God's Crazy Parlour of Sweet Consent

By Dean Moriarty

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Moriarty
• Release date: Jul 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370418381

Dean Moriarty

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? I turned to writing books.

Book preview

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