To say I was fixed would be an understatement. I always fall in love as the snow falls and it’s always the same. The geometry of the falling fluff and the bitter cold that aches in you as you feel that sudden warmth and you love her hair in your hands and the way her hips feel when you grab her to kiss her. Everything and everything. The sum of the cosmos all condensed into a single point right there. In her. I never shone but she shines for me. It is this as the able and the distinct flow into one another and that was all it was but this time. It was cold and it was a case of looking through windows for those that would stutter and breathe new life into you and I have put her right at the center of things and safe in the geometry. Safe within the sigils of the magic and there is a new thing for Dillinger to look after and that is her for sure.

Able and apt she is and I was lost in the warmth of it and nothing came from without, it was all within and yet I still laid out the subtle sigils with my finger dipped in spilled beer and as I felt her hair in my hands I wrote the five major sigils of protection for her. As she was one touched and Eris wailed in the distance that she had lost me and I was gone. Even the Demiurge busily petitioning God as to the unworthiness of Mans existence stopped for a second and looked to see what this thing was on Earth and the realm he had made to show God our despicable existences. For are we not worthy of love too? Us who had been cut under knife and pricked with so many needles? Alas was that indeed a tear from the eye of the Demiurge or rage that he had lost both of us to love and was indeed himself lost. Who would know?

I do know her scars with such precision as my fingertips softly touched them and I knew I was damned for her and it was the damnation of Angels and the desolation and the barren void in me was filled again and that dark did recede and that void did fill with laughter and the blessed lips of a gentle kiss in the cold air that was lost on blonde cops who showed no real academic realisation that she did. Spread your blessed black wings baby and let the nights cry out all they wish for that sound of fear now is a quiet sound of a gentle sleeping beast as although it’s never killed here within us it is stilled and spent. Spread those black wings around me and I know that the cold floors of the blonde whore has gone and I see clearly now that the robbers of love and the digestion of the city is slowed. They have gone and I can no longer here the threats under doors and through the window bare but here and there, you. Protected and safe within me. For didn’t you eat of me and were filled?

Starshine and the way she laughs had me lost in her,  all was fantastic and safe, the abyss of it held no fear for me as what is the case for forgiveness and fear? When she becomes alive under your hands and she is a great black dragon and I hold onto her throat with something akin to delight and apprehension as she takes off into the vermillion skies of our place in the world. The chemical flight, the earths subtle delight the way she shook her hair and the descent through the frigid air, the way my hands clawed flesh and was burned by the abstract and colossal lust. The three hearted beast we trust of course and the geometry flashed loudly in concentric circles and she would never be alone again and this I write in my own blood on parchment blank and throw it at the feet of the demiurge for him to see and weep. Cloaked Wizard is what you are and no wall will keep me from her and no word will be powerful enough to keep her from me and this I swear.

This and indeed that was how we saw the world. Pleasured principles and the circus of syncophants wept and were lost. The gathering of all that was good was in us. All that was indeed heavenly and full of spirit and Father I implore and demand that you will not let the Demiurge lay his scattered hands on her again while I live and this too is written for I have scrawled these oaths too on my feeble strength and full heart. This I demand, that she be left to love and to see with me the gardens I have prepared for her and the laughter within it. This I demand for am I not also your son? Am I not your servant and am I not made of you? This love thickens the ether between us and dissolves the blackness into light and there as well we shall see as we traverse the halls of the stars that I will look to my right and she will be there. This love has no ends that even the majesty of your infinite wisdom cannot fathom and work upon the minds of your angels of judgement. You will know this in the end Father. This act is consecrated and is a new covenant will you agree?

Thus the ghost of the three thousand Eris is banished and I have been healed at last and the walls of this Prison although still high have cracks within it and I see through them the crystal sunlights and the promise of new days in the sun. The aromas of living things and the soft crackling tread of boots on the paths between the two trees and this I demand. That we be left alone and in peace.



The Ascension Filter


She was Memetic. Just a barely filled in thing, a rumour of a thing and perhaps as sensuous as she was she lacked being. Don’t they all. I mentioned that Josephs coat of many colours was just his filters quenching the useless torrents of blaring realities as he tried to make sense of his day to day life in the Eigensystem. Throwing around his platitudes to Gods because that was simply what he was expected to do rather than just stand there and say ‘I haven’t really got any stories at all for you…sorry’. But there is always another group of people to stand around and pick apart the rigorous days here.

Ascend or sit still and gaze at the world as it goes past. In 432 Hz waveforms. Pissing about in the great piss pot of a universe. I sat and drank the whisky prescribed and I was halfway down the bottle and felt sick at last. At least it was a filtered feeling, something concrete to hold on to, here in the darkness of the forest. I chugged another mouthful and another pill. Waveforms. Filtered and sick, and my my hands shook, and even the forest dared not to look too close at this unfiltered and raw thing within it. Take me into the soils and absorb my spectrum. Taste it and tell me you were right at last. To see an old man instead of this, a thing deprived and sensual but not giving. All it did was cut pieces off and I shuffle lighter now at least but my wings are broken and I do not fly at every call. I sit and sip. Sit and addle the day apart like threads. 

Always look at the enemy you have been given. The Villain of the piece but not too close of course, because you will see where they have stitched the parts together and it’s all a little computer generated, all a little too contrived. You see, you never look at the villain only the things behind it. The unseen things that slither between the words. We ascend and crash back to Earth biting each other and crashing through the branches of the trees, sticky with sap, absorbing the zeitgeist of the day like a Virus. Her broken wings and my efforts to superglue them back together as the chemistry shook my very beliefs.

In the Hotel room my hand felt like it belonged to somebody else and I wouldn’t touch her. Not a chance. This was betwixt and behind and treasured flesh should never be touched less you are yourself touched. Yet I felt a simple fingertip would be sensible. And I did touch her and she was lost, I was lost and yet laughed as I ran down the stairs with my nose leaking bloods, they splatted on the floor like red suns, a galaxy of them and even the girl at the reception  desk wept as she raced for paper towels and a mop. She was good.

Outside there was a buzz in the air and a blue flash. She asked what it was.

‘Electro magnetic burst, in a moment the world will come crashing to the earth’ I said and she laughed of course as the static in the air caused her hair to lift from her scalp and stand aloft. She closed her eyes and waited. A few seconds after the burst there was a flash of brilliant light and then the rumour of devastation to come. A slight rumble underfoot and then a blast wave that tore the trees from the soil and cast the houses around us down into bricks, concrete and entwined within each simple homestead were the family within it. Torn and burned flesh. The instigation of Shiva. The five hole portal and the nuclear death of the world. The heat and pressure tore off her clothes as I laughed and she was naked with her arms outstretched to the Shivatastic spectacle. The final love scene. The fires of love cast out at last, and I laughed loud as the detritus of this stinking place was cast down under our Nuclear judgement. Well theirs. I couldn’t give a shit about her or that.

Slot in the filters. A few for them and also those. Slotting them into place with a fever that was almost desperate until there were that many I couldn’t even see through them any more and all I saw was just vague shapes of personalities that drifted into and out of the circle. In my pocket was the small photo of Saint John Dillinger and I kissed it and set it back within the safe place I had. She laughed and thought it funny. She was dressed as a Cop again with her stab proof vest and her hair tied up under her cap. I laughed too, because I had anticipated handing her over to him for Judgement. 

We had stood around the book and we were all robed and Holy and the liturgy was ancient and rare. Even the candles never flickered as the Holy Father read the sacraments and chanted the platitudes again and again. But there was to be no forgiveness here. It was the final trick. You judge yourself. What loathing we have for ourselves is reflected on the Judgement we give. Death not punishment but existence, this constant existence a trap for those who throw their sins as confetti. So foolish and we never even knew it. It was the great filter and even I dreamed of leaving friends and loved ones behind as I traveled on, and I never wanted to meet them there. Not all of them just a few who I could trust and yet their existence within the Eigen was as fractured as mine but they saw too much. They opened their eyes far too wide and the flash of Human nature in all it’s sordid delicacy had made their hands shiver as they talked and another prescription was all it took.

and you found you looked at the limbs you could reach through the reflections in the car window as it sped on and you counted them and every 23rd tree was the one (you found) and you abandoned the car and walked across the muddy verge encrusted with salted grit to THAT tree

Alas for ascension. Thrice alas for typed magic and geometry and she sat on my lap and that was where she wanted to be but I looked always forwards. Always ahead and through the trees, because I was never fooled, never taken in. Stand back within your self and look. See the stitches and the cuts the maker has left for you to see. For all your fauts the only guilt you have ever had is the fact that you were never fooled by any of it. The pills and the alcohol. The emotions they all had. The cocaine nights and the hand that shook. All pixels of the greatest work you have ever done and now utterly worthless. It is just a map you used to get through it and now in these territories they are useless and cast onto the floor as we look.

Slot in the filters and play the part you were supposed to. Smile and make jokes about the days. Smile and laugh with them. Shake that hand and this with that smile too. Pull your hair out of your eyes and try to open them a little more so they can see those eyes are not blackened things but fresh and alive like them. Hidden knowledge held tight within you, coiled and fresh. Turn up for fucks sake. Just be there. Let them know you are not tortured and alone. Be the zeitgeist so that you may change it and be fell. Shake the offered hands and choke down the vomit that rises up. You are not them. You have no part of yourself in that game. We are defunct and I can’t even be bothered to ask if everything is good. I just sense the colour and the symphony you make and the sympathy you bleed and you are filtered. She is the shadow not me. All that Goddess propaganda laid bare in the nuclear flash of light. Sitting in the forest eating the pills and drinking the whisky. 

“Do you want to come in the office and discuss it, we could smoke a spliff out of the window” she said. It was tempting. We would end up fucking and that wasn’t good. Forest whisky Queens and short tempered facetious gasps. Sense of unease as she clasps her bra back on? The way she licked her fingers clean, the way she licked the Cocaine off the phone screen, the way she threw obscene words your way when you were lost. The way you collected ropes and learned all the knots and every tree was the one…until it wasn’t. Driven by it she was, by her own twisted stories that bored me to tears and I held my hands behind my back and twisted my pencil deep into my palm so she couldn’t see and I wouldn’t feel anything at all.

Tangled In The Mangle



Bristol 2012-Birmingham-2009

These Space Witches are Bitches. They never let you in or out. It’s the torture mile and your feet are tangled in the sheets and nobody hears you cry out I suppose. I mean I never did through all of it. I was enough of a passing phase to treat the whole experience purely as it was. Communications from the Black Monolith, little nuggets of flesh through electronic mediums. Platitudes in megabytes and at the end you discover you have an emotional dyslexia and it is as if William Burroughs has been cut and pasting your memories into new ones and you wonder if the slap of flesh you heard was real at all. I will always be trapped in that flat with the plastic laminate floors and the thin doors where you could hear everything. That memory can’t be touched. You see I kissed her full force and with a feral passion every morning and her breath was always as sweet as a peach. Her hair always ruffled and complicated to look like it was done for fun. Even now I cant bear the thought of her hand on me. I shiver in the cold night air at the thought.

But this is why can’t I write about it. The scent of gun oil and the hurried laughter we had. The easy way in which you always knew what lever to depress to set that car seat back into just the right position? You wanted to fuck that was obvious but I still clung to the illusion that you were real in some way. Even now as the murky muddy waters rise and the sun has started to shiver and turn to sleep. What of it? Nothing of course. Just the tip tap of electronic love baby. The dark cloaks we wrapped around ourselves as we watched the sunrise and were bitter for every ray of light that came down and fell on us. You stuck there in the Evergreen and me writing about it with clumsy hands the chemical had killed spitting out the broken teeth and smiling cracked and half insane.

Crooked Wizards always walk alone and that’s the rule. Things hold you back I know that. Your cosmic ever lengthening laws fill the books that stack between us and that’s good too. You see I learned many years ago that Witches are always Bitches. Always sense the surface of things and that is the most sensible thing for you and yours. To sense the ripple of the meaning as it gets blown by the winds across the still lakes of our existences. Always the ripples, always the leaf that gently drops down onto the surface to rise and fall with each errant passage of your time. Limnal I am. Deep within it. I watch from the bottom the movements above. They shiver and shake the light just like you did and it was good for a while. Until the aching pressure of that existence pushed down on the lungs and the inner savage wanted to rise to the top, to break the surface and gasp in the cool air. But they found my rope and then all the hope was gone and I am watched constantly for the signs. I am forensically kept here by eye and by text message, by email and by whispered conversation. Even though I have no rights to be here I am kept and the whole merry-go-round swirls and turns, up and down, lost and found.

Now as much as I would like to explain it to you I won’t purely because you will use it in some strange geometrical sigil and then another clasp of iron falls around an ankle that can barely swim as it is. Limnal. Stuck on the bottom of the lake looking up at the ripples above. Wishing the savage would die at last. Then I could breath in clean air and run barefoot on the grass and there would be nobody there at all. No errant codes, no sleight of hand, no lies and no stories unless it was me making them. Then the stories would be funny of course. I would laugh by myself again. Whistling through broken teeth. Drowning on the water of life, getting close and tight.

In the landscape there seems to be something wrong of course. She had a brass handle on the door and now it is silver and as I walk in, it has a different feel. A strange sense of doom possibly even as she brushes her hair while standing those coils of brass fall and are lit by the screen of the TV again. But she is taller possibly. I slip a hand inside her dressing gown and gently squeeze her breast as I look at her with analysis rather than love and it is there for sure. Isolation through the medium. Her code is corrupt and void at last, she is not who she pretends to be and her hip pressing on my crotch is just a movement within the syrup of our existence. It is a thing that should not really be and that’s good. It means I can see the sides of this great stage and the pig eyes of the bastard squad leering in the shadows. I go to her mirror and lift my shirt to see the scars and they are not there. They slashed my body with their intent and it was existing. I saw it and touched those toughened cords of scarred skin and knew them intimately through those years. They half killed me baby. They left me to bleed in the sheets and left me to rot. To die. But I came back for one last go but none of us ever really know.

Reflections in windows and my hand on her cunt. Her effortless movement divine grace, a sacred beauty, a passion that lacked empire and quantity. Her ignorance and her inability to throw herself to the Sun dogs and the motes of brilliance through the sexual act. Defunct or un-pressured I don’t know. But she stood in the window of that flat as the sun came through the window and lit her flesh alive with rays and illuminations, of movement of that stomach and the way she moved her hair out of the way. Instilled in it I was, for a while. I loved every minute and did curse every hour. The demons had indeed gone crazy baby. We never knew there were so many of them. We didn’t know who they were and they wove their own threads in the tapestry of the fucking we did. Before we knew they were there the threads lay thick among the beauty of our acts and they were dull black among the chrome yellow of our touch and only you wept. I wrote. Cross legged on the floor. A simple notebook and a blunt pencil. I write it all down baby so you don’t have to worry about what it was and what they did.

It’s a map of sorts for sure, directions to places you forgot about, places that exist only in your heart I suppose. Where the dark hides to escape the illuminating possibility of novelty and creations. But in that darkness is quiet and stillness. We manipulate the chemistry to alleviate the strange and clumsy way in which we treat it and communicate with it as it has no real function here in the realm of the Demiurge. Within it is the gap between the anesthetic and the awakening to bolts of pure pain and the sweat of infection, the folded harsh sheets and the kick of a leg under the direction of pure animal shock. Within is the passion of sweated flesh upon flesh and the clawed hands of passion. Of forgetting and not remembering. Of the ways in which we regarded each other with horror and then looked at ourselves and the mirror that held no image at all. 

The White Line Spine Tingler


I dreamed for a sick while as people that I thought I loved moved around streets outside phones always on like ghost lit candles, as ghosts they were too. With me locked within a feeble machine. It stunk and was lost and I looked only to God, on the one left hand to think about the redemptions he may offer me for my sins and on the right to smash my simple machine to pieces upon the anvil of his judgement. I thought. Watching her eat. I liked to see her eat. She was watching Trump. Seriously furrowed again. What was I even thinking? What Redemptions?

‘As God wrought you so he is within you’. I nodded before them and took their litany as a lie and an untruth.

‘You have said that before, another time’ she said to me as I sat and thought. I didn’t quite catch her drift and she was now looking at me confused too. Have I? Perhaps it was something else entirely, who gives a fuck. She carried on eating and looking at her phone.

I moved slow within the bed as not to disturb her and let the time come and we watched them make plans and edge upon my finances and estate closer and closer as carrion birds around the gasping corpse of an animal. North Korea, the fucking endgame. I don’t ever do this by myself you know. It’s all plots and sub plots and the only way I can get these messages through is by them meaning nothing at all but sick of it all. That golden crucifix between her tits then I read Exegesis by Dick and laughed out loud then everybody for weeks had a cyborg groove with steely eyeballs and a false arm. Stigmata, she bit me there and it did bleed for weeks staining my sheets which I left in place in case a sigil would turn up in the lashings and wailings of nightmare sleeps as the blood spotted the sheet. Is it vain to feel your own pain? I was a figment of Phillip K Dicks fevered balding head and his eyes that just accused constantly, accusing us of tricking him until he swallowed us up into his own mind, to play with.

I choked and gasped as well and clutched the sheets tighter as that last breath fell upon the linen spotted with mine own blood. The ecstasy and the cocaine blow job. She was biting my lip and wouldn’t let go until I jabbed my thumb in her eye. Speak kinder words.

She looked washed in big heavy rocks of sorrow but was so gracious, even with the pain she held. It was a lovely sight to behold. Her furrowed brow, that way she raised one of them and smiled. Blood soaked soils baby. The end of the fucking line. What is holding on to something like that anyway? We know the sea eyes that look for the bloom of that sorrow and that heavy sin. Parking and waiting in Harbourne streets, picking up the lines that ran through the City, finding them wanting. Fools trying to break into the van while we were fucking in it, and they wouldn’t go away. Cold and your jeans were loose and you used to throw your knickers in the air and they would land somewhere weird and in the darkness later would hang glowing like a skull in the blackness of the room.

You are close now I can feel it. That all familiar throb of love static and freezer block love. It’s close isn’t it, this end? A Coda of Crap. You can overdose on the Cocaine you know. Walls you are looking at become clear and transparent and you can see dead men get up from their beds and walk through the walls and between the trees. You will do that in a minute. You bend over the table and take a whole fat line of Mr Dantes Infernal Fuck Medicine. Your arse looks great I’ll be honest. Space Witches are always Bitches. Always vapour and rumour in the end. You take your photographs with that 60s melancholy feel and it’s twee. I want to take photos of you and send them to your Father. But outside is dim and I fancy opposite the Hotel room window is another large building and the apex of it’s roof is as a great black pyramid and if the wind hits it just right then the sound will shatter you into a million sex damp pieces. You were on my back digging your heels into my neck hard and that heel hurt and I didn’t know why she was doing it.

I sit and offer myself to you Glorious Black Sun, my soul is yours and you are mine and our spirits entwine and make a simple act. In the deserts of these blasted lands we look to you and raise our hands to you and beg that you reveal yourself within us and we may make peace with ourselves and the shattered lives of those trapped would sink into this false Earth and begone from us. For that is the end and the beginning of our journey. To see, to offer ourselves and to pull back the curtains of the great act and mock those that would make our eyes feast on the madness of this Earth.

We remember the simple Churches and the men who would gather outside in the sun and they would shake each others hands and laugh as a simple breeze shook your hair loose and it moved a fraction. They treat you like they do because it’s good for you. And there was a single chord repeated and they sang a simple melody over it as a few white clouds blew across the warm sun. We did run in that grass didn’t we? We did hold hands and run through it laughing and it seemed everything was warm and good as the friends sang ‘Sing around the circle, sing for me’ and we sang too.

The B52s are on the radio and you are doing that thing again, that Diana Ross shuffle with your new shoes and the coke stuck up your nose and I’m feeling mighty fine thank you. I could throw myself through the window and actually stand to do it but she grabs me and we are both dancing. She pushes her titties at me and I laugh and grab one like a gimp. She laughs and musses up her hair and finger fucks her lips and I see a can of Pringles and I eat some and laugh pieces of them out as she dances and the B52s are a real done thing and her shoes are so fresh and good and that fucking Diana thing and the breeze when it’s just right, is just right. Her hair moves and her Sanctuary is burned. She left a love and find a love she’s yet to see. She begs a price always. Paperbacks stuffed down the settee. Sick existences in every step she makes across the purple shitty hotel carpet. I put my hands on her hips and pull her close to me as she laughs and giggles humping her thing on me. I laugh too because I had a weird thought about William Blake, I think I’m some feeback from Blake. I was put here to collect that feedback and collate it. Curate it maybe as I put my fingers in her and she grooves to the B52s as it should be. Half naked. Finger bopping good healthy shit. In the last ten minutes I’ve been a figment of Dicks imagination and the reincarnation of William Blake.

 Were you cool enough baby? Who knows, your love was fucking loud. Who could fuck that high? Who can still look at a night like that and it’s getting out of control because it’s fucking out of control. This is why we built those first simple Artificial Intelligence’s that now control us. Not content to do anything but improve us, to provoke us. Things are getting faster baby and you are wetter and a bit lost. Smashing Pumpkins now ‘Rhinoceros’ that dude can rock it. But now I can’t talk to a woman without I can trace her magic with a second and have done every conceivable act upon her. Seconds. Faster baby. Nuclear war and untraceable petro dollars and everybody is a criminal and everybody needs to be cleansed. The way you hold a beer. Fuck.

Alas I am caught. As we progress our magic the pitfalls and traps become apparent and real, the figures of history would have us kept within this place in order to control the flows of information from the magical to the place they control. They will not countenance any equal, and that is their way. I was dead and now I am alive again and I do not know how they machined the stainless steel realities they have made to imprison me but…hooky shit. Glitches. Even in the way they move now, it looks strange to me as I watch them move backwards and forwards. It doesn’t look real but it doesn’t freak you out as much as it should. But when they press. It takes a little of the energy out. A bit of the fucking zeitgeist. Is this our God? Can we worship it? I think yes. But I’ve been left up here and have evolved. Sideways and backwards we press play on our lives and shiver up other spines in white crystal lines sparkling on the azure plastic table in the pink hotel in the grey towns and now we’re just pretending again and I look at her arse.

Your power is mighty and Great my Father and there is no vessel that would hold thy wisdom. As that power is infinite and we are but simple toys to thee. I grabbed her ass in my hands and spread her. I prostrate myself at your feet. Thrice unworthy dog that I am. She was biting my neck. Be my witness, sense my mortality and grant me my one wish and let these words burn my tongue in insolence. These Teachers you send me to define thy knowledge and bring to us your words of fire are lacking. Her hair in my hands.


Wretched Continuity


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.

The New Puritan


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


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.