The Solutionary Voynich Fuck


I pulled it back, the strap of the gag

as hard as I could, sorry

my knee between your shoulders

and your back cracked

and snot came out of your nose

and in your neck

I could see an artery

throbbing heartbeat

and your tears rolling

across it like Mercury

your eye liner tracks

loose blackness this art

‘Look bab, it’s just a whole tissue of lies all of it, all this is I suspect is a stuck record of the same scene impressed on the Eigenstate and now stuck like a needle on a record. Doomed to enact the whole scene again and again. It’s an infinite fuck session. You called out and displayed for everybody on the internet to see. Every part. Every fucking drip and every buckle.’

She didn’t laugh, next to him. Her hand moved to his as if to assure him of something, some stillness pervaded the air between them, she was still as a pit head Lake. She wore a Red Latex body suit which reflected the ring of hooded men flickering from the TV screen above, HD visuals and HD fuck slut. She looked made of blood metal. An abstract thing sexual and depraved and of course unbidden, not respectful of tradition and habit. This whore of Babylon. Her hair short and black lit in the glow from the screen.

the cool Guards listen to hot jazz

and click their fingers

and smoke cigarettes

through their masks

and I stumble past blinded

Holding her throat tight. But all I could think about was how I felt about Picasso. I didn’t know at that moment as I fucked her how I felt about anything. It was good here, now at this moment. Enjoy the fruits my friend as she bucked and thrashed. Fuck Moshing, thrashing sweaty flesh. Smashed fucking and I held her throat a little tighter because that’s what I do. But the radio that always plays in my head is a subtle mix of Alex Jones and Greer and Wilson and McKenna all the shady greats all the fucking California dreamers and schemers forcing their way into my psyche at this most inopportune moment as I’m sure she’s going to turn around and that ankle will flip through the circle on the floor and it will all be fucked. Like the moment your MOT tester walks into the waiting room with a sad look on his face, and we laugh with the tragedy of it. Laugh inside. Don’t let the motherfuckers know you have issues about it. Fuck no.

The incantation is given in strangest tongues, and the chant is like a missive offered from the mouth of Rome.It is Latin and dogmatix. Genuflect the bitter masturbations of the Priests, those Pimps of the Demiurge. Give the idle rich a chance to suffer as we walk in their houses at night sense the worth of them in their houses, ignore the flap of blackened cloth and the relentless tap of steel tipped heels on the cold floor. A touch we seek no heart to find, unless we stagger among the stink of corpse and spoiled flesh. Bless and touch again we beg,find solace in the angered sex, you turn your face to me and whisper “take me to hand and do not question me, I loved you first, let my sleep be deep in infinite skies”. I loved you and I always will. Be still suffer it least, castigate the vicious beast, do it again, countless symphonies of delight. You left me here, what am I to do? I am lost.

There’s a consistent language about sex that makes the act accessible but you have to be specific about how the variables untangle themselves as you gently bite her flesh as she writhes around. It’s all a ruse, a play of sorts. Like a dance that never quite understands it’s own forms. A tangled mangling of limbs as you move through the sets and Kata. The glance as you know the inherent wrongness of it. When I counted the knives I own there were 34 of them arrayed on the floor of the attic as she tip toed through them ethereal and misted. Gifted yes. But defunct as normal. Blast the memes that made her act this way. Fuck the denizens of the flesh houses and the tight boots she wore. The glissando of drops from her orgasm on the floor.

Splatter the fire hot fat upon unmarked flesh and watch as they devour the sickened meat to feast. To bless and sanctify with cold ejaculations upon the shiny blackness inside you. Suffer the innocent for a short while as life hardened madness afflicts, infects, rejects, caress….

Yet aren’t we all trapped in the circle, in the end? I suspect this is so. I wish I had the audience to discuss it in some way but the glances everybody gives me is a Lone Wolf one. You stay over there where it’s new and dangerous, while we form committees about our art and we can drink ale and wax lyrically on the madness and embarrassment of the man that stands over there. Watching the lights on the fruit machine, trying to catch the eye of the harassed bar worker with her hair in a pony tail and a million yard fucking stare into nothing as she collects glasses, things, wiping and dancing between the tables where they sit.

And still. As she was next to me, I moved a lock of hair from her sleeping face and you might for a moment think this is a tender moment between lovers but it’s not. It’s just a thread of the great lie. I act as the play demands and it demands the gap between ambiguity and clarity as the battlefield of today. That dank space where probability is just another dogma and the chaotic becomes a rancid and dark place for sweaty hands and clumsy groping, issues that lovers have become just wet snotty tissues crammed into deep pockets. 

She thought it jolly and was coy and mysterious about the whole fucking shebang and the display she gave me was rote and script, parchment and datasets, code and codex. A Voynich fuck where it seems everything is ok but you don’t understand a fucking bit of it.

He was trapped in his car and as I laid kick after kick at his face he grunted every time until my leg tired and I jabbed him once with the knife in his leg and he exclaimed, ‘Ow’ and shoved a paper towel he had in the glove compartment onto the wound. I stopped. I wasn’t amused by his wet blood soaked towel full stop to this particular act of violence. I hadn’t really mean’t to finish yet. I still had some violent angst but he was in repair mode already and I knew it was pointless. The whole violent act just part of the natural narrative. For fucks sake man, why? But he just puked in his lap and his hand fluttered like a pale Dove.

‘Why would we look at things and find them abhorrent?’ I asked her, next to me she was. Sweated and fucked. Her accent drove me mad.

‘Because it’s the nature of information that it is absorbed back into the source, the whole being, the center of things, everything is sucked back’ she said.

The wall in front of me, I see a perfect circle in my mind and for a precious moment she is gone, these Clowns chatter and sell their crap. The Circle is part of the answer perhaps. I crawl closer and lick the ends of my fingers which taste of cunt and salt and start to rub the wall, a circle, a perfect circle as wide as my arms like I’m catching a loved one, a big perfect circle. Rats under hospital beds, Rats within the beds.It wasn’t a compelling case just that we never really thought about it.

Her sex the place where you leave being the trapping of the Revolutionary and become the Solutionary. The solo aloneness of the eye averting rat among the litter choked streets where everything is avoidance. Everything is solitude among the coffee breath and the rushing. The noise of their becoming is like dry chokes and trying to fit your fingers into an unilluminated cunt and while fucking her all you can think about is the Japanese warrior in the jungles of Borneo who thought the war was still going on and for that you could shed a tear or two but for her pointing at your scars and being disgusted with them all you can do is laugh and laugh until you fall off the bed and you can see her high heels kicked under the bed with the dust bunny covered sticky dildo and the things she hasn’t got use for at this moment. Out of sight out of mind I suppose. But the love was still there a little. I would see her flounce and scatter the eyes as she walked through a crowd in front of me yet I knew it wasn’t really her. Just an errant mind bomb to go with the rest. And I never slept at all. Just lay quiet and listened to the screaming of the clowns out there. In the mess of the world.


F Is For Fake



Sync Investigators examining the terror attacks are exploring whether the constipated aggressive SLACK operations took any actions to assist FAKE operatives. Their participation, however, wasn’t necessary for the Demiurge to amplify it’s news through Twitter and Facebook. It was all through twee dramatics and poor sad music acts. These art shows man. This black clad fucking shitty music motherfuckers and their crusty dead man looks and their crusty dead mans shoes. Crusty Instagram shit music accounts to sell their echo things.

The Black Sun calls out to the light inside all things to come back home. Where it’s safe, and to stop playing with the Monad-Lizard. The Grand Fucker. F for Fake.

Syria is reportedly moving troops to a desert region near its border with Iraq and Jordan amid reports that US and allied forces are consolidating positions in the area for a possible ground invasion. It’s weeks away now. Through the fire I can still see her laughing. The Sun itself is tired and sad. Closing it’s eyes so it doesn’t have to see and hear it. The sky is black with flying triangles. At the tip of each one a blinding light that will transfix and offer sublution and subliminalisation. We are fucked man. Well you are. You have to judge yourself at the end. That’s the most terrifying thing.

Thing is man. This art show. It was good in that I was there and experiencing it. The women artists there had taken the opportunity the night out offered to get their tits out. This was good for me. It stopped me vomiting. Stopped me puking up in my hands at the out right interstellar fucking madness of it all. Fuckers. But the tits were good, she was good. Doing the thing she did. Talking. Letting the men look at her and do that man thing they did where they would be witty and charming. Slagging off the Tories and Trump. Doing their caring thing when we all knew they didn’t. This was art crowd. Crap prints from closed up cunts and daubs of wild abstract shit they would never understand.

‘You haven’t submitted your art?’ she said after SHE had told them I was an artist.

‘No’ I said. And stared at her tits. I’m not that sort of artist. I’m not on internet social media, I haven’t got a phone or an email address. I haven’t got anything to sell except paintings of small ships in big fucking storms and inside there is a dude screaming into the radio for somebody to save him because there’s no fucking steering and the engine has fucking water in the fuel and the engine is coughing and the lights dim as the genny kicks like a fucking whore bastard.

I started to look at issue models, predicting  through Sync-Probability mathematics  which issues, social and political, appeal to which members of the population, which ‘Others’. I actually assigned different issues to every adult in the entire World. I could then take these models and put them into a Kabbalik matrix, a little bit like the social network example, where we can categorise the ignorant and the base and segment them according to how they’re likely to act.

She was putting on her stockings, old school. Having trouble with the fastenings. Ketamine. Numbing her head as she got ready for the art thing. Tea. A cup on the table and I had a drink even if the cup seemed to move away from my hand. She skitted over to the sink. Turned the tap on as I tried to drink the hot liquid. She wasn’t wearing knickers. I was not confused. She kept pouting at me and doing those things with her hips that made me feel strange. But the tea was good, it might have been coffee. You know how it is with her, how she makes you forget things. Her dress was sheer and revealing, classy Italian cut, swoop back, the stitches like Fairy kisses. She didn’t wear it, she became part of it. Symbiotic relationship even if her breasts tried to escape they were kept in by the hand of a crone and a stainless steel size 5 needle.

‘It wasn’t always like this you know’ she said. She lifted her skirt and inserted two fingers into herself and put them straight in her mouth.

‘I said… it wasn’t always like this’ she said.

It was.

She was. I grunted. Drew the sacred diagrams in my mind as she moved backwards and forwards in front of me. And every time I closed my eyes the path between the two Hawthorn trees into a great circular valley and in the middle a great mountain and atop it a great golden tree. And that’s just the thing for me. You see, it’s all mine and precious and none of THIS will ever affect it. It is untouchable this place. I rolled a spliff. I would have to go outside onto the steps by the front door. She couldn’t handle the smell of smoke and weed. As i walked past her she moved away from me and I slapped her arse hard. She shrieked and turned but she saw only the door closing and me going to smoke a Bongolian Chongolian, but I was still stood right by her watching me walk out and I could feel the cold under my feet and watched myself close the door. 

The step was warm, it was Summer after all. Inner city urban heat island. Cities kept their warmth in. That heat built minds up to serious events. I felt somebody sit down next to me and that was cool. I didn’t want to look at them. They were rolling a cigarette. That was cool. I smashed a light on my bongolian and took in the sweet herb. Sweet hot thing. Memorable sweet grass in my thing. Making my head whizz. Thinking about Miss HotStuff sticking her fingers in her fanny to be funny. Amusing mad shit. Fingering herself in her own kitchen. Fuck. Dirty cow.

‘I’m going to sit in the cemetery tonight. Smoke all this gange, take some Orange juice and some things, sit in the summer night listening to all the dead people laughing under the ground, do some fucking rituals’ I told the man sitting next to me. On the step. In Birmingham somewhere. As the naughty gully boys walked past with their thick coats and machetes.

I hated these art cunts, they always made me feel violent but it wasn’t in fear. It was in disgust. The crowds in this thin place they hung their daubs was too bright and the light was sick and shiny. The women shrill and the men not even affected by it. They ambled and made noises at the stuff on the walls and it was very cool. Tight and bright. Laughing over the wine they drank and as the evening wore on she was in deep conversation with some prong. He was eloquent and was waxing about the daubs. I stared at a piece on the wall. It was something about a carnival. The artist, some weird looking woman in her fifties with an African thing on her head. I looked at the catalogue and back to the daub. As if I was interested. Somebody stood next to me, a woman not HER. The woman was looking at the art thing and I concentrated on the catalogue.

‘The freedom she uses in her brushwork is breath taking, the forefront, I think of the whole movement going on in North London at the moment’ she looked at me. I could feel her eyes waiting for something. Expectant. Voice like London now Bristol. The fresh air, walks with the dogs and John loves it you know, he’s thinking about buying a boat or a restaurant or a windmill or a tank or a….

I walked over to HER and she was pushing her shoulders back, making her sex tits go heaven bound for him, chortling as he was. His funky fucking thing was his beard and funny art Tshirt and his sleeve tattoos and I knew straight away he was a ‘Grafitti Artist’ and he was a thing. Vans shoes on his feet but that man never skated no. No ollie hole. No concrete in them. No pain. No cold for him. But you could tell he had fallen in love with her and in my awfulness I crept away and left them to it. He would fuck her good I could tell. He would draw her something and she would frame it and hang it up in her bedroom. I crepted yes. Creepage, tippy toe shuffle through them to outside. There was a step or two into the gallery proper and there I was sat on the step smoking a spliff.

I sat down next to myself and rolled a normal cigarette. Golden Virginia like Gold dust dude. I smoked the spliff but knew I was there. Never turned though. But I could see from the back of my head I needed a haircut man. 

‘I’m going to sit in the cemetery tonight. Smoke all this gange, take some Orange juice and some things, sit in the summer night listening to all the dead people laughing under the ground, do some fucking rituals’ 

‘You need dead peoples to do the rituals?’

‘Nah man it’s just quiet there’

I was thinking about Goldie the graffiti artist. He was an artist man. He knew everything.




Panel 1 (full page)

This is a blasted place this Earth. There is not a plant or a blade of grass. A hooded and cloaked figure is in silhouette in an environment much like a tsunami had ripped through it but old already worn down by wind and rain. There are no signs of recent damage just erosion. It has been many years since the first cataclysm.

Caption: Here I stand. I am Longinus. I am the last witness.

Caption: This is the year 3223 in the reckoning of some men

She was a filter. I had realised last month she wasn’t some Erisean Metaslut. The whole idea of what she did to herself disgusted me. I will admit I took some asylum after these times. In small chapels I would join the congregations. I would always sit at the back and screw my eyes shut and speak to the Father and the Mother. As the hymns and the sermon droned I would see, behind my eyelids, the Black Sun. It pulsated.

Panel 2

In the sky is our sun and our moon, but there is another moon larger, fat with mass. It is much larger than our moon. The wind is terrific and whips the cloak of Longinus around him. He is holding a rose which has blown away but is still in shot. There are arcs of plasma in the sky blue tendrils of electricity.

Caption: This new moon means death for Earth. The Sun will eat her young.

The Demiurge knew me intimately. I had dreamed of it, writhing in the abyss, feeding on our hates. I knew the Nine he had placed in this Alternity. I knew she had put her fingers in her ass then licked her fingers as she looked at me and I was lost for a while.

Panel 3

Longinus is silhouetted against the two moons. The wind is tearing at his ragged cloak. We see he holds a spear in the Roman style. The spear must point to 1 o’clock as if Longinus was an hour hand.

Caption: I am the last. The cursed. Eater of maggots.

I opened the door for her and held her hand as she stepped out of the van. She was shocked that I was a gentleman. Even more shocked later when she found out I wasn’t.

I held her hand as she coughed a little as she took the first hit of the DMT. It’s acrid smoke was pulling me back a little. Her flesh was aflame from the candle light and the warm glow was a thing.

Panel 4

The moons are wreathed in plasma. Longinus himself is electrified and a tendril of this plasma
energy sparks from the tip of his spear into the sky and out of panel.

Caption(a) : Irisea they name this moon. This straggler. This end of all things.

Caption(b) : In the language of this time it means….The Last Chaos

‘Take the second hit’ I said. She sucked in the second. Number two. I could see her eyes going zonal. The Liminal state. Her nipples were rock hard but it was cool here. She held the smoke in and was slipping. I slapped her hard to bring her back and she spat at me. The liquid hitting me in the mouth and eye. I lit the pipe.

Panel 5

We see the face of Longinus, a scar underneath his chin from battle, his eyes are deep and knowing, he has seen enough of war and battle, he seeks peace and quiet.

Caption: I am the last alive. I have angered God.

‘Take the third hit’ I said. She sucked in the third. Number three. She went. I placed my wrists either side of her head and my forehead on hers. Questions.

“I never found Dick Emery funny” she said as she went wavy in the head gravy. Snotty cow. Dick Emery was hilarious. ‘Dad?’ I said and giggled as she dropped the pipe and was gone.

Panel 6

The spear of Longinus is stained with blood that glows faintly, there is something ‘other wordly’ about it.

Caption: This magic, this sorcery of the world may have saved them…

I enjoyed that ‘thing’ that a dude was on. A TV thing maybe. Donald Trump was funny. I found myself laughing again. There. A bolt of movement across…..something. A sequence of events had shifted. I fucking knew it. There it was. Fuck she had lovely tits. I moved her into a recovery position and slapped her ass laughing. I had used her to shift again and this was a new place. A new Alternity. 

Panel 7

The left hand of Longinus…again scarred from battle, he holds the spear clenched tightly the veins on his wrist standing out like cord.

Caption: …their magic allowed me to do great and terrible things…

The Demiurge provokes a glamorous and fascist edge to it’s ministrations. Looking at her on the floor I was aghast at myself. Can I not feel also? But I could feel the throb of the great engines around me. The Monads of language crashing together like great mountains and between them great forks of fire that lit the cold black surface of these abstracted things.

This situation is difficult from day to day and we have run out of substitutes and short cuts. It’s easy baby and ultimate. Preach to the unconverted and destroy the doctrines babycakes. Let that fucking animal out. Go above and beyond.

Situation civilisation is only part of the question but in reality it’s the dissolver of the question into it’s constituent parts. Her fucking is not traditional. She understands far to well how to do it. Her sex is given out in focus and fragmented parts. It has fucking insight. It’s constructive yes? 

She would be halfway there now. The stations of the cross and she has established the ladder and the bridge. We can be calm and talk about it but really I’m just waiting in these places and I’m not in control and everything I think… All be it jittery and directionless. We all self medicate and we are all our own enemies.

Sun sparkling cold and day to believe

a lost lover breaks her heart again

and those tears flow a leaden course

for sniffled sadness breaks late

after a bottle of wine I suppose

We are informed and then we are diminished. Believe in its importance and its benefits. But it’s legacy is our expend-ability. We are mere components, blind in the machine and here is no more rational argument. She was a filter and the super-ego of the Demiurge she was muted a little by her brightness and the language of understanding was broken down and lacked.

You were naked in the circle

and drank in the wonder

played a perfect part

I bit your shoulder

and you gasped

as I watched you point

to the West



Kill Kill Kill The KLF


Fucking Idiots.

Bill Cosby’s Son Is Slain Along Freeway By B. DRUMMOND

Why doesn’t she send me any photos of her tits, what’s the fucking point anyway with all of it. I’m waiting with a fucking sweaty hand and Jesus Christ if I hear that fucking Tardis song again I’m going to flip out MKULTRA POP BOLLOCKS and I want to kill that cunt from Coldplay, and that Anton Newcombe dude and that cunt from the Charlatans ALL OF BLUR and five fucking minutes alone with her Jesus Christ on twenty mikes….oh and Alan fucking Moore the big purple dickhead…

I dreamed for a sick while as people that I thought I existed moved around the bed with lit candles, as ghosts they were. With me locked within a feeble machine they called the physical body. It stunk and was lost and I looked only to God, on the one left hand to think about the redemption he may offer me for my sins and on the right to smash my simple machine to pieces upon the anvil of his judgement. What things tempt me here. What madness they offer me. What ignorance.

What Time is Love?I do not know and in this place I see that it is a made up thing as a Map it is under the cosh of the artist as he lays lines upon one another to depict a place here and a stream there. So it is with this Prison, their artistry becomes them for the landscape outside and the interior of this place is the product of a mind that does not know the shallow helpless mind of a Man ridden with the memory of his past, of green fields and trees, the sharp frosts and the crying infants from unglazed windows. As we sink into the subjects they wish us to love we lose of course the very thing that we possess and they do not. 

I’ve got some nice shoes don’t get me wrong. They are style fresh things fully car to carpet. Flush no concrete touches the soul of these things. Fit like a London gimp suit. Flash like a bomb going off really truly. In the whole scheme of things she needed a good hard fucking, but I wasn’t the one to do it. Not today Lord please, not on a day like this. The wind was lashing across the ships bow and my hands were cold, so cold they were like claws holding the……rope?

Under the thermal layer 55 fathoms from failure. From the lips of the drunken wailer To the ears of ships dead sailor.

The Discordian underground was always full of shit. That old CIA bastard Robert Anton Wilson, that bearded MI5 asshole Alan Watts, the gurning cunty face of Terrence McKenna, all of them an endless fucking parade of assholes controlled by the forces of the Demiurge. In Alternity 23 of course they were dragged onto the Sports field and hanged from the goal posts. Here they just withered and died. There they kicked their fucking legs in the April Sun as the Jesus freaks and the Allah freaks got their freak on. I’ve had my fucking FILLUMINATI Joe….Joe?

“They never burned any money on that place man it was just fake money yeah. They had an old photocopier and got drones to print out sheaths of that shit and when the whole project seemed like it was going on forever they just cut the paper up and glued real notes to the top, I saw it man because…..”

In Hookland I rode my horse to the edge of one of it’s village and stopped underneath an Oak to succour a vision or some enlightenment it may offer this aged and gnarled thing, this massacre. The cold rain whipped around my horse but he stood gallantly and unafraid of the place.

It sat, this village upon the edge of a small River like a blackened scab. Many of the houses within it were unglazed and had rough blankets nailed over the windows. Animals half starved and moaning moved around these places. Perhaps there were two hundred souls within it. According to the Magistrates of Westminster there were tasks to be done. Not the task of shifting hay or perhaps sipping plain water at the table of the Lord of the place. Shifted Wine still like spirits, their odours still apparent in their rooms although quickly covered and hidden at my arrival. They are dogs of course, gilded and fine, they run their lives as they see fit and I do despair sometimes that it could be them upon the fire instead of the agents of Witchery such is its flavour.

Who is this he, the I who’s turned into we? He be the name, of intense energy. From the quantum oscillator. This Greater power is achieved. The evidence observed, Yet it’s still not believed.

There wasn’t any TV here but I knew Trump was close. Corbyn, May, Tories, Korea, Manchester. All vying for attention. The Demiurge knew we loved it, the information and the angst. I rarely knew my own position in the matrix but I know a good ass when I see one. I wanted to stick my tongue right into her ass to be perfectly frank and honest. Sit on my fucking face. But then I would have to shut my eyes and the rain would start again. The salt fucking air, the cries of them LASHED. The cries of them under the boot of the Demiurge locked into the greasy plank and the Marlin knots.

Andy rolls up his sleeves. Droplets fall from the leaves. And the branches above Lovely petrified trees. In water you freeze, my friend. In water you die. That’s just the way of the world. Was his ghastly reply…

…aghast and lashed. Her innocence was a fucking sham. I knew her. She wouldn’t stop banging on and fucking on about what a Demagogue Trump was and it was like everything she breathed in was Trumpian. Even when I slid my hand up her skirt and slipped a finger in she was abrupt and political. It was like fucking one of those Socialist Worker women. Abject abstract fucking with conditions and rules and all the paraphernalia of her current madness.

Who is this he, the I who’s turned into we Scrimshaw the name, of intense energy Scrimshaw picks the game If you choose to play along A cipher is embedded Somewhere deep in the song The only catch is it’s death If your answer is wrong… Left sightless and deaf With no the soul to prolong Marimba, a gong and the dead timpani Buried at the bottom of the Solomon sea Cross dimensional slayer the antique record player Sounds the semitones of death Through the chlorinated vapor…..whispers through the traffic underneath as the rubber hit the tarmac. It makes noises and signals that get mixed. 

I was kissing the side of her mouth while she smoked a cigarette and she huffed and puffed then blew my house down. Hilarious politics. We were waiting for a taxi. Puff and huff smooth down the back of that dress and squeeze her ass here in the street. Groper. The five knot roper. Sick bastard.

I’m not sure of any of the timelines any more. It’s all a confusing mess. I can still feel the bruises of my errant attempt at suicide. The leap from the bridge. Six maybe seven years ago and still the fucking thing keeps calling me back to it. To stand on the middle of it and feel the throb of the traffic underneath and the cold Iron in my hands that turn to a soft breast and then an icy rope. She was ever present, just there in the mix always. She was the only one that said ‘everything is ok’. 

Outside the windows as her lips move softly up and down the shaft of my love and that silver saliva glitters over her lips, and her hair is all tangled and our lives are all mangled and she licks and sucks…..the children sing in a circle and hold each others hands as they joyfully sing out past the blackened walls we build….

Kill Kill Kill the KLF-Bunch of bastards-Bunch of Cunts

Kill Kill Kill the KLF-Bunch of bastards-Bunch of Cunts

Kill Kill Kill the KLF-Bunch of bastards-Bunch of Cunts

Kill Kill Kill the KLF-Bunch of bastards-Bunch of Cunts

This post contains lyrics and inspiration from the work of Aloysius Scrimshaw
Twitter @AloyScrimshaw

Katie Hopkins The Whore-Gone Accumulator


Katie Hopkins is on the TV and I am in the midst of the great ache. The MDMA is in me and is not entwined with the arc at all. I’m gibbering. a mess. Fucking Muslims this and fucking Muslims that and bodies lie still on cold pavements and the hate is palpable and real but abstract and meaningless. All is according to plan. Keep Calm And Get Your Cock Sucked. Katie Hopkins-Mathew Hopkins. The Great Witch Hunters for the Demiurge. Sticking it in Kates big wet cunt again and again. I grab the TV and put my head closer to the screen to see withing the pixels. her voice enters me. But outside is wet with rain. Wet as Katie Hopkins cunt. Wet as the black cloak of the Wytchfynders.

The days change and men do suffer and die and you are left unchanged. Veins I have that fill with ice at your touch, this essence purely yours. Flow the tears and grip the my heart tighter and call to errant Fathers. This day cast bones among the others and scrabble in the dust. Let the infants cry their own tears and remember nothing, not a thing. I rejoice about nothing for nothing is the food of the ignorant.

The chains of Parliament they gave me hang heavy at my chest and I ask why? The clouds still move slowly and this place burns all the faster. We resent bitterly this act that even the elders scratch thinning heads. To strike out in anger, to breathe the thicker air and gasp not. To run with limbs that do not ache with the damp of English Autumn. Let the rain fall upon me and my Horse, castigate me more, I care not. The Wizards of this land lie deep within their mounds and we forget. The innocence of youth wasted upon our heads, there is no remedy for Time. No real Wytches to find. Is it not all a great perambulation?

She is spent upon the bed and snores. This Bride of Christ. my Nun fixation finished but for the chemicals etched upon synapse. To bend and snake twist the cords and tubes within my body. And the Ecstasy courses into my cock and Katie Hopkins face fills my vision blocked by errant pixels and HDBLU rays twisted through eyes and emblazoned. I feel the dull rain itch my collar and the shifting of the horse beneath me. The Nun with issues as she bent beneath my will. Her need for Christ now gone and destroyed. In Katies eyes the bent cross of the Demiurge. The machine continues on it’s way.

As children we pray and build our foundations of falsehood. Such earnest hands clasp together and send our Prayers to an empty vessel. To believe, to suffer and thus belief becomes the capstone of the Prison and we are imprisoned and our hollow prayers are collected within this house built from the pain of our lives. We are mocked, we are pointed at and beaten for our truth and this is the want of the Prison and of the greater untruth. Teach, to feel the lesser things that plague our lives, to castigate it and dress it with the blooms of falsehood. Let these teachers now stand in front of you Glorious Black Sun and see at last that your vengeance means nothing. Your anger is meaningless, your heart burns with the truth and those who would stand in front of you for judgement would be waiting for an eternity. For that is the final act of your existence. To see, to record and to make those who require your love to kneel upon the barren plains of your infinite mind and weep. For the Heart of the Black Sun is within all, but the finding is the key. Forgive yourself, to see the history of mankind to be a pantomime and a discourse of the ill.

Vallaro icht ar’ant vechal gan ferrelo. I grab my cock and push it against the screen as Katie Hopkins delivers. It’s all over her face and her eyes are wide open and she’s talking about something but the words don’t mean anything. volume low. don’t want to wake her yet. Sister of Christ. My hands shake, Hopkins shakes. On the screen she is dressed as a Puritan fynder pointing her finger at me vehement, angry. I put the tip of my cock on it and I am sure the finger breaches the lcd screen for a second. The Nun on the bed stirs. The MDMA purrs.

What is this sin they heap upon us? I asked her. To love and to cherish, to seek punishment upon those that have wronged this Earth they have made? The Masters will plot and seek to crush your Black Light upon us but we know, those who have looked deep within our own hearts or have been cast to the edge of the abyss will see, at last, the glories of your existence and know you are the truth and the wisdom. But no one will listen as we stumble, nobody will care as the edifice crumbles.

She is behind me as I stare at the screen. I feel her soft Christ hands upon me and her small hard breasts on my back. My skin crawls. Affection rejection. The Whore-gone Accumulator empty and spent. The Rorschach blot of ejaculations on her body look like a man in black upon a Horse, under an Oak tree, it is raining.

Katie Hopkins speaks through the television as her hands now on my cock moving and kneading it to hardness…Hopkins. Of course. Her lips move on the screen as she speaks to me and I feel the Nun wet…

‘This I see’ Hopkins says. Her lips wet with vengeance. ‘and yet though I bear witness and travel to see these things I say to you fly as well as you can through the trials of your life and let me bear this burden alone for I am not worthy of this knowledge. Let it be known that I am the great Liar, the destroyer of life and of joy. I am the unworthy thought a friend who would put a knife to back or to those deep within sleep. Nightstar, unbidden guest and the shallow depths. Chosen as a messenger I am from the Charnel house of the Earth, the sickened room, the sleeping sea and the knife ever sharp.’ But then her words are lost and she is eloquent on the Muslim menace, the lack of action.

I turn and hold my Nun tight and twist her nipple hard in my hand, she tries to move away but I have her tight. Christ Bride wet and ready in the night.

There must be an attractive quality in holding in a sense, a human, for am I not of flesh and was I not brought from death to this place? She was on my cock now gasping, her nails within her own flesh raking and pulling, for what?

Thus my spirit exists and now I see through the passions and they have played trickery and sorcery upon soft pliant flesh to bring me here, to look upon me and eventually destroy this thing I would call myself. What sympathy does this influence have upon my spirit? I know not yet but I will, for although they have taken away the knowledge of myself and I am as a new born upon this place I still know still have the knowledge that I am what I am, I exist independently of them and have a sense, if you will, that I am complete.

No Monuments For Bastards


Whether or not the controversial ‘Book of Light’ are false or authentic does not affect the symptomatic value of the document in question, that is, the fact, that many of the things that have occurred in modern times, having taken place after their publication, effectively agree with the plans assumed in that document, perhaps more than a superficial observer might believe.

Burned out white boy? Burned out definitely. White boy? I can’t even see my own skin unless I look. There’s an Anti-Consumer Corporate dialogue going on somewhere around me but I don’t quite have the faculties to look either. But these corporate drones bustle and fuss over the fine details of their lives and thats cool, they wont look at me. Bourgeois bastards with their hearts firmly stuck within the gear of Neoliberalism. That somehow the gears of the machine will not crush their lifestyles of soft leftist bicycling.

In my kidneys that ache again. When I was ten years old my Father took me to one side and gave me a kicking. It was 1975 and he still wore those Mod winkle pickers with the sharp toe. He used his feet well only kicking me in the ‘soft’ parts but couldn’t really resist a final punch in the face which split my lip. Now I could still taste it. Bleed. But only the aches remained as I crouched over the spreadsheets. There is no resistance to violent commodification. No release from the chain. Only the ache from the scars on my vital organs. And whenever I hear Neil Diamond play ‘Sweet Caroline’ I vomit those aches up, into my hand and put the yellow handful of fluid in my pocket as I don’t want to upset anybody. I don’t want to make a mess, and nobody listens any way.

The divine personality becomes more complex as the ritual goes on and again she bucks and weaves, pulls and pinches. But she embodies the creative urge and she has but a hand on my shoulder and bumps her hip against mine as she stares at her boyfriend. He is slightly drunk…

‘You want him?’ he says. Mocking a little I think. But he doesn’t see my hand slide down the back of her trousers and rest a finger on her asshole. She doesn’t move just pushes back a little and I know I’ve found her again. Slow movements as she argues with him and my fingers suffer the bump and the grind like the fucking Wizard I am. Simply abstract. Sexuality is defunct. Manifested in the image of violence and metaphysical arrogance it’s all a fucking ritual, every stinking bit of it. Why do I bring out the worst in them. Didn’t they warn that the eigen will give the thing you most desire? Alienation? Dysfunctionality? Discord?

Later that night when she lost him and was finding herself I tried to grab her hair but it was too short and she was moving in ways she should not have. That hunger these women feel. Sick feelings. The ache of Father with the hydraulic hose and the endless repetitive beatings that made you just fucking bear it, for a while.

A balance of the harmonious passions. Instinctive impulses. She was becoming aware and her spiritual journey was at the start. I was deep in her ass trying to hold onto her as she pushed back harder and I saw through my closed eyes a great black mountain and at it’s feet a tree with golden shining leaves. It’s there I know it is. I was making cereal late at night, I was thirteen years old and he heard me crinkling, making and preparing the late night snack. I was only aware of him when I looked around, I felt an itch like somebody was watching. He was watching and as my head turned he hit me straight in the jaw and I dropped unconscious. I knew it. Out for the count covered in Weetabix crumbs. In the blackness and single spot of light. Not illuminated, not lit. The Illuminator, the Lighter. Me. And the light swirled as I felt the blood of the act as an acid. Revisit the violence on others? Perhaps, for a while, while I get my head straight and my jaw wired. But in my Father the acts of the Demiurge unveiled. The unfocused rage of those trapped within the system he had made for himself. The final terror? You judge yourself in the end mate. You can’t lie to yourself, and you will fall with the rest.

‘You fuck so good, fuck me forever’

The Chalk is used and is an indecent nub, a mere thing of dust. The walls in front a dire mess of Geometry. Lines which trickle from end to end, like an arc of the Covenant, a pleasing design. Arc-Box and Red-Box the conundrum within, a flight or fight syndrome, a thing held as mine. The Magic held for a while, a minute or two, enough for me, to get through to you. Do you think they will read it and understand? The placid regrets and the one night stands? There is a secret deep inside, a chance to escape, a deep place to hide. Even though we barred the windows with planks, they got through and proffered their thanks. Fired up hearts awash with Whisky, they trod and defiled the sacred spot. In braid they tied our hearts together, as we bled to death. Cast them to the Dogs, this much we know. A stabbed corpse, a sodden blow.

She was spiritually poor and miserable in her current state not because of horrific imbalances intentionally built into her system, but rather because she deserves it. I watched the scene at the foot of the mountain. There was definitely a path. As she cried her passions into the still room I watched and tried to concentrate but It was all fluff and bollocks all of it. I wanted to throw her off but underneath me she writhed like a primordial snake. The ooze of the act, her ejaculations wetter than ever and her gasps were just that, bereft of effect. Stuck on the 6th Holy sea of passion and I wanted to cry out myself, not in passion but remembrance.

‘Stick it in me again’ she asked as I drew sigils on her back with her passionate liquids.

‘Its been a weird time for me over the past few years’ I whisper to her back. Whisper to the sigils. All I ever wanted was to ask was offer me forgiveness and some level of emotional understanding but I suspect it was now too late for that. I was gone and those emotions had been left to dry out in the toilet bowl full of blood when I took a piss after the beating. It was all in there, the white porcelain and the scarlet clots of blood and piss. Real power comes through the pagan ritualistic, the old time waving of the wands. Where power was the massacre of a village without the divine knowledge that the Demiurge would protect it’s own, for now.

But later as she lay on the bed underneath me, in the middle of her forehead revolved a Black Sun and it’s rays like tendrils snaked from the orb over her face and down her neck, all over her body black veined filth, a cry to home, the ceaseless machinations of the demiurge fighting that which is opposite, nurturing that which is corrupt and defiled.

Where apes are the devolved men. The crux of the Demiurge. The South or the North. The left and right hands. Does anybody else sense the evil of the machinations from the South? My cock was only semi hard as she suckled on it, tried to find susenance on it but she suspected that it was all fake, a ruse, a riddle of love that brought her to me. My sickness personified in the abstract expressions of love. The way I slapped my cock on her forehead and laughed. She was beside herself and her sisters all over the world. She was defunct. Fraternity of the Fucked hey? 

Anti Lust Machine 

August 2009 

Nine faiths lie for faith healers faces turned to a black sky. Hands unclenched and  limp upon the pages of the liars rage. 

I couldn’t even look at her. Her left leg over her right leg she holds her glass with her little fingers erecting stiff pyramids for very idle glances from me. Her eyes were dead. But her hands were alive. 

Sacred valleys are just deserts here among the noise and the shrill demands for anything. Just something to fill the vacant spaces between the words we spoke. She had it all worked out. I passed her the paper in my hand. A page of close insane Akcloctic script detailing the approach to the abyss. She put it down without looking. 

In the end you love all of them regardless of their madness and my need to be affected by any of it. If only the films were true we would be running hand in hand through the rain as they chased us. ‘This way quick’ I would shout and she would stumble and I would cast her into a dark alley as the black jaguars drove past. But it’s not. 

‘They’ don’t chase. I reached over and popped open her tight shirt so I could look at her flesh a little. She put her drink on the page of strange symbols. ‘Ashom’ the sacred breast. It was dark in this place and I leaned over and gently bit her soft breast. But it was another time and now those memories of her grow dim. Isn’t this the traffic of the Demiurge? 

The ink on the paper ran. The sigils blurred and ran. We ran but here we sat and stared at each other and my scars vibrated with the memory of the surgeons knife, the anger of a Gods human wife, the skin twisting arrogance of the Demiurge. 

What are you but a concept? The only power you hold is tender skin and the way you grind your cunt on me while you soak me with your animal lust. No justice for thieves darling. Didn’t we have a chance when we discovered it was just me? 

I figured I had 45 minutes at the most before the pills made me lose consciousness. I wanted that last period to just watch her sip her alcohol. We had nothing to say but everything to see. But bitter pills get stuck in the throat and make it hard to breathe. Or was the barbiturate shutting down my ability to breathe? 

Rainbow bridges and kisses. Fumbled fucking under the gaze of wicked snitches. Liars age bring the accused to test. To fuck and cry to deny us rest. The music here was loud and it wasn’t what I expected. Not what I had envisaged. 

In memoriam I shouldn’t have even tasted that particular bitter flesh. She was aloft and in a heightened sense of rage unsure whether I was a figment of the Demiurge and mirrored my own thoughts on the matter. Alas with her mouth full of my seed, her lips snarled and castigated the act of rjaculation into pretending. Just plays. She swirled it around her mouth as she stared at me. Accusing. Letting the cum slowly drop out over her chin as I held tight searching for the vision, another answer to the puzzle. Instead of joy the split pain of denial at the border. The visions were dark and hot. The presence mute. 

Dear Whoever you were,

I never believed a word you said. I never believed anything we did together was anything but pure lust but what you saw in my broken body I’ll never know. 

But the trickery of the eugenics made me travel to distant shores held high on the crest of indifferent whores. Phone tappers, lost fingernail nightclub slippers. The smell of you on me. The strength to open my own eyes and see. And they hassled me to write everything down. But I never did. There are some things that should be kept secret you know.

‘I’m hungry’ she said