The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXX – DXL

The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXX
The gleaming penis of Festus Papyrus peaks from beneath an undersized kimono. He is ashamed.
In the distance, a drag show booms; he is on the run from the Nunnyfuns.
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 1
Nunnyfun tonton
Nunnyfun ton.
The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXXI
Festus races into the wet street, skittering on flats strapped up to his thighs with pink ribbons. The gleaming penis lights up the puddles and the wet asphalt like a disco with a dark grey ceiling as it bounces back and forth across his thighs. THOCK! THOCK! THock! Thock! Thock. Thog.
The iridescent gem at the tip of the stalk swings slowly to a stop. Festus straightens his kimono and dusts a goldfish. He stands fifty yards away and face to face with the entire legion of the nunnyfuns.
Behind him, stands everything that could ever be wonderful. They do not plan to wreck it; just slice it up and kill it; and turn everything to grey.
The sapper is inside him; he thinks of his gleaming penis in the eyes of all the nunnyfuns; he is ashamed.
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 2
Nunnyfun tonton
Nunnyfun ton.
I will not let them come.
I will not let the nunnyfuns come.
Not a BB this – not a BB that:
They’re heavy in a bad way;
I will not let them come.
Nunnyfun tonton
Nunnyfun ton.
The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXXII
Dancing and twisting his way from the crystals as they turn to razors, Festus Papyrus, the Greatest Poet of Infinite Worlds; perhaps, not this one; has danced himself through every orgy and spun up yet more orgies still.
With time and time and time absolutely infinite, Festus stacked pleasure on pleasure and never left pleasure except for more pleasure or pleasure to come; he left behind and never looked back once a world cooled to crystal or grey.
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 3
Nunnyfun tonton
Nunnyfun ton.
If I could,
I’d help them cum;
but they’re heavy in a bad way
those nunnyfuntons.
No one can help them cum;
they make you make them make them cum,
those nunnyfuntons;
pull a lever;
push a nub;
get ‘er done
for nunnyfuntons
The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXXIII
He woke in the crystal place of razors. He woke in a bubble in the crystals. He woke in a room of laughter.
“You are not stretching my skinny sweater with those fake ass boobs!”
His eyes come into focus on six beautiful creations with beautiful voices high and low. There are nasal timbre, falsetto games, and resonant bass.
“I’m not voting for that werewolf asshole. I’ve never seen a stupider shill.”
He sees lashes and satin; but something is missing.
He sees shadows on cheeks and smoke on some eyes.
There is flourish and joy. Something is missing.
Sequins? Of course, there are sequins; there are green sequins on dresses and blue sequins on sashes and sequins on hats and play-action badges. There are so many sequins the word starts sounding strange just by the sight of them. Sequin.
Something is missing.
Festus wonders what as he eyes a sideways ass and thighs. Hips pivot and reveal a prominent bulge as the ass owner glances into the corner where Festus has materialized. Beautiful brown eyes widen; white lilies on fields of green adorn the perfect finger nails that touch the throat that gasps with the least possible vulnerability. The gasp dies, a voice that is steel across all registers spears the poet in the chest, “Who the fuck?”
The voice strikes Festus in the solar plexus and the soular nexus. He falls backwards onto a space heater. Velvet catches fire.
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 4
. . .
fer Nunnyfuntons.
I will not let them come.
The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXXIV
No screams greet the fire because everyone knows that everyone sees and powerful voices screaming add to the danger of flames.
Engulfed in the fire, Festus feels the shame of the invader creep into the wound in his chest. The sapper finds the softest parts of Festus and digs.
Soft beautiful fingers of beige, pink, and brown lift him off of the heater and tear the soft burning cloth from his smooth olive skin.  The sapper digs deeper as the poet stands naked before the beautiful ones.
No one notices the barbecued ass cooked just underblistering with the criss-cross hashes of the crushed heater. One and all – with non-sexual awe – gasp at the gleaming penis that sparkles before them. Everyone has a memory of the chromaspore somewhere inside. The gleaming penis ignites it.
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 5
They’ll choke us in a bad way,
those nunnyfuns;
they’ll whip us in the wrong way,
those nunnyfuns;
they’ll melt the wax until it drips to a hurting place,
those nunnyfuntons;
it’s never a game for nunnyfuns
and secret rules always change
for nunnyfuntons.
I will not let them come.
The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXXV
The chromasporadic memories flare like powdered metal blowing from the minds of the beautiful spirits across an invisible flame in the smokey room. Bright flares of pink, green, and magenta light the ether space where spirits see.
Festus sees the grins and the sapper bites a root. The laughter is snickers. The smiles are sneers.
The beautiful souls see strong-veined, paloured hands grab the sparkling scepter and jam it between clasping things. The lights go out.
In the space where the spirits see, the grey razor crystals around the bubble turn slick.
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 6
As soon as I can recognize
before they’ve snuck into my mind,
I will not let them come.
. . .
. . .
Those nunnyfuns
have already come and drizzled up brain
with goo that crusts
and snowy salts
my poor pudding grey.
. . .
. . .
The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXXVI
Hands reach out to comfort him; Festus falls sideways and backwards into a rack of robes and gowns. Deep blues and sharp shining greens twist across his face cheeks and slickly chafe the burns on the others. He rolls deeper into the cloth, wrapping tighter and pulling his knees to his chest and his ankles to his ass. He becomes a burnt ball of satin, lace, and shining sequins. It is beautiful and strange.
The beautiful souls stand back. The beautiful olive man with the resplendent member is a tight cocoon of half their favorite outfits. It is beautiful. They want to comfort; they want to help; they want to see the gleaming penis again.
However, the beautiful man cannot be touched; he cannot bear the gaze; he cannot do anything but fall within and spasm to any approach; the sapper is chewing on his terminal root.
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 7
. . .
If I make it fun to taste it;
and I make it a game to never waste it;
whatever scum the nunnyfuns
will be tons and tons for me
to eat;
I can become
the Everfun
that, perhaps,
I was meant to be.
The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXXVII
The six beautiful spirits look at the egg of outfits.
“That’s my favorite little black dress.”
“There has never been a dress on you that was little.”
“Damn right.”
“Gross – it looks like all our clothes are melting together.”
“Fuck, I love that dress!”
They stare together as the clothing unstitches and reweaves into a soft shimmering shell.
“And it loved you; now it’s an egg . . .”
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 8
As the Everfun,
I uncome the nunnyfuns,
and unshamefully, I grow stronger
as I devour
as they come again.
Uncome and come!
Uncome and come!
Uncome and come!
You fucking nunnyfuns!
I devour and grow stronger
every time you come again.
I devour
all the tons of nunnyfun.
The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXXVIII
The egg of outfits has grown still. The beauties leave the room in silence; each strokes a hand across the ball of cloth.
The beauties take a stage in the center of the bubble of the frozen grey. The frozen grey is growing slick and gathering. A bit of liquid crystal drips.
One beauty takes a step and a stance and an electric wiggle in the motion of co-ordinated muscle sends a magnetic ripple to the hips of the beauty standing next to hrim. The next beauty spins and an electric burst fires to hris friends. Those five take the spark and hum.
The first, now humming, steps again.
Again and again as the crystals melt and drip.
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 9
In their robes and shirts
and buckles and belts
their clasps and trasps
and veils and skirts,
when they come to the Everfun:
Un-girded and un-girthed,
they’ll drop their drawers,
cabinets, and open up
their curdled, churning,
turtle works.
The Mythos of Obscurity, DXXXIX
Again and again, the beauties step and spin and spark and hum.
Again and again as the crystals melt and drip.
A searing drop of crystal spit hits. Grey and dusty, the liquid rips into the tender tendrils of a bubble begonia.
The beautiful ones step, spin, hum, and spark; ignoring the hole in the garden.
From the grey dusty darkness where there are no begonias, though no light changes and nothing moves, a shadow deepens; underneath a myrtle tree set with pink confetti ready to rain, the deepened shadow rises.
The shadow is lighter and darker. The shadow has bands of white grey and tresses in shingles of light-stealing soot. It could have eyes; or it could have two forever holes that reach no soul.
Two drops strike almost together. And another and another.
The beauties step, spin, spark, and hum; faces orange, alabaster, phantasmagenta, ebony, urdle, and tortamarine shikshamshimmer and slice out a wave of light-cold-heat-fission-fusion-fucking-beauty-isnonsense-andlifecannotdie.
The shadow risen from the begonias turns colorful and dies; no one can see because the arc is so bright.
The Tons of Nunnyfun, 10
Oh, creamy, dreamy nunnyfuns!
Drop your habits!
Drop your habits, nunnyfuns!
Swish and sway, oh nunnyfuns!
Waddle no more, nunnyfuns!
No more penguin nunnyfuns:
feet for walking ice,
wings for swimming,
chasing your shimmering,
flickering fish.
The Everfun will catch those fish
in the taco
in your dish
and as I nibble it,
the Everfun will make you come!
Dark grey razor crystals drip into the bubble of the beautiful ones; the dusty liquid rips every tender thing with a pointed question that has no purpose: “Do you die?”
The light from the beautiful ones renders the grey irrelevant. Over and over and over in resonant effort, the beautiful ones exchange and increase their love for each other and everything that they can know; in the light and sight of color beyond color, the sweet sizzle of it makes every sense inside the bubble bounce an extra echo and over and over . . .
The thin dusty drips cannot reach the garden and the stage within the bubble; the nunnyfun shadows fizzle and cut back against each other; the drips upon the crystals press in waves against the rigid surface. A choral note resounds as the light and music grind the dust against the wall of the bubble.
As the beautiful ones match their dance to the note of the sand, the bubble inside the crystal expands. The sad razor crystal explodes; the beautiful ones do not notice. Their light hits the shattered bits of crystal and splits into every color of energy and every energy of love.
The light and love shine warm and perfect nurture on the Festus egg that flies along the first wave of the expanding shimmerfilm of spiritual orgasm.
The Tons of Nunnyfun (aka The Everfun Comes), 11
Come unto us, nunnyfuns!
No more habits,
no more dumb momentum
of your tons and tons,
and the constant
dressing and redressing of it!
Dance, you fucking nunnyfuns!
Chant and sing you fucking nunnyfuns!
Open up your throats!
Sing and holler, nunnyfuns!
Spit and swallow, nunnyfuns;
however, all of us might or might not cum!
Oh, nunnyfuns!
Oh, nunnyfuns!
Oh, you naughty, naughty nunnyfuns!
Spit or swallow nunnyfuns;
the Everfun has supped
on the tons and tons that you’ve let run;
the Everfun comes.



Ryan David Undeen

Ryan David Undeen killed Lucifer; he is Jesus; so are you.

The broken king of the undying, Ryan David Undeen returns eternally to fight capitalism and make penance.

One day, he’ll be a person and fuck off.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Monday, August 21, 2023 - 11:34