Kate Price Book Down the Side Of the Bed

Hold me tighter when you laugh
and we watch the fake Moon landings
we wonder at the fluffy fake belief
that makes Good men and Angels weep
words cave in under pressure you know
we wear them out and they become things
but bitter twists of the mind
are better than the beating of Angels wings
we are not low things, or hated Men
just Travelers, on the road again
could we believe if someone asked
that we had a job or a Holy task?
I pull the sheet up a little as I am cold
Big Brother again? Fucking Hell
Her Mom Power haircut looks shit
but that’s ok as i don’t really care
you watch your TV and i’ll read a Katie Price book
that I found down the side of your bed
its cool, but there’s no photos of her tits
but the words just roll around and that’s cool
you tell somebody on the screen to ‘fuck off’
and call her a Bitch, i laugh
Katie is talking about Peter Andre
He’s quite intelligent, i saw him on a show
they asked him questions and he knew the answers
unless, they told him the answers
i put the book down for a minute and think
Perhaps Peter Andre is thick after all
he can dance like a Motherfucker
you are still abusing the people on the show
with your big mouth
I decide i will marry Jordan next
I make fucking great sandwiches
my massages are heaven sent
i will follow her on Twitter i think
and send her dirty messages she will love

Trial and Error

Put the pressure on to see if he cracks
see the splinters fly from his existence
see him weep and suffer
you think the prison a joy a place to wander
I choke back tears and cannot even write to say
I’m deep within the Prison today
Help me and offer prayers
Keep their hands off me and leave me be
Let those who have the strength pick me up and protect me
Build me a place where they cannot get in
And I can’t get out

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Morphine Lost

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I am lost again, in corridors
with doors that slam
in my face with faces
That slam the doors
and they never smile much
But I think they steal my Morphine
At night when it’s quiet
And I pretend to be asleep
I let them, I don’t know why
Or to fight or sit and cry
I lost them all in the end
but I tried to hold on to them
I drink my cup of tea
but I taste blood in it from my lips
Cracked and wounded things
I only drink half as I feel sick
Again

What William Burroughs said to me in London

I traveled down to London to see William S Burroughs, i was young and stupid but knew i had to have a word about something and i wasn’t sure what. I got lost on the Tube, then caught a bus somewhere strange called Crouch End. He wasn’t at that place but i saw some more strange things. A small clay man in the road, a piece of flat black glass in a Hedge and a broken 45rpm record by Sham 69. Listen to them i did. I walked a long way to a place somebody showed me on a map. Outside there were a few people milling around. It looked like an Art gallery with no paintings, i didn’t see any. There were two dudes at the door peering at others and i crept past them with a group of loud people. Inside i saw a plate of sandwiches. I didnt see Burroughs. Then i did, they were surrounding him and i crept up as close as i could. My dirty clothes were making the people stare at me wondering why i was there. I had slept rough for three nights. I was hungry and the sandwiches at that moment were more interesting than Burroughs. But his poached egg eyes knew i was there and i knew that he knew i would not have long.

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I went to see William Burroughs shotgun paintings in London and to speak to him.
He smelled of burning and we stood in a small circle of his ‘friends’
they were laughing and he looked at me
i was nearly crying with fear at them around
as they were the faces of crooks and clowns
but it was alright i think, as long as i didn’t blink
and his TutTut went to get a Taxi or a car
and i said ‘Bill, how do you get out man?’
he pointed to the sky, now i know why
‘it’s all fakery you know, all of it’
he said and waved away some freak and leaned in
‘there’s a code you know, between the words’
‘a space where we all fit in nice and tight’
i knew to reply, as his eyes burned
‘where the ghosts are tired and the big bugs bite’
he nodded like a sage, his voice and this age
i knew the sense of worth he had
under his mustard yellow jumper
that looked worn out, but his shirt was new
‘dont forget’ he said and looked back as they threw me out
‘they hold me tighter than you, when you are gone, think of me often’
they surrounded him and took him a chair
for me from them a hateful blood soaked stare
in the road outside just a photographer
taking pictures through the window
he had vomit on his shoes

When John Lennon said this (2003)

Why does Liverpool keep sucking me in, to its sodden tit
the geology bounces free from the substrate
we find efforts are rewarded with hard work dont we?
or not, we let the magic do its thing
in scouser land, fucked up and bent
the need to succor money for rent
i remember panhandling for wraps
and the way you ask and the patience snaps
fuck off and do the Beatle thing
the lesser arts and other rings
but we ask and shutter ourselves in
ask for release but nobody talks
they just sit around in circles looking cool
as they think about who they can fuck again
i sit at the bus stop with the Nike impressed
and feel the gentle throb of a pointed finger
lets go and look through the windows
at Fred the Weather man and Paul Schofield
some bitch with nice tits
the producer makes us move away
i make a motion to stop and pray
a sunken sigil of old cast away
John Lennon kneels down to say
move away and settle your heart
impress the judges as you do your part
the Prison walls are here to stay
regardless of how much you fucking pray

Eris/Dillinger/Rome/Eigen/ and other stuff concerning my Comic Script

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I have finished the two books based on a new Magical working i have developed, plus a Graphic novel. The Novel came to mind during a Ritual at Nethybridge in the Cairngorms while i was working with Mitchell Edwards and Ian Hammond. The success of that Ritual allowed me to see information hadn’t really thought about in a long while.

I have tried to keep most of the Rituals secret and hidden although most of it pops up in the novel. I suppose 95% of the workings have been mashed up and mixed with the ingredients of the writing art, the actual process of smashing away at a keyboard. Even though the work was often interspersed with large scale abuse of Hallucinogens and Marijuana it still has a strange vibe that i think can only be completed by an Artist and the process of producing something akin to an adult comic.

It was already a ‘Proper novel’ by the time i decided to write the Graphic version and rolled in at 60k words full of the Rituals i spoke of above. Too many i suppose. With a little forethought anybody could have investigated the Rituals and come face to face with the Eigengrau…something i wouldn’t recommend as yet.

A former project involving Eris, John Dillinger and Longinus a Roman Centurian would see an Erisean Ritual working performed by a spoken word actress, a musical score, a film etc etc as a kind of multi media thing which would have been available to download for a token fee. I was excited about the project, positive and happy. Alas, my Musicians marriage broke up, the Film maker is now receiving mental health actions, and my Actress tried to kill herself. Not doomed but purely the result of actioning a Chaotic entity (Eris). It was funny that at the start of the Project i did warn everybody that the subject matter was strange and magical, they laughed as did i. I laughed knowing that they were probably going to be ok, afterwards i was ashamed it had affected them so much. In fact i rolled around the idea i shouldn’t attempt to put anything about the Rituals on paper at all. Especially after…

https://songsfromtheblackironprison.wordpress.com/2013/03/26/the-bridge/

But nonetheless i forged on in a fog of weed smoke and confused rambling page after page as i tried to find the rhythm of the Ritual and the essential meaning behind it. Always the meaning, i try to discover it by confusing the brain with various intoxicants allowing the essential ‘truth’ to shine out untouched by the egocentric flowery language used in a typical Word project. I tried my best.

The trouble is, after you come back from the Eigengrau you are faced with a multitude of choices that are given to you by your experience. We become shattered by it, everything we think to be correct and real turns out to have an opposite incorrect and unreal. Imagine you open a Jar of Jam. The lid top is what we think is the start of it, open it and look at the inside of the lid, there’s a little jam on there maybe, we think our efforts have been rewarded, we have discovered, but we have not.

That’s a crap analogy but its the best i can do talking about it in words. The Eigen has no beginning and no end no two sides no Dichotomy at all. There is no Yin or Yang in the Eigen it just ‘Islunt’ a word i had to invent to mean, it maybe or it is maybe probably not maybe. This is the glory of the Eigen, the place where all our ideas and thoughts sink to be used by Entities, Deities, Spirits and Demons to make sense of their own environment and to decide whether or not they have one at all. In even thinking about their existence makes it so…they build things as they discover new ways to manipulate the Eigen to their own design. Not made by God but given a chance to be Gods and define their own worlds within their own experience.

In the Novel John Dillinger meets Longinus the Slayer of the Christ, condememed to walk the Earth until it’s end Longinus has utilised the Eigen for his own benefits. He knows that the fakery of the World is reflected in the way Human beings add their own slices of madness to a world mad enough already. Longinus sees that Dillinger is an ‘Exodept’ a Human that has the ability to adjust the Eigen to his own fantasies and story in ways that Longinus has never seen. Longinus sees that Dillinger will need guidance unless he makes the world last forever like a long running crap TV program like ‘Love Island’ but with blood, death and pain. The story begins and ends with the destruction of the world, hastened by Longinus using the power of Dillingers Exodept skills.

We see also how the World has been made. Many years ago during a Ritual I explored an area around my own experience which i called ‘The Black Iron Prison’ a nod to Phillip K Dick of whom i am a Fan. The area is primarily Heathland, scrub, Heather, stunted trees, always raining and always miserable and Black. At one exploration i came upon an area that looked like Desert. I saw Nine things which i will call ‘Man’ although they were nothing of the sort, sat in a circle endlessly writing and then covering strange symbols in the sand in front of them sat as they were with crossed legs akin to some Meditating Monks or the like. I watched them for a good while as one discovers secret things about objects when one stares at a thing for a long period. I saw and discovered. The Nine were not of the Eigen at all but disparate entities who had learned that Human Beings could in fact be manipulated into actioning the Eigen into the World we now know. I suspected they were here to instill pain and suffering into our Reality and feed from it however i was wrong. They don’t feed, they just need. What do they need? The Eigen.

In the Novel Longinus seeks the Exodept, who, he has been told, exists and where he lives. The Exodept (Dillinger) is in Prison charged with Bank Robbery at the end of his tether being driven mad by the knowledge he possesses but cannot access. Longinus knows that the Ritual death of the Exodept would end the existence of the Nine and a Glorious reunification of the Eigen and a place known only as ‘The Summerland’ a kind of Eigen X20. Longinus is tortured by the knowledge that his curse for ritually killing another Exodept Jesus Christ may be strengthened by killing another (John Dillinger). Longinus struggles with that knowledge all through the novel. In the end Longinus has Dillinger killed by agents of the Nine instead of by his hand. The Eigen is reunified and rejuvenated and the Nine although not destroyed are tricked into thinking the Eigen is still under their control through Rituals performed by Dillinger, Longinus and another cursed Exodept Mathew Hopkins the Infamous Wytchfynder General.

Dillinger forms his paradise, his own Eigen as do the other two co conspirators but there is a problem, and one they had not foreseen. The end of the story sees an enormous realisation of what the Eigengrau and themselves actually are. Through the story i have used symbolic and semantic cues to guide the reader through a system of quick fire Magical workings that i hope will end up with them discovering the Eigen themselves as I have.

I will have the manuscript finished in 23 days time.

Forgotten Sons

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I would love to talk of skies and fires that roll through clouds
Tired, I lack the energy to speak of it
Just raise a hand and go ‘there’ point
Finger wavering as I lean back on the grass
‘There’ somewhere although you won’t be able to see it
Lack the ambition to look or simply cover your eyes
It’s not that I don’t care, I do
Just not enough for you
The same old tortures and classic pain
In the heart, cutting, punching
I look to the hidden West, the Summerhome ‘All Rest.’
Bury me deep so they can’t get me any more
Even up the innings and settle the score
You see there’s nothing worse than a poor man
Reading the News through the windows of shops
It’s all a little bit too much today a little fine
No tears for Petalengro, no chance, cast him out
I wait like an evacuee, a number on a board
Wandering and not lost, found and delivered
On the road an old man stops and asks
‘Tired? Had enough of the task?’
All I wanted was to go home and rest, open the door and shout
‘I’m home’ and find a place to sit and smile
As those I loved did the things that gave them joy
You can’t even hear the music any more
The end of it, the final score
In the road the ghosts of those alive pull my clothes
‘Come home’ they cry, they wail
Ahead in the distance I hear the choir
The Holy notes the lyrical fire
Ever searching and Ever last, the one forgotten who never asks
Cast the runes hard and let them fly
To bleed, to plead, to prophecy
Lay down again and shut out the lipless schemes
The nightmares and the sour dreams
To press your face deep in the grass
Weep less and let the future past
Try to figure the way within, to pry and find feeble minds
Let tasks be done for honoured but forgotten sons

Eris (Irisa) Invocation

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artist: Gabriel Mark Lipper

Sarn deir er damin syde damin aloi aloi
breder den fure ty deir fer bran bref
a’kin bur fured hyil aeuthen bryh ter
sende brutw sae reh aloi fiu bern
weath an’ gere de fres ban oydea
tyhn, breathu dur gon plas eath b’an wen
soidre aloi fuen brase fin doyli fean bret
fer geut an yusil fer drassgil beader
gye d’an bryu achea hy frusl hy gydean
astobyl, aeder fr’en agaht sin broi
dryner fured fer trysl ‘ean soid

Irisa? aethen
Irisa? aethen
Irisa? aethen

fandylch dur areath dun, hammon
dun faerd da’lych faerd fert’aeth
hy bleden, hy aefyn, hy Vanus

You can try it in English instead of Mercian. I can’t translate it literally but it goes something like

We are shattered and flung from you
Let us be mixed and fired
From the heart of Thru who sits in the snow
Come to us by no law or flee
be gone into the grey and plot

By Aroth By Hod By Sura
not commanded but asked
not feared but loved
show yourself to us
share your vicious wisdom

Fucked Like a Miles Davis Tune

Patterns and senses, pretences and lies
Ball up the snotty tissue in your hand and look
Away for a minute or two and try to forget
Their hands claw at me for something, I don’t know what
The people stagger and the people rot
Your hair was shiny and glistened in the Sun
Unaware I was of what you have become
My hands touch and discover your flesh again
In the riot of this life pushed together and welded by lust
The crowd moves apart no passion and unjust
Peel back the sense we have of this place and weep no less
Just amble to a different aisle and enjoy the rest
Evil things what blessed voices sing somewhere
You like to unbutton your shirt so the employees feel the heat
They devour you as you walk pretending you don’t see
The lust from them and the love from me
To scatter, sow and fall. The love and hate for them all
Back at the flat you use lipstick to scrawl on your tits
The bitch, no finer fuck than this
But I can’t understand it and never will
To be healthy in the body though your mind is ill
I hold my head as I watch the beautiful way you move
I think in the end I will stagger under the weight
Be classy and shove them off allow yourself the ease of display
Know there is no left path no better way
I slip your bra strap over your shoulder and bite your neck
But you don’t care, you laugh over the trailers on the screen
Why would you? You make me want to scream
But I know they listen as we fuck and enjoy the fractured airs
We disappear we always stare
Your lipstick always smudges and your mascara drips
My seed upon your Red lips
Your underwear cast off and kicked
Your thighs eager wet and licked
But the buckles tight defeat the fight
They make marks in your skin
You pick up your phone to text him
He wonders where you are and if you are safe
You write as a lost and tired waif
But I sit and close mine eyes again and feign sleep
Never drop off don’t fall too deep
He thinks you are having an affair
You are too hot to touch or share
Turn and the universe goes on
This lonely and forgotten son seeks an end
Save to archive and then resend
I sit on the floor as you get dressed and roll another cigarette
Next door they play music too loud I feel the intricate bass
The flicker from the TV lights up your face as you flash around in haste
Outside a dog barks, your taxi is here
Have I made this love too hot to bear?
Too lofty that I gasp for air?
Your stilettos squeak on the floor
I have fucked you like Miles Davis plays
In pain filled nights and bitter days

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SlutNazi399 (NSFW)

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what is this you show me? it is not me, i see nothing
draw the circles wide and segment them into five pieces
the sigils at the end we pray, will fit until we have had enough of it
i love to fuck you slow as the woodlice creep in the walls
hear them click and beat the race to freak
to throw back your head and to let it all go, your peace
minds alive, on me, Angels watching every move
the way you grind your hips the way you groove
dont give me that amused look, you have the will
to pull away like an old truck, slow, divided
why did you do this? we forge our own blades you know
they were trapped in Laurel Canyon by a great magic working
the Nazis in sunlight, nazis in beautiful shorts, they had long hair
nazi hippys little freakzoids, zappanauts and brain drains
you never wondered why they drove Beetles?
use the photocopier to disseminate propaganda, make leaflets
we know they came from the mountains of Bavaria
the little Wolf Doctors, the burned books, the lights at night
Bavarian love you blonde thing, you booted bitch
how did the eigen fix this as you ready the whip, the heel, the end
how did that swastika appear on your arm, Kalifornia girl
your red lips, your blue eyes, your beginning
and your SS uniform was lovely thankyou, i loved it
Grace Slick made me vomit in my lap as she watched the Pacific
the fucking CIA Bitch with the 20 dollar itch and that faraway look
you do pretty much the same, cough and taste the Cocaine
i turn your eyes to the sun to cross the line, to see
the West, always that road, never look back, never turn to see
embrace this thing and adapt, you hold my love tight
dont look at me, i have no knowledge
just bent faded fountains of wisdom, through sick filters
Draw beyond the lines and let them reach no end
as she fucked me up i bent my will to them, and sunlight
i still dont see myself sitting there waiting for the needle
you fucking left me to rot in here
so i choke instead, on the rotten Church bread
the Eigen made you and sucks you back in
the time to starve and grow thin
the ease in which we bear our grudges
the politicians and the crooked judges
the evenings at home looking at our phones
the simple need to give and bleed
we wave our flags and cry at songs
we right the things that made us wrong
we tear our hearts apart for love
that sticky hand that latex glove
you left me here to die and fear
the end is always fucking near. for us
to suffer sores and endless pains
and watch as we lose what we had gained
lost into the Eigen, gone free and lost again