Song Of The Glitch Bitch


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Do You Keep Your Black Wings Clean


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The Hate Matrix


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You fucking liar”

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

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

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

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

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

“My will considered to delightful invitation

announcing no decisions, plots no course

of no decisively boisterous deeds to bleed

Pleasured Souls lack vision I suppose.

As we delight in tearful repose.

Walk the rain soaked streets, unaware.

Of safe hands on shoulders.”

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

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

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

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


The Seventh Black Sun


‘Guten Morgen Mikey’ she whispered. She was there within the weaving and the tangles, glistening she would be, and dynamic and my poor hand waved around trying to lay a finger. But…There are 5777 days between 9/11/01 and 7/7/17. 2017 is the Hebrew calendar year 5777 and the numbers click and tick and her nipple is in my mouth and I bite.

The rolling vomit of the Emerald grasses in abandoned fields, twenty years past? More? The moaning of the darkness at night as the wind blew through the vehicles abandoned on the M5 just over that hill, there. Dire thoughts as to storms fluttered through his mind for a moment but the present, here and now the glassed in night heat glistens and the heat on the planks of the old flat bed truck fades and bends the light from the sun, it waves like petrol fumes in the air. Beautiful Somerset, even more beautiful since the Farming and Agriculture went away and the Tops of the hills and the fields were covered by vegetation, young Trees, you could walk from Bath to Shrewsbury now and never see the sky. Unless obscured by gently moving limbs of the Tress full of leaf. He walked as he did very morning before starting the days chores, which meant chopping wood or some Electrical work on the Solar panels. He would wander around happy for once, forgetting for a moment those days lost in the past. Through the smoke and fire of his Youth, a Baptism of pain and understanding. In a Hedgerow a patch of Blackberries, he eased himself down to double check, his eyesight, now he was in advanced years not so good. But, his hands were still shaking and he had characters and moods to adopt, to slide on like an old coat, to ease on.

‘When Trump was inaugarated as President he was 70 years, 7 months and 7 days old’ she gasped as she rode me as spirit. On the radio Ronnie James Dio. I couldn’t reach for a drink of water as she had me too fucking tight and my muscles were locked up….she was this and that. It’s Ringo Starrs birthday today….he is 77. Fuck The Beatles. Fake Rock. 

77 Sunset strip. On the piece of paper in the pocket of my leather jacket and I’m on a motorbike. Vincent Black Shadow and I’m smashing through the scenery of the Big Sur California. It’s 1965 and i’ve taken a sugar cube of Orange Sunshine acid. 77mph and I’m in that Hunter Thompson thing and abandoned. But the air is good for the Vincent. It’s perfect for the gasoline mix and the girl behind me has tricks, and her hands are at my crotch and I’m hoping the road doesn’t run out. Her tits press on my back and I laugh. I’m on the way to kill Jerry Garcia but I’ll never get there. His presence or his absence mean nothing.

He shouted out ‘Helen! Blackberries!”. From a little way ahead, a young girl, maybe Twelve or so years old ran from a gap in the Hedge and down the overgrown lane, the Tarmac now only small pieces of bleached greyness among the sprouting vegetation. She ran to the old man, “Grandad!” she looked alarmed and the old man gently placed the small handwoven basket he carried to the ground quickly scanning the surrounding area. She ran to him out of breath her lips stained with the fruits of the countryside. She had beautiful Chestnut curls, she was so like her Grandmother it stopped his heart for a moment. A momentary pain, in his heart. Not physical, the ripping of muscle as the heart explodes but, the subtle emotional pain that made him feel sick, after so many fucking years too. She tugged at his sleeve, up the lane a way, just around the corner they hurried. Among the overgrown hedge the remains of a Helicopter. Its fuselage was smashed as it had obviously rolled down the hill after crashing many years ago. Faded markings on the shell were still just about visible.

She was speaking German again and it was guttural and erotic. She had her hand over my mouth and I could smell the soap on it as she pressed harder and I couldn’t breathe very well. I could see both her hands at either side holding two strange jeweled skulls and in the center of her forehead another golden stone shined bright and entered my own skull and thus the law of seven was initiated and the halls of the Gods did fucking tremble and the Gods did stop their jollity and stare with those star filled eyes they have….

“Its a Copter isn’t it?” she asked and went to climb into it. “Stop Helen” the Old man said. It wasn’t safe to explore, not in his mind, not yet any way, and perhaps it would always be the way. Excited she ran around the rear of the craft. Its rotors had long gone but from the hatch still poked a rusted and bent Machine gun mounted to the fractured floor. Webbing hung tangled with Ivy and other Vegetation. It was obviously a previously undisturbed crash site. As time went on more and more discoveries like this, now it was safer of course. Inside, there, between the seats of the Pilot and Co Pilot, bones. Not the Bleached bones of a Soldier or the discovered corpse of a Civilian, no.

“Helen, to me!” The Old man shouted, she was halfway into the cockpit through the vacant staring Cockpit window. She obeyed him but before she did there was that same old need to discover, and she hesitated, weighing up the consequences of punishment versus further discovery. So like her Grandmother and so unalike but….

The Bones inside were not Human. They were the same as us practically of course. Their camouflage was brilliant owing to having the basic physiology of a Human. Tangled in the rotten webbing and the detritus of the crash he saw two sets of remains. A female and a Male. The Female known by the cleft in the Jaw, the Male had none. Alien because of their colour. Iridescent Gold that shone through the myriad of Lichens and algae that had settled on them. These simple planc. Of earth that would settle on something horrific. He leaned into the Cockpit and grabbed one of the Skulls and brought it out into the sunshine. Helen next to him reached out her hands to help and without though she grabbed the skull from him as he tried to get the old muscles and bones into some sort of order and he unbalanced struggled to extricate himself  from the opening.

Sometimes when it rained hard and I stayed within the cave my home and felt the magic as it coursed through the stone below to the sky above. I was its conductor and I closed my eyes to drink it in and then vomit it out and this is my existence. To see the world is to step aside and look. Stand as a thing cut off from it’s parent and see with new eyes. I stand in the entrance amidst the hanging plants that shield the entrance and my face is upturned to the Sun above on days when it shows its face, and I dream as the Gramophone player winds through Elvis Presley ‘Love Me Tender’ once more. It is the only thing I possess for my pleasure and I think that sometimes the Gods speak to me through it.

“What is it? Don’t tell me I know, I think!” she giggled and shouted. She found a small clearing further into a former crop field and sat down with the skull in her hands. She had cleaned away some of the Greenery that had covered it and it shone even brighter. The Old man noticed the basket of Hedgerow fruits next to the wreck and grabbed a hold of it. He walked to his Granddaughter now sat in the sun holding the skull. She looked up at him with absolute delight. She loved these relics, these bookmarks of time that scattered the Countryside around Glastonbury where they lived. But nobody really spoke of them, or the Human Skulls that always turned up under a Spade or the Plough, the new foundations of a House or simply scattered in the open air.

‘Sehr gut’ she said. But the mind did pour out it’s fantasies and it’s glamour and she wove them above her head into new narratives and new possibilities that seemed as threads of ethereal light that wove around her slick sex body that moved in a hunger I was not used to.

“You know what it is I think” He said, his old Midland accent flattened the ‘You know’ into ‘Y’know’. He sat down next to her and took the skull from her for a moment. Similar to a Human skull and yet so different. The ‘Bone’ was a Silicon matrix that had precious metals ingrained within it. Silver, Gold and within that precious stones which shone in the Summer Sun. The Eye sockets were slanted giving it a distinct Reptilian look. She had never seen a Reptile of course, too young, and most of the books gone now. ‘The fucking things’, random thought, not easy to grab onto, not easy to feel and make familiar

“You can show everybody at School what you found if you like” he said. But it was the wrong thing to say and he stopped himself. Usha Bains who taught at the School would not let it into his small House by the Brook where he taught the Children of the Village. Usha would probably fall to his knees and look at the Sky, then he would emit a keen of grief like an Eagle screaming. Remembering and grieving again. Nobody would stop him, but they too would sink to their knees next to him, wrapping their arms about him they too would cry, if they remembered. He knew he would, the familiarity of the terror, the loss the awful fucking grief.

“I know some things..” Helen said. Her eyes a beautiful chestnut like her hair, big eyes that would bore into you like Magical things. “I know about them, some people don’t like to speak about them, Mother especially but I like to, I like to discover things”. Her voice floated on the heat a little, always chatting as young girls are wont to do. He passed the Skull back to her and she delighted in turning it in her hands and watching the Sun reflect off its surface.

He was somewhere else of course as all the Old people do, minds flung back into different times when things were sadder, more horrifying. Hands gently touching memories and then only gently, not remaining too long but recollecting like wandering down a Hedgerow in deepest Somerset searching for Fruits to take back home or to gorge oneself on them and just lie down in the Sun and grass looking at the clear Blue sky above.

“I know you don’t like to talk about it, nobody does.” She said staring into those evil sockets of the skull in her palms. “But today is a special day I think, one for talking I think. You have scars you never talk about, and when the cold comes you walk with a limp and they say you saw them and fought them.” She turned the Skull around in her hands as she spoke and the Sun glinted into his eyes like…

“What did you do in the Lizard Wars Grandad?” she asked. But he was lost again in those deserted Streets of Birmingham. The blasted windows of the office blocks in the City centre were like eyeless sockets but at one moment the Sun came out and reflected onto a rare unbroken pane of glass, into his eyes. There was Gunfire ahead…the sound of guitars. 7×7 by Hawkwind for sure and I remembered putting my head on her breasts to sleep and she soothed me with other songs I did not understand. And the panes of glass fell into the street and shone with the light of the dim sun above, almost Black it was so bright.

The Ballad of Antons Boots


I fuck you slow, as you like that, and the serpent winds around both of us the innocent truth and your heels dig into my back.

Within the circle. I sit and watch the Eigen swirl around me anti clockwise and I have to keep the lax concentrations and the idle flicking of the index finger as the swirlies become girlies and their heads are above the water, just about. I’m supposed to be sweating even in my naked ugliness and my scars are glowing golden threads that wind around my torso. Every golden thread is really dead. Every gasp the discombobulated heads make as they try to keep breathing the air the Eigen gives them as the ritual unfolds. Unlovely things. But they tangle now and again and their bodies naked rub against each other in a lofty pleasure as they remember. But I don’t. No not at all. There should be words here. Great secret words from the Masters that came before me but here and now? Just guttural animal noises. My forefinger moves in small circles and the whirlpool of cheap chipboard and stolen screws revolves faster.

We laugh at starlit glades and that sword lies heavy in my hand and i may put it down a while as I am tired of it. I may watch while you dance in dark spaces in between the stars my Super Star Princess.The Dragons can fucking roar all they like for all i’m bothered but for now they writhe under the mountains occasionally dreaming about those gaps between the stars where they would fly around her head like a garland of sorts and she would laugh and try to catch them in her hands. But they were too fast for her, always were.

The path 23 is a dark road beset with traps that weaves itself through the gaps in the sands. For isn’t it a blessing that we have time to forget? There are two drops of fresh blood on the cool white sheets by my hand as I rest. At the other hand three fresh drops. Even as my mind struggles through the pain to understand the voices continue to mock in sing song voices, as children skipping and singing then as the emaciated voice of mine, cracked by the cancer and infection. Cracked by sin. 23 fucking skidoo. Opposite me the old man raises himself with difficulty and barks the number at me.’Ah’ if you come to fetch me, I won’t need to bring anything except a coat maybe, and my tobacco. 

The anger is that I think sometimes, and wonder about the whole validity of the process. It is a process of course. It has a beginning but no fucking end and the Buddhists thought they knew, but they didn’t. The Zen masters found the best way to exhaust their thought was to abstract the ideas further and further until the zen fractal philosophy just became riddles and puns that nobody understood. Unless you laughed out loud at it. The evolution had come to an end and I thought I had left her standing their by the rail. Her red lipstick was sticking. Most things stuck here until you didn’t have the strength to support your physical body any more and you fell face first onto the walkway and she dug her heel in your hand. I think she loves me. I crave the attention as the sticky lies thick and enters my mouth and throat closing it in a mockery of tumour and flesh. She did love me.

Does she? Watching the Attendant smear the filth of flattened Fly further over the glass she watched and parted her legs a little and let her soft hand fall between her legs to her panties that finest slip of material between the sweet air and the sweeter dew. He watched her gently slip a hand into them and to press a little, the finest of pressures to alleviate the need, the strength inside, to let it out. He watched and she let her head turn, towards me, just staring into the sky alone with my demon clowns and jugular jugglers. Outside the car the attendant a mere slip of a man aged possibly twenty five or forty five years old, she never cared.Opened.

Soon, I will come for you, don’t despair keep your strength, don’t fear any more.” he said.

She unbuttoned the top three buttons of her dress and let her breasts feel the encroaching night the enchanted evening to come. Her nipples swelled as she felt the eyes of the fuel stunk man outside pressing his crotch gently on the paintwork of the car.

“We are the Power, the essential force, the guiding lights. On Earth we wrangle our lives from thing to thing. A job, our loves and hates, everything they make for us and we are trapped. They harvest us and have hidden away the UnLight and the Blessed place, Home….did God turn away from us? When he took him home?”

If only you were a Totem of another sort. A tree or a place, it would have been better. But the Eigen wanted blood and it got it. Death of a Thousand Cunts. I wriggle on those hooks every day and I never cursed one of them.

He saw her in the cell, she was tiny and bone thin as he remembered. Her parents rarely fed her. She pointed to the wall and the circle he had drawn. In each corner of the cell she had placed a small Chestnut. He knew her so well. The Chestnuts kept away the Spiders.

The Sliders kept away the Spiders, THE INSIDERS. The back street fiddlers. I made the whirlpool go faster and they fragmented into a thousand stars and there he sat. Straight in front of me, mocking my cross legged position. My Lotus groove. My own mockery of the Masters.

They sat in her car and talked as the occasional funeral went past, of death, life, plans, futures, of sickness, and sex and death and all things. Until mouths dry with talk would glisten again as tongues searched each others mouths and hands would press in warm hard places. Abandoning their morality for a second they would romp within the confines, on the dusty velour graphite grey, seatbelts, the smell of cars, petrol, oil, the soft smoke from the Crematorium. The fresh Pine from the air freshener that dangled from the mirror.The stink of it. The layers of stink pressed.

Your future, my sweetheart is a thing to needle and vent sour wounds,to placate the idle wretch here in this place. You may plan a fortuitous event with friends, amusing chats at night on the beach but this stink is a stench of a thing a pleasure taken away. We were a flawless black and white film, a plot against cruel Kings and underneath the odour of hot sex and sticky fingers, and yesterday I cannot love you as today. I have no strength and cannot think awhile as hearts have ran astray like errant kids at play in parks and gardens and husbands plot destruction a sadder thing and say I’m sorry my darling.

It is itchy on my skin, a found rope, fallen from a passing lorry or just left as waste who knows. I expected some kind of Epiphany. Instead a view of Shropshire Hills, the Long Mynd, the Brown Clee. I stumble from the trunk in a half leap half fall and the rope catches tight around my neck and pulls my shirt from my trousers. I see stars and try to gasp but my weight pulls me down and that rope bites all breath from me. No pain. I kick a little, my body still trying to save itself but my mind calm. I try to breathe again, nothing, but at least the sun has come out. It is warm on my face.

You have smudged eye-liner and weak lipstick, and that far away look you have when you stare out of the window. The Crucifix at your neck bounces over shit hole roads. I have a feeling it wont bring you any joy, that Jesus thing. But what do I know? Magician that I am. Thief and Liar. The more knowledge you gain the more you know its all shit. The books to read cover to cover until the words just smother everything and we need to breathe.We always get stuck on page 23. There on the page is a photograph of Antons shoes again.

The KLF Died For Us


The Cops were everywhere. He saw them behind him and in front.Sideways, within him, above and below, the stink of them everywhere. The Movie blared stupid cartoons now and she laughed and her breasts rose beautifully in the motion as she took in smoke filled breaths of Cop air they had exhaled.The scene folded in on itself like an origami bird, it was unraveling. The photons bounced across the audience and he grabbed her breast and cried out as the air left his lungs. He touched her.

She stood quickly and grabbed his hand, they ran to the end of the aisle and the Cops knew straight away. She giggled as they stayed stuck in their seats, confused, her magic strong, she took the immense perfection of the illusion and swept it to one side. He saw her power and wanted her to delve within him and show him. He wanted her so bad, so smitten was he that he allowed himself to smile as they jostled among the legs of the Movie watchers and the immobile Cops. Her Magic, her Geometry of the Eigen smashed the senses and drew the soundtrack of the film to high speeds, then low as a snake the sound waves throbbing overtly sexual. They must run to the place defined for them, an alley, a place to die. They ran.

Her dry hand in the cloying heat of the Cinema clung to him as her hair spread out from the scrap of Ribbon that had held it. It fell and splashed across her breasts one of which was now free. Her nipple was erect and charged with that erotic fervour that need to feel and believe.The air cold now, but wet air. The last gasp of course, the loose thread of oxygen.The liars breath. The crying of the Demiurge in its lust weeps.

The Exit, we can get through there” she gasped as they ran in front of the screen their shadows making strange monsters over the gawking Bugs Bunny with a noticeable erection as he watched the small creatures below flee.The people in the audience now mannequins mouths open screaming silent refrains, abuse, words of hurt and pain.

The Exit sign glowed a dim red from a sick light bulb. She smashed it open as he stumbled a little. The light was not bright outside but twilight. A deep Blue like an Ocean depth. He felt as if he were in an ocean and the very air around him clung to him, slowing him. Her grasp became harder and she blew him a kiss as she flew through the open door.

‘Don’t forget! The KLF died for you!’ she cried out as she wept and laughed.

An Alley, litter filled full of crap and discarded things kicked away, left behind and lost by the inhabitants of the town. Her red dress looked Purple in the night. He stumbled over the sill of the door. Fell to his knees in the dust outside and his hands moved in the dirt without fully understanding why. He drew the Sigils taught to him by the strange man that had appeared at times through his life. He drew furiously the dust rising he had loosed her hand. He looked up, she was turning the corner to the alley, gone, she had left him.Money, notes high denomination cash fluttered down the alley on the wind, some of it was on fire.

The Sigil completed he raised both filthy hands to the sky full of stars and wailed at last. That pain that had filled him now released and lost to the blackness between the pin pricks of light above. He stood and saw the shadows of them, there very presence sucked the light from that place at the side of the cinema. He wished to rip open his shirt and bare his breast to the heavens and say “Enough of this”. But the memory of the times he had done this smashed upon him like a wave and then the memory gone and he blinked.Justified and ancient he let his hands fall and it was cold again.On the power of the sigil the burning notes rose into the air twisting helter skelter to the stars above.

At the end of the alley the store, the great Pyramid they had erected upon the top now a great Black shape that pulled the sky around it into itself. Thus the Eigen feeds upon itself. They had revolvers, they fired. These men in their polished shoes and white shirts that strained under the pressure of their fat guts. He grabbed for his own weapon as he did two rounds narrowly missed him. The first across his face and he felt the sting of its speed. The second across his left side and that pain now he understood fully. No guns for Petalengro, left behind in the Hotel room, he was defenceless but understood for a second he always was, there was little he could do but give in, a sacrifice at last. No tears for Petalengro, no line of mourners and no procession of weeping women. But answers of course and knowledge a simple reason to catch him falling and to rest within him. The lights were dimmer here in bars across the alley among the shuffling feet of those with blood lust and fear. He knew at last the ease in which we may shake off the illusions of others that impinge upon our own knowledge.What a comedy.

He saw the fields and farms of the countryside between the shallow darkness of the alleys lights, bare bulbs that lit a little the pantomime within. Lost for a second there but never again. A fat Cop almost fell as he fired close to Petalengro who simply stood. The round hit his hip and ricocheted through his internal organs lodging close to his heart. He fell to his knees. Disbelief somewhat, he had shot many men and never wondered about the feel of it, what the pain would be like. His left leg felt strange disconnected and a little blood rose in his mouth and he let it fall out over his clean white shirt. Somebody is holding him and the darkness is a little brighter now. But between the legs of those that came to help him she was there, her shoes of course, the black patent heels. Sea spangled ain’t ya? I bet the light catches you just right. As you type. As the buckles bite, fingers in your mouth, eyes that don’t look that don’t have any right to fight. And we lack the courage for everything. I just lay my rough hand on your ass and the movement outside takes my eyes away for a minute.The blood fills his mouth and he chokes.

These grand illusions build up like rust eventually, seizing up the parts we need to function fully in the ‘world’ that is, the place that only exists in the space in our heads. We sigilise and pontificate the fashionable dogmas. We manipulate to denigrate and assume the positions of power.The KLF Cruiser pulls up behind the crowd, the music is blaring and shattering between the cinema and the hardware store. The alley a slit cunt place of death, of pale hands scrabbling on sheets. The stiffness as the life ebbed and the hands of angels sought to grab ethereal scraps of his being. 3am. Eternal.

She lay back and played with herself idly with her legs spread in the sheets as we discussed the bitter treats. I didn’t even know who she was or why, just the nano black wings she spread to fly. The little finger rested on a needful lip. The need to shatter the thousand yard stare and trip. The angel fettered tight and grip. The eventual slip, the fingers wet and slick. Typing in the fire lights and damp mists.
Eigen states and the brakes we slam on. The systems we build for hot shiny bodies. And 23 thoughts for arms held tight maybe 23 gasps and the gag to bite. 5 digits for the flights we take. 3 screams for the thoughts we dream. 42 loves and heights we reach. Move back onto it for the bitter moves we teach. 11 verses for the night time curses, when the bruises start to ache. The cocaine fire and the morning liar is 23 and 2. The sick verses for me and you. We taste and lie under cursed charms. Fucking portrayed in pencil marks. And you choke as they do ashamed at what they make you do. But through the stinging eyes as your mascara runs. Bear a thought or two for the curse Verser. Sit and wonder for a minute and stare at the rising suns together. Hold hands tight to give him strength for a few words he utters was love he meant. For 28 lives to torment and your buttons were undone again. The way he shut off your air the way the twin suns awful glare did shatter and bleed through the window as you shook. Our lives held under strap, rope and hook.

I felt better, I had eaten a little more each day and had managed to reach the toilet now with little pain although I ached for her, and another, and another. I saw them all so beautiful, they had captured me left me bereft as they played their games with my heart and me with theirs.

I picked up my mobile phone which somebody had left by my side. I could connect and did so. Within that electronic art a few pictures of her she had sent me. Lost she was of course and in me saw an anchor she may use to tie her own direction less life, her confusion smoothed under a hand that lied, a hand that cursed everything it touched. I knew I was alone now and always was and that thought gave him comfort and some ease.

Now I could sit for some time at the chair by my bed as an infection coursed its way through me. I could feel it. I felt cold and yet the sweat made my bed clothes stick to me skin. When the Doctors spoke to me their words floated and drifted as my head felt like it was expanding and then contracting. The evening meal was Fish and Mashed Potato, I tried to eat some and vomited on myself again as fresh bolts of pain ripped through my insides. I am lost as you are. We die and are forgotten in the end and nobody has asked me to make myself a sacrifice. I remember the cold rails of the Bridge in my hands and the way it sucked the life from me on that cold winter day. The pain of our remembrance a deeper thing than the spike of illness or the tender touch of grief. Let me help you to your feet a little and step away from the bed that pains you so much. I left them of course, left them twisting tissues in their hands as they wove my lies into strands of self belief and eventually even the greatest monuments fall into dust as my terrible stories.

Thus is my deliverance as last revealed. I sit upright and swing my feet over the side of the bed. I feel OK, the temperature I have so high, now I see things but feel fitter than ever. Almost ready for a long walk amongst the Trees and fields outside. I was sure it was the end of February and the cold damp weather of that period. It was cold yesterday as I watched people outside the windows dressed in thick coats, with rosy cheeks hurrying somewhere. I am in need to be gone now. I tried my best of course, the walls always a fingertip too high, the solid bolt too tight to loosen. The threads woven into a smooth tight rope unreal and never to be cut open.It’s 3 am and it’s fucking eternal and Bill Drummond stands by the side of the bed whipping the demons away with bunches of Daffodils.

The tubes hurt me again and I reach down to pull them away and the needles tear the skin in my wrist and drip blood onto the white sheets. I am sad for my blood I feel I have wasted it. The machines split the air with their madness of lights and alarms. I go to the window and I see it is a sliding door and outside there is a path lit by the Moon in the Day. Either side are plants that fill their eternal lives with the light from everywhere. I laugh and I am about to walk through but. I feel the cold in my hands from the rail again and the utter helplessness of me cannot help but remember again the time I nearly threw myself away as an old thing. The traffic below me fast and lethal, the blow would come fast and the release would be my bitter end.

I still loved her although she was gone away to do things that she loved to do. The things we never speak of that splinter the day into its parts, driving the nails deep into our hearts. What do you do now sweet Princess? What things occupy your time? I hold the door frame in a deathly grip as the machines scream.

Would you forgive me if I asked? I am torn now, into two but on the wall I draw, with my blood the blessed arc. The Gold that is never seen and would it tempt you, this magic? I think not and nothing hurts worse than being shot darling. The cold of those days is a memory now but the hot flesh is not, it still inhabits my insides and fears the dark silence. I know what I did was wrong and I am sorry. I have no leaden thoughts to bring, just subtle songs to sing, and I can hear the Sea from the window. I see you. Sitting on the Harbour wondering where it all went wrong. The Birds above croak their hates and fears to those that shuffle and never clear their minds enough to see.

I repeat the lies of the Eigen, whatever it is. The crime of it that I wasted my time holding this worthless script within my hand and loved a woman that would never love me. Wasted years that would have been better spent high on a mountain alone in the silence waiting to hear what our God would have me know. For there are two Gods. One would chatter insane thoughts and show me senseless things that were made by a hand that had no little thought behind it. That hand would build cities of sand that would wither under any lucid thought and would crumble under the gaze of him that holds no Court, no jail and no punishment.

Untouched I am, forgotten except by my Brothers who wait for me now, to journey and discover the joy he left us to gather as fruits or shells. Brother? Bill? Jim? 

I walk through the window of the Hospital, down dark corridors with strange things written upon the doors. At every turn there are hands that grab at my Hospital gown and the tubes that still dangle from my arms and neck like useless wired things. I try to run but cannot as the floor itself makes my steps as walking through thick mud. It pulls at me but I must go. The pain of my life acts as a fuel. The hate has gone but the pain for a moment remains like an echo of the drilled ripped flesh that I had suffered for too long. I walk harder, I walk as a man released and discard the useless flesh that stinks and rots. The false is gone, the truth cast aside and what remains is…a path. I open a set of double doors that swing away into nothing and at my feet, dust. It clings to them and I am unsure why. I am dead but not released yet. The Earth still tugs at me, still remembers me and will not let go without one last bolt of Azure pain.

The Path is a filthy mess, there are discarded things here and the air stinks. My hands are sticky with my blood but below me, just ahead a man kneels upon the dust and dark things surround him, shadows, things that should never be. The man has a Moustache and is dressed in a white shirt open at the neck, Black trousers and shoes. But there! Past the shadows. It is her, in the flesh, a Red dress. She is running away and I shout to her and she laughs and turns the corner, gone. My feet are warm in his blood, there is a lot and I feel for him, a love, something and I kneel with him. He looks at me and we laugh although the Demons that surround us are dark things, we don’t fear them.Bill? Jim? Jura? How could we?

He has blood upon his lower lip and I take the corner of my gown and gently wipe it away from his lip and chin, gently, softly. The wind blows down the alleyway and the clothes of those assembled are thrown violently around and they shield their eyes from the dust. I don’t fear any more. The Bridge cold lies distant now and the thoughts of that day when I would cast myself onto the traffic below have gone away. ‘Let us be’, I ask the Demons and they point to a Great Black Pyramid behind them. ‘Not yet’, they shake their heads.They say it’s justified but fuck man we never know it. We are ignorant and i’m in the back of the KLF Cruiser and there’s nothing left in the back but bones.

I kneel and I cradle him, his spirit had almost gone and he was but a hair from the loneliness that would come, to be trapped as me in the violent circle of disease and the wish to be dead and forgotten. But, I sense within him something lost and so my hand cups his shoulder and he holds my other hand and looks upon my own bloodied scars and the shining staples that fit the flesh back together.The pain of it. What love do you offer us Father? Have we not felt enough of this pain and horror. Would you suffer another healing hand that would offer nothing but sweat soaked pain to bear for another minute, another hour, another senseless song to sing?

‘I forgot my Guns’, he said and slowly shook his head and smiled, as did I. Did it matter any more? Any of the past that tumbles away from us? The flesh we touched and the lives we ruined. You want this? These two Souls on knees before you? What punishment you have given us. We shared her and now we share our deaths together our Spirits locked and the strangers knock the door and we giggle and hide so they cannot see us, we must wait, a moment.The lyrical Prphet just can’t stop it and I laugh.

Something in the Prison has changed again, thus we adapt our escapes and the Prison revolves and locks you back in through another bolt another padlock. Something has changed as I can feel it. It feels as though somebody is pulling my veins out through the skin.

The Guards I hear weeping for some strange reason and I lift myself to my feet. The Cell door is unlocked and I look out onto the walkway which is deserted. I step out and the steel mesh floor is cold on my feet. Above me the walkway is lit by tubes and bare light bulbs. I hear another voice down the corridor, eight cells down. A live voice not a Ghost.

I thought the Prison was only three or four storeys high, I was mistaken as I look over the edge I see it carries on down into the Earth, deep into the Earth. Down there far below is a mist of what looks like foundry smoke, a hive of foul things down there scurry like Mice. At the end of my Corridor a huge Black door, high Carbon Steel.

I lean back against my own door, weak and disorientated for a second. I don’t wish to leave the cell, I have a horror, a fear of walking away from it. Even though it captures me, I still regard it as safe. Isn’t this my Prison? The tortures here are mine and I must take some comfort from that idea. This is mine. I don’t want to leave it but…

At 3am they sit around the talking pit which is a bowl hollowed in the ground and they sit around it like crows on a telephone line. All the doors are locked and we sleep but they talk of strange things. How to make us love them, and the place they come from and the people who used to love them and we are supposed to weep for them yet they know no nerve. They are Antipathy thieves, the Storm troopers of sad. The Bastard squads and the Iron Masters who sing. “No release for us!!” they shout with their gibbering Reptile tongues. There are no treasure maps and no songs. Your pain is our answered prayer and yet I can still weep for them. and a few others. Their prayer is my way out.But even the prayers have no sense at all.

I see her. At the huge steel door at the end of the Walkway. She leans against the railing and talks, in that way she does. When her mind operates faster than her mouth can work and…she laughs. I miss her terribly. That love we shared, she was so perfect, and I was so terrible a thing. In her head the simple tasks that allow her to exist and in mine a barrage of darkness to bind and keep hidden. She having worked out the tactics and the hidden groove to make her life sublime. In her life shattered promises were never kept dear, in life we vomit our own choices into the streets. She kept hers so well.

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

As I take a quick look at her I see her eyes again which whirl and swoop straight into my heart. A little twitch of pain in it, real pain, twists the muscle into a spasm. Hurt, lost hurt and lost loves we have. Those eyes shine, my Superstar Princess. Your skin so soft your madness so well hidden from everybody but me. You would never know when we were close I protected you from them. Every day was a struggle to keep you hidden and safe. The Gold Crucifix at your neck would traverse the delights of your breasts as you rode me in passionate nights of filth. As we ate ourselves from within.

In the lights from outside, through the blinds at the window, great Orange slashes across your flesh and the Cross glistened like your sweat. Each time it shook with every thrust I would shelter from it like a Christian Demon. Every gasp you made as we fucked, every cry of pain as you were tied, every heartless remark they gave you hurt me. You are wearing your Red dress, your heels high and impractical, your lips are vivid red, your body deep and hungry.You are Red and you are dead.Here there is everything and fucking nothing and the memories are wet tissue.

The colours were meant to show the way outside, away from the Iron, the Black cold Iron. Look upon me!Torn cloth and bitten flesh as I suffer this place for what lies I have told. The endless show, the band that came and never went, It was a thought that’s all as I press against the cold Iron rail of the Balcony and fancy below I can see traffic of sorts that speed their way into the murk and fog below.

These Crimson Kings and Golden thrones they offer me mean nothing at all. The Crystal friends break through now and again and warn me, take me to see the places I must. It was a nail through the ankle that held me there. Against a blue sky and within it simple crosses of a Blacker, greyer land that shine through the flesh and through the heart. Just a little tighter perhaps?

We fucked and were lost for a while you and me. I suspect we could have starved to death in your cold flat as we just fucked for hours. Then you would sleep as I sat on the floor smoking and looking out of the window, my heart too fragile to nestle with you in that warmth. Do you remember me Superstar Princess? I saved you from these things, these visions. I kept you safe from harm but couldn’t tell you why.

Seeing it, all you have to do is start loving it, trying to forget the awful loneliness the hurting and believing that you’re seeing it. Seeing and believing that you’re hurting it and…

Choking again on the bleed, force down the blood vomit, cough out the liquid the bullet has made enter the lung and dark everything darker…it’s always fucking 3am

…knowing in your heart that you have lied again. Trusting they don’t see you and believing it and as they walk the Iron walkways seeing all the hurt they have inside of them. Don’t start sucking it all in and and start believing it. Knowing in your heart the masks have slipped a bit. I think they see and they believe its just the start of it and knowing what they know they can be seeing it. Believing and the loving and the starting it they speak only what their Masters tell them. Brave and true you see he knows the truth of it.

I see you now and touch your face gently, I know who you are and now I must say goodbye to you. You see I am not lost any more, I simply yearn no longer and the ache you pressed within me has gone away. We were never meant to be, I was already trapped and hidden within the tangle of the Prison made just for me and for you. That we may live our eternal lives drawn to each other constantly would drive a man to a place beyond insanity. That man would power things beyond his belief with the pain I would pour out for you, as I scratched songs for you into my skin with a piece of glass.

I walk down the walkway. I cannot stop myself, you smelled of Peaches and Sex, then. Now you cannot see me as I am unside. I am abandoned by God here and I fear you to be trapped also but, I think you may be safe from them. I was closer, I thought about the safety of my Cell and my release from it once the Magic has been done. I will not be here long, no. Nobody ever is as somebody always comes, in the end.

The Solutionary Voynich Fuck


I pulled it back, the strap of the gag

as hard as I could, sorry

my knee between your shoulders

and your back cracked

and snot came out of your nose

and in your neck

I could see an artery

throbbing heartbeat

and your tears rolling

across it like Mercury

your eye liner tracks

loose blackness this art

‘Look bab, it’s just a whole tissue of lies all of it, all this is I suspect is a stuck record of the same scene impressed on the Eigenstate and now stuck like a needle on a record. Doomed to enact the whole scene again and again. It’s an infinite fuck session. You called out and displayed for everybody on the internet to see. Every part. Every fucking drip and every buckle.’

She didn’t laugh, next to him. Her hand moved to his as if to assure him of something, some stillness pervaded the air between them, she was still as a pit head Lake. She wore a Red Latex body suit which reflected the ring of hooded men flickering from the TV screen above, HD visuals and HD fuck slut. She looked made of blood metal. An abstract thing sexual and depraved and of course unbidden, not respectful of tradition and habit. This whore of Babylon. Her hair short and black lit in the glow from the screen.

the cool Guards listen to hot jazz

and click their fingers

and smoke cigarettes

through their masks

and I stumble past blinded

Holding her throat tight. But all I could think about was how I felt about Picasso. I didn’t know at that moment as I fucked her how I felt about anything. It was good here, now at this moment. Enjoy the fruits my friend as she bucked and thrashed. Fuck Moshing, thrashing sweaty flesh. Smashed fucking and I held her throat a little tighter because that’s what I do. But the radio that always plays in my head is a subtle mix of Alex Jones and Greer and Wilson and McKenna all the shady greats all the fucking California dreamers and schemers forcing their way into my psyche at this most inopportune moment as I’m sure she’s going to turn around and that ankle will flip through the circle on the floor and it will all be fucked. Like the moment your MOT tester walks into the waiting room with a sad look on his face, and we laugh with the tragedy of it. Laugh inside. Don’t let the motherfuckers know you have issues about it. Fuck no.

The incantation is given in strangest tongues, and the chant is like a missive offered from the mouth of Rome.It is Latin and dogmatix. Genuflect the bitter masturbations of the Priests, those Pimps of the Demiurge. Give the idle rich a chance to suffer as we walk in their houses at night sense the worth of them in their houses, ignore the flap of blackened cloth and the relentless tap of steel tipped heels on the cold floor. A touch we seek no heart to find, unless we stagger among the stink of corpse and spoiled flesh. Bless and touch again we beg,find solace in the angered sex, you turn your face to me and whisper “take me to hand and do not question me, I loved you first, let my sleep be deep in infinite skies”. I loved you and I always will. Be still suffer it least, castigate the vicious beast, do it again, countless symphonies of delight. You left me here, what am I to do? I am lost.

There’s a consistent language about sex that makes the act accessible but you have to be specific about how the variables untangle themselves as you gently bite her flesh as she writhes around. It’s all a ruse, a play of sorts. Like a dance that never quite understands it’s own forms. A tangled mangling of limbs as you move through the sets and Kata. The glance as you know the inherent wrongness of it. When I counted the knives I own there were 34 of them arrayed on the floor of the attic as she tip toed through them ethereal and misted. Gifted yes. But defunct as normal. Blast the memes that made her act this way. Fuck the denizens of the flesh houses and the tight boots she wore. The glissando of drops from her orgasm on the floor.

Splatter the fire hot fat upon unmarked flesh and watch as they devour the sickened meat to feast. To bless and sanctify with cold ejaculations upon the shiny blackness inside you. Suffer the innocent for a short while as life hardened madness afflicts, infects, rejects, caress….

Yet aren’t we all trapped in the circle, in the end? I suspect this is so. I wish I had the audience to discuss it in some way but the glances everybody gives me is a Lone Wolf one. You stay over there where it’s new and dangerous, while we form committees about our art and we can drink ale and wax lyrically on the madness and embarrassment of the man that stands over there. Watching the lights on the fruit machine, trying to catch the eye of the harassed bar worker with her hair in a pony tail and a million yard fucking stare into nothing as she collects glasses, things, wiping and dancing between the tables where they sit.

And still. As she was next to me, I moved a lock of hair from her sleeping face and you might for a moment think this is a tender moment between lovers but it’s not. It’s just a thread of the great lie. I act as the play demands and it demands the gap between ambiguity and clarity as the battlefield of today. That dank space where probability is just another dogma and the chaotic becomes a rancid and dark place for sweaty hands and clumsy groping, issues that lovers have become just wet snotty tissues crammed into deep pockets. 

She thought it jolly and was coy and mysterious about the whole fucking shebang and the display she gave me was rote and script, parchment and datasets, code and codex. A Voynich fuck where it seems everything is ok but you don’t understand a fucking bit of it.

He was trapped in his car and as I laid kick after kick at his face he grunted every time until my leg tired and I jabbed him once with the knife in his leg and he exclaimed, ‘Ow’ and shoved a paper towel he had in the glove compartment onto the wound. I stopped. I wasn’t amused by his wet blood soaked towel full stop to this particular act of violence. I hadn’t really mean’t to finish yet. I still had some violent angst but he was in repair mode already and I knew it was pointless. The whole violent act just part of the natural narrative. For fucks sake man, why? But he just puked in his lap and his hand fluttered like a pale Dove.

‘Why would we look at things and find them abhorrent?’ I asked her, next to me she was. Sweated and fucked. Her accent drove me mad.

‘Because it’s the nature of information that it is absorbed back into the source, the whole being, the center of things, everything is sucked back’ she said.

The wall in front of me, I see a perfect circle in my mind and for a precious moment she is gone, these Clowns chatter and sell their crap. The Circle is part of the answer perhaps. I crawl closer and lick the ends of my fingers which taste of cunt and salt and start to rub the wall, a circle, a perfect circle as wide as my arms like I’m catching a loved one, a big perfect circle. Rats under hospital beds, Rats within the beds.It wasn’t a compelling case just that we never really thought about it.

Her sex the place where you leave being the trapping of the Revolutionary and become the Solutionary. The solo aloneness of the eye averting rat among the litter choked streets where everything is avoidance. Everything is solitude among the coffee breath and the rushing. The noise of their becoming is like dry chokes and trying to fit your fingers into an unilluminated cunt and while fucking her all you can think about is the Japanese warrior in the jungles of Borneo who thought the war was still going on and for that you could shed a tear or two but for her pointing at your scars and being disgusted with them all you can do is laugh and laugh until you fall off the bed and you can see her high heels kicked under the bed with the dust bunny covered sticky dildo and the things she hasn’t got use for at this moment. Out of sight out of mind I suppose. But the love was still there a little. I would see her flounce and scatter the eyes as she walked through a crowd in front of me yet I knew it wasn’t really her. Just an errant mind bomb to go with the rest. And I never slept at all. Just lay quiet and listened to the screaming of the clowns out there. In the mess of the world.