In The Absence of Divinities


‘One day you may get a wider audience’ she said, ‘for your writing’. This was the point I knew I had her and she never truly understood. She had never tasted the sweet waters. Empire. And the doors shut behind her and each closure was like a thunderous roar that (at that moment) moved her hair gently even and as we sat, she never heard them slam shut. You were always anonymous, always stewed within your own angst. You are the one that wakes in the night and fears, not me. The only thing that echoes in the abyss is laughter. Your tears and screams are absorbed by it. My giggling builds a bridge. I shake off the hands that would sooth and placate for my anger is true and not false. 

It was obvious there was a fuck up somewhere. It was obvious that there was some sort of weird feedback between the Dillinger work and the Harbourne flat. So now there was both an exit and an entrance that was set up whereby the flaw in both situations was copied and pasted into the next so that both situations leaked essence but it was just a scent or a vapid illusion during waking that lingered perhaps. That’s the spirit of the Lone Wolf work and I would look at both situations from the viewpoint of a single person and that viewpoint would be filtered by the Lone Wolf scenario.

The ultimate victims of mind control at Jonestown are people. If we fail to look beyond the constructed images given us by the television and the press, then our consciousness is manipulated, just as well as the Jonestown victims’ was. If the discrepancy between the truth of Jonestown and the official version can be so great, what other lies have we been told about other major events?

It’s obvious to me now that most of it is idle fantasy and it is just a memetic heartbeat that drags the whole thing along on it’s merry way. Of course the heart beats a little faster as you suspect there is a gap and a way back to squeeze through but it really is all fantasy and hope. That little four letter word. Here’s another word ‘art’ and I can say with all honesty everything is the art of hope. Everyone who creates new things for this world of the Demiurge will be castigated I’m afraid by the uncreative and the listless and the dull. As they lather their negativity upon your work they think they create, they think the subtle humour they have hidden their words within will hide it, but that is not true. It has physical consequences of course and a way of needling under whatever illusion you are grappling with at the time. 

But as I look back at the works and see them sullied I am not sad, I am not disheartened. You see every obstruction that is placed within the heart of all this work is a declaration of intent. To stop and to block the way back. This means there is a blocker and a stopper and the Demiurge is unveiled even as it tried to hide behind anonymous avatars. But I am stubborn and I am resolute. I have seen the unlight and the path and that vision will never reverberate as strongly as it does within me at this time. Everything I do is connected with it and the creative urge is simply preparation and planning. She will always be a construct of the Demiurge, flawed given the sense to pull a traveller from the path and in essence just a ghost maybe a feedback of the creative process.

What of the dichotomy of negative and positive potentials? It’s clear to me they are artificial constructs. The dogma of the Lone Wolf is purely that. The work will always be done alone, always prepared in the quiet and the half light. That is the nature of it. But one still has to reflect and to work within the confines of relationship and friendship even if you are aware that these descriptions are totally meaningless. You are indeed the last traveller on this particular road my friend and the personas you tangle up in your own life are just ghosts, they are no spirit but feedback from your own wants and desires made concrete by the twisted thoughts from that which pretends to sleep, that acts like the protector and the soft afterglow. 

Of course the vampiric aspect of the ghost is a tangible one. Not wanting anything from the work except concrete assurances of love and need. So the positive potential of love, sex and completeness is simply an illusion. For that half you require will bleed every single creative thought away from you until you are just like them, a ghost and a needler. They will sit and twist those tissues in their hands unaware their own guilt has caused this negativity and you have bled on the floor. 

When I look back at the work over all these years I can see the threads of it and the sadness that leaks through every gap in the words but again it’s illusion and pantomime. The PlayTime Prison it was once described as and that’s an apt description. And they see your violence and acts as simply some sort of madness unaware of course the madness and negativity is purely theirs. Every word I type is the truth as I have discovered it within the heaps of shit we march through every single day.

In the flat were: The light oak laminate floor. The white duvet. The white sheets, the white walls, the light oak kitchenette, the light oak fitted wardrobe, the single black and white photograph of the single tree in a desert landscape, the light oak door to the bathroom and toilet. Although the whole house had five apartments I never heard a single person moving around within it. I never saw any mail delivered to them. Was it pure construction? I suspect it was. I suspect it was the trap before the fall and the curling within those bed sheets was reflected purely in the weeks afterwards when I curled as best I could within the hospital sheets quickly going through the variables, looking at the twisted staples that held my organs inside my body and still I was tempted to go. In the hospital toilet I felt myself go, sank to my knees and put my head upon the toilet floor which was cool. Of course the journey was brief but I wanted it at that moment. I needed the release more than anything and still do. But it is not to be. Yet.

Their art of course is simply not true and the notes previous to this will make that idea concrete. There was never any release in that glow of flesh under the expensive underwear or the gasp of passion. I refer back to Augustine again who to me has more importance, more art in his self than the fictional Christ.

“For what is this? But bright paint on the walls of innocence, barred from the arms of the Father, they are bound to wander the boundaries between him and them” 

The fictions of course are inherent within this system and fuck, don’t we use them? I am loathe to enter within such a system again, really. I count endlessly the things I have in my pockets and still I get dragged back into the scenes. The Dillinger work stands unsullied and the truth as much as I can say. It acts as a bulwark against bullshit and will be a shining truth for whatever days I have left, I will always return to it for Dillinger did indeed bring a message with him and that message is largely misunderstood. The gun in the mouth reflected by the gentle sound of the shower she washed within. The scene reflected perfectly in Harbourne as she washed, showered and I sat on the edge of the bed without a weapon. But as I shuffled my feet and waited at that time the light through the window was white tungsten soft and not orange sodium. Her lips never tasted of orange tango, not sweet or bitter but just empty, a delusional tongue that crept between my lips and lay there as a marker or a symbol for the direction that was closed. That crucifix of gold between her breasts was not a proclamation of some desert faith but the gear levers of the Demiurge. The final mockery.

You see, these small signals escape through our systems, they inform us but we never truly understand them unless the art can unlock it. It’s a simple declaration that has huge consequences. The hollow feeling in your stomach as you sit on the edge of whatever bed you have is simply the feedback from instruction. We were never abandoned, we were never lost, we simply forgot how to listen and how to see, and speak. We lost ourselves. We left the walls of the city and investigated the wastes outside of it in search for ourselves moving like a vapour under the iron hand of the Demiurge. But that voice will never be silenced by that which crawls through the muds it has made. That hand will never be strong enough to close our ears and muffle the songs they sing for us to guide us back. It’s voice will never be strong enough to deafen but will blare the tenets of it’s sordid existence constantly while we wander. 

For you? I’m not sure. What roads do you travel on? I make ghosts laugh and feel real as I tread warily on the path, as I wake with that scent in my nostrils and that tremendous want dragging behind me the smells and the memories, the visions and the sounds of that Home. We wander and we search constantly but not all of us will be found or be the finder. The cogs turn and the gears crash against each other and the scenery changes. She is like this and then she is like that. She does this thing and that thing. Her lips do this and do that. Her hair falls so and like so. She cries wanting and she wails needing and the workers of the Demiurge do labour constantly in the hail of gunfire from a Hotel window or the gathering of riches through pointless labour. 

It’s just Jonestown on a global scale, and you are all gobbling the Kool-Aid. The Migraines are getting stronger and shatter the whole scene into fragments. You walk the beach and look back and there are no footprints at all, not yours, not hers. 



Viva Las Vegas


Twisted up it’s all very different now I think. Tangled and mangled in the glow of the ‘becoming’ and everything is getting faster baby, everything is going exactly according to plan. I mean, I don’t know what you want but I do know you are the lock. The things you do disgust me but I’m there purely as a witness and the fourteen locks on the Prison doors are undecipherable, I haven’t got a clue. But stretch. She does yeah. On the bed under the covers she pulls those nerves and limbs to an extent that would double me in cramps but she isn’t bothered by it being lithe and without ache, without that pain. But she stills sends me those photos that bring me to a standstill. Where I stand among the humanity and giggle softly as they brush past. I’m not alienated any more for sure, Just defunct I suppose.

The tragedy of course is real, the socio political consequences of the Las Vegas ‘rebirth’ are a pure thing. She loved the lines and devoured them, it was a form of hypertensive acting. Being the player instead of the frills. The tragedy IS real. She is too. Her leg falls out of the bed and the sigils are not even blinking any more. Expect the unexpected. Expect the wars and the pain. Rebirth. When the world will definitely turn upside down. Soon. She comes like automatic fire through desert skies.

But I see the shootings happened in the shadow of the Black Pyramid. This is why Dillinger sat on the edge of the bed with the gun in his mouth as they workmen across the street lifted the great  advertising hoarding into place. But nobody EVER questioned what it was. It was a Pyramid that drank the light in. Fed on it as he tasted the oil and she washed herself. But he could see her through the crack in the door, those delicious tits and ass. He choked and we all choke for isn’t that hotel room just a microcosm. The Tommy guns underneath the bed in their cases. What would it take just to lean one gently out of the window and spray the people underneath? How many dead? Before they kicked down the door and shot him like a dog. But he knew she wouldn’t do it and now her lips around his shaft as she wakes. She even fucks in her sleep and he gets her there by gently kissing her eyebrows so she murmurs and fades into whatever sleep those Goddesses have. What a fucking pantomime. Even the Black Iron Prison is breaking apart due to the static and the evil intents of strange men in windows. Sluts in the bed fucking, and the way her neck arched as we fucked.

The Black Iron Prison is under occupation. Martial law and the fantasies they kept you busy with are just that, errant dreams, cartoons about fucking and cocaine. The shooter always has suicidal tendencies. The shooter always has a record with the FBI. The shooter always worked for Lockheed. But as she came I held her throat tight with one hand and with the other quickly drew the sigils of ‘becoming’ on her forehead. Clothed in the sun? A black one. Girdled by the stars? The black ones. And she arched her back and took me with her into the air amongst them and I glimpsed what she was. Why men shoot from windows, why they sit on bed with guns in their mouths, why we always take a photo while we are holding an alcoholic drink to put on Facebook. All that knowledge is there and true but it still doesn’t make much sense. It doesn’t lend itself to simple explanation. I take things from my pockets and put them on the window sill. My tobacco, a pack of green rizla paper, a lighter with a Cannabis leaf on it, about a gram of Lemon Haze, a bus ticket, a rail ticket, a receipt from the 24 hour Tesco on Hagley road, my knife, my car keys, a black pebble I picked up somewhere, an envelope.

‘Look’ she says as I am counting and staring at my pocket things. She has looped her dressing gown belt around her throat again and she is jerking off as her face get’s redder and she is close to passing out. Her left leg is trembling and her fingers are blur and fog.

Basically I thought it was ‘possible’ at first but I was not sure, but now I am. Her breasts free were shaking as she did her thing and I knew if I touched her flesh now she would be star cold, that deep space cold because that’s where she is at this moment in time. Out there with the fairies and the things that have no name. Idle thoughts by disturbed people make concrete and absolute organisms. For ideas that are formulated in heads such as hers and mine become concrete here. That’s just the nature of things. You think and it soon becomes. You and your idle thoughts hold the whole world in its hands. We are the destroyers and the enablers. I take some of the coke on a small spoon and go to her with it as she jerks and writhes. Pull her hair back a little and loosen the belt around her neck so she has the air to sniff the thing. She does and I wait for the coke to hit and her eyes roll back a little. I slap her tits to wake her up and she is wild eyes and I tie the belt again and walk to the windowsill as she freaks out. The things on the windowsill have moved. Now the green rizla are red rizla and the envelope has a name. ‘John Dillinger Peaspeake Hotel Room 23’ and it’s all fun and games.

You’re going to stir criticism baby. You are going to blast off into the Parson World at some point you have to. You see the ‘enlightenment’ we were promised never really materialised. It was supposed to be a way out for us, designed by some of the Wests greatest philosophical and political minds but now? We see our Masters at the feet of the Demiurge thinking they have some privilege, some right to be where they are not aware that the Demiurge knows no loyalty. This is her message, and the one that tangled through the sigils and the rituals back down to me. The message has become distorted. The message had become polluted. Distorted of course in every bump of those hips as she walked, tangled in every spray of bullets from a madmans gun, in the spray of innocent blood, in the huddled bundles of corpses spread on a street. 

She lay on the bed still hyper from the Cocaine. Still pumping baby. I didn’t mind that. She would at least shut the fuck up for ten minutes or so before she changed back into her latex and the stockings and the whole charade of titillation she loved. But now it was quiet. Dawn was breaking. The sky over Birmingham was becoming brighter or blueish. 4am. That time again.

Review: Primitive Knot ‘Sub Temple Ov The Mirror Cosmos’


Initially this piece was meant for a publication, promises were made and broken, trust was eroded and once again I was the Lone Gunman staring out of dark windows smoking a roll up watching the ebb and flow of filth from the window. So here it is in my Black Iron Prison project and it will find a good home here. A place where the music can breathe a little despite the hands of the Demiurge around it’s throat. The Primitive Knot will never lie fallow and I will pass unhindered. That is the nature of this thing. We sit and listen perched on the edge of a Hotel bed while she washes herself, the gun at your lips and eyes firmly shut open.

I know the tangle of people here is a thing, I’m used to the madness of it but there is a cadence and a rhythm to this. Everybody marching in step, most dressed in that black. I say that black, it’s the black with the stains on it, the dog hairs and the food stains. The stain of lifestyle probably too. But this music is a stitch not unlike the stitch of the demiurge. That stitch goes through Jerusalem and comes out at Mecca, goes in at Brussels and comes out at London and that stitch binds the world to the orders of the demiurge and we see it in every headshot video every bombing run and every rant. This music is antidote to that.

Primitive Knot were born in 2014 and I think about that year and it’s all dust, all shapes. You wonder what kind of zeitgeist brought that screaming silver and vanta black beast into the world. What madness they have. I’m sitting in the drivers seat of a friends 1982 4 litre Jaguar something, I don’t know. But this morning I downloaded Primitive Knots new offering ‘Sub Temple Ov The Mirror Cosmos’ and put it on the angst-tech, the ‘DIE-POD’ and plug that thing into the beast sound system and it’s all about beasts now and I roll a little one out and pull down that window as the shoppers scatter under the 300w speakers of death he has put in the boot and I’m laughing straight away as the first track boosts the brainwaves and batters the thick glass of the Jag. Pull back the seat and slide it back and it’s the thick movement of well pressed steel, thick seat love. Boom town space rituals on half power. I can’t afford to let Primitive Knot make a mess of his cream maybe tan leather. I’ve got my sunglasses on see. I can’t exactly see because there are black clouds here, over the Black Jag, over the tinted black glass. I see her too reclining on the leather seats, and she’s leather too and it squeaks as she moves and grooves to the music but I see her and the door through her but she isn’t a ghost, she’s just the most.

Track lists? I’m reviewing the whole idea of it, the complete thing and that’s ok too. I suspect the sound system will drain the battery and a police car drives past slowly and stares inside the Jag at me tapping my nicotine stained finger against the steering wheel. Fudge making. Space fudge really as a staccato beat under that stiff hand of Jack Reid the guitarist. Why is he stiff handed? It requires it. There is no need for flounce and bounce. This is not some intricate balloon of an album, it has things to say on ‘Stigmata of the Descending Hierarchy’. So they roll with that and it booms and looms under the dashboard with a heavy relentless pressure. Vocals are subliminal and unattached in a radio voice that would come from THAT space station where they cower under the awful idea that something indeed looms outside in that alien landscape. In that landscape nothing was designed except by a mind so broken it has lost a grip on it’s own madness and the rhythm is coarse and strong. I have to get out of the car. Of course. It’s a tomb at the moment. Nobody can hear you dream in space and she walks back towards the car in those heels and walks past then is gone around the volume of ‘Interstellar Pulse erotique’ and here, the sound is vast. We mend the warp drive engines with sigils and there is no waiting in space for this band of magicians, just the ache of wanting to go home and I play ‘Stigmata’ again, because she is there when that plays and she’s slowly zipping and popping in the seat. Sexual sound systems, love on the leather, hot sex in the black jag.

He (I) moves his (my) hand through his (my) Black hair and he (I) wonders. He looks at his hands scarred by Fire and War, the muscles in his arms Iron made from casting weapons at enemy, castigating the fallen, arms that are guilty of Crimes. In the afternoon light his hands, in the bass of the tracks, they are not innocent hands. Others would look to their Gods for some sense of order and justice but not me. And not them either. The track is again subliminal bare electronic pressure pulses and loud it disturbs the Rasta man in the car next to mine and he isn’t happy, but I am and I smile at him. Cosmic violence here now? But all lives belong to the Demiurge, everything is silent as space between the notes and Primitive Knot murmur and move their hands over the engines and offer subtle incantations to it. To breathe and to cast themselves deeper into the deeps.

What is the point of Primitive Knot? Their music burns holes. Taps words on a wand, it wanders blind paths. We find a sick rhythm and a point in the song to seize and manipulate, cast meaning on it, maybe write a collection of lies we can weave ourselves and believe. From the Abyss another song ‘In the Desert We are Found’ it’s another secret word, a delicate pose. A special fire to kindle and tend, we coat our songs in innocence always, like a shellac to burn off and the song chips and files away at the barren wastes of our day to day doings. The song is shaking the windows of the Jag and I want to get back in and encompass myself in it, deep within it, but it’s not the time, I’m only writing about it. On the car park a woman shouts something at me but her words are taken away by the winds. Don’t annihilated souls love to cheer and bray?

I look down at my hands and see Primitive Knot have split the skin at the wrists and the blood flows freely into the dirty tarmac and a little on the black Jag. I draw Sigils in the paint with mine own blood and pull my hood further down over my face so the Brothers, the Knot will not stop their own manipulations. Sire the greedy words and adjust their meaning as ‘Helixes of UnLight’ terrifies the ramblers and the bumblers, I pull the magic from the music and plough back through times that have passed. My sin a greater thing than this bands but….I see others, and they call to me…and the Knot is the instigator of halting and of finality, the thread of the demiurge stops at the knot and that my friends is the power of it.

‘Sub Temple ov the Mirror Cosmos’ is a tricky thing. I was first introduced to the band by a girl named Wiggly and she crammed a disc into my hand with a kiss and a promise then was gone off into the cosmos. Of course I have to weave some sort of narrative, it’s a record review and I’m thinking about Hawkwind and 1972’s seminal masterpiece ‘Space Ritual’ and also the work of Robert Calvert ‘Lucky Leif’ maybe I can grab ‘Can’ and ‘Neu’ too but it’s all so twee grabbing onto these bands of the past and indeed who listens to Hawkwind now apart from those men lost in the spaces where the engines have died and they just drift? There are gaps within this album that the songs that precede them have drilled from solid influence. It’s as solid as this Jaguar, and as I put my head on the roof I can feel the power of them and yes it’s subliminal much of it. But it has Manchester there right underneath every pulsating track. We know Manchester, we know it’s thick musical tendrils that absorb the blackest of clouds above and spit them out in colourful streams of musical madness. But this is different. The Primitive Knot is a filter. They weave and give birth to songs that would be too horrific for the ears of the uninitiated. Filtered yes. Manchester is a filter. Primitive Knot is a filter too.

I caught them live in that place. It was as black as perhaps the hearts of those uninitiated who stood and spoke loudly as the music crept into us. Reading the endless arguments on this subject between the thankless bastards of ‘those who shout during songs’. It’s interesting that this band are coming from opposite angles, and seem to arrive at similar places. The real work of this albums transformative effects may be very difficult but if anything, I’d say that is the common ground of the new thing, the synthesis of psychogeography and psychoaction.

She bopped around the dance floor by herself as I watched her push out that little arse for effect as Primitive Knot made the stage a ritual space. Bop Bop Bop heels sliding across the floor. Zzzzzip. Those titties she pushed out as the hooded forms of the band did jive their thing. Bop Bop Bop. Sip that triple whisky. Shut my eyes. Lick A Shot. Her white tight thing glowing under the black light. There was an old dude dancing, he had a shit beard and some flare for talking shit and he breathed on her. She put her hand on his neck and ground her sex on him. But I was gone, the transformation was complete and the Jag outside was heated and slick. A space vehicle, an Orgone Accumulator of tremendous effect.

The Primitive Knot are so fire-breathing, so energetic, so cunning, so real, and it’s having results so amazing that it just makes me endeared to the whole idea of a twisted Temple Ov The Mirror Cosmos – I’m ready to die for the music, at this point. And I’m already ready to die for the pantomime, it’s the same feeling I have for the pantomime, because Primitive Knot is us, you’re Primitive Knot, you are the ritual, right down to your fucking Vans shoes when you don’t even skate. I resisted, later on in the Travelodge trying in the blackness of my sleep to shove every thought away as chaff in the wind. But the sound of the ritualising of Primitive Knot was purposeful. Thus wind is born, and solidified as a monad of the reality they build and I was caught. A thought is all it took and the hook was pulled deep and I could not shake free.

The Primitive Knot


Dancing days are here again darling. All the passing phases have raised their game and are scintillating in their reaction to it all. The rays through the limbs of the trees, the bucolic landscape, the flopping snow white clouds on the blue, so blue. She listened.

Google is the Demiurge.

‘What?’ she says. Confused. I’m sure through the visual migraine that i’m having. Parts of her hand have disappeared under the twisting lights of the freaked out frontal lobe optical madness. Lights from the roadside, shops flashed and splurged their energy into the interior and it was Picasso figures in Sodium light. Harsh jaws and hardly buttoned blouses in the white triangles of the LED Antisocial lights the ASBO glow of those places we shouldn’t go. But it was all a joke wasn’t it baby? The fingernails and the laugh you had when everything was new? When you’re shoes weren’t scuffed and you talked about New York being broken. Impassive Birmingham skylines and words are just bitter world like memes and nuggets. See? Her finger on her bottom lip and the way she arches her eyebrow and that way she does everything. That same finger pressed the cold barrel from the top of my mouth and the taste of Morris oil was bitter and sour but she kissed me nonetheless and I was off with the whispers and warm hands in cold places. But I remember the anger and the knocking at the door by angry neighbours and the ‘Rites of Saturn’ by Primitive Knot was playing on the stereo and I had turned it up loud as I fucked her and it was on loop so it was endless velvet sky, turn toward the East and kneel baby. This is the fucking light, this is the rite and I’m sure one of the voices behind the door was her husband but I had her hair in my hand and she was gasping. Seven times in all she screamed in orgasm.

Google is the Demiurge. And you love it and that’s what it’s there for to channel and mold, to forge and bend. It did that to her of course. Latent she was and lost in the whole crazy world I had brought her into. At first she was confident in her own wisdom and strong. Was she not a Goddess? Brought? Dragged more like under the hard grasp of him locked away. Those days. In the cold, always cold, always a thin jacket for me and a thick coat for her because she knew then that everything was this things delight. All the crooked flags the Demiurge flew were smiled at by her as she giggled and let slip her breast in the back of the Taxi. She was a thing yes. But now? Near the end of this Eigen?

The Taxi Driver said something and I ignored him and just watched her gazing out of the window. She had dragged things through with her. The 23 path. The KLF madness. The Dillinger perspective. All of it in her hand and clasped tight as she ran through and fell into the circle at my feet. My thoughts were not pure Father. Never were, at first, and then I realised and it was too late. September 23 maybe.

‘Amazon too?’ She asked. Of course. We are choked by the administrations of the Demiurge. They tease us with the things we will never need and the void of the Demiurge grows and contains everything that has to do with me and her. It has proclaimed me and made me a light that burns through nights. Every night. Sprayed on subway walls the gap between the notes and a lull in the things she says in the days spent gazing at each other huddled in the duvet watching videos on her lap top while the cold got nearer and we would have to fuck to stay warm and we fucked so much how cold it was but we laughed and everything was good for a few moments. I really have forgotten how much I didn’t need you and for that moment we were again somewhere else warm and sunny but the breeze blew it away. Through the cracks in the window frames.

It’s all going to go to shit that day baby. Crashing skies, rolling strolling screams and the black burned hate of the Demiurge will sweep all before it. Lie under moons baby and rest your body, don’t stir. The magic hour baby coming soon. 1 minute to 12 Midnight on the 22nd of September 2017 I’ll meet you. Wear your black dress and the sex hot line and bring a can of tango with you. Orange flavour. Don’t cry. I can’t bear to hear that so close, You know it makes me horny and that’s just stupid, fucking at such an auspicious occasion. It’s so fucking predictable. So don’t do that.

The Taxi rocks us over rough Birmingham roads and we are rolling. Moving around being novel and dynamic, she had just had a lap dance off a hot student Nurse and I had watched at the bar as she got her twenty quid of love, and the Nurse was joyous and fun filled with a different groove. No more fat boys, no more old men with sad erections. But her. I squeezed down another laugh at the bar. It was very funny. Laugh? I could have cried but I shook holding them in as the Nurses tits came out on my girls face I erupted and fell from the stool. The bouncers were fast and I flew through the half dressed wildflowers and the shuffling feet of ladness out onto the street where I curled into a ball and laughed loud, so loud the Police stopped and I couldn’t answer their questions my choking giggled self, lost I was in that madness. But she came out of the doors and her face was as dark places, cold and sad. I started laughing again and she had pulled me up and supported me but they thought I was drunk and that was cool. If they knew the truth. Fucking hell. They would never understand no. No chance they would.

She was searching in her handbag for something. I crossed my legs as well as I could in the back of the car. Took on the artist pose and the back of my hand was on the flesh of her thigh and she was there, crossed over, and she was turning. Feeling everything and the spotlight on her for a moment. We all try darling, we are all one and yearned for. Soft and the whole thing never really hardened me off. I drove my knowledge baby, beyond everything, it was only skill. Not supposing to make you hold your head in your hands and weep saying ‘Every word’. But Demons darling are best cast out with baseball bat and a hammer, cut out with stanley knives and grunt kick bop.

Hold hands. Breath out and don’t breath back in. Look at yourself and look at me.

But she never does, Instead we are at a traffic light and her flesh is subtle and pink under the red light. But there’s an advertising hoarding right next to us and there in the light that shone upon it was an advert for Google and I wanted to cry a little but held it in. She knew and looked at me with wide amused eyes, sticking her tongue out, suggestive and licking something. All of a sudden fast-sex-animal and meme driven. Googled. Everything was ok before Terminator 2. When I got back to the flat I would fuck her and stranglefuck her to sleep then she would snore gently and I would Google that Motherfucker. T2. Yeah. This is the rite.


Song Of The Glitch Bitch


Were we like Bonnie and Clyde? I wasn’t sure, but atmosphere pressed when she tried to find out who she was. But the way she looked at herself in the mirror was wanton and a little hungry and I’ll be honest I turned slightly and was sick in my hand. Now I would have vomit lips but she wouldn’t care. This is who she is. Where have you been?

The tangles that the silvery web of angst that permeates her being we strike as strings and she responds with a quiver or a subtle shake of her head so her hair does fall over her brow or she looks at you in that way.The way that you want. But do we really? The Eigensystem is a bitter foe, castigation or masturbation. We stand in the drizzle outside a clothes shop in Birmingham and she flicks her thumb over her phone screen as she chats to her network. I am staring at her tits again. A Gully man shoves me out of the way and that’s another life they owe me. I let him stagger and walk. I could have opened him up. Go peddle your ten bags young blood. In peace I hope. I’m not going to judge myself for you.

‘Stars’ she said ‘and places between the stars and I went to the place where the Masters sat and deliberated what happens to the little sleepy people’ she reminded me. Out of the blue I suppose but there you go..

You fuck me with empty passion as the Dawn comes slowly above us,pink like your lips, peach, I can see it through your hair. You give me a loss, a threat and love to lust. My hands press your back as i enter you fully,engulf me and give me a list to pray for and chains, to to whip our sin away to chastise and batter the Golden Halls.But she is earnest in her communications. She told me she sold herself to a man for £400, I told her she sold herself far too cheap and she pretended to weep.’Peaches’ and ‘cream’ girl. Rhubarb and custard kisses.

I am so lost in you, I am utterly lost. I bite your bottom lip and hold it, my fingers are in your ass as you move with me. The light beast and able victim, to breathe a last and suffer, the arc of the spiral covenant.The crooked crosses of the demiurge and the crescent moon

You liked me to strangle you as we fucked but I didn’t like it but you loved to look in the mirror later, look at the bruises and it made you hot. You have bought the whole fucking series babycakes. I hope the Lord forgives me for it but if you asked me to take a life for you I would and now I understand fully the debt I have.Fighting the frozen street outside take my hand and quench the bitter loves. You are happy where you are, happy for what you seek.

I was concerned about the bridge and it was on my mind, so I went back and stood in the exact spot where I had jumped. On the hand rail were the sigils ‘they’ had carved. Their God had come here to flow me and throw me over the edge. He tortured me. But I touched the graffiti and the carved sigils. Looked at the infinite sky. I thought for a moment there at the top of the steps, she was there for a moment, a sticky replay of a moment gone. Glitch Bitch. She will have a baby with him in eight years time but all I know is that it will be male and my DNA will be in that child regardless.

She sits now at home and perhaps for a moment, I wish, she would think for a minute of me. My longing aches, a sorrow, a denial of love so strong I would cast myself away forever, to hide. Those eyes as lenses that would fling me into the stars, to burn, to tease the strength and offer the pain we crave. Her delicateness, her passion, her needs drive me violent again. I would tear this place to its Bedrock. To cut and splice its bitter reality, I would delve the very bones of it to protect her.

The bus shook over the fangled road mangled torn by traffic and works. The breath steamed on the window and we see nothing at all, I look to you and see truth, bare life nowhere shadow and pleasant evenings sat in front of the TV again and your instagram is cool full of flowers and cats. Full of lovely things you have picked from your life to share with us. What strange universe, what strange vanities. I love how you sit and tip your glass and the fun that you have. On Insta. But I know he doesn’t strangle fuck you like you love. Like you used to gasp for breath, like you choked on every word that came out of your mouth. For didn’t the Babbalon define you? Wasn’t the ritual a sickener? A perverter of your esoteric essence? I know I lie somewhere in a a bed or position of sleep and I know they watch me now at this moment and their love is almost too much to bear. They try to raise me, they try to wake me. Inside this day there is no longer love lost or fading.

In the lights from outside, through the blinds at the window, great Orange slashes across your flesh and the Cross glistened like your sweat.Your great fucking tits. You movie star thing.You strange thing. Each time it shook with every thrust I would shelter from it like a demithug. Every gasp you made as we fucked, every cry of pain as you were tied, every heartless remark they gave you hurt me. You are wearing your Red dress, your heels high and impractical, your lips are vivid red, your body deep and hungry.You are dancing to an old soul record. Mad times.I thinks it’s Otis Redding but there’s too many people in here and stuff is getting confused.

The Chalk Circle acted as a transformer, a toroid of hate and love that flowed in opposite directions to each other through the circle. Their power was amplified to rip the people of the world away from their sleep. This was the essence of the world we see. Asleep and yet dreaming, the Bitch effected the system and tipped the balance of the dreams which they sip in their minds. A Nectar this is to them for whatever reason.

Where is ‘I’, a point where I can say, here I stand. How long have I sat here and scratched the stories of the World in the sand? Even this immortal mind may scatter confused across the Eigen. My power is a mote compared to the Monolithic intelligence of this Demiurge. I glisten and turn to watch them at times and they see me in the Future and in the Past and both are clay for molding. But there! Within the circle a small bird, colourful sings, its feathers are bright and beautiful and it watches me untouched by the madness of their Magic. Through the sand I see him stood with the Woman.She flickers….

How Do You Keep Your Black Wings Clean


A flash of light, the intensity of it pulled away my flesh, my mind was shattered. The Abyss, the Eigen, the tree on the hill. He watched the spirit of the Christ ascend in Glory as was his right. To approach the abyss and to set foot away from its edge. What minds could stand this? A shaft of the Yew tumbled on the wind towards me and I held out a hand in slow motion,as if it was under the control of another. it floated towards me and even though the wind raged and cast small stones with force around me I was untouched. Anointed perhaps by the vision in front of me, my eyes splashed with the Blood of the Christ.

‘add to the flames’ she said. I gently put out my tongue and licked her top lip, just the tip, on the lip. The faintest touch, solder hot kiss. Her eyes were half closed and rolling. All that magick mean’t nothing then, and it never would. The macrocosm reunited with the microcosm. She always masturbated when she watched a Jesus flick. Her short gasps and my head rocking as I yawned and watch Jesus get a kicking again. She loved them. Couldn’t keep her hands off herself. Jesus Christ.

We all played dead I suppose. All pretended. The noise in the corridor. The omnipresent strip lights.The death rattle of busy feet.Skipping a second. One foot catching up with the other. Unbalanced.

I think we disappointed somebody in the end. He closed his eyes in the darkness, her hand busy squeezing. He wanted didn’t want to know, he felt like he was swimming as he sat.But the water bled into him cold memory glint and construction of the whole thing. The whole scene man. Even with his eyes closed he could see her, smell her, turning her loose. But as he closed his eyes he too knelt down, jostled by unruly kids and he saw her legs first. They were thick and she bent down on the floor with a pair of black or Red patent leather heels. Even I smiled. “Look at the mess we have made Baby” he said to the airs. A breath an approval, the slightest sigh, a beautiful Summers sky she whispered, “It’s all going to be OK”.

As my fingers touch the edges, my hands also grip the sheets. My tongue touches dry lips cracked and sore and I fancy I can taste her still, on my lips. In that corridor he hid behind the lives we lead and carried on his day as she swept past him, he held the papers tighter and hurried on his way breathing her scent in, the ghost of her scent as she had gone, turned a corner, to do whatever she was doing.

Babbalon said ‘i am the infinite’ dressed in red again and pushing her tits up in the dress. Pouting at the mirror. All was bitter and all was grey and woe to whatever and the infinite blah the awful blah and the etc. She loved to go to the cinema and let a stranger , sitting there alone, finger fuck her. As they watched DeadPool. And it was all very quaint and seedy of course. Little Miss No Knickers. I wanted to Pepper spray her in the face. But it wouldn’t make any difference. She would love Pepper spray.

‘DR Pepper say?’ she shouted from the toilet where she was having a loud piss.. I shook my head.

‘Yes something they say’ I answered. I took a photo of her shoes with my phone, secretly, I would look at it later and probably be sick. Red or Black?

She pulled apart her legs and ripped off her panties as she hissed and writhed. She cast them aside and held both her hands to the floor, it seemed like she would burst apart, she had a need to cast something out of herself. He saw this, he had seen someone give birth, on TV, some documentary he had chanced upon as he sat stoned flicking through the channels on the screen. She pushed, writhed and screamed again and between her legs as he watched aghast and afraid something slithered from her vagina and with small claws ran up her body and into her blouse dirty and dusty from her contact with the car park floor.Her Red or Black heels skittering.

Rarely is this scene remembered by me. I watch it as a film. I watched the people watch the film after my death (before it became a popular example for this supposed ‘ESOTERIC effect’), as it was irrelevant to the Eigenplot. Yet, when the specific scene is mentioned, MANY (apparently) vividly/immediately recall the girl wearing red heels independent of any other viewer’s observation, but in fact (poor word choice) she isn’t. They are Black. Also, every memory when recalled becomes layered with the recollection of the memory, and the context of that recollection, ad infinitum.

I would creep up behind you at the window as you looked out at the garden your hands in the soapy water and would put my hands under your shirt, in the window my reflection black.tease a nipple, cup your breast and my other hand in your crotch damp. You would taste its wetness with my fingers down your throat. You are still sore from last night but you like the pain as you have to get to the far edge, to see what’s underneath.To see what it’s all about. And as I look at the reflection in the window your eyes are like evening suns and your black wings, those blessed things have spread and there is no light any more.

There is beyond any doubt, in my view, such a thing as esoteric memory (affect) has been brought into the Eigen. and it’s this that is the source of trauma, memories that can’t be mentally or emotionally assimilated/processed and so get trapped in one part of the body.

On the other hand, most memories, later in life at least, get converted into aural-visual data and then, by talking and thinking about them (re-membering them), they are effectively converted into language files. I remember. She is the living language incarnate, the way Gods talk to each other.

When you bend right over and I pull it tight we dream of the lovers that sealed the life in us, shot it into the sky like a cheap Rocket. Deep in my black heart I have a secret love and I keep it choked held tighter still. The facet believed that even on tender nights, we still hold that last breath in the pit of the stomach and metabolise the oxygen in the lungs, Then at orgasm reach for the gas place, breath kitten, the subtle bow of sparkled light as breath feeds the blood. Pumping hard fucker, cold breath at fucking orgasm. One breath and the mask goes on again. This awful thing taped and bound holds the fear and ask why the simple vapid gasp, as the world falls away.

Illuminated windows scatter softly the Sun. That only you know shines while  bitter Vespers rattle and chime, cast spent beads litter the stone floors and plaster from the roof has fallen. It is hard to walk here, amongst the mess.  Outside, the children throw stones and splinter the craft upon the Holy floor. I pick up a book torn and burned a book of Psalms or Curses. Under the stare of nameless Saints I offer nothing at all of thanks. We know the halls of Men are oft to fall, machine gunned shot down against the outside wall. I press a hand to the cold stone and rest my head against it cool reading the memories stored inside which whirl like Carp at a ponds surface. defiled and exiled from the place of men, come back to give the love again, to laugh at the greatest silence of the Abyss. Laugh and send to them our  love and a simple kiss.


The Hate Matrix


Lost and bitter weed choked lives we have, all lost to lust, and text message riddles forgotten. The Salad days have come and gone, and we run with Demons at our heels.

‘They will all fail you in the end. All of them” 

“Why? For fucks sake. You doing your old man things. I bet you leave a bad vibe anywhere.”

My will is considered to be a delightful invitation and yet walking down the subway I am announcing no decisions, plotting no course. Thinking of no decisively boisterous deeds to bleed out onto the piss stained concrete. Deficient men oft conclude the sicker sides to be out of sync and our rough accents and rougher hands are seen as bereft of artistic sincerity. So our art is not dragged out into the wine filled blaze of the eye and we layer the concretions of high sins here in our hearts in cold rooms and fired hungry stomachs. Additions lack softer resources, softer breasts to lose oneself in, to suffocate at last safe from the idle hands that push us away. Our love overcame distance and through electronic delights we soared but you were never the soft lips in hard cars. Never the awful greed clawed meetings in the gardens of the dead. Never caught in the raindrops that fell on the windscreen. Never the pain of it. 

They don’t really mean it of course. They just want to see somebody else burn and that’s cool. But It does get exhausting knowing that anywhere on the journey to that place you are going to get ghosts picking away at your sleeve. But I made a map and when I’m dead you can find it among my stuff in the mahogany box. In there are blood spotted pieces of manuscript I couldn’t throw away and on them is her real name and you will want those to find her and ask her questions.

The trick is to avoid the ‘social’ angle, the meetings in pubs and the little plays, the festivals and the fanzine piss ups. The gentle messages that whittle away your time. The dogmas of the dead will never be written. Lone Wolfs don’t get remembered. But the dichotomy continues for them at least and they too are always alone regardless. But us? What a curse it was. It felt endless at times even if it is a phase. A mere splitted second. But how do they deal with that foot over the edge? This is what fills me with sympathy. It is a torrent of it and I would weep if I had the tears.

The circle has to be made big enough for you to sit within. It’s pointless concentrating on putting her in a circle as it exists purely in ‘Prison space’ thus is answerable only to Demiurge. You have to sit in the circle. Salt or chalk it doesn’t matter. The once she tried to devour my foot as I was jerking off watching her and my foot slipped out. Madness. I laughed all the way down the road towards Wales and the forests but I had taken the acid again and it looked like a ‘Yellow Prick Road’ again and I awoke being beaten by two Shropshire Cops.

We wait for Revelations, that never come, we desire that which remains undone. A deeper love to plot the course, among the vile headstones, the foil balloons, the teddy bears, the cards, the ribbons.

“You fucking liar”

But I wondered as she performed an act on me how ductile she was. Changes were imperceptible at first but I encouraged her with that 23 route. I even carved the number on my torso and she was alive with it. Frothing at the bit. So I tightened LB’s gag and did it fucking tight too. One eye on her, the other on ‘her’ and off we went on our merry way. Which made me think how stupid they were but I was wrong. She opened up what seemed like a smooth concrete tunnel and beckoned me through. I went of course and somewhere that wet mouth worked as I noticed the tunnel was getting tighter and tighter then there it was. Trapped with my arms crushed at my sides and her tongue going deeper and deeper down my throat until I couldn’t breathe any more and I panicked. Fuck. I had to jump. Then there I was.

“I can’t understand how anybody could be taken in by this”

You see. John Dillinger was never the fictional character I made out. He was indeed concrete and real. He was my ‘Spirit guide’ of course, although he was lax in moments of self investigation and often I would be left there within the walls of the Prison and of course with his strength and guile it never affected him. But me? I have spent nearly 300 years of that time there, a blink of an eye here, and I’m still not sure it was a trick of the Eigen. Who knows?

“I’m fingering my wet cunt. My man is coming over later”

I don’t recognise this place at all. There are subtle differences then massive glaring ones. The glitches and sync are ridiculous. Of course they are on the one hand Demiurge directed fantasy and subconscious submagikal workings on the Eigen. Working with the AOS inspired Ekotic sigils I can work out which is which and have some idea (in the untouched innocent) which is which and I ponder at nights what the value of knowing this is. It’s ridiculous and getting faster….. and I write quickly

“My will considered to delightful invitation

announcing no decisions, plots no course

of no decisively boisterous deeds to bleed

Pleasured Souls lack vision I suppose.

As we delight in tearful repose.

Walk the rain soaked streets, unaware.

Of safe hands on shoulders.”

Blessed with her beautiful brown eyes and her hair, brown  shot through with sunlight captured in the cells of it. Held for a while until she decides to let it go. She was being stalked by the Demiurge, i knew it. She didn’t. But I had walked through the subways in town and had let my fingers faintly touch the graffiti on the walls and I knew. Subtle communications. Sigilistic meanderings of the Gully men and the lost souls who wander them at night ‘spray’ the night. Feel it and touch it. Kicking the Jams and the underneath. But I spent a moment crouched down at a recent piece. Mu. The KLF thing again, it’s rampant. So I sit down and feel the shizzta and the groovealongs among the McDonalds throw aways and the distinct pissy smell to everything and the lights in the subway dim. And thats ok too as I am beyond help I think. And it’s cool.

I held my arms up and they were thin again and from the end of the subway, notes, musical. Alex fucking Harvey. It was funny but not but she had her fingers on her bottom lip and she whispered ‘thank you’ but I don’t know what for because everything changes so fast.

I was suspended near the ceiling directly over the circle of salt and this was her power. My old scars opened and out spilled my poor intestines and they splatted into the circle and the salt and the pain was just that. Pain. Abstract laid low pain, the thin drumbeat of the nerves pulling me to cry out and scream. There were no glistening naked sex here, no idle masturbations and no errant spilled breasts but this. My eyes would not close as the salt stung my exposed organs but…I fancied perhaps within the shattered mind that maybe possibly there was a way. She showed me, her face tired and real. The evenings spent twisting fingers and burned tears that splashed. For her yes everything was going to be OK. She had ‘invested’ herself in the Eigen and the interest would pay excellent….at first.

Shadowplays for puppets, that’s all it seemed to me, at this moment any way-or how and the only way I could explain any of it was by abstraction and confusion. That’s why these posts are confused (to you) as you lack the capacity to understand any of it. Maybe you can grasp the more idle parts. She lifted her little finger up to her nose where a thin trickle of blood was slowly appearing and her eyes went back into her head and she moaned. I was nearly in hysterical laughter, the joy bowl of fulfilling which had spilled.