Bless him. She wished to see this great love in herself that had manifested…she dreamed of a man asleep but aware and he took her in the grass. In the meadow, amongst the flowers and the beautiful things that were in it. Asleep still he took her and showed her stars and things that she could not comprehend. Inside her his Son, who would know not the subtle pains of the Eigengrau and live and breathe the airs of that place. What Heaven it is to walk and sense the glorious land he would live within? , and eventually die of course as was the want of those who had not tasted the Eigengrau and its bitterness. Her crime to bring him here was no crime at all but the subtle mind to send him for him to teach in his knowledge those that had become tangled in the Eigengrau. Can we not love too?
Entangled we are, as we are. Was not this man sent by a Goddess? To give love and wisdom to the Peoples of the Eigengrau? Here he could learn the pains and the torn hearted existence we lead, here he could love and hate, breathe the fires of knowledge. Return and thus point the way…
Did you learn pained upon the cross of Yew? Did you not see the lands of your Father and cry to him. Did you not see him wake and cradle you to his breast? Your hand pointed the way, to his Brothers gathered at his feet he said ‘You see this?’ We are but Directors of a Great and Awful show…
What is the point, this Magic burns a hole. To tap words upon a wand, to wander blind paths. We find a sick point to seize and manipulate, and write a collection of lies we weave and believe. From the Abyss a secret word, a delicate pose. A special fire to kindle and tend. Coated in a shellac of innocence to burn off, as we we chip and file the barren wastes of our minds. On the Hill forsaken a single voice uttered into the wind caught and flung away. Annihilated souls sicken loves to cheer and bray.
I look down at my hands and see the Eigen has split the skin at the wrists and the blood flows freely into the African sands. I draw Sigils in the sands with mine own blood and pull my hood further down over my face so the Brothers will not stop their own manipulations. Sire the greedy words and adjust their meaning, I pull the magic from the Eigen and plough back through times that have passed. My sin a greater thing than this man’s but….I see others, and they call to me…
How was I to know the way you would perform the Magic tricks that have captured me? That turn into sensuous feelings, gentle licks…upon your neck so sweet and violent. I am a ragged robber and I receive no blessings, no sunken cross or relics just dry wrung hands.
Now I fear the end to come, the end a final road to travel down and this madness will end. A fear inside of what’s left to bear, or a scrap of paper and a stinking poem no one reads. A pleasure I suppose unlooked for, a crowd of cops, a deserted alley, what you did….abandon me. To let an idle hand slip, a warm hand into my lap, to veil my eyes with delights and free things to love. Other hands are calloused with desire and hate for us. We see you for what you are, a simple lonely shining Star clad in your Red dress while upon the screen in Black and White they murdered and loved. While foul things called men settled in soft chairs, in clouds of smoke. They watch.
“We should go to the cinema, they have air conditioning, it’s so hot like a desert in fact. Once we were in the Mojave and….” She speaks and moves around the Hotel room. I lower the gun again, the Cops blood still on the toe of my shoe, even though I shot him Years ago.
“Bring back some Whisky, afterwards of course, get drunk here in the Hotel instead of going out, I don’t like the people here, they are strange and frighten me….” Her voice beautiful, confusing. I have not anything to say. I closed my eyes earlier and I saw Prison walls that were not mine, not part of me. Confused, I just sat like a fool listening, waiting to die.
Were we too intent upon our own fast beating hearts. We suffered no gladness, no clear way through but expected a grisly end to us. To accept gladly the sullen whip, to gather soft fantasies and joy inside made us free for a while, and I could forget the things that split open my head every day with keen edge. To break free from the awfulness of being a prerequisite to lie to cheat and steal.
In the darkness my Sweetest heart, the Geometry rolls asunder, peeled back eyes, organs burst as steel rounds batter their flesh and they die. This confused thing freaked allowed to be born, a lost Boy lies on lush green lawns and thinks about presenting gifts to her under the Chestnut tree. In this thing we call a life, a suffered land of hate and strife, to live free or die…a trusted heart turned vicious liar. Betrayed I am to be. Dillinger never stops dreaming of Prisons and the strange lives of others.
In the circle of charcoal Dillinger sits and the Geometry flows from the lines to the walls and the sad pictures on the walls of the Hotel room turn over and are lost to him. The floorboards turn and are gone, replaced by piss stained grey concrete. There are scratches on the walls, more geometry, this place is not real, it is false. His mind is turned inside out. Eigenwise, EigenLost. Torn apart.
They wonder at scrawls on Cell walls still, in that Prison I walked from crooked of a fucking hard kick to the balls. I have Occult knowledge and sense of dread tired now of a life too sickened and full of blood. There is a connection too, with better things,we cease to understand them or allow any knowledge and our tired hearts beat softer songs,lulled into sleep that lasts. There was a man within that cell, sat as Dillinger was upon the floor, his legs crossed and waiting within a hastily scrawled circle dotted with sigils and designs, like him. There was the voice of a man that cut through the Eigen as a knife through softest tissue. It reverberated within the cell and Dillinger was thrown out, cast out away from it and away from the man sat upon the floor. Dillinger needed to speak with him yet he knew not what for…
“You little fucker, I asked you not to contact her again and you refused, you kept on talking to her, even though I asked you not to. The Cancer is still in you, it still thrives”. The voice was colder than sad rain. Dillinger was stood in the street and he didn’t know how he got there.
A car back fired in the street and Dillinger started with shock, gunfire or not and reached to his hip, the guns that were not there. His escape route denied, left in a Hotel room, he never knew if he left them there on purpose, knowing the time had come. Perhaps it was a missed thought, a left wallet or handkerchief. A bead of sweat flew off his forehead, it was still hot even though the day was almost done. The Advertising pyramid on top of the Hotel now a black monolith, still threatening, still pierced his heart. A moment ago he was sat within one of those circles he made when he was low, now he was stood on this street and the noise of it made him confused. His lip trembled with fear, he felt like weeping. He had been here before but he didn’t know why, only the fear.
Time does not flow, time, here does not exist only observation. The eye catches the story woven and stops it pure and simple. It stops and it is woven back into another story, another set of simple observations as our senses still the night for just a simple second. Dillinger balled his fists, bit his lip hard. She was near him, close. But away from him, at a distance, the fear in him allayed by the lack of fear in her. That dress she never took off except to fuck, he would have expected it to be cleaned but it never was, it just stayed clean and the ground waved and moved throwing him off balance a little as the minor truths made major changes to his view of the street.
The Cops still dotted the street but they were not looking at him, he was another body, another thing to be controlled and herded. They kept their guns on show, a hand upon them fondling them, teasing them like cocks. She had stopped at another shop window, shoes, the window was full of them and he looked at his face instead reflected back and it seemed the face of that Longinus too was etched over it like a badly exposed film and behind both of them the people, the Cops moved like ghosts.
“We love this” she said, moved slightly to his side, a gentle reassuring touch. “I love this although it seems like a dream, the material”. She was looking at another Red dress. This was the window of a Dress shop, Dillinger could see himself in the reflection of the window, the advertising pyramid behind him a black triangle. The reflection a mere mural of sorts, an art perhaps.