Wretched Continuity

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February 2007

The thing is kids. Jesus returned and continues to return. Throughout history he has appeared as a Teacher and again we kill him. The crucifixion which was a magikal ritual allowed him to split his observer personality into many separate timelines.

You will never find enlightenment from another human being. Don’t be an Ashram tramp. Rattling through the timelines I know I need to take an audit of the swirls and lines of the whole journey but I can’t be bothered really, but picking things up with the end antenna, the council estate PyschRadio enthusiast, the constant threatener.

Here and now. The spread of it does make me a little sick. Not the big sick. It’s smaller brother called ‘Ache’ but don’t worry. All this is just camouflage and meme driven. It’s just passing phases in criss crossed traffic light lasers. It’s all a thing, an illusory thing. This soundscape driven by constant bass and that stare you get when you tread on the toes of the demiurge. It’s the sound of ominous mopeds and your new phone disappearing down the road in the hands of one of them. Is it all real? Of course it is. I can’t write lies here, it’s too precious.

Cursed Nurses scatter under the weight of pain and they flutter a little, bouncing their ass against the tight cotton, the comfy shoes and the 4am blues. What has it to do with me? 7Seconds babycakes. A simple kiss under the flickering tubes and the sticky fingers shoved deep into pockets and you ask ‘was I not the one then?’ and I have to laugh as you are all ghosts in the machine, the afterbirth in the cream baby. 

Rocket Ron Parsons nose, mad flicking through the internet to find a price for it at least. A way to gather the shit together to make another jump into alternaties. But this one is bad enough. The Trump thing, the Korea thing, the Chinese and the Russians all tangle up until mind acts as blocked toilet. Filled with acrid turd, choked and filled. Seeking emotional outlets in dogma ridden social media and the best new thing. Your viewpoints are redundant. You have to climb the hill of shit to get a good view of the whole thing.

Illusions and delusions you set the way for why, I fear, neither of us know. Even though I cloak myself with sin. I still wonder at the truth of it. We wait for Revelations, that never come, we desire that which remains undone. A deeper love to plot the course, among the vile headstones. Lost and bitter weed choked lives, to lust, and riddles forgotten. The Salad days have come and gone, we run with Demons at our heels. Moments pass, and secure delights, we wring our hands over boxes.Suffer the condition borne, Break free to allow soft remembrance. Gather the robes and sheets, cover unholy heads in soft lights. Beg indifference and ignorance, our hearts are hidden. I beg and suffer on bended knees, a beaten Horse too quick to bleed. But we look under our fallen hair, the stricken nights too hot to bear. Altar freaks abound and laugh, but still you remain aloof. The story never ends at the beginning but the final gasps. In our ignorance we plead and stamp, the narrow gauge the sodden tramp. The urgent messages through prayer, light sufferance shrieks in the air. God inside us and without, a lash to glean an abject  penance. A corner to cry within and still you listen? As children we moan in ignorance. Will you rescue me from this subtle bliss, this ignorance as I feebly prod at dark things? Knowledge like sand between the fingers, books as gravestones, pages as shrouds. Intent we are, on minor tragedies. We lack capacity and skills to feed. The darker parts inside, we know exist, unlit, unfathomed, a Lake of bliss. For tangled hearts are wont to bleed to fulfill that darker natural need. A desire untold to pick up arms, to brandish and foul favoured waters. Save me please, and let me know. Where these waters spring and flow. I stumble again and cut fair hands, blood skilled, broken backed bastard. You stand knowledge unbiased, while we blather and scream. An unknown system, lost hearts, and still we dream….a little. Pleasured Souls lack vision I suppose. As we delight in tearful repose.Walk the rain soaked streets, unaware. Of safe hands on shoulders. Blessed are you, they were right. Your name called in darkest nights. Fire the fearful heart, a prayer for the dying arts. Under the Oak wood we gather, we know the powerful ease. In which you suffer the innocent, and let us howl like animals. Gather the Veils and the Blind, lead them not unto elation.Deliver them from Seasons,and wretched continuity.

The corpses of their battles thicken the grass, their loves finger the setting sun and cry out.
But I have no fears for them who grind through their days, aching for those they love.
I laugh amongst the filth and cry out with them in mockery. What amusement as they cry, what drama.
Their words loaded with lies and untruths, their false loves and goaded sex. Have I not stuck the knife between their ribs enough times for them to be silent? Their flags are stained with the blood they spilled themselves. In their dark nights I seem an entertainment a passing thing. But I weep no more I think except in cold winds. But for the warmth a tighter cloak than flesh does me. The whine of the world runs free.They love and hate do all the things they love.But rather I would sink to a knee and eat soaked earth.
Than allow my heart to be sealed again. There are no songs for you dearest things, never more.
The tighter my grip on a sword, eyes set on further shores.

It’s never that interesting till it becomes a secret a mere fad a handy gadget for the masses a sore pumped whore a masterful stroke and above it all a shit stained Pope Who pays the Grand Rabbit the payers price the garlands sicken and fall who finds the White Room finds it all the garrulous braves of spotlights the sickening blast of bass a liars chair settled in and yet the matter stands for those in government lack the hand to firm and smooth the wattled sails a sickened heart again left to stand the White room beckons after all its poet stance hand held and still we glean the Butchers look an inch too far another cut and the marble relief points Arcadia subtle landscape that twists ever on and the grave of a dog has flowers the finger crooked lies and on the windowsill a box. Catch hell and hold the finest drop be told this loosened grip of wind rattled clothes. a lost shoe a tumbled dance of ever hastening end we grasp and try to hold but bitter tears never let go grip the edge and let the fingers relax and blast the communion and the Holy relics the last time to relax watch the fading dot of light castigate the fallen a final dishonour the world burns but for a glass of water just out of arms reach drop and let it fade the pantomimes and the plays…

I just wrote the shit for her to get in her knickers and while I’m there being metaphysical she’s getting fucked by everybody except me. But I would rather point my finger at my own work than pontificate on finger fucking. Yes, run off and do your thing. Fluff/Pintrest/ and fling. The lines still burn on the ground and you can ignore the magic of it if you want to. This is all operating system heavy, programming and sorting out the shit. Getting the fucking job done and i’m afraid its all for me. Selfish isn’t it? But I am a one man support group really.

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The New Puritan

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Piety. It runs thick upon the future. And all messages should involve this piety in some way or another and God has not made this clear to me. It is said that this New Covenant, this new Puritanism is the one which will which break the back of the current thinking memes. I would rather walk than sit and break bread. The pious. The clock ticks. You in black leather. Me setting the final pieces I think. Has not God spoken to me? It’s voice ringing with sodden and fuck warm truth. The world has come and set it’s place among us and we are in love and dream of sacred things. She lies still and the world turns around again.

‘It’s always like you said it would be, you were right every time. Everything is a short story. Everything love and heroes, every day a blue sky, every flower perfect that it should hurt our eyes but it doesn’t’, She spoke softly, just as I knew she would. Her dress had moved up and I saw she wore black stockings upon that lithe ballet figure, and it was purely for me and not for thee. The lights outside flashed on and off as we drove and those lights were as strobes flickering and revealing her power to me. That power was chaos, that power empty love.

Dillinger, as he sat in the theater a few years ago watched a film on the screen that was more documentary than film. It had information thick within it and he took that information with him into the alley at the rear. As she ran she told him not to forget, as the Fed bullets ripped through him. How they mocked you John. How they made fun of your holy body, how they laughed. John saw the crows tangled in the telephone wires and in the screams of the birds, a sea song, a sad refrain of the New Puritan. We were lip locked, kissing in a way and in the way, of the crowds that shuttled cares across the polished mezzanine floor. The reflections were acrid and stained with something as he looked as he kissed. Her tongue hot and probing but avid, like a fan, like desperation for something he couldn’t fathom. Out or in? Perhaps he did love her and would think about her sometimes as he sat somewhere quiet and pondered mad things.

He counted out variables, scattered the tarot where it would go and he saw there in the future the new beginning and the new opening of dialogue and negotiation. You can’t trust liars of course. You can’t trust anybody. There would have to be a purge, where the idols and the collectors of pretty things would be dragged before altars and the meeting could then begin. And the people who dragged them there were dressed in black and they were but a choice sent by God and you shall not utter a single word about this God lest you be struck down.

Hot thing.

Soft visions of sleeping angels eh? Slapped we are and castigated by it and I still ached for it with the thought that you will read this and remember it, some memory there within you that will awake and you will rush to where I am and wake me up. Grab my shoulders and scream in my face the truths you have within you. I called you ‘Grace’. As I died in the hospital I saw you there in your blue Nurses uniform and your smiling face that said everything was ok and it was Grace and you saved me. But you were never there were you. Just a ghost or an Angel.

But between her shoving that pretty tongue in my mouth and holding me tight she was saying things. But holding me in the style of ‘eight’ was a thing. Another hot thing as I put my arms around her as she slept and I held that void tight as I could without waking it. Could I encompass that love? It was a hole that’s all, as that is what voids are. Just big holes for you to pour in your own views. Your own assumptions. She flickered like a cheap light bulb and tottered in heels far too big. Tried too hard just like the shoes that were a bad choice for I could hear planets rumbling around in orbits. The Sun grumbling as it is pulled. Her hair pulled too, right back so she couldn’t breathe. 

‘It’s good, it’s fifty shades of Hey’ I say. 

But dressed in black. Which is the new cool colour for religious nutcrackers they swarm the streets and placate their own sense of worth with dull songs that fail to even echo off the emotionless slick glass fronted offices. So Mammon builds and we cry. So those things climb ever higher until they are lost to meaning and academic rigour. We are uninvolved. I myself am uninvolved. Emotions are just litter in that place. Blown here and there by the wind channeled between the awful buildings that whip and caress a simple wind into a torrent of air. Pressed between. Funneled to blow these things in our faces, twirling the dust off the street, making the songs fall flat.

His thumb moved within his palm and moved with the sigils he was ordering. He was attempting. What? Even he couldn’t say as the words have not been invented yet that would make these magics apparent. She stood idly by and close to him because she knew even this New Puritanism was to be a defunct and abstract thing. The words had been invented for this and were ‘revenge’ and ‘horror’ and the man on Horseback would understand. The man drenched by cold winter sleet would feel that familiar sore break open on his back or between his hard ride thighs and the chafe of rough wool shirts. For this man is that man. All memetic humankind devolves and becomes slicker under the wet hand of the whore. The baseless and the weak.

She got into my car. Locked up in it. I couldn’t even put the key in the ignition. Slick glass brings you closer and be all I ever needed. Bring the sense here and here she lay breathless, same as always, same as it’s ever been. Sideways and away as soft as butter, we never surfaced surely. Enemies, Lovers and witnesses waiting for a call. She was lovely but never confuse her with the other evocations. Fuck no. You never stray over the lines, never improvise. That’s your brain tricking you. Making another prisoner of you. I rubbed my hands hard into my face. What’s wrong with the scene. She spoke, only her eyes lit by a bright store front. As a blindfold of light.

People who do not acknowledge the Black Iron State, collude with it’

Still he was in her. Those fat breasts loose and in his hands and those fingers deep within her mouth and the senseless horrors outside were just that. Senseless. And with an absence of sense was the knowledge that things that have no meaning are treasures of the demiurge itself. They were the gifts it showered upon the world in the corpses of small children in the street and in bullet framed nativities of hate. In every body lying in the street he would look at the bloodtrails and the drops and see within them the hand of the demiurge and the oppositions of the New Puritan.

But surely they are just acts? Later as he sat upon the horse and watched the sleeping village below time would waver and he would be flung far into the future. An act which the horse reacted to by bellowing a hefty fart which turned into a grey mist about him. But there were walls that appeared in from of him and he held the reins with leather gloved hands, tighter, tighter than a Witch bite. On the walls were those same sigils. That place far into the future five hundred years from now still echoed past the woodlands and the motorways. Were still etched into the tarmac and the streetlight. The angry knife wielding young man. The bitter tears of those that bought into the whole idea of their works and their things they would place around themselves to stave off death. Yes, only a lick of spray paint caught by the wind a little and blown into a confused face. Only the stink of bicarbonate and cocaine.

The men carried around sadness and piety so it got into their clothes, into their skin. At one point we sewed some of our mouths shut and we also filled the night with prayer and invocation. Rage at captivity went into the animals, our food source, our lake, and drinking water. The rage and surrender to it surrounded us and became a part of our lives, so unfortunately it was all abyss’

Your straps on your stockings are very tight and they bite into your soft thigh a little as do the little triangles of flesh between the nylon and they are all little pyramids aren’t they? And my finger goes in and out of your cunt really easy because you are wet and hot. The wind that blows between those evil edifices would indeed cast you into some erotic lunacy if it touched you now as I am touching you and your hair is in your eyes as you groan into another thankless act and another slick beginning that we see and have talked about endlessly. The blackness that leaks from the TV is just that, A manifestation of your own madness I suppose.

But backbiters. Hollow men. Soft hands from bourgeois bastards that would meld into the Puritan ethic with a softness you wouldn’t believe baby. We are the vanguard for the new filth I suppose and give meaning to every choked orgasm and every time I let loose and scream at the ceiling as you move and are lost again. The new groove baby. It’s our duty to lay the filth into the open and castigate the moral and the good. To lay waste the dogmas of soft unworked hands and to drag them into the street for justice and that will happen. You will shiver and shake under the hand. You will scream out for deliverance as you are fucked senseless. For that is the art, in swirl and layers.

Catch over and let the massacres cross over while we keep turning. As if we feel the heat from it, burning and unsettled. We are the lost and the no-one. We are the shot and bloodied corpses that lie upon the cold floors of airports and railway stations, those torn by bomb and bullet from the hands of confused men.

Outside in the cold. Another bitter cigarette and the smoke falls to the frosty ground as it is -2C tonight and it envelops me like a cloak this cold. Trying to work out between the parked cars outside some element of that Puritanical meme that is soon to flower some twenty years in the future. I am out there a long time because that is exactly what the hollow man principle is. My emotions have been dragged out into that street too many years ago for me to feel anything at all. The death of those emotions were nothing seeing as I didn’t know I had them in the first place. You choke and I joke. That’s the future surely? 

‘Throw the wind out and let the curious care for shattered lives and those things that make them vomit and choke’ She said. But just a moment Angel, we just watched ourselves walk by, our madness mirrored in the sky. Come back with me, catch the things you left behind in the foolish mind.

Placid Geometry

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What do you mean it was all getting a little too much? The touch? The lingering fingertip? The blood too hot? The bumping and grinding of the carriage. The past catching up too as the whole thing gets faster, and the happiness will never last(a). Of course in the wide scheme of things which dictate at least some semblance of order, the whole caboodle crunches not grinds. It’s the one that will offer a damp hand and a quick peck on the cheek as you fondle your way onto the methods of transport and the confines of it maybe. But what are words when the horrors that befall us seem to stack up. The woodpile of woe isn’t it? The strange narrative of grey men in an office and access to the internet. The wide glaring slickness of their web pages and portals, the ease in which they squeeze you into something you ain’t baby.

They’re just chalk lines babycakes. Lines on a cold floor that we crouch and watch as they shiver and change, candles flicker and the air gets fucking thicker. It’s not dog whistle sex just hallucinations maybe, as you kick your legs out and get your freak on and everything doesn’t make sense and that’s the greatest thing of all surely? The way we carouse and fondle. The way the need makes you ache and the lies you lay onto your fantasy just shakes and shivers. Makes your breasts move just a little as you look and I say ‘there’ and you see. But look past the lines and make the eyes ‘able’ make them sicker to see the truth as it stands. In ink, paint and intent. Your breasts loose and not a pace away they sit and read newspapers, talk shit and get bit.

She knows that time is very short, she see’s it in the air around her as it winds and curls around the memetic drifts of information flow. And we do make repairs to sex engines with sigils too you know. We do know how the Police watch and we do suspect that there’s a crime in there somewhere if we look close enough. Especially as God has turned it’s back for a few of those endless interstellar seconds. We know and it knows. The clouds look strange above the town today and we wait for something and I touch your little finger and watch the humanity course it’s way through the tunnels and the systems. What we have? Well she has her husband, and we have the metaphysical spaces to grow into, they are vast baby. Big endless dollops of variables, the static maths of a tongue here and there. Of kisses that taste of cigarettes and the acid remembrance of that line you choked back and that cord fastened tight as you wondered. And he never fucks you just right. You don’t even blather through the damp cloth of your pillow. He is the dampness incarnate. He is the forgotten body in the street. Endless and anonymous. Puerile and sick. He takes photos of the food you make and say’s ‘Yeah wait a minute’ as he laughs at something on his phone and he never noticed your hair or grabbed your ass as you passed him around the table. He never looked at you the way I did but you had no control here darling. I was lost years before and now I just stumble.

But your eyes of course reflect the abyss and the muscles around your eyes turn that pretty face into a mask as you know you can’t let all the information in. I slap your arse as you get up and you giggle and that too is a mask for need. A covering of modesty in your naked madness, a civility not deserved after what you just did and what you cried out in your joy. It’s all pantomime and you know it, and i’m thankful for it, as I think you understand even if your real language is that of a drifting hand and a subtle touch, or a laugh, a sigh maybe.

Of course tumbling through the air was pure acting, the backwards jump into traffic and the words I could write fall into the spaces between the keys and I need 333 letters in this alphabet. 23 that I can use straight away and the rest…in touches and bites, teeth on flesh and the sudden need to hold on tight under the pressure and the spite. 

Cap-Lock fucking everything louder than anything else and the roar of blood blurs chalk lines fast doesn’t it? The fakeness of it belies what a danger it is. My hand around your throat and I say am I not a man? Do I not have rights too? As you have hobbled strange chains around our feet we stumble and fall while you dance free. You mock but we remember. And it is us that fight Dragons not you. All is lost baby, all is gone to dust and I suspect thirty three days is all we have and the dust will fall on the pretty things you stack around your room. The essence will always stay of course. My hand moving under your shirt and my thumb pressed between your lips, and the dress is too tight but you look good as you move and we grab onto each other as they walk around oblivious and strange. Lost in their own way between the sheaths of finance letters, bills and promises and the likes you get on your new photo and he lies snoring next to you as you ache bitter thoughts. Maybe. 

He of course stood on the Dam wall and looked over the lush greenery of the valley and all was quiet, all was pure peace upon it as he guarded and watched. Over the valley the six peaks of heavens edge glistened under the fall of snow they had received, but no snow ever falls into the valley and no leaf ever browns and falls. On each peak an Angel of geometry. To watch with him was ever their end. To watch and see the valley and to cover the sacred tree with their light. But he ‘huffed’ and walked across the thick flagstones across the dam and his feet blurred the chalked geometry upon them and a little chalk dust was caught by the wind and blew over the dam wall into the forest which knew no decay. All was good.

In the Hospital I tore out the tubes and lines and I fell to the floor. Quickly I arranged the tubes into the geometry across the polished surface as the blood fell from my arms and neck onto the floor. Across from my bed the old man watched motionless apart from his thumb which pressed constantly on his buzzer so they would come running. I had to be fast. Here and there where a tube was too short to complete the sigil I dipped my thumb into the blood and finished the lines. The blood coming thicker now and I was covered and the slashes of that pain bit through me and some yellow liquid was caught within it. A plasma of sorts and a sick end for occult rhymes and sicker words.

In the toilet we fucked and rattled and my hand was again on your throat as you moved to keep me inside you and the pressure was intense and you were lost for more than a couple of moments as I watched the scene through the mirror on the back wall of the compartment. And all was lost wasn’t it. We had done this thing. All was lost. I was finding it hard to concentrate on anything as the lines shifted me out and in. I’m sorry I didn’t really treat you as a real person, but I was lost I think, trapped, always drawing sigils in the blood that fell from me. It always does fall, and with it my ability to function in this space. Dizz-Function. and Jizz-Functional. Your head banging against the side of the wall and your hands spread for something and my hands pulling apart the fastenings of your clothes and the buttons and zips of reality itself. And you wondered why the messages were sparse and coded. I was lost and getting lost(a). Found and abandoned.

Why will it never work out? I’m not that person. Locked into the ring of pain meds or scratching sigils on cell walls, gangsters sitting in cars while she unbuttons herself for the eyes of other men and you watch the line of light split the maroon desert sky. It’s leaning against the VW Beetle as the sun strikes you just right and you laugh as I look for the ten mm spanner. It’s you having a baby in the future with a man that looked like me. A child with a man that is the opposite of me. It’s the spiced plums you make. It’s the WitchFinder on horseback under an English rain, an English Oak tree and shuttered windows in the village below. It’s the nine bar gate. Lizards behind every face you see that is involved with you and me. Tubes and dripping blood and the platitudes of Nurses who can overpower your weakened state and throw you back into bed. It’s the arms that press and hold you down as the Pethidine kicks up a fuss and you freak and accuse. It’s the Prison we build ourselves and it’s the final joke, the giggle and the wiggle of your arse in that dress, as you look back and laugh and we dance into the night, till our feet hurt and the jazz is dead and quiet.

The noise and annoyance are just that. Minor things really and there is a spot of my seed on your lip and you lick it off and laugh as you taste it and zip the finality up and the curtain gently closes and it’s back to the same old, the rampant pace moulders and rots and the film blares it’s start again. The intermission is just that. The between spaces, the endless faces that press and are apparent. The glances and the stances of the great show rumbles on and the needles are always replaces and the tubes are taped harder and fastened. 

On the Dam he walks and will walk for an eternity glancing often at the metaphysical geometries on each of the six peaks as they turn and shine their light as diamonds onto the forest below. But he will never remember her. Never taste again the sins she had to show him. The light twists and tumbles from each cell and is taken up by the black orb above and the information flows are not hindered by magic. Never will be. They are kept safe for that beauty who will finally understand them. A process that has already been performed by this state. A process that will never be forgotten. But his foot kicks a piece of chalk that lay on the stone. It makes a line as it skitters across the cut rock. It forms a line which intersects another and he bends down to look he sees. Her upon the bed, her flesh glistens and she is lost again as she writhes in delights unknown to him and he looks at his fingers and they they are wet too, like her, and he tastes her now on his mouth and she digs her fingernails into her breasts and cries out. But he never understands. And on the mountain tops the geometries turn.

 

 

In The Absence of Divinities

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‘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

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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’

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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.

https://primitiveknot.bandcamp.com/album/sub-temple-ov-the-mirror-cosmos

https://primitiveknot.bandcamp.com/

https://www.facebook.com/primitiveknot/

The Primitive Knot

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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.