Crucifixion Selfies

He was fingering a small piece of concrete that has been prised from the wall by someone before. Someone who spent much of their time grasping the shelf underneath the small window high up on the Prisons walls. You could tell they had pulled themselves up. There was blood from the knees pushing, the toes scrabbling and the fingernails gripping to ease the body up. He did it himself and could just about see the brass and black landscape outside. There was a lone tree too and he thought perhaps if the fact that there was a rope here he could throw it over that blasted limb of the tree and just dangle for a while until the Clowns came shrieking down from the gate to kick him back to his cell. That was unlocked now.

‘You built it yourself you prick’. A whisper from underneath the window. Ghost voices.

He peeked through the door and could see everyone lined up on the balcony waiting. They can wait. Not even a pale thigh here now. Have you drunk your fill? Maybe. Or maybe I just need to drink again and remember cool water quenching the fire in the throat. The sweated hands around it. Pulling and squeezing. Manipulating the Eigen. Jump on the belly and force the air through the windpipe. Make noises, massage the throat until some half recognisable sounds emerge. Listen closely to what they mean.

It certainly wasn’t a time for making new things any more. He thought that time had passed. Maybe Ghosts were not the most reliable creatures to start a thing with. They cared for nothing except their vapid ethereal existence. And Ghosts were fucking boring any way. Magnetic aberrations, just noise really. A shrieking moaning mess, interludes, that’s it. Interludes from the boredom of the pain and the kicking, the splitting. If he saw another drop of blood he thinks he would just stare at it and not even attempt some sore of explanation for it. Little spots of blood. The beginnings of a horrible story perhaps. Who knew, or even cared.

‘It’s much worse out there’ she said. Ghost. Busy finger Ghost.

He threw the small piece of concrete at her and it went straight through of course and rattled to a rest in the corner. Ghosty thing you. Cheeky thing coming in here and giving points of view. Like the wind has something to say but it’s just a moan through a crack in the wall or window. A sight through the twigs and branches of that blasted tree. A comedy.

He tied the rope around his feet and ankles. He was naked. The holes in the wall carefully excavated with the tip of one of the three Daggers he found in the toilet basin when they made him drink the pissy shitty water. He kept them and hid them. Back in the cell he made three deep tight holes. One for each wrist and one for the ankles. Taking one dagger he hammered it through both of his crossed ankles smashing the bone and cartilage as the knife bit and erupted from the back of his left ankle. The right foot was blue now and he hammered the knife with the butt of another Dagger to make sure the hilt was pressed against his foot and tight. With his left hand he stabbed a Dagger through his right wrist. There was little blood although his ankles were bleeding well and a pool of sorts had grown about him, the blood on his left hand made him slip a little as he was standing up and he crashed to the floor opening a wide gash on his eyebrow. He had lost another tooth. Right hand Dagger through the left wrist and he was impaled with the Trinity. It was hard to stand but he did. There was enough blade there for the hole in the wall. The rope, through the hook in the ceiling, looped and half tangled. He vomited. Nothing, just air. Retch. He pulled the rope enough now that he could position the ankle dagger within the lowest hole. He bent slowly and with his palm hammered in the ankle dagger, deep into the hole he had made in the cell wall. Now can he rest his weight on it? Indeed. He was there perched. He loosed the rope which unravelled and fell to the floor. Now he must aim correctly and make sure the Daggers through his wrists hit the wall correctly, just in the right spot. The Right hand. Straight in, wedged tight. He tested it and yes, it was secure, he could not move his arm or hand. Now the left. A miss, a dull crack, a pain. A miss. He tried again, miss again. A third time. In. Now crucified by his own hand he was pinned three feet above the floor to the wall of the Cell. Good. Yes. The blood pooled black, reflective, yellow bulb shone.

Release please. An end. But there would be none. He hung there expecting to die. Expecting the Crucifixion to be magical enough that it may release him and he could be gone. But he loved this place too much of course. He could never leave. The pain his only friend, the Clowns his Confidants, the Prison his home. He laughed, this Crucified man and his belly shook, his hollow gut rippled. Even the Clowns were disgusted and gently closed the door on him as he wept.

Tenfold Split Voodoo Geometry

Good and warm in the black again. The treacle and the sticky things. Pulled over tight and all complicated so no one can really understand. That’s good. We are warm again and quiet and familiar themes lie as torn cloths and threads around and about. Good things. Anonymous tirades again. Bitter words. Targeting and the identification of victims takes place now. No places for gently putting down the blames. Just gentle sighs and whispers among the trees. It’s ok I think, to start again and blink.

There are parts of the system that have seen much action and jocularity of the Clown kind. Here is where the skin has been rubbed cleaner and thinner. Where the patina of laughter has failed to stick to the hot brass surfaces but instead has worn away a little or a lot really. But some of it has certainly been lost. That surface. That wall. Now of course where the plaster and concretes are thinner you are a little closer to God and you can feel God gently prod at you through the walls. Pushing you on, to the finish, while the Clowns for a moment stand silent and the drool gently leaks onto the floor as they wonder why I am smiling. But I’m not smiling really, it’s just a grimace, an odd reflection of the Clowns own emotionless pantomime.

You never want the answers to these questions but it’s the way and the dogma we have to follow. Ask the questions and then wait for the answers. Make up your own if you wish, get a dog to bark in the pale sun and listen to the way the sound waves and distorts according to the dim heats from above. Listen to the cold wind crackle through another tree and another fucking blasted concept landscape just taken off the shelf so at least we have another place to complain. It’s good and cool and you look great in your new shiny place you have made. It is good that the Suns you turn your face to are new and fresh and mine is Black with crooked rays that revolve to the left, 666 degrees to the left, 777 degrees from the bottom.

She was holding the Dillinger Doll she had found on the road as the UFO circled overhead. A car had ridden over it and the Bank Robber looked like Frank Sidebottom now. Deranged and flattened under tread, her fingers slightly dirty from the road dirt. She turned him over and over trying to get the Doll to speak. She shakes him and shouts at him but he is just a bundle of cloth, poor stitching and a very stupid face. He breathes a sigh of relief as he can see the blood start to slowly trickle down the gutter, slowly at first, hardly shifting the flotsam of the gulley, the cigarette ends and the discarded crap. She screams at it as the blood rain falls a little faster. “Why?!” she weeps. Man, where do I start as I move my little cloth mouth into shapes that might let a word or two escape. The fucking Nova bitches man. It’s not about the Novas any more Bill. Not the Police and not the Spies. It’s about the fucking Nova bitches man. The cloth lips mumbling as the stuffing falls out of his guts and she throws him back into the gutters full of blood because things are happening over there and here is shit now and boring.

Not Wolves but Dogs sniffing each others arseholes. It is the way of the world. Fucking Nova Dogs Billy, you never saw that coming did ya? Fresh and clean always mean, always sneered and smeared, always ready for a quick remark, a cutter of a word. A slicer for sure. I pat myself on the back as no one else will. Another bloody lock Michael but none of them are locked and nobody has a fucking key. But she rides Dragons you know and Dolls at the end of the day are an odd Voodoo. Blood on the Waterloo road and blood on the Hill, there will be blood on the evergreen and blood never sits still. Unbutton the shirt if you will and let me see, the distinct hate you have for them and me. I will sit and watch and write, the fight is gone and I sit still you see. The Nova Bitches freak easily and are free. It’s see geometry. Only when her flesh is naked will she turn the hip slightly and inside her a glint perhaps of light escapes and that’s it. It lights her flesh and illuminates it for a split second before her own wet fingers are diving and splitting the geometry. That’s it of course. All the bitches have the light and they just hide it in flesh so we cannot see it but we feel it. Just at the point of orgasm when you close your eyes and it flickers and you chase it and you again, fall.

What is to do? Another dull canvas? Another splash of colour thrown into the black and scarlet? Letters form words which can be spoken and it’s all art and misunderstanding. The Clowns are in here again and are kicking me to death. I can’t feel it any more and I am numb. One of my teeth are kicked out and falls to the floor. Clown boots, steel toe capped and polished highly. They are relentless and I don’t think I have touched the floor for about ten minutes and I am the ragged Voodoo doll in the gully. I hold the broken tooth close to my chest and the fists and the punches and the stamping goes on and the Clowns are silent. I can smell beer on their breaths. The make up they smear on is liquifying under the heat from the 23 watt lightbulb above. A bass guitar plays and someone is gruffly singing down the corridor. I vomit blood. I always vomit the blood but the walls are getting thinner my friends and the Clowns are getting dimmer.

Clowns are shit

Asleep as you can be here, trouble the locks, it’s easy just jiggle them and see if any of them just fall apart. Do we even have hands? I’m not sure. There is sand underneath my feet but I know the sea troubles yours. Outside the Detectives play cards on small cardboard tables and chairs from beer crates. The Sun was low and setting but is now rising again. I suspect the grass has even turned over and is currently upside down in the rightside up. In the glow of the poor lamps I see your hand stretch out and grasp. I can’t really describe it. The blasted and sanded earth here. The scrub. In the sky the pantomimes are playing again and there we are in full suncolour and fresh as yesterday and the day before. Intense isn’t it?

The land just sinks lower and lower to the altar. I think the chasm or the abyss is about ten miles away judging by the way the land sinks towards it. It has no gravity of course just geometry. We know the maps can lie. We know the creased and stained parchments we hold do not offer us a way forward. We just tangle up the ways and the routes until we laugh and try to beat our heads against the rocks that pop up through the grass here and there. But it never hurts because Clowns love to laugh and they don’t want their little fantasies splayed out on the grass like dead toys or defunct cars that rust and rot. They want live shit. They want this Kulture buncle firmly in their own groove. Noses are red, violence is blue, I stamp on your head then put it back together with glue. Cavort in the rain. Dance in the dampness. Curl harsh words to the sky.

On the Dam wall he scrubs, suspended by ropes he wove out of the creepers and vines that tumbled down from the Angel light richness of the six peaks. The ropes of course cut into his hands but it is a light labour and now and again he would manoeuvre himself around so he could look at the valley far below and this too was good. Because when plants grow so healthy here it means the Angel light is good and precious and the Clown mess is gone from here. THERE. They don’t even know what a Clown is because a Bee buzzing is funny, or a leaf gently turning suspended on a strand of Spider web. Clowns are shit compared to twinkling sunlight.

“It’s a diary of sorts where he just put in random thoughts from his oxygen starved mind” she said. But none of us really breathe here. We just pretend to.

For Violence

It was probably correct to confuse and sit

rather than push and produce effort

There was a way, now shut

that was open. Sit and wonder.

Rationalise the web of informed opinion

Put out gentle reminders of violence.

Be the quiet one who sits and watches.

Adjusting the eigen again, gently.

With subtle hand gestures.

Another blasted shell, another mans perfect Hell,

a chance to teeter on the lip,

a chance to drink deep or sip.

Never feeling the perfect way, and you say.

Tighter. Lighter. My Fighter.

Never Mind The Pollocks

Artists are a strange breed I suppose. Their art often stranger still. We look and fail to understand it then it becomes ‘shit’ and we walk on, or slide a finger more like in these days, across the screen and onto the next morsel of art madness. I’m sneaking into another gallery to see a painting. My school uniform is tattered and the sole of one of my shoes is falling off. I got to Birmingham when every trip on a bus or a train in the West Midlands cost just 2p. I went everywhere to see art. Watch musicians. To find out about things I had no understanding of.

I understood Jackson Pollock intimately, and I always did. Straight away. Everything he painted reverberated within me and became a metaphysical narrative instead of a pictorial one. Much has been written about Jackson, it normally waxes on his alcoholism, his errant humanity and his cheek at daring to tread the same carpet as his Peers. His work, most important work was done between the years 1947-51 and the splashes and drips entered the world like a screaming child. Splashes and drips eh? And how the Critics still wax those lyrics about the flat planes he left behind him. Read what you will about the art but you will read more about him, his politics, his background, his Wife even, Lee Krasner an Artist of repute herself.

But the art was the most important thing. The act of arting. Covering the plane of Canvas with incidents and subtle arcs we tend to concentrate on the flatness and the remains of his act and it is an ordered chaos we see. You can even delicately unfocus the eyes and see the layers of paint colour as they were applied and even the touches afterwards, after the vicious movement and hours spent in the fractured and weathered barn he painted in. But it’s only half the story. I sense Jackson had more of a relationship with Austin Osman Spare than the dog whistling of abstract expressionism. So the influence of Jackson Pollock as man and his art as part of that narrative is a false one. Where we should be looking is the act. Extrapolate the splashes and drips upwards and form a three dimensional cube from the flatness of the canvas. Do it by colour and untangle each and every loop from the painting and tease it until the sweep of paint is off the flat plane. So the vermillion loop here or there is picked out and lifted and then set into position in 3d space. The beginning of the loop of pigment will be at the highest point because this is the start of the arc. The end of course we will leave just touching the canvas. The sacred space is the area above the canvas, not the canvas itself.

Now we see the action and throughout every arc and loop something that starts to resemble other shapes, other colours too as we are looking at it from a completely different viewpoint. We will see an arc split as the brush or the stick is flicked roughly with the wrist. The paint stream stutters and then becomes drops or minute dots that fall on the canvas. A loop split into separate parts and lost almost within the cacophony of the act, the sheer volume of painting. But I also see within this 3d cube an almost terrifying exactness or metaphysical plan, a series of almost sigilic commentary where every touch of paint is seen as it’s own unique almost liturgical intent. The colour becomes meaningless and just a method to highlight a unique phrase or sigil which is then only really alive as it drips and flies through the air and when it touches and settles on the canvas becomes pure history or academic chatter. It is written on again and again until the phrase becomes hidden and tangled almost unrecognisable from every other loop of colour. The act of drawing the huge loops of paint, the way they are applied, the grunting of effort as the loop is cast is everything and the canvas when completed all that remains is puzzle to the uninitiated, a mess to the ignorant. Jackson Pollock was not the Shaman yet but he did see and became part of the process of explaining his visions when the act of explaining it stuttered and faltered. His message is one that is engraved upon the air and in the moment unleashed. In the 3d space it is active and alive and when settled is null and void, just a riddle

In ‘Lavender Mist’ above. There is a delicacy of vision for sure. There are delicate cobwebs of enamel and chemical paints that will lead you into it. It is a complexity which draws you in and indeed spits you out the other side as you become more and more lost. People look at a Pollock of these years with confusion. They are reading the story upside down of course. And back to front. No wonder Jackson brings so much pain to these people. They are used to understanding. Where Picasso blatantly proscribes his own narrative in a way or form that is quite simple to understand, Jackson demands hard work to see just a glimpse of the pain he wanted us to see. It is hidden, this narrative, and occult. It was enough for him to have this outburst and to say the things he wanted to and then release himself from the grip of his creative energy and slide back into nothingness. His work done. No blathering and whispering for him. No pedestal to sit upon and loftily proclaim his thoughts. A blonde with big tits, a fast car driven drunkenly into a tree. An early and hard fought death and let the rats write what they wished.

I write this here just to remember the salient points of my impressions of Jackson Pollock and this place becomes just a box to put my thoughts about him. I forget easily why and wherefore. Artists are Shamans or are on a path to being one. I skived off School way back in the late 70’s early 80’s to see a full sized print of Lavender mist at Birmingham art gallery. I hadn’t eaten for a few days and was weak and as the art got closer as I walked towards it I fainted and awoke to a plethora of folk around me. It wasn’t the lack of food or my energy which dropped me. It was the message in the art. It hit me like a punch. I ‘got’ Jackson straight away and as I sipped the sugary tea the Security Guard brought to me I watched the artwork move and slide around within it’s flat plane like it wanted to burst free. It felt confined, then I puked in my own lap and everyone took exactly one step back.

Not so Placid Geometry

Writing about football is tough. When you have a Metaphysical mindset it’s difficult to extrapolate complex metaphysical themes out of something that is (at first viewing) a none spiritual object or event. But I threw myself into it with the same enthusiasm I do with everything. Alas, I failed. These themes didn’t really get absorbed with any kind of happiness by the vast majority of fans. The trolling was off the scale. I thought I had developed a tough skin but the Cancer jibes and the hope that my death would be soon kind of wears you down after a while. What are we to do? The creative energies are still strong. I still write and I still paint. Indeed, I have painted more over the five months I have quit writing about my team than I ever have. They sell too. I do still paint about the away day and matchday experience. The alienation and dysfunctionality of travelling to watch your team still had tremendous mental reverberations (for me at least) that have to be painted, explored and discussed.

Now of course I can discuss these themes in more detail. The same detail I used in the previous posts on this blog. It’s an arena and an adaptive strategy of sorts. Here is the opportunity to detail themes and experiences on a somewhat narrower stage i.e It’s not about a team or a Town/City but broader. I have been writing for a few Argentinian and Mexican football blogs since I stopped writing about my own team. This has been a good experience. It has lead me to doing artworks and prints for Aktion Rojas a Mexican Community Print group of primarily Mexican women protesting about Cartel violence. I have written for Peruvian Indigenous groups and forged links with Argentinian Community arts groups. It’s been positive and good.

The Black Iron Prison is now my portal to the rest of the world and through this portal I will be sharing my art and more of my writing. I envisage it to be the most honest place I can develop the themes and ideas I have for the future. It will also be the place where I will offer my art up to people who will enjoy it. You see it’s all about honesty and producing art using no resources what so ever. If you know me well enough you will know I make my own paper for printing and artworks. I also make my own inks, pigments and paints using natural sustainable sources. No power is used whatsoever. Nothing is wasted and nothing thrown away. There is no waste here.

If you explore this blog you will see some probably very disturbing themes. These deal with sexuality, religion, Occult themes and my experiences with Cancer and it’s survival. It’s basically a Road Map of my experiences since 2009 when I was diagnosed. But it was all positive and cathartic, it was all good.

If you are a Fan of my Football writings then you may also enjoy this too. Please follow the blog if you like, or my account on Twitter. But as a proviso you will not see anything on here about my team or Town. It’s pure art, unadulterated creativity, words and thoughts. For your viewing pleasure at the top of this page is my first Intaglio print ‘Red Sun and Birches’ which won second prize in a Competition of Fine Printing in Rome Italy. Enjoy! and stick around for more.

Lift hand gently and let it fall again



There are never any people in a Prison such as this. Only characters that flit in and out like soap opera chancers, bit part boppers. You can only tend to yourself here and that is the whole purpose of it I think. That’s the whole reason behind the edifice. Even when I sneeze I want to vomit. They even take that small joy away.

I lack the confidence or the strength to fight it any more. All I can do is point now and say “This is it” and walk away as far as the next wall and the next set of bars where I walk up and just rest my hot forehead on cold architecture. 

What would you have me do? To dangle from a tree or the Tupperware box route? What do I have to do, I cry out for someone to just tell me something that isn’t dredged from their own personal madness, where they make their fists bleed hitting walls that are not there. I am not from where you are. I want a big arrow pointing at me to say ‘you are here’ so I know which direction to walk away when all I ever wanted was to belong and to seep into the group mind and the herd mentality, to share my pain with others, to feel arms around me…disconnected in the connected. 

It’s still hot under phantom suns. Still existential. Still painful when the eye stares at everything you hold dear and precious. He awakes on a cold marble disc. The veins of colour thread through the rock underneath his slightly sweating hands. He opens his eyes the merest crack, the smallest lift of an eyelid just so he can peep. He is tired you see and doesn’t want to look any more.

Underneath his fingers is the inlaid metal of sigil upon sigil until it makes so much design, so much intricacy he shuts his eyes tightly and clings on for beautiful death and for loves sake but he wont open his eyes yet as the spells are still strong. He knows the breeze is strange and the spices on the air could be just another simple ruse. But the rock is cold. The sun is hot. He is somewhere in between and he knows he is still alive because he still has the voice inside that prods and pokes the simplicity of a man having a few minutes to orient himself after…what? No knowledge of how he got there and no care either. This man is flotsam and useless. This man has no mind to do anything except be content to be cast from waveform to waveform endlessly as the universe turns, burns and fucking yearns. 

But he can hear birds singing and the breeze through the trees that surround him. This he works out through still shut eyes. Hands still grasping the marble searching for a small crack to push his fingers into so he doesn’t fall away again, and he knows that there is something deep within his mind that remembers the ‘journey’ to this place? He is sure that he was battling some fire heavy demonic thing and tumbling over and over into nothingness and then this. More sigils? More magical bullshit? He should have a customs post in his mind that says “No, that is contraband thought and not allowed.” But it always is of course. Packages of self doubt always wind around. He feels the cold marble underneath his hands and keeps his eyes shut. No more magic, not today. 



784 Degrees of Shift-The Psycho-Ecology of Sex



The Barons of Bastardy yes? More ironed on glissful refrains into the stinking bullshit of sanctimony, of Mastery and of a deep sense of fulfilment I suppose. What is it all? This raising of weaponry and this easing into the fantastic idea that has a content of nothing at all? All Angels had Black wings but none are Blacker than hers and we scatter platitudes that mean everything of course but ultimately they live on and don’t die off in curling smoke like forms that fritter the edges of our consciousness. Like everything thing fucking else.

Speaking for herself there would be earthlike forms that are the oil on water of sensuous delicate touches and phrases that sweat a little at the edges, that make you bite your nails in the dark and look at the ghostlike chalk lines on the attic floor where the psychoecology tends to gather at night and you can see it right at the edges of your vision like peripaltic spasms of glint and form. I motion to a non existent camera…’here we see intent in it’s purest incarnation’ like some deranged Richard Attenborough. 

No grand success for me as I crumble the walls for one day, sleep then awake to the repaired sections of the cell and I wonder what the point is. But the bloodied fingers are definitely a sideshow of sorts and I can paint with it on the other wall. Sigils at first, great confused things that looped and complicated each other until all it was is a mess of cell protest crimson instead of shit and I notice I’m covered in blood too. I hope it’s an artery and laugh as I knot the sheets for another night and grasp cotton in gnawed fingers and shivered in the blackness. 

Bitten necks at windows again. Soft touches of this and that, it means everything of course and it’s a type of Morse code for flesh, a communication that they can never understand but it is relentless I suppose. The endless voice and the fingertip verses I play on her flesh which is warm and then cold as she cycled through the levels and her form became stronger in this system, but faint in others and I really haven’t a clue. Knot the fucking sheets. Injection. Tear the fucking walls down and then watch it rebuild itself again. But there are lights down there you know, in the ink filled 270 degrees of vision. 777 degrees on stinking shit filled landscapes. 23 degrees of bourgeoise four wheeled drive cars, 666 degrees of comical laughter. I remember what William Burroughs told that shivering sixteen year old outside that London Art Gallery years ago. He said ‘Michael my dear boy, I’ve been searching forever and I am tired’. I can hear a tube train deep underground. And he is right of course. It does tire you out. 

A stopwatch, a packet of Rizla, maybe half a gram of Haze, a ticket for a Metro, an Orange lighter, a grinder, a drawing of a wind bent tree which is folded in half and then half again, a poem written on graph paper about a pair of shoes, a song written on printer paper that you mean to record but never will, a job offer, dog attack spray, a Buck knife, traces of bad cocaine. And it could have been raining or it could have been dry so I will wait to see what he wants before I say.

I read an article about someone called Nick McCabe who used to play in a band I have no idea of so I listen to them through the walls and it sounds like space is happening on the other side and I laugh but the cell makes it sound like I am screaming. It’s a seven essence hell for sure and I don’t know how long I can keep it going…you know…the whole thing. There is a guitar now that sounds held back like it wants to sing but somebody is strangling it and it turns into her voice pleading about something, or maybe demanding. I press my ear closer to the cell wall and it’s just that, just her talking to somebody and the wall is hot now and they suffer me no respite. I write ‘Nik Mkabe’ into my notebook and shove it quickly into the crack in the wall under the iron bed. I write the ‘Shode’ sigil quickly in the air and the crack closes. It’s the only fucking sigil that works here…for some reason. ‘Close’ 

The shotgun was all show, all angry bollocks. It was short and sawed but it gathers size forged conclusions about it. You see the trigger once pulled would unload the lead shot and scatter it into a four foot wide stripping storm of pellet and attitude. If only one pellet hit it would then concentrate the mind to a wound, or the wound. Then the 9mms. Drop the shotty and it’s hot stuff. Pull out the Millys and take your time then. The idle of rage have long since gone only leaving targets and upturned stupid faces. What do you think woman? I ask her and she laughs of course flicking the pieces of brain from her dress laughing. Fuck. I’ve shot myself again haven’t I ? The targets gather around her and whisper the rumours and the blue conversations and she giggles at them. She is wearing a red dress. She has $200 in her hand… as part of my face slips over my eyes and I can’t see any more. 

“You really have to do better you know” the voice under the cell door. It’s black comical tongue licking the dusty floor as it moves. I can hear it’s body moving outside as it bumps and jumps. Yes, I should do better really. You see they always said ‘he would never be any kind of success’ and that’s true. It was a short career. Above and outside the meteors and comets had started falling and the sky would be filled with wonderous awe filled crashes and booms, the light scattering on the magnetic substrates and being pulled here and there by the beams that lock you in, that lock you up tighter than an Otter arse. Scratch surfaces and always serve a purpose.

I wonder why the voice even bothered. Used now to the propaganda thieves, I usually laugh but outside the Prison I see that man walking right on the edge of a cliff and I shout out of the cell window for him to be careful but I think he doesn’t hear me but that’s also good because I can hear the wings on the wind when I shout at somebody. Love, until they rush in and they are dressed like 1970s Cops all shiny leather boots, blue shirt sleeves rolled up over angry arms, set faces dim with beer from the Police Social Club behind the station. They rush in and kick the bestest of places. Your balls, your Coccyx, the solar plexus, you vomit and one of them covers your nose and mouth with his hand and the vomit fills your mouth and you try to breathe and then your lungs fill with sick and everything is sick. Because the Gaffer plays Golf with the Chief Constable you see and it was him really. He was a drunk. And I bow at the wall and offer some prayers and I notice there is vomit splashed up the wall and that’s no good. Emptiness, like somebody had just died. You could feel it in the cell. there has been a removal of something…I could tell. 

In the morning twilight I stretched up to see through the cell window. Today it was quite clean as there was a slight breeze which blew the comet dust off the glass. I could see the blasted hill and the Yew tree today. The tree was bent over and always nailed to it was him. Great wooden stakes through the wrists and ankles had fastened him to it and a slight hail stung him and his nakedness. I wanted to shout at him again but there was another man in front of him. Even as the stakes drove through his bone he offered kind words to the man with the gun in his mouth. The crucified man did smile but he was not their Jesus. The man with the shotgun shot himself through the mouth and pieces of flesh slapped the skin of the crucified who wailed something about a woman. 

Who knew. It was Friday…and that means fish and chips. 


Dance of Abomination


August 2014

In the absence of this whole root the demiurge will take hold and the boundaries will move in. It’s all number now, all content. There is a point of civilisation, orders and hierarchies. But what’s happening. A spurning. A powerful bolt of the horned and blasted rejected son. The figure  of force and King of the wilderness. The Myth maker and the cutter of living wood. Earlier her mythology was natural and tense, the story of every woman. It is a historical marvel for she is a living thing at last. Naked and with full vision and condition. I mumble and complain, for she has a wisdom I do not. It is not clear any more. We have withheld our own knowledge and the tension is palpable and Angels sit tight to the doors with flaming swords. We have shifted and feel soft skin on our hands and the Angel is symbol and the world dries up and all is gone. 

Resource Masters and the Kingdom of remnants. Hot coffee burns the lips, we tangle our hands and wonder why we are the way we are. Nature and the revolving of the true pure sight. Abomination masters. Addicted and intoxicated with scent and touch, addicted to substance and our behaviour is rampant and is lust in physical form. A dramatic crisis and the information is fixed within us and we are bonded. 

We look for the Law and even the subtle fingertip of Heroin and its ideology shows us paths ahead and the landscape becomes us, every curve of your breast and hip are not lost to me. For within the wilderness are the people who hold such , our birth right, what he have always held and created, always safe. We are foetal and held mystery within us. We have understood that we will crawl to forbidden masters and relent to its judgement at last. Will we understand? Somethings are just there to be appreciated and loved.

The process calls us to evolution of our love and to make it at last timeless and we can at last let the world fucking burn. Chained to everything we are and nothing explains better than the patterns of my bite marks on your breast. Most things we admire about Man is the divine and the edge of the abyss on which he dangles his toes. Everything is on track. Everything will get worse and this is no surprise for sure. I cant see it any differently, people have stopped thinking for themselves. There are no notions to understanding any more unless it is your equations and math. You must work it out as I have given myself to the tide of understanding. We arrive alone and we dance alone so we should learn to be the best of company and to make ourselves transformed. I am convinced this is a purgatory and things are getting tighter and faster.

Be open to it and drink it in. Take the information all in. Her flesh is information. The architecture of her has liberated me and inside her the Goddess and the light. She is a transmitter and it’s simply ‘what goes on’. She is visible and fifty million words is not enough and now the abstract is the only thing that makes sense and will be said, in the end. 

In the room air like tapioca the birds outside sing and perch and the stones are unturned baked by hot summer sun. We float on idle waters and seem to drift through temporal skins and girls laugh in the street and the hedge waves amplifies the sounds. Sudden scream of brakes and the sodden tears of men lost. Eyeglass blues the observational grace of seeing and listening. Dead in this town and alive dreaming of ways away with love and bitten skin.

Aspiring actors. Street theatre and chasing escaping dreams. blood on the knife. Blood red on the stones and stars are a distance away. The dried grass at your feet and gentle tones of home that get tangled in the branches. I would write a song, but it would be a cacophony. 

Prophecy Mechanics


Her eyes were black ice you see. She refused to look at the sky where I pointed out the places of entry and exit. She didn’t want to look. The Chemtrails were in her eyes. Those black ice eyes. She knew she would get a face full of it straight away. The awakening and the quicker things that flicked up and down her nerves. Safe as the sky baby. You can feel the earth changing from second to second now cant you? Last week it was the end of the world. Probably next week too. We will yawn as the radiation blows in and nobody will tell us of its danger of course. We don’t want to know, we love fucking and smoking weed, you sit on the windowsill in the sun and we talk about mad Led Zeppelin tunes and how you  fancied Joey from Green Day. But the sun is different too. It’s bigger than I remember and her hair is halo full and flowing and the violet rays sparkle as they tumble through her onto the floor. It’s all too much this prism prison, these delights. But what’s a fucking mountain top if you cant fathom and suffer the depths yard by yard baby?

We ate some soft cheese on toast with the butter running and crumbs stuck to her thigh as she ate. It was stuck in my teeth and I wanted to gag but I smiled through the whole method of course. Screaming though, inside. But it was OK it was always OK. Fucking Prophecy Mechanics. Jesus warned us, in headlines and fools we never meet. Will there ever be an end to the songs and prophecies? Wasted don’t knows and everybody stares at the floor and whistles. Caight up in 1932. Jumped up Fords, hot cars, machine guns and things we have in stores. The Morphine, the tubes and the fucking lubes and we never questioned out own hopes our own fucking despair. It was all a show for bored towns. It was a fucking mmetaphysical act baby. An act of belief. Just deep into it, womb deep, hot gods and voodoo dolls. I lost my teeth. The better than me cracked them. I never ate for weeks and I never knew, we didn’t know where we were supposed to be. God in heaven and the dogs on earth. Hot barrels and hotter women. 

She lay outside in the Siberian cold. It ate through her suit which was ripped at the leg, there was blood there, sticky. It had congealed but the cold, inside the suit. She must have been knocked out, A headache too, splitting. her visor cracked. Head cracked and unsure, nothing but thoughts like birds, trying to catch them. The helmet heavy she nods and touched the cracked plexi glass to the frozen soil, barren and dark, the mosses here, and grass pale as the North, the ice. She crept away and sat, the capsule smashed upon the ice blasted soils and no horizon, but a freezing mist and she was ghost, sucked into the scene and freshened but the thought. She had crashed, all was lost but how? Nobody knew. But she remembered the song now, here in her head, an old rock tune, and sun, and cheese soft fresh, creamy, he looked like screaming. 

Don’t try to fly in the dark, your heart. Let go be a child again, the finding and choices inside baby, you’ve got to try. Put out your black ice eyes and turn them to God, put your face to desire and find the world that is yours, climb baby. We try to die every day and there’s no hope for the lack of hope. You know the prophecy and the unbidden leap. God is close and you are all I have got and need. We try to guide, our lies are not hidden. Our faces are desire, turned holy and the world is the final last minute goal. Climb baby, more gas, more dleicous pain free joy. More desired ends and crescendos unseen, unknown.

Who loves and gives in. Does it matter, stand up straight and be cool. Drop in and taste the what it’s for, the settle down and the funk brother sublime moonbeams that played across her flesh in the night. She whispers. ‘I never loved Joey from Green Day more than you’. and her lips parted and I think she was asleep and I was half gone in the dreamspace. The who wants the hurt carnival. She was asleep because the blood from her cut head was in her eyelashes and the moon and the mist reflected off her visor and she looked like a ghost. Within. Not hearing or seeing but believing. He put the gun down on the hard cold ground. Kissed the visor. Let me out. Let me in. 

Find the guides baby. She will not die. Out of body what you think. I’m not a gambler, I’m a nothing in the scheme of it all. She has blood in her eyes and she thinks she has cut her head, which she has, the helmet microphone split the skin deep, it wasn’t serious baby but I know you thought it was as you couldn’t see and your glove just pointlessly wiped across the visor. There was a man standing in front of you, he was armed. A gun in his hand, dressed strangely old fashioned, a gangster hat upon his head. A moustache, he looked like a mischievous man. Behind him, flashing lines of geometry in vivid purples and cobalt powerful blue, viridian and neon pink. There through the ice mists behind him, the abandoned places we hold in our hearts, this grey pyramid loomed and crept back into vision and gone again, the mist, the thick white ice, the wind that stabbed. Above him unhindered by the weather and her fogged eye the ultimate end. The thing that is to come. The blessed black sun. Shone and is to come and she didn’t want to know the secrets and the shadows in her own heart. She would drown and not swim in the Black Sun, and she would not dip one finger as she closes her eyes and see the burned vision of the justice, close you inner eye, ignore the voice but look in and get loose baby, be the colour, be the stare at the bus station, the hand on the breast and the ignorance of knowledge. Didn’t we sing these songs forever? As we wept. It’s not approval confusion it’s stormy smiles, getting loose. Watching you snort the gear, kill the fear, the killer heels and the taxi back feels, the soft. The care fleshy lechery mechanics, the fucking gears of whore baby. Black Sun revolver, in the sky it turned and she blessed herself with the sign of the cross. 

Our eyes as always mixed like our breath and we drown and never surface, in each other, we witness our love and please. Stand in front roll away and stretch out your legs let the air on your skin. Prove to me your filth, I am but the animal, I am the rider. Drop it all, play dead, put your legs on the dashboard and sit. Call me and take us away. That’s you and that’s all we have to go away, far away baby. We tried to get use to it, the crumbs and the dry drives to passionless ends. We cry I suppose but never sigh.