The sky is painted cobalt blue... whitish flecks suggest cloud. Spider lightning cools across my forehead. I lean back into the shack... so many eons wasted in fear of this day. On the opposite bank in the shade of some Lindens is gathered a gang of angels dressed like schoolteachers. They are in heated debate over the harmony of a hymn they have been singing since before time. Tunelessly they struggle for sonic supremacy.

In the far distance is a scene internally illuminated. God gaffed like a steroid-fattened whale is being lowered headfirst into a vertical grave.

In a forgotten room of the palace beneath a mountain of furs stacked atop an oceanic four poster bed Lucifer in Victory issues an endless stream of orders. He wears the jaundiced, triumphant and exhausted look of a man who has thrown off a deadly virus. A claw emerges and motions for me to step forward. Lucifer rasps like glaciers crushing a city. Help me to the window.

Bed covers rise and a cloud of sickness and iodine fills the room. He takes my arm and we hobble painful and slow to the window. Below in the garden God is one thousand naked screaming children corralled by hellhounds.

The borders are closed though travel is unrestricted (if one can find a boat). The streets are empty and even the thieves are on holiday. No one is quite sure how things will pan out. Time has been dethroned and the angels are not on speaking terms. It is reported that God in exile is bitter and sullen.

The stars are whispering... can you hear them? We pass through you every fifty minutes.

Lucifer is regaining his many looks and there remains only a trace of the famous cruel streak in the corners of his mouths. With an entourage of broken beauties he explores the crystalline rooms of the palace. Projecting perfect calm he harbours a fear that he has made a gross tactical error.

God knows all revolutions are doomed.

A carcass is splayed out on the mercurially swirling floor. History. Fluids of decay pulse and ebb and flows a great river delta.

The servants are drunk and surly. They tamper with the food and have stripped the place bare.

Over dandelion tea God reminisces with old comrades.

Humans enter the Empire of Sleep. They ride the horizontal planes and travel by means of the solar rail (expansion and contraction) through the colour spectrum. They dare to venture only briefly into the crisis of awakeness.

God and der führer are in a dark corner of the garden.

G: I’m gonna kill your girlfriend, she’s fucked. I’m gonna slice open her arms with an iceberg and pour lava in the gash... I’m gonna cut off her feet and stand her in Nitric acid.

(God choking on his viciousness... der führer lights a Marlboro.)

Führer: Vell zen I suggest zat you sew tightly her mouth shut...she screams like ze Tuefel Ya.

His hands become like claws... he can no longer hold a pen.

The Palace in ruins. King and Queen snuffed by mutual poison. Etc etc...

Sean O’Reilly is a musician, artist, and writer living in Auckland. Well he is actually in South America.