SwissSide 


Idle sleep picking over the bones throwing them up in the air bone tumblers fortune resisted in an abstracted athletic sense. 

Aired and graced your body twists to be open and let the good times in the five second forgetting when you hold the headboard tight and everything goes bright

You upload something it’s a photograph and you claw your breasts for it violent and magenta the forgetter the enochian orgasm wet fingers that rest just so 

We never speak and that’s good because the rope is rough and I haven’t got a pen to write a moan note but a arrange some twigs under the tree in some abstract shape

Somebody is near as I kneel but the sunlight is too loud and twinkling spots never rot it’s ageless this act but shush for fucks sake be quiet and let things be still 

Nick Land-Agent of the Demiurge

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She was pissed off. She had been drunk the night before and had come into the flat raving and spitting before eating a block of cheese and collapsing onto the bed. I got some clippers and shaved off her hair. I took the Action men out of my rucksack. Stashed earlier so she didn’t see them. It would have freaked her out. Twenty action men with angry action man faces. Stoical and steely as fuck. I glued her hair onto their heads with super glue and stood them around her bed, pointing their guns at her. Around them I gently entwined a set of blue fairy lights and they glowed. Their long hair and war clothes made them look like heavy metal warriors. She would love it…..

…because reality is assembled in the mind I suspect these incidents and inconsistencies happen all the time to everyone, but they are simply not noticed because our reality has never been so fundamentally questioned as it is.

It just fucking annoyed me, the whole shebang, the nitty gritty of dealing with their shit. The world is coming to a close man, and everything must go. Out like a light. We were in the pub and every gut that walked past she pushed her tits out so they fucking strained tight bursting button popping tits. Fucking hell, I laughed, snorted into my pint and beer went around a little and her fucking sex eyes turned ferret eyes and she looked at me like I was a ‘bastard’ and I was. My eyes were watering and I was looking at the bar mirrors and they were looking at me. One can dream about all the usual suspects. Her eyes were everywhere and she was the primal dreamadelica, the panic feet streakers….the bulb the bullshit the thankless fucking tasks and now I felt sick and away from her.

It was communist magic and had all the traps associated with it. The humming undercurrent was fascist and the sex had become politicised. But later when I was fucking her from behind and being a total sleaze she turned around and saw that I was the chaotic and the random variable. I slapped her arse hard and did the jazz fuck, chaotic rhythms interspersed with painful almost jarring juxtapositions and she freaked right out and fell down by the bed clawing at her face and sobbing in big gulping grunts as she ejaculated all over the floor. 

Shes a fascinating fuck certainly. The fuck attention setting of sirens among the metaphysical planes and I know she’s mentally trying out schemes to get my attention. My proper attention. I was thinking about the Yin Yang sisters. I would ring them later and they would come around full of laughter and fun and nothing would draw a tear from their eyes. Aware as they were. Bless them. I would text them.

She bucked on the floor.

“Nick Land is an Agent of the Demiurge” she croaked. I helped her up back onto the bed and she pulled the sheet around her making no sound everywhere. You aren’t my life you, with dark circles under your eyes. Riven and pretty you make the hours last bless your heart. You want to destroy me but baby there’s nothing left to destroy. I’ve always been fucked from +1 second. But who was Nick Land? Motherfucker. We aren’t owned by these motherfuckers. Her fingers tapped a careful cadence on the cotton sheet. 

I spoke to her. She was on the internet and we shared smoking miles away tumbling backwards and forwards via messages. She was a trailer bitch for sure and we hated each other from the start. She was great with games that distracted, made no point at all and she was later never early. 

“What made you think you mean’t anything at all? You will stand before Jesus before long and have to redeem yourself”. She showed me her tight asshole and I ate that Motherfucker.

Never.

It was a Neoreaction. Later on I stood outside her house and watched her move backwards and forwards behind the curtains as I stood and smoked a spliff. Someone elses choice for sure baby. They were just themes of course all these illicit fucks. I felt sorry for her husband. Even sorrier that he decided that he wanted to sort it out with me. He brought a few mates with him. I wanted to hurt and bleed for a few minutes and pay my penance and I did. My nose popped. My eyes hurt. Somebody kicked me in the ear and I was rolling. 

But she was riding me and I had her by the throat and every few minutes or so she would get off and walk over to her phone. Check it. Chop a line of coke. Snort it off the screen. Walk back get back on. I tried to fit all my fingers in her mouth and she helped force them further in and the spit came out and fell on me went in my mouth the cocaine sour spit.

I grabbed him by the collar as he leaned over. He had thin office wanker muscles and an office wanker face with office wanker friends and office wanker Adidas. I bit his cheek as hard as I could and threw him against a car. The alarm went off. I took my hatchet out of my jacket and chopped him in the knee then swung around and stuck it in an oncoming fist. The violence was unconditional. The ultimate display of irony. Poison of the Demiurge, his own magic used against him. Me using Goddesses as pawns in the great fight and they have little idea. Their minds cannot fathom abstraction. Cannot understand the greatest of philosophies are the absurd. 

There are 14 unread messages from her. 14 listless pleas for THAT sex. Nick Land was the number 1 and 4. Patriotic and trustworthy. A blatant load of metaphysical bullshit. ‘Methodical’ that scared the shit out of me. In the future I see them and their crooked cross revolving. Tarot Kabbalah fusion I see him. Crowned and with a cloak of scarlet, crowned in gold holding a great sword. Lord of the World. And so it comes to pass.

 

 

2am Warriors 

Knocking shoving but you looked at him and he looked at his mate and then somebody moved too fast. Like that flying feeling in the glimpse flash of bright menu light and the strange accent the kebab man speaks. Loud to stop it but a flash and a shove. The smell of meat and stale oil, of aftershave and hair product and the voices louder. But the ground looks sweeter in the tangle of legs and my lip swells up and a foot here. Grabbed, pulled and hit again. Thrown fist in the cold light of the menu list. The drunken punch lunch the flavour of sour blood. But we could you know. Just leave it out. I punch him again and he’s on the floor. Kebab and chips flying gore the skittery heels the flying hair. I would laugh if I didn’t care but hold me back from another thankless go. Pulled apart another empty punch to throw but the taxis here and it’s late you know. One late kebab and a face to know. No eating in the cab. Wrap up the meat you know. And the lights overhead flash by as you laugh. Street theatre and an early bath. Look down and watch the blood drop slowly from your nose onto the salad in your lap. 

Zombies Come In Blonde 

Was going to put a thought in there. But stopped quick. The cops are watching and I made myself forget. Fast. Watching you run along to meet me. But I ain’t there see? I’m over here in the dark watching and not giving a shit. I can pull my hood right over my face so it’s dark and I disappear. You will never spot me. I blend in. Urban cockroach. Among the filth you bring. Holding my ears against the songs you sing. Holding my eyes shut against your light. So my own doesn’t fade out. So it doesn’t roll in pain on the dust. Figure of eight trace the sigils in the rust. I’m not your father or a humourless fudge but a botherer wrapped up in lust. A dreamer a cadburys cream egg voucher redeemer. Bostik gnostic a failed mystic. Blend into the brick you prick. Don’t let her see ya sooner or later you will crash and become her. The bus vomits the diesel clouds for love. But you walk off and I laugh quietly. Choking a little on the fumes 

Tragically Hip & The Bitten Lip 


There isn’t any subtle meaning in any of it

Just cogs moving correct and accurate gears for your fears. I would like to make a personal choice and enter the story here. But I’ll stay away if you will. So the reaper clears away the leaves and lies still. In another Alternity of course they see through all of it and made what peace they had left as they cooked to death. You are pretty and we shared a few secrets. Rolled away the stones and scattered some ashes. You laugh at my accent and I laugh in your face when you talk about your issues. Leaving behind the black sodden tracks and the snotty tissues. StrangleFuckLuck you have. That tight little cunt you tease them with. It’s a hollow thing in more ways than one. All for nothing and then gone. 

Sitting on the hill watching Bristol burn from the bombing. I don’t know. Maybe it was an errant uncontrolled thing, crazy, that thing you used to sing. Tragically Hip something about ships and the way you moved your hips, and the cracked bitten lips. I would have killed them all for you. Honestly. 

Blank Lives Matter

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Always ok but we never truly know. How their lives kindle, flicker and flow. How heavy the day is as they smile and laugh. How the bitter pains are shaved deep down below. And the tears dried up long ago. The ticking time bomb of the afterglow. The tricks they learn to deviate from the crooked throbbing tracks, from the friendly social hugs and laughs. ‘Im ok thanks’ the mantra begins, the vomit rises the chance for sins. They know we hide the sickness well and social groups will always tell, the scratches and cuts the bruises and lumps. The way we walk and bump, they way we smile and talk, the odd left foot first walk. The looking but never seeing. Never feeling always kneeling. The only slight a simple light, a cool air. Another day of smiling. I wish somebody would wake me up

These Songs Were Never About You 


Now these days will never come to pass

For we see the deserts baked to glass

Why do we know the things we do, always revolve around you? It’s the chaotic nature of things you do. 

But you look for answers here, abusing your time. Subtle change and actors always act. Bring the light closer to my face, searing the night. Always clasps it never never lasts. Your fingers grip on and fingernails break, learn to fake, learn to always take.

Hollow loads and breaking the brainwaves. You lie you cheat and you kneel. Always tasking the amounts you fail to feel. 

But these songs aren’t about you, they never were. Share nothing except the scraps they used to say. The less you use the less you have to pay.