Lizard Head Chapter Two: Pedigree

Mr. Morgan Stonekurd Cowdraye was first founding father of Global Conglomko Worldwide, the prime commercial-financial group which was soon to become a subsidiary of FirstCon Inner Global (FIG). Conglomko already boasted an ATM and at least a small office in every town and city on Planet Earth, and Morgan Cowdraye vowed to the Conglomko Board members that GCW would have a facility on the Moon in three years and on Mars a scant five years after. Neither Cowdraye nor Conglomko could be put off by threatened calamities. Take, for example, climate change. Rising tides and sea level rises would never be able to threaten Conglomko’s primacy, he swore. Everything had been studied, coordinated, accounted for, planned. Technological developments funded by the Group would see to Conglomko's prosperous survival through any foreseeable catastrophe. Conglomko's “Always Aster Space Program” (ASSP) was the Group’s insurance against whatever befell “this stinking rock” (Planet Earth) and of course ASSP would enable Conglomko to dominate our solar system’s four inner planets in the next few years and the outer ones quickly thereafter. Cowdraye assured his Board that there would always be their wealth to attend to, guard, and increase. Conglomko, they needn’t worry, had already planted seeds everywhere and fertilized the future of money, funding private research far in advance and secret to boot, forever and always immune to accountants peace competition taxation populism inspection religion regulation revelation democracy oversight socialism intrusion progressivism transparency or communism, and proudly demonstrated a technological lead of eighteen months minimum over the next three largest congroups combined . . . Furthermore, Conglomko had already militarized the dark backside of the Moon and its polar bottom as well. While others were soft and complacent, Conglomko was hard. With such lethal protections and weapons in place, the Board would never have anything to be sorry for. Cowdraye fully intended to plant Conglomko wherever the well-suited and –heeled haves and have-mores might someday congregate and decreed that underwater, airborne, floating, sailing, outerspace, and intergalactic Conglomko enterprises would, if very much needed, be.

Men such as Morgan have a history, and citizen Cowdraye né Cowdrayesky most definitely did. But if you asked him his history, he would defer to his wife, Esther Cowdraye née Schkenazy, who, wearing a robe colored purple royale, spoke of her personal history with one magical thigh across the other while dangling from her highly-arched foot a diminutive slipper. For standing on ceremony Esther cared little. We should not care either but feel for Angel's mother the profound respect due her and to all the previous mothers through whom the Angel race passed. The mothers! They are the key. And the grandmothers, too, and so on far back. They are the ones by whom we womyns are judged to be Houyhnhnms or not, and it is not a simple thing to study back key after key and their locks and the keyholes, no! It is not easy nor easy to look at how they all fit or were suitably fitted; it would be so much easier if we womyns but enjoyed deep penetration into the far distant past, generation after generation, into the chain of true Horse-Womyns and how they managed to be. For all identities roll back into the dark. Therefore, genuflect and make the Horse-Womyns's sign. After all, it was she, the beautiful Esther, who would bring Angel Schkenazy into the world; it was Esther who would give to us the one woman on Earth who conceived of the rebirthing and resurrection of the ancient matriarchate, the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms.

Mrs. Esther Cowdraye née Schkenazy had sailed to America from Schicksal in Deutschland. Her father, Gerhardt, a breeder and terribly wounded Wehrmacht commander recuperating in Plock, was reknowned for his great Panzergruppen victories at El Gubi and Gabr. Guda, Esther's mother, was rumored to be the mistress of little Gorki Fischbein, the quisling Mayor of Plock, while she was employed as the Maid-in-Waiting to Mrs. Fischbein, the wife. But Gerhardt Schkenazy was extremely easy-going— so easy-going was he that it was only when the gossip disturbances grew that he got Guda, who was growing, to break relations off beautifully with the two quislings, who soon were going to be hung out to dry. After slight differences of temperament were smoothed over enough, the Schkenazy’s returned to Schicksal, in early ‘44, where golden-haired Guda gave birth. There, both parents doted on their little darling fairy princess Esther, and the easy-going affable hero Gerhardt readily brushed aside suggestions that little Esther’s hair took after the former Mayor of Plock’s hair a tad too much. Little Esther had golden-hair like Guda had, but the same shade of gold hair shared she with the gold hair of Gorki Fischbein as well. And this business of hair-color tenderized the Schkenazy’s marital relations and, eventually, diminished the husband in his own eyes, of course, and in those of the citizens of Schicksal as well. Sneerers sneered, braggarts bragged; women, turned off, turned away; folks felt Gerhardt flaccid, not at all the hero, “the Victor of Gubi and Gabr,” not anymore. Still, he endured the slings and arrows, and it was only when the ex-Maid-in-Waiting, now called "Frau. Guda," brainlessly positioned herself again under yet another diminutive Pole quisling from Plock, one Herr. Alphy Hörner Setzen, that the former Panzerkommandant Gerhardt Schkenazy finally took the hint and at last called his connubium quits, took Baby Esther, booked tickets on the ship, “Deutschland” embarking from Schicksal, and emigrated to America the very next day.

When she was 13, Mrs. Esther Shkenazi sailed to America from Schicksal, Deutschland in the company of her toe-headed father, Morris. Why did this happen?

 Mela-P mother of Guda

Now Esther's legal father, Manfred Shkennazi was slow to anger and extremely permissive. He ignored the rumors as he had ignored his beautiful Guda's little tricks when possible because, frankly, Manfred Shenazi himself was much favored by women and had never reason to beg an amorous offer from anyone, was not jealous or at least never showed it, and saw clearly that Andrej Novak was only a mayor, after all, and a quisling, and that Guda was a bit of a social climber. Guda had always batted her eyes at up-and-coming blonde quislings like Novak. Not much for sweet-talking or open confessions of wrongdoing, Guda kissed Manfred to make up; wanting for him to forget, she hung on his neck as if fragile, clinging, and weak—till Manfred laughed at her badly acted out role-play. He knew she was sorry the story had ever gotten about, but Manfred Shenazi felt neither menaced, threatened, crestfallen, envious, jealous, disturbed, nor troubled—except that the Plock newsrags were rather too loud.

After their slight differences of temperament were smoothed over enough to make the move seem tranquil to the gossips of Plock, they moved to Berlin.There, at least for awhile, Esther’s parents enjoyed a serener connubium than before. Both doted on little Esther. They agreed she was to be raised as a child prodigy. She was a beauty like Guda and, unusually perhaps, not only blonde but with a figure—an infinity siglum— like her mother's?  Was that shape transferred down though the female half of the pedigree? It seemed possible! But bygones will not begone betimes. Golden-haired Guda, ignored by her now  famous Tiger Commander, Manfred, his face plastered on posters all over the nation, sought after by all,  

Rather than go into the Mayor’s family tree as well, let it be said that if all the blondes in that Mayor’s tree were bugs, you might have an outbreak of something you’d rather not say around the pretty little village of Schicksal. Be it said that the Mayor’s mom, “The Estonian,” was 5’3” and got around, up-and-about, early and late, and had nearly platinum hair and the smallest waist imaginable. In addition, the Mayor’s father, a pole vaulter from Minsk, was blonde, too, and of the body type “wiry-muscular.” And, lest we forget the purpose of all this, Esther’s mom, the Lady’s Maid-in-Waiting who one day ran into the Mayor as she was on the Plock University campus, why, she had a preternaturally unusual figure as well, known as “The Violin” among some, the “Figure 8” among others, and “the Wasp” among more. It seems Nature had issued invitations to the human race to gawk at Esther’s parents.

So much for the background to Angel’s mother’s, Esther’s, breeding tree, and little Esther from Schicksal in Deutschland was thought to be a prodigy in her own right, from the age of one, and Manfred, her father, fleeing Guda and his unhappiness, flew her and himself to the United States in the year 1946, when she was 15, and quickly married her off to an ambitious but very unattractive young financier, Morgan Cowdraye who, setting his eyes upon the daughter’s figure eight, vowed to make her father rich if

At only 14, Angel Cowdraye was ripe and at 15 already hung heavily, loading the branches with her swelling fruits.

CUT PORTION FROM CHAPTER ONE

REVISE FROM HERE
Esther Esterhazy, ANGEL COWDRAYE

Manfred Shenazi, father of Estherophis (Esther for short) and her brother Ophelio, Mother - Guda (a dark pole) (perhaps name is from Guder, Ethiopia where women are known for their beautiful buttocks) or Somalinda (Spanish andalusian for beautiful body)
Mayor of Plock: Anders Novak (son of Martina Nilsson and Andrej Novakovsky; Anders and Guder make Esther? Manfred could have as well.


Guda the daughter of Sheeba or Shiva Eleni Samadhi daughter of Sabbatha Afadite Gamila (buttocks, afa) Sheeba's were marvelous. 

Familial Tree:



Dr. von Dalkenshield returned with Angel and her subject, Warrens Dithers, to the States and to the future land of the horse-womyns. 

"Our Church of the New Resurrection," and "Our Chapel of the Transfiguration." Very soon the name of the church to be built was changed to The True Church of the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms" and the other to "Chapel of the Transfiguration." The place name of the civilization about to be born was changed to "Lizard Head, Land of the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms." Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms! It is said that when their full tribal name is correctly pronounced, one can hear in its rich onomatopoeic sounds suggestions of the particular ethos, power, and aristos Horse-Womyns prize above everything else.

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And so Angel was in Tokyo when she received the terrible news that her old husband for the previous 40 years, old Liberty, had finally and quietly succumbed and had passed into the Beyond.

Upon her return while Liberty was alive, our First Matriarch, Mrs. Angel Bottomley, donated 300,000 acres, a full three-quarters of the Bottomley's enormous mountain estate, to the Horse-Womyns of Lizard Head. The purpose of this legacy was to support Angel's rebirthing of the Horse-Womyns. They, the Horse-Womyns of Lizard Head, were to oversee the growth of a new civilization modeled on the ancient matriarchate—peaceful, generous, sharing, loving, and kind—, which had been known to exist for ages long before PUD ever appeared and which had years before been proven beyond doubt to rest upon the exceedingly ancient religion of the Mother Goddess.

And so Angel was in Tokyo when she received the terrible news that her old husband for the previous 40 years, old Liberty, had finally and quietly succumbed and had passed into the Beyond.

To make bad matters worse, Angel's maid confided to her that old Liberty's passing had been made much more painful by one of the nurses whose heartless tongue wagged while he was yet comatose, and so Mrs. Bottomley's old husband could have heard details that were "untoward." (As you certainly know, even comatose patients can still hear and be aware...). Mrs. Bottomley hoped that the two twins of her womb, Darlene and Pandora, would not ever stand for a person like that to tell lies and, with the ruthless agency such talk deserved, would deal with it harshly. Furthermore, Angel quickly saw that, even from Asia, she could descend in a fury by assuming the form of the Bottomley attorney, Mr. Ackroyd Drattit, with which to threaten the nurse's employer with severe and expensive litigation should they allow an employee like that to continue to harm anything, even a teacup, of the trusting family which had hired them to care for their loved one.

The first structure Angel and her Co-Reverend Dithers intended to build on the donated land would be the New Resurrection Church of the Horse-Womyns; after that, a chapel, once more in the round, to be called the "Chapel of the Transfiguration." And subsequently, the tribes would be gathered. The foundation for this "church-in-the-round" was just being laid in the original old growth forest at the heart of the estate when suddenly old Liberty Bottomley became bedridden. That old prospector and tycoon, her dear husband, whom Angel positively adored, had long been an invalid from some kind of inoperable blastoma, -gioma, -inoma, -emia, -itis, etc. (in her panic, she didn't really know which), but had now become comatose so that it became too painfully inconvenient to attend to her church-construction project. Liberty Bottomley, after all, was her husband and "an old love." We have all heard how old loves live on in their dignified wrappings, and this was no different. However, old Liberty's adoring wife Angel was one of those people whose heart is open so far to the suffering of loved ones both old and new that they in their empathy suffer so much anguish as to become a danger to themselves, and the result of her empathy—emotional distress and physical exhaustion—worried her personal physician to such an extent that he positively urged—no, ordered—her to absent herself awhile from unhappy scene so that she would recoup and not herself be menaced by the death that would soon be her husband's. Consequently, Angel, already in her widows weeds and stricken with grief, indeed brought very low, coped with her pain by taking what she tearfully called "sad trips of forgetting," accompanied by her Co-Reverend Dithers, to Boston, New York, Paris, Firenze, Bologna, Venezia, Roma, Perugia, Orvieto, Gubbio, Halifax, Montreal, Toronto, Vancouver, San Francisco, L.A., and at last to Santa Fe to a little art gallery on Johnson Street where a portrait of her was hung— for art is a fine soothant for the ache of an old love that is either dying or quite thoroughly dead.

Not finding in those any of those places (New York, Boston, Santa Fe, the art gallery, etc.) the peace of mind which she was seeking, Mrs. Bottomley and her ever-loyal factotum and co-religionist Warren Dithers went still further afield, placing their hopes on a recuperative journey to the Far East. And so Angel was in Tokyo when she received the terrible news that her old husband for the previous 40 years, old Liberty, had finally and quietly succumbed and had passed into the Beyond.

To make bad matters worse, Angel's maid confided to her that old Liberty's passing had been made much more painful by one of the nurses whose slithery heartless tongue wagged while he was still comatose, and so Mrs. Bottomley's old husband could have heard details that were "untoward." (As you certainly know, even comatose patients can still hear and be aware...).

Utterly heartbroken, the widow Mrs. Bottomley somehow found the strength to go on despite the heaviness of her heart. But just as she had been brought low, was she suddenly raised high up far into the Third Heaven. For it was when the grieving Angel was in Japan, near a train station in Metropolitan Tokyo, that the good widow Bottomley came into contact with the infinitely creative mind of he who was to provide her and the Horse-Womyns with the knowledge and power to deliver the new civilization of the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms to the light of day. It was like bumping into the zeitgeist. The time was 11:43 in the morning, the date, August 4, 1970. The man's name was Dr. Erich von Dalkenshield.

This fortunate encounter happened at a place called Pond Bag a few yards from Takadanobaba Train Station, a place croaking with frogs. The Co-Reverend Dithers was just about to take a photo of Angel standing next to a charming rice paddy and waving "hullo" to a Japanese man. At least, Angel thought he was a Japanese farmer. The Japanese farmer was wearing a hat with a sun veil as you see in the old e-kiyoe.  The veil covered his face. But at her "hullo" in English, the Japanese farmer turned and spoke in American, "I hardly ever see any of my compatriots out here in the froglands of Pond Bag. How are you, Little Missy?" As it turned out, the man, wearing rubber chest waders and wading in that Pond Bag rice paddy, was in the middle of a world-historical scientific experiment and on the verge of the discovery the free-flowing pervasive vitalis universalis.

Together, they enjoyed some chat and some chai while Co-Reverend Dithers was sent on an extended errand. Dr. Dalkenshield described his experiments. He was, he said, "I am searching for the vital energy of life. I have noted the Pond Bag waters teeming with life. I believe it is spontanous; I mean, the vital spirit flowing through everything gives rise to elemental life-forms, and I am to ascertain how to deliver the this life force into the hands of those who can use it for the good of all. You may want to stick with me, Mrs. Bottomley, for it just occurred to me that you and I can patent this." Quickly realizing they were natural comrades-in-arms, the good Dr. von Dalkenshield returned with them to the States, where very soon the placename of the civilization about to be born was changed to "Lizard Head, Land of the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms." The Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms say that when their full tribal name is said, they can hear in its rich onomatopoeic sounds suggestions of the particular ethos and aristos Horse-Womyns prize above everything else.

And construction began simultaneously not only on the great basilica but on the Dalkenshield Clinic of the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms, for Dalkenshield had gained Mrs. Bottomley's mind, and she was enthralled by the idea of obtaining a patent on the life-force and by Dalkenshield's other ideas, patentable as well, the deriva hormone and the derivatives, which he had tentatively and with great circumspection described, swearing her to absolute secrecy. For Angel, this seemed a return to the adventure of her youth, her lost glorious youth when she had been independent, on her own, and extremely attractive, witty, and sought-after, all of which had been interrupted by Morgan Cowdraye's marriage agreement that had joined her in holy matrimony to that tall very large clumsy old man who made his money by spending years in underground caves. Like some kind of troll. Or a Grimpse.

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It was only a year later, Tuesday, right after twelve midnight, August 4th, 1971, when the First Matriarch, Mrs. Bottomley bestowed on her congregation the first Visitation, inspired by her mousa and bringing into the church the very voice of our Mother Goddess. It happened inside our holy basilica below Lizard Head. I was there. I both saw it and heard it. It happened this way, inside Mrs. Bottomley's New Resurrection Church of the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms.

Angel from high in the pulpit had already delivered herself of her usual midnight sermon and Reverend Dithers had just silenced the assembly with a wave of his baton. We were all of us quiet because the Commemoration of the Dead and the ritual of the Stompout were about to begin. Suddenly, Mrs. Bottomley stiffened and shook, her arms flailing about as if having a seizure. Gasps and cries issued from the Horse-Womyns below in the nave as Angel was shaken side to side forward and back as if by a demon. From high in the dome, a terrified Dithers shouted down, "Somebody help her!" But then Angel just as suddenly stopped and stared down, her hands gripping the pulpit, her eyes wide and fixed, in a trance-like goggle-eyed stare. What then came out was the deep hollow voice of another, not hers.  Unwritten and unknown until now, I relay the words of the Visitation to you. So bend your ears, Submissives and Superbs, to the sublime song sent into Angel at midnight by means of her Mouse, by the Great Goddess Herself, inside Mrs. Bottomley's New Resurrection Church of the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms above Bridal Veil Falls:

"Now Sing, O Mouse, of Womyns black rage against mens, how bitter it was and spread slow agony 'mongst all, and left our scumbucket bodies pathetic. Tell now how womyns were suddenly ambushed in the City of Womyns without Walls, shook down, frightened by saddlebags shrieking and thunderdrums. The unutterable horror of it! Mens came on womyns, on womyns mens came in the dark, first enshrouded in sheets dripping white streams and white lightning stroking jugs and baruras bared, massively stroking powerfully almost through to the floor, bragging and bellowing. Afterwards, their bbc well-blown, they trailed the most prized hinderparts captured for a night of display at the camp. PUD placed assholes everywhere, at the gates, on the stepways and fairways, on the greens, blocked the pathways to the woods, outhouses, petermachines and doorknockers. There were gross PUDs obstreperous, inside the walls and out, raping and murdering, with unbuttoned lards. They creamed the basilicas, rambled foul hands over the round pavilions, wrecked the boudoirs and boodoyers. Walls fell, temples, cities. The Matriarchate, thirty-thousand years old, fell dead and then died, from the saddlebags of the sword it died, from the general enslavement of womyns and the enslavement and eventual extinction of the City's Superbs that had much finer beefs, gladbags, and rich crescent-moon poles than any in existence today. (For such meats were sacred, blessed by the Goddess in paradise, and a wonder-working buttery puce-colored crescent especially esteemed as a sign of the Red Harvest Moon.. No more were goddesses sharing their pies, no more were sweetness-quilts nesting 'tween forked womyns resting or 'twixt mens either for that matter, and no more bardaches galore as me, myself a womyns, wants em around to a muse me, I admit, with cosmetics and those new transplantations. Our beefs dwindled and vanished, the Superbs well-worked crescents shiny red glistening gone. O, the power of mists! Clouds of forgetfulness! Brawny A-types, muy macho, the very kind womyns snooze after, appeared on among them horseback along with treasury chests, balls of gold, and their steams— forever legendary standouts for womyns, the first-eyed Cyclops ever seen. O, those Creators and Crimers—mad faery fathers, old moles—, originated by PUD at the time of the Fall!"

"Take breath, my Mouse, now; breathe deep, and tell what happened and leave nothing out. Tell of that awful night in ancient times shaking womyns down from their tips to their toes. City flaming in the night distant, the grandest erections of the Matriarchate, bronze-colored, outlined quivering against flames, its Superbs seen against fires, shamed but still firm, ordained to be so by Our Lady the Goddess from the beginning of Time, crescent signs of the Moon Goddess still standing, accompanied by matchless bare beetotums and some even whackers that hung swinging. Stunned in the firelight those S-curves and barrels, that chorus unsheeted. The captive hourglasses of the temple then stopped flowing afeard, stood standing on tripods. Then out of the darkness, rides by at a gallop saddlebag arms that reach down and a sudden lift up high off the ground the hourglasses upturned —one after another held tight by the middle —, bouncing bulbs and saddlebags, bouncing, up down up down up down on the horses. Ridearound ridearound ridearound, showing them in praise to the cruel sky-god Nobodysdaddy (something like that), then plumps parted, hung limbs each over the mailed elbows, and roughly horned deep, to give the hourglass stuck onto the saddlebags greased horn amidst the general thrill and barbarian slavewomyns ignorant watching excited. Thus were the reps of the Goddess downfell, and thus were they fathered and posted like holes with addresses, and so through the ages grew over centuries men grew scumbucketty, smaller pathetic, little pudmen, punymen, twits —not even anymore those goddawful creatures of the beginning those huge roaming horsemen, armored crimers, who could ride the night long round and round the camp showing their horns —but only micromen now pretending they're great, polishing their 'pewters and other wares, both soft and hard."

Such was the Visitation to our First Matriarch, the Mrs. Angel Bottomley, at our basilica, where it was delivered for the first time ever in public inside the holiest place, The New Resurrection Church of the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms, to the mobbed throng in the pews, transfixed in the aisles, tattooed and felt up high in the kwahyers by the assembly themselves, especially the greeners,  or ones glittering with noserings and cat masks, and those with indigo sleeves, half-sleeves, or ankle grafitti. There were, of course, also Horse-Womyns who drooled with uproar and conniption, stricken with imagery and poses, but we shan't speak of them, shall we? Silence enveloped the submissives, while even the Comus Stabuli. Chief Venables was stunned. Whilst Angel was still weeping the womyns, ripe Reverend Dithers, his ducts flowing with great sympathy, riled the four dozen choristers in the kwahyer to hum "March of the Hams" as a signal to the Horse-Womyns to begin their stompout of the church. Finally, at the end that hymn which is as old as the winds of the Ocean, Angel herself commanded everyone exit with the ancient Matriarchate's sign of benediction and the magisterial wave of her hand.

It is important for you to remember that Angel's first visitation was delivered only to me at Pond Bag in Japan underground inside the tunnels. I so deplored the meaning as to have sought to change it ever since she told me first there at Takadanobaba. I was the chosen one— me. Her message to mankind might have been otherwise—nay! Might it well someday be!

Modern macho men hoppalong to womyns thinking they'll look on them with delight. Not so! Even with bewchus successfully powerful mens, sourful womyns remain as undelighted and unhappy as the Angel womyns have become them to be. Mansmade duds of all womynsanamity turn aside alone and brood, as in the unspirituelle coops and bodîmes imagined by PUD. Mens make for themselves such bitter bedfellows! Mens of today, all bastards and liars, are but boys, not original greats, and they are sheer fantasy to expect they could ever so dim womyns's ancient paterfamilars. Those paterfamiliars who created Connubium to record themselves fathers are passed off as the greats, riding on horseback and cherryrots, planning disasters to 'xploit. Those who created Connubium brought fatherhoods and, once deep in the saddle, chose to ride bareback. Creating destruction, that was their whole key.

What exactly amounts to Connubium? This is such a sourful subject.  There's non-stop 'bewking, of course, but that said, there's much more. Those same paterfamiliars, rank with riding, hands on their horns, brought records and labels, and gave addresses to each womyns, who then had a posterman to post her. Her box could not be moved and was bored to the door and prohibited to venture into the beyond, very much like Pandora's today. Thus nailed, Connubium gave birth to very excited keyhole secrets; such as getting on it outside, spooning the runners, cheap flirts, big bare back and bottom photos by brush's own Lardbucket and Beard, etc. etc. So, the box often peered out from its post, not only to collect gold but also to spy friendliers, who were willing to meet sweetness and needed no more of a presence than spy slits to feel good. Such friendliers, like runners and sizeable doorknockers bewchus, were oft acceptable to all three (or more) of the superfecies in question. As long as boundary lines were maintained and hindquarters are all in agreement, the triple- or quadracaboodle could comport themselves furlongs, even under the crack of doom. But such was rarely the case. Something undone and unfinished, some little moleyard of underground dirts, would dishevel even the best laid boxes and shovel sand into the screws of attachment. Then all hell loosens with gossips galore and ties and cumberbuns taking over the show.  Ergo, a consequence of Connubial addresses was interestingly filth (we'll be returning to this soon.).

And how did Connubium do this cheap thing? By limitations and licenses on soul, and expiration dates, too. Put very bluntly, Eve's expired when the Matriarchate was done, and the paterfamiliars told a new one, to wit,  that Eve was driven from heaven without soul after she serviced a worm. According to this, the worm taught her something. Where was the worm? In a tree and showed her a mirror. Looking in, she driveled in vanity and like plopped suddenly. This was the patriarchal greats lie. Why did Eve die? What had she done? A snake snuk up the woeful womyns round to the tree? That is a thought very dark and obscure. Eve shot down the big shalt not, lost her soul, and became boring? Or got some outside? What of it? The truth is no bodys daddy, and fatherhoods thrives on the ruins of the Matriarchate's timeless erections.

Think of that! Astonishing isn't it?  All of the other prizewinners  (e.g., amours for all free, babycare, lipsticks and cosmetics, fertile plantings, leisure time to loll around and tell lies about, cooking shows, hot waxes, soul shoes, etc. etc.) were colonized by PUD as their own inventions, but what is not known and has been a very long time forgot is that Our Lady had endowed so many womyns beauts so much better than mens were by PUD dumped and erased from the story.  also were colonized and removed to the fatherland of the male bodime which had engendered the very terms themselves, timeless erections and so on and so forth, etc. They were then called "the Wands of the Goddess" and were full to overflowing with debblement and bewitchery.  Now, those have been quite completely forgot. Mind you, not just any nativity bestowed one. These wands were fabulously bewchus and long-lasting, as long as anyone ever could wishfully want, the owners of which who, with such a thing shaking like fabulous bait below their black deltas, gorgeous, inimitable, were envied by all the peoples of then and the name "the Horse-Womyns" was given to them (a linguistic fact lost until recently). Their presence was not merely desired, nay, not merely relished, but quite commonly begged for and to see one often transfixed the beholder of it in the boodoyer, especially if the hook's owner possessed "a heavenly bodime." he slang word for whom was "a fisker" for the simple reason that "the beholder had been baited." That the Matriarchates's Goddess had so blest womyns with those was the cornerstone of that long gone theocratic Republic of Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms.  And that fact was lost in oblivion because PUD in the ascendant  and since the Fall destroyed even the legends and they altered the biology to please little mens and their teeny weeny hearts not given to sharing bodimes but to bull. No doubt the so-called greats, coming upon us out of the great northern wilders, were ashamed to see such. We know better know, we Horse-Womyns. Those were known as the Wands of the Goddess" and were so very fabulously bewchus and long-lasting, as long as anyone ever could wishfully want, the owners of which who, with nearly no waists at all but those hippos widened out round the black deltas nestled between the marvelous buttons, gorgeous, inimitable, were relished by all the peoples of then and their name "the Horse-Womyns" —until, that is, PUD came hopping along and diminished womyns and blocked those ichorous streams softly flowing unobstructed through a hole, and everything died half dead from the inhibitions damming the graces and muses and from thence issued forth many monstrosities, grotesqueries of all sorts, preverts, mountebanks, pantaloons, neurotics, old prunes, nutters, psychos, late bloomers, wig-wearers, and screamers.

The new Horse-womyns of the present day, so eager to talk and make up, gloss over and forget these hard facts of things past. However, oblivious forgetting is for stupids. This low tendency to forget whatever is stiff and hard to swallow is caused by the (according to theory) vitalis universalis, the elementum spiritum in all existing things flows through the universe into a hole. It spreads glee and gaiety all over everything, as if you buttered your breads and spread your jams everywhere, even on sewage. As a consequence, truth is painted good and certifies ice cream and cookies for the hoi polloi. No, a million times no! The past is an obese porker with its caked pants down, not at all good. So, Reader, turn aside awhile the vitalis universalis and brood, brood on the bitter mysteries.  To recall the past as all pink is to throw the bed out with the bathwater and brains (More about this vitalis universalis later, that spreads serenity like death and enstupids everything.).

Instead of the eensyweensy one-eyed mouse of a modern day macho man at the dawn of life, a girl's tender eyes see a glistening slick red Lizard Head, huge, mountainous spire, in the rain but glowing red at top! Very imaginative it if I can do say myself! Floating motes in the blinding light, up near Trout Lake camping a few days after snowmelt. El Sol rising! Right into her green salad, kerplop. His bbc! It is the Second Coming! O, Happy Day! (for the first one had flopped.) "Climb up and come," seems the beautiful boy childs voice inside the burning bush, and she did so easily this time and for long, so came sliding on Lizard Head, a full hour long coming up and afterwards in her dreams forever having had inside her that great power all humans do pounding red blood: Our Lady gave herself to delight planting herself into the bewchusness always, onto that of the little monsieur, Cadeau de Beaubottom, which brought her near to screaming. Neither of them, thank heavens, were at that time much taken with the visuals of adorable bondage, but with keenest tangibles and thoughts. This lad had sent her cards signed and illustrated, "Your very loving BBC" (he had been extracted from France), innocently and candidly drawn in pen and ink. Liberty, her father, in his discretion believing in nature not chattel and not in Angel either, had several times earlier allowed Pandora's rendezvouses with this blessed bambino child, called him "Little Cad" for  a joke, and once before (that first time a failure) had camped by the lake and this time, too, ridden away with his pole for a fish at the sunrise to return in two hours, he said (bestowing privacy). He was a man of the Sierra, a man of his word, and trusted his princess's magical powers of dalliance with the beautiful boy child her own age. Their tryst had been planned for this moment. Cloppetty cloppetty cloppetty cloppetty. Off. So it was that Our Lady of the Snows, Pandora, only twelve years old, easily gave herself up to surrender and the knowledge of that which when we lay down our arms is the love that moves the stars. If it goes beyond, then Love, for it seeks another day, and will not stoop for low, base prizes (Michelangelo). This original vision of hers and all womyns, back in womyns's salad days, even of the days of the ARK, when she had plenty of time for schooling! Such are made of the sweetest dreams life conceives.

But this was witnessed from far above. Not all heights are heavenly. Mrs. Eileen Cauchemar, always bitter and biting, was holding up to her eye at that very moment a little narrow windowed spyhole watching as spies do the three of them through the glass's tiny black tunnel, peering about through little holes obsessed with dark matters. No one was more taken with dark matters than Cauchemar. From her coign of vantage above, Cauchemar through her spyhole saw the entire event, which would supply her slinky tongue with stinky tidbits for decades to come, and there was no larger, wider gobhole in all of creation than Cauchemar's, whose holes were always open to outflows. Cauchemar told all and brought hell to Liberty and Pandora, who clammed up and was cold. She hasn't come out since her bbc was lost long ago, and she, forlorn in her prime, carried away by her owner, Angel, to penthouses in New York and Paris, to study and be trained in the haute monde and all manner of everyday war and sexual grievance.  That innocence of hers was danger, and not only to her. For correction, using a meticulous programme of denial, her custodians, using coercive surveillance, instructed her in safe-keeping ambition, savings, giving the boot, sniping, put downs, man-hating, and pants down for the Big Money.

It is very tragically to remember long ago aforetime. Clop. Naying Nay. Nickering, nickering nay. O, nay! Nay! Cloppetty clops oozing white slick. The awful memories of that sight and of fathers aforetime live in minds of womyns as the airy and misty worlds high above the workaday world of gripes and today's anxious flops. The awe of those early days of PUD survives down to our own day corroding the Macho Men with their tiny standouts. Doomsters these. On the one ham, achieving big, Loot or Man—his name translated ending: "El Mundo"— or, on the other ham, achieving little (neither much matters), the little achiever of miching malleco, Mr. Muchacho,  tubby school boss, Run All Wooly Hours, with his wisebeard and little flashlight from brush! Old Spit in Your Face, very rude and pissed off, burning with hidden yelousy. Clicketty clicketty click. Click. Click. Loving husbands, watchout! Portrait entitled, "A Chill November: Susannah Encysted in a Mirror, Nude and Not Deracinated." Everyone's attention is drawn thus their weensies, yes, down to the very details of embarrassment. Money grubbers avoid and their images on camera—otherwise doom. I tell you the basics of matters. Remember the rooks clacking clacks. (Miching malleco is early Greek sailorese, for "fucking creep." Xenos Malacca from the dark Moluccas and possibly Sindh.)

(One womyns, from 4419 Shady Hill Drive, Running Springs, ARK, described to me one time her oh so depressing Reality as her brawnybrained but eenyweeny's "Eek!" —its scream a squeak as it came out of her flop! That was during she was sacrificed in marriage to Dr. Dark Matter with a degree from Saint Louie, lunger and lungquest, who urged her to take ARK's gorgeous stern and keel bottom up to a lightning strike by the aerial! An attempt at mordrid, if you ask me. The epithet Doktor Shoo- [the oo as in book.) -ghee [with the buttery ee of the teenytiny] looter el mundo allied with the Big Money and pathetic in bed. Lungqvist didn't even love her buttery glee bare-bottomed and didna no how nor ever did. Some primates can't. "Doan want you here Dallas—git! Face it. Out out!" Some people can't cloppetty clop with any demeanor at all. Francis Clack clack. Simon Clop clop, and their mutual choice to plant the ARK was Dr. Dark Matter,—Lungquest M.D. (Shooghee Looterelmundo). Contrast the ARK's pathos to her awe at that Lizard Head seen long ago in her love! O, if she had only confessed heartfelt when she was Bonny to her soulmate Barney Google-and-Goodwood of the state of her soul why she was weak and couldna stand up to her Primate and mother Saint Francis; no, she didna and too late! Never went to confession to Google-and-Goodwood, with her love bared and simple, saying "I beg to be bared, please, please bare me, listen my tears. From Miss Bared, Barney, I want people will say she misses bared and her babies! To hear that, O!" 

But! Like so many womyns (and mens!), she kept herself secret, lost to her shut up, and Barney, sad and bereft at the proof Looterelmundo behind Barney's back by ARK was sincerely seduced, and now long gone and vanished, sees that today she goes about wearing her fashion-designer fake Soul Shoes to show off she has hot forget-me-nots. Soul Shoes are for show; the formerly's childhood scent was real a flower unseen and buried you in her fragrance you would die gladly to breathe in the air of. ). Lungqvist married indeed. Whatta laugh. Clack clack.

Pause a moment, think, and recall the Matriarchate. It existed long before PUD. Then, before the connubium divided us, there seemed plenty to go all around. There were limitless fathers—pygmies, it is true, but great in number.

Back at that time under the Matriarchate, mens went everywhere that womyns were when womyns were in the open, no hiding except during the Mysteries and no pulsing blue-veined big barbarian Cyclopean forest-dwelling one-eyed Grimpses to jump out at you causing you to shout out for the Comus Stabuli and Sgt. Dorn. Everything was mostly for free and no hiddenness as there was little to hide from except blood. On the other hand, I admit, there was then at that time long ago no show you to have good time with because every body was open and free, and with holes everywhere, you kept your eyes to the ground looking out for plaintains. Back then when moms were in charge, the talk was mostly of primaries, not of nothings, talk of such as bellies, pregnant or full, or sterile or empty, and of course food, "Won't you have another plantain, Sweetness? There are thousands more of the same plantains for you to choose from outside in the forest!" And under moms then, there was only primary talk born of boiling angry paranoid's blood to make vendetta—let's admit the truth, shall we?—primary talk like "Let's kill Jack fore Jack kills us," and "Who's your Mama?" Blessed Womyns, under the Matriarchate, no sneaking around, no fear of surprise by flashing Grimpses swollen and raw, red in the woodsies like today. Before PUD, no Venus in Furs, no show and tell to be forced to by Grimpses and other mens. (Pigs. Forever stealing looks at the Horse-Womyns! Bastards. You look up fast and catch em at it. Or walking you if you're thinking just suddenly swing around and you'll nail em goggling at you even now! Even today inside Lizard Head.) Under the Matriarchate, why mess around? No secrecies but the wicked ones ambushing sneaking for blood in the woods but even there was peaceful sometimes. Speaking of woods before PUD, turds were ubiquitous and pervasive, for there were no water closets, even no matrimonial cameras and lettos. No pictures to say no to. No pre-bridal dirt to give an eyeful to run all anyone's wooly hour and his fatboy's beat off. (I shall speak ill of the dead to keep them engraved.) Until there was PUD, there was no show you to loosen your lips and to bring praise. No show you to lift your lips to or even mirrors. Nope. No show you had been heard of. Hardly any Eyes. Oh there were tattoos, yes, but representing the Sun and the Moon, not you and me. Mostly was jus gossip and simple, no frills fornication. What the hell fun was there in that? What's there to see without secrets? No thing to imagine? Jus to ask, Who's your Mama? while looking for holes. Nothing slick, shining its soft parts at you, lifting its blushed head to as if stare at the lucky womyns who's watching? No. No thing to hide from but the Mysteries. (Were there even any Mysteries, any true Horse-Womyns in the Matriarchate? Were there any womyns at all needing to come out ever? Were there pair offs like today's loving couple Chief Venables and Sgt. Dorn? Maybe. We shall explore later.) So, no, there was nothing to show you that was big, nothing Cyclopean, unlike today, nor much to surmise either, nothing like Aphrodite's Divine Pygettas kept hidden from us all until the moment of surprise. Nothing like Pandora. No one like Darlene. Nothing to compare under the Matriarchate to the enchantment at Lizard Head of their Pygettas. Don't kid me, you like them too when they're in the all together or you are jus sick. Think on it. All in the Matriarchate was out in the open and loin cloths. Everyone could see anything, and nobody got nothing. Everybody had something. Everybody was stuffed.

In summary, it took PUD to deprive us of the lordship of Womyns! Think of Penelope shut in and shut up. Think of how few Horse-Womyns of yore! Surely, there were more! Then, think of Ich! Poor dirty pathetics, dreary dads. Taking for themselves all the rights in the world. Taking the light to shine in all the time on themselves. Putting womyns in the backrooms under locks. Bullying their way inwards without any dew. Sporting those terrible hangers and barrels extremely openly, like Olympics.When every body had something and nothing you got not, womyns ruled. It took PUD to create envious nothings, with their shut ups of womyns and limited production of really hugely-endowed dads, which makes for huge nightmares and the occasional Purga running south-southeast, out of the country of witches and blizzards, and witch-womyns named Walperga at at Lizard Head, Muz Walperga Fergus.)

However, today after the Fall caused by PUD, the talk is entirely of secondaries, not primaries, so that even the Horse-Womyns have lost the originals and overload the frippish embellishments, such as plastics, butt tattoos, dodo feathers, waxes, rainbow hairs, bleached sphincters, and Soul Shoes. And therefore envy of nothings is one sad creation of PUD. Another is Lookers and envy of em. I must admit I myself bless looking so very much as you shall soon see (sic) the obsession. Now you know where I stand (sic) on the issue, me. I, Erich von Dalkenshield.

 After which Fall even back in its early days, womyns were made to become gentle soft quiet things just sitting there all white and fluffy wearing fur that you didn't want to just look at and especially not after the deed, for then you'd have an earful from the shut-in gaping at you with scarlet lips. No, indeedy. Womyns became mysteries owning furs and little puffballs on their open toes and eating Turkish Delight. There were three kinds of approaches to them womyns, the ones you see jiggling plumposities that make a man doubt his ability; three kinds of come ons, according to type. Number One: To see furs, Creeps did a sneak up. Number Two: Normals a mannerly dance and dinner ending in nuptials and a strictly conventional glad dance. Number Three: Heroes told lies because they were hard, and womyns would always listen to hard ones and after kept quiet about it, about what they had done, kept quiet for long after even ever after they had captured a Normal (kept quiet for fear of awakening The Dark Matter seeing Demon Mona, probably the worst that can ever befall a person on Planet Earth, which wreaks vengeance on the living, and even on itself, and even Big Mouths keep quiet about those early days with Heroes.) And the Heroes, very much like Grimpses nowadays do, well-salted with cheerful experience, wandered around in the woods waiting for a womyns to flash, which was rather frequent. Unlike today's terrible Grimpses, however, Heroes hard and handsome, were loved and spoiled rotten, freely offered those, their scrumptious buttered breads, and those, their sweetened condensed milk in jugs held out beautifully.

Because what with their chests treasured, their golden balls swinging and knocking, and their chinny-chin-chins dimpled, giving rise to hopes and dreams and dreamy hopes, and whatnot, Heroes were beloved beyond all the jealous hidden secret furtive dreams of Dark Matter—beyond all, beyond everything, beyond law, for what was going on was strictly illegal. You can but believe it if you've seen it! (Dark Matter denies it.). It appears violent, but the only violence is Dark Matter's rage aroused spying Demon Mona trailing her enthusiasms for someone hunky and heavenly, say, a young laddie like Google-and-Goodwood, what she had not shown him, DM, despite all the holy hoops of Connubium—I.e., rage for showing what Demon Mona had been unable or disabled by him to show him (DM), cuz you can only expect to experience glowshows when there's radium, isn't that right? And so "DM the Disabler" should be his nom de plume before the walls of Troy.

Believe me, when the DNA's there and blushing throughout his redhead and her milkholes, there's so much Hellsapoppin 'tween em! OMG! It goes beyond phenomenal and seeks another day. Mind you, existence will not long abide such sweet milkdrops shared 'twixt Eve and Adam, much preferring -duds, Calamity Janes, gossips, and adult ulteriories, plus lotta bar spites-and-quarrels, strifes, and Nobodaddy's urbane and diplomatic secrecies: all recipes for war. And the old Carbos, fat aging Monroes, Laughtons, the Sandwich, Sartors, Joplins, Gateses, Cock Brohs, Boners, Vigaries, Gogginhiney, Hungry Zuckers, Zuckerburgs, Lorraine's Gunders (who escaped!), Miss Judy Joker, ARK, and in Bottomley's case the spider Mr. Shutterbuggerer sneaking round all wool hours with his tricky old big vanity mirror for married womyns to flatter the shapely shut-in starved for attention Poor Plumpus Miss Muffet, sitting dimly on her stool maxed out eating her secrets in silence and ever after shut-up all alone with her secret (her nature demanding indoor vanity mirrors and display to the outerdoors tragics of heartfelt surrender, the entirety of her upbringing upbrought into the world yet one more child prodigy in a long line of em screaming for attention), and also don't forget maybe even President of the Steam Society Dewitt Clinton and his gunderstains as well, miss out totally because there's no coming out into the sunlight (content to become mere shades of Dark Matter), and there's no substitutes for it but a cremation or plastics and wrap, which is where I come in to try to save them. So much for the power of Beauty in the long sad sad story of Womyns, a story of nothing.

In that thar their holy book of PUD not one clean story of love and romance (say Demon Mona Unleashed) but only of grieving, laments, jealousywrinkles, waiting, washing, onlookers, ceremonial connubiums, and death and Dark Matter watching.

Yes, this is the story of Lizard Head: the Hidden Land of the Horse-Womyns that is near Bridal Veil Falls, Ophir, and Ilium, and all the hanging valleys and Pandora, Red Mountain, rare Earth metals, and the madness of gold, which you didna yet know about because no one told you before now. This is my report to you all, I, Dr. Erich von Dalkenshield.

Let us cut to today. Even while he was planting his womyns's intimate bosoms with his slick stuffs, Liberty Bottomley lorded it over his wife, Angel, stomping on her flower beds, rolling in the hayfever whenever spring came trippingly, and stumbling home in the wee hours after a long and leisurely perfumed lunch with probably a mistress because he came back smelling. That man was always sifting the air around Angel and she fast resented his too-physical presence that lacked the appropriate aplomb which she had been brought up to expect to accompany similar gross male demeanors that fairly oozed gases, odd squeaks, unsightly hairs, angular effects, liquid drippings, dirty gunders, and such.

 Yet Angel Bottomley was never intimidated by such a man little in spirit and so big and physical! After all, she had not married Liberty Bottomley to be above her but had married him beneath her as was only fitting for a womyns so European in order that he, not she, should look up. This was her clever morganaticism! This was the way it would be, she declared to herself in front of her mirror. Every womyns has the secret to her heart in her keys, which she keeps outta sight if she knows how to lord it over a mens. Push off! Her spiritual advisor, the young "neat-as-a-pin" Rev. Warren Dithers was there every day and who better then was there to tell her to look down and not up on the by now golden tycoon Bottomley, whose timberlands and aquifers and goldmines, silver mines, tungsten, molybdenum, copper, platinum, and tellurium  had in short order paid off. How had he done it, that young Bottomley feller?

Long before he wanted a wife, Liberty, the gold digger, was prospecting for womyns, yes, but mostly, because he was simple, for silver and gold. Womyns were complex, but minerals were simple. And besides, they spilled emotions all around, it was awful. He was a virgin, to tell you the truth. So. He was digging near, in, and around a horseshoe-shaped valley with hanging valleys all above, digging with with hundreds of other smelly, befilthed, and calloused men searching for gold when the tax man, Willard Drattit, came to collect. The other miners were so tarred and frustrated, they gave up and Liberty Bottomley came and said, I'll pay yer claim tax (which was two bucks) for youse if you'll just gimme it and git out. The miners and prospectors didna want to pay no two dollars a six-acre-claim to no Uncle Sam, and so when Ackroyd Drattit came to collect the mining claim taxes, he found just one man, Liberty Bottomley, owned all the claims and paid them promptly in cash and in full, $8,000.

The tax claims came in and he had purchased them for two bucks a claim when the other miners gave up all pissed off and talking about the crimers in the gummint and their limitless appetite for miners money. The rant continued for some weeks till finally the last miner but one echoed the U-shaped valley with the shout, "Badass Foul Dirty Gummint Crimers!" raised his finger to the sky, and left the last miner, Liberty, there holding a saddle bag in which was his own and hundreds of other mining claims and their tax bills yet to be paid to the taxman, one lawyer, Willard Drattit, from University of Chicago, Class of  1929, whose first job was investigating the secret group who had tried to recruit his boss, General Butler, for the Capitalist Coup of 1933.

So Liberty owed a mere seven or eight thousand in taxes but owned how many acres of claims and how big the land they were on when taxed but two bucks a claim and him paying $8,000 in toto? A little math will clean us of this trouble. At a claim-a-six-acre lots bout four thousand claims times six carry the aught and you got or whatever it is, who cares, it's a lot. So Bottomley repeated the plot and the process again, joining little acreages one to another until there was not only the original 24 and then 48 but redoubling paying the mining claim taxes 98,000 acres for him to lord it over, 98,000 acres of prime water, timber, gold, silver, tellurium, tungsten, molybdenum, platinum, all now his. What a dreary business it is for us after all, the history of acquisition, but okay, and the miners left their leavings to him, Liberty Bottomley, the elderly husband-to-be, much to the disgust of the young, or pretty young, Angel, Bottomley's wife, who hailed from New York with her nose in the air away from the stench of Ellis Island's behind. A young womyn's needs are often some starch, and there was the Reverend Mister Warren Dithers, well-starched and in full spiritual bloom, so to speak.

               

               

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[1] Member of the Jolly Roger Club. At his death, the Bottomley estate was estimated to be $1, 676,381,413,939.41. The Bottomleys thus were at the upper end of their cohort of the ‘mericani nobility of the Wall Street Pudmen.

[2] A spire of the same name used to be found on Hwy 145 near Telluride in Colorado of the United States but is now inaccessible, being part of the Horse-Womyns Citizens Republics in the Land of the Horse-Womyns Houyhnhnms.

[3] Derivation unknown. Note the resemblance of last 2 syllables to slang word, “baruras.”

[4] Mrs. Bottomley’s twin daughters born in 1975.

[5] The similarity of this name to the Paris street in the 5^th