this one. Thank you lord for so easily opening it to the touch of our scalpels and emptying it unto us! This is—

No, hold it! It’s not finished! Look—

Yes, look—it’s—

The leader’s eyes opened too late to avoid his being crushed by two huge spleens shooting from the gap. The group darted to avoid them—but their slick stuffed-full saggy bulges mocked them, so. Prune; these two opened each thrusting out two more, larger, spleens and. Prune; those each spawned two more. Prune; and two more and two more and on and on, crushing the dig team one by one between and under them; those not crushed to death instantly slowly suffocated as the entire dig filled with a rising tide of soft pulpy spleen-mass, the hundreds of organs smashed together into a single protoplasmatic reeking surging hell, at the bottom of which dozens were added with every minute, quadrupilitising the deadly pressure, under which nothing could possibly survive. The rocking ‘n rumbling ‘rupting from the dig site as the reeking deathmass grew closer to the top, caused the panicky townspeople to flow en masse from their homes, as well as shaking the senses of the few remaining members of the pathology team, who’d decided to have a few hot cocoas before quitting the site. All stood in place, as they would in an earthquake. Prune; minutes passed, then the rumbling rage died. Slowly the terrified crowd approached the site and found the dig site covered over by an expanse of slick shiny reddish-brown foul-smelling membrane-like film, beneath which something throbbed rhythmically—but, at last, the lead pathologist adjusted the wide bright ER style light above the autopsy table, reached in, touching the trembling film, tilted his head, and knotted his forehead intensely. The townspeople and remaining technicians held their breath waiting for the verdict. After some seconds, he withdrew his hand from the cavity, and straightened. Turning from the autopsy table, he pulled off his gloves, while saying quite softly, The spleen appears normal and glistening, totally healthy. As have all the other organs. There is no need to probe further. This subject’s

death was a natural one. There was no foul play. So—prune; Mackie, Phyllis; close and wrap things up per procedures, then call the funeral home. Prune; knock off for the day then—oh, yes—great work, team. It’s been a struggle, but, take pride in this; this expedition’s discoveries will forever grace the collections of top museums and galleries, world-wide. Cool, but; I have to go and give the press our findings. They’re hungry for the result—an annoying bunch. Want everything yesterday. I, ah, prune; as today, inderunderessnes ‘re scantifying to t’ ‘oit of being nearly fatal over all o’ those went that those these ways e’coptering under that trestle bridge over there.

Okay, Phyllis?


Okay, shut up, I think I got the point

Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon)

Twilight of the Gods

Light sleepers without bodies; homunculus germs in sticky,
curd-like drivel
on a cutthroat flypaper.

The unity of male and female,
the degenerated, fading, distant, magical obsessions
of the primordial, blameless root cause become perceptible
The rebel leader writhes in chains.

Call to your ancestors, the flooded river answers,
your double that moved to your house,
is the lynx.

Meanwhile, a double-edged, demon-slaying sword inflicts
a wound upon you,
your self-reanimated shadow draws you deeper.
The dreadful North’s sending a dire army; it crushes
the masked, sleepless foe. Before he murders you though
he waits insidiously for you to kill him.

Archaeology (part 1)

Today, inderunderessnes ‘re scantifying to t’ ‘oit of being nearly fatal over all o’ those went that those these ways e’coptering under that trestle bridge over there. Okay, Phyllis? Prune. I time with most small boys’ and girls’ undercuriousnesses, their lesser maybe, if found deepl’ embedded in some strata later excavated down to in search of precious hipbreather’s mineralstuffs’s and other necessary foods, may be found to turn into some profound and precious previous population of these hereses and nowses, artifacts. Prune prune. Then the police will windround it in yellow tape at the call of the museum-men as a great discover, which now in the past tense one hundredth of an instant or some lesser number of seconds, a histori a istorical an orically not to be tampered down into—and yes, dear Phineas, that means you! No ‘splosions can be permitted to enswath the terrain wit’ their dusts, or grey matters, and not even if life and death is at stake for some farmers due to the need for scarce resources, they cannot, must not, no never can they be touched, disturbed, moved around, rearranged, or otherwise rendered false ‘n empty of their initially see’ spotted and staked down meaningfulness, and ability to show the truth of some past. Which has nothing to do with any-henna’s near-term survival. Hip.



What is the holdup of our necessities out there?

There’s a tow’ ‘uare ‘ut ‘e.

What? Speak slow and loudly. This connection stinks.

There’s t’ ‘n square out there. Old one, that.

What? T-square? That’s for—that’s for that old-school mechanistical drawling they used to do, like—wit’ projotractors and compressactresses and all like that and that. Know?

No! Town square!

Huh? It’s all woods there and where it’s not woods it’s barren and when their really not completely either, there’s both! I don’t kn’.

No. Under the ground there. It used to be a town square, but.

No, I don’t get it, so what it used to be this or that? So what? Everyplace in the whole world by now must have used to be something else, and—you don’t see the whole world told stop so we can know what used to be, eck. Tip, what used to be most times is—totally unimportant, ‘n of no value.

This one is. And that’s why.

How do you know that when you need to dig it up to know if that’s true or not?


How do you know that when you have to dig it up to know if that’s true or not?

Because of where it is.

What ‘bout where it is?

The lay of it. The lay and the lie of it and the big archaelonglielle professors we always have along to guide us saying, there, they lay and the lie and the roll of it rolls me to sa’ ‘yin’ ‘g th’ ‘s ‘re we shou’ dig down. Ho, so let’s ca’ ‘p ‘ere, hold! The wind is too strong, over. You break up like some alumininium word factory’s all, vibratationally fallin’ down. So, say, what?

I said rolls me to saying this; I’ wh’ w’ ‘oul’ ‘ig ‘wn.

Okay, shut up, I think I got the point. Prune; if I got it no further prescience-ision is not needed. No no. No. No no no. Prune; gik.

Prune. Prune. But how about this thriving village we’re centered within-which? There’s there can ‘t not no being no not being a archjangely dig right ‘ere—but why?

Because people live here an’ ‘d make livings here.

The people living here and making livings here are temporary.

I think they will not feel they’re so temporary. Prune. They.

Money, get money from the university. We can pay them off to relocate.

So—cinsta’ this their eldermen’ne met us and we had discussion for some few years which in the mood of the greater quest for knowledge of man was insta-grammificant, and we said and they backed o’ and one more time I said to the waiting pack of archaeological professorships, They say that you must dig only in free ground—prune—not under any existing structure, or under any existing thoroughfares, but—do not choose any free ground which may ever be needed to be passable by the reasonable man’s passible land vehicle to convey any and all types of matter required to be conveyed from point to point to facilitate the economic stability of the region.


The mass of professors writhed secretly within themselves, prune, fo’ several or more days, before turning their open side our way and began speaking in intelligible streams o’, e’ rd’ o’ bull’, we can ide the les wh ill hap f some s disco ding u o se it gin y follo a ail, wh l m l us to and ove the bord of some I’m sorry hold it existi structu or thoroug we can’t get what you are trying to say, or piece of free ground, which someday may be, so please stop and start from the beginning, but, needed to be passable by any reasonabl’y man’s passible land but but it—prune! It looks like there’s no time so hey what vehicle to convey any and all types of hey what can we do based on matter required to be conveyed from point to the original statement tha’ the villagers

made point hey to facilitate the economic stability so we can at least say to the masters of the region that hey yah we did do some digging prune we did not waste this whole entire decade or less prune just looking and looking but in the process not getting no kind of archaeological work done at all; so. Books.


So. Prune; once unbagged, the professors led the way from their confusion into the clear and, after some months of reading and intense study, smoothed by liberal applications of Eterna-Rub, ‘tween the letter of the words within the reading we, and they identified a ten foot square test lot, to dunce ourselves ‘oof ‘ve, shoveling out and down into, and as usual took the first step of magic markering it out, until here came several numbers-matched duodenal tribesmen dressed in bright plaids, looking ‘nd feeling so lavishly overdressed ‘round their others, that they splintered off, and, like the blood-dried pups they resembled, they did, ran up against us, pointing to the deftly sliced small single-shoveled hole which had not yet multiplied into enough samenesses of itself to yield any type of discovery at all, let alone anything significant—prune! And they wagged all four fingers toward the hole, then in our faces several dozen times, before saying, That spot and any like it you need to lay off from as we know that sometime in it’s future it will be the site of one of the following; 1, an actual dwelling, or, 2. a building, while not an actual dwelling, still to be used to store material goods, but—the lack of stored items at any point in time, is not to be construed as it not being an actual dwelling, which still will be used to store material goods, or, 3. An empty lot, which, though it may seem to be just another empty lot, but will in the future become the site of a number 1., or a number 2., item. Prune; as described previously so, prune; hence, it follows naturally that, you may not dig here, but—in our grace we can tell you what there lies under so you may study these, virtually.


No but! First there’s masses of unhinged bombshell factsheets, spiral-bound, down there. By the way you can lay out the autopsy instrument set now, but no rush.


Then, there’s the usual garden-variety o’ old crockery much like your college said you retrieved from your last dig, like, y’know, th’ artifacts ye found in old big Billy’s dog’s belly. Lay those out also. They may be needed, depending.

Eh? Oh.

Yah, et cetera; then—as this professorial hencidorian ecksplanarationne would ‘bviously continue, the archeologists ducked under beginning a wild random dig, using freshly sharp instruments, aimed at stripping an average three shovelfulls of earth each for every two words shouted out over them, on average; such words as, There’s dozens of analdictation samplers in original packaging under there—eck, prune, so; given there were fifty archaeologists digging in under this major professorienne shoutflow, they ducked under, and in spite of it all excavated in their total onlies such prizes as several or maybe just one big meth-boil’r type arced wide-style characterization templates, each only used once or twice. Prune; by the look of it—a grand find for any expedition, large or small—it ‘came apparent t’ the top princes of leadership that they’d likely need to remove nineteen thousand three hundred and fifty spadesful of earth to totally exploit this larger than expected most precious deposit—they cried, Huzzah! upon unearthing a European style overloaded bale wagon—the first intact example in this century—the magnitude of it all blocked out to nothing the core of the professor’s elongated bleats of protest, screaming o’er inches up ’bove them—prune; they beheld cases of bottled ice-air right beside three dozen or more dry clean only individually wrapped formally flowered-over dancing-day zip-on cloaks

which, prune; when carefully suctioned away, revealed further riches—dead drip’d instructional magazine fifteen or less first editions; high capacity pump-pedaled sewing devices; several Bob’bb-b-faces equipped with the heretofore only rumored of optional groovy-slabbed maple workbeds properly installed, to boot; prune; Momma Mia, they cried, as a pork batter mix flat-packing assembly instructional booklet appeared in the next layer o’ viscera down, but—they noted they had reached the dig-depth where the artifacts found become generally colder and harder to cleave than the shallower organs which most lately’d been ‘live. Fresh new scalpel sets were brought down from the medical storeroom, when it was clear the pathologeermen would soon be on overtime, since the court had just ruled the cause of death must be found quickly. These finding-frenzies are…

Projected Background by Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon)

Dracula spitting blood. Billions of people are starving.

(Our conscience is hunger.)

And the awful, polluted muddy water,

that the animals wouldn’t drink. That’s what every second

earthling drinks (And the creatures of “consumer society”

wash their cars with drinking water.) This the Tantalusian thirst of our guilt…

Like a floating Golem, the masses marching by mimicking

mating motions:

they are our law-abiding citizens. The manifested

and massive sense of satiation gives rise to perpetual nausea,

and finally regular vomiting

becomes the only source of pleasure.

A Sybaritic mongrel charms makeshift, cheap junk and

forms a sentence from his distorted, gelded and fragmented tongue.

This is how his days go by:

90 percent ‘must’, ‘need to’, ‘must have’. The ideal man of our time is the slave,

their superfluousness and irreplaceability

become a life-course model.

(The irreversibly degenerating soul reduces us to an empty cardboard box.)

And the orgasm turns to a satisfactory throw up.

(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)