The Far Tinfoil Spectrum


There is comparatively strong theoretical and empirical evidence that people become terrorists not to achieve their organization’s declared political agenda, but to develop strong affective ties with other terrorist members. In other words, the preponderance of evidence is that people participate in terrorist organizations for the social solidarity, not for their political return.

The Abyss makes me remember, and the memory burns me, I dip my forehead to the Sands and breath in a little of the beautiful dust. My Brothers sit palms upwards faces upturned to the sky. They are flawless Masters. I am proud of them, I love them, we are not guilty, I think. Just lost, and nobody to show us the way home at all. We seek a hand also, of forgiveness and guidance, we are tired of making this place.

“I don’t know how they’re going to deal with this level of highly organized mass violence.” it said.

Mother sat on the bed at the back of the house she had made up a room for paying guests which was rarely used. But it sat as a spare room and she was wont to keep her sewing things and small crafts she had made in there. She sat and gazed at her palm held in font of her. The other hand steadied it and upon that work worn skin of her hand a small Black pyramid revolved as if by magic. It was the size of a Silver dollar and she was bereft of joy as it sucked the life slowly out of her as she watched until in a fit of rage she threw it through the bedroom window where it skittered off the back porch and into the dust of the yard where ‘Coyote’ the dog idly walked up and pissed on it.

There is only so much a human can follow closely, and this I haven’t followed very closely. In a nutshell, is this “Cancer” the CIA, I suspect it probably is? Its the cancer of most countries, and I’m wondering how it could be any different for Mexico…

“I predict paranoia about implant killswitches will be rising in coming years among the far tinfoil spectrum.”

The eyes of these people were slowly turning blacker as the monolith on top of the building grew and was made solid by the harsh calloused hands of the workers. Black eyed sub demons, hangers on they were. Now the Nine thrust themselves into the world to see this poor Man die so were the human stuff of this world affected. Less idle than of late they scurried to shops and business unaware why, or where. Just to walk to make the streets solid with people so the play could carry on. Extras they were in a great cinematic moment. Some sought darker corners in there awakening but others just wept in rooms and waited for the horror to pass and their empty God to return. They asked him ‘Can we ask THAT question’

“No. That is not a legitimate question and it is not asked. But if you nevertheless want to know what I feel when I release a bomb, I will tell you: I feel a light bump to the plane as a result of the bomb’s release. A second later it’s gone, and that’s all. That is what I feel.”

She was saying something again as they walked in the centre of the pavement, her ass subliminal almost rocking from side to side as she moved through the crowd, her Red dress clung to her back and the swell of her behind, yet he felt almost unmoved by it, a sense of sexual abandonment. Like his power to love and fuck had been temporarily taken away. He looked back over his shoulder and watched the workmen bolt the Great Pyramid into place. She took his arm and hurried him along as he watched them.

Actually he thought, that’s one of the lessons of history that targeted peoples and nations need to learn. All other considerations aside, suicide bombing or even guerrilla warfare as a sole or primary tactic of war against any state is by far the least effective weapon there is, and has inevitably led to defeat; that’s why she emphasized its emotional parameters, and that historically, in real cases, it’s been the weapon of last resort, when no other means are available to correct a vast imbalance of military power.

EverLast and EverBright run little rabbit as fast as you can over the grass so fast and laugh if you can little rabbit as it it can never last. It’s an entropy of process as we are mixing the systems true. A panoply of dire sickness and as we run closer we see the edge of things a life to be and find it a honeycomb of madness. In these a twisted life to lead and the grass fades to nothing. We hear the crashing sea and beneath us there’s really nothing to see as your claws scrabble fresh air and you tumble onto the rocks little rabbit broken and torn. Look above, to the edge there, and see the rabbit stare. He runs a straight path right into the sun little rabbit runs true.

The Nine Unknown Men


The Nine Masters, they were hilarious. You see, halfway through the Syncrono-Master-Ritual there’s always a point where you walk off the ‘Ledge of Lovers’ on the way to the Rituals Rose Garden and if you look to the left (always the left) you will see them sitting in their Desert letting the sand drift between their fingers as they facilitate the Eigen and manufacture the reality we exist within and indeed are trapped within.

I know three of the names (Crowley professed to know four) and they are unpronounceable in language. In fact the only way they can be described is through the medium of Art and Dance such is the meanderings of them who would give themselves grand titles.

The three can be  manipulated and bound under the controls of the ritual and some physical attributes brought forth for one to adjust the reality around us. Giving us the illusion of free will we may bind the cloaked and hooded thing I call ‘Abel’.

“Will you love me forever?”

‘In the Branded place from which you came,you hold the dreams as you would a tool to see, but aware that somewhere within that place, we see. Do not fear the long nights of pain and distrust, the pillars of Gold will turn to rust. The Kings you know will fade away, and trampled they are by the ignorant. Cast away thought, the Liars garments. Shutter the filth of imaginings. Intent on the capture of delights, remove the pain, the dark, the nights. Foul spells they see and use, to captivate, a ruse, a story hidden from you’.

Through the Geometry of the Magic he unveiled to me these things. He took me by the hand and we walked through strange Gardens of a Beauty I have never seen before. Before us it lay, this Abyss. At the edge stood the man that had come to me in my dreams and spoke to me as I huddled on the cold cell floor. With him was a Young man in Denim dungarees or overalls. The Master spoke to me and blinked his wise eyes.

Bring back the hollowed Crowns and stand before him, let the Towers fall and rot within that Earth. The Gamblers heart is too ill to receive it. Yet to breathe those airs of Ashalon, the spiced taste. The spells he weaves within the sands, too hot to hold, too cold to suffer long. He marks the start and the end of Earth,in long strokes to see, the end of you and me.” He said. We were now in the Mountains of Earth, at the top of the World. Below us were the things we call our lives clinging to this dream the Nine had made for us and to which we added bars.

He pointed to the West and spoke. “It perforates the style of imagination you suffer. To see the place you have built, the pain in hands, the subtle lilt. Of walls you need to find your way. One last heart has gone astray, to enjoy a lasting peace. The junction to listen at, a direction lost,a traveler to seek, locked in his pains’. He pointed to a Car below us, racing through the night, there was a Lady in the Car with a man, it was her, she wore a Red dress. She was sucking the man’s cock, he was driving. The Master smiled, in the air above us whirled Golden Angels who sang for the Master to come with them, to leave this foul place and fly, into the Sun. He pointed into the Sun and said in his melodious voice.

Ashalon moves through warm winds of home. We pause to look upon its Suns high, Skyfull.” he said to me.

The sigils and the lines to hasten an end, to give a free heart courage. We seek this end pure and free, or so it seemed to me. The wisest will cantor and blast upon hidden strings, of Mountains, Forests and all Gods things.” We walked down the Mountain a good distance until we came to a Plateau and upon it was set a Circus tent and the activity was what would be expected. Acrobats and Clowns, Jugglers, Fire eaters, Elephants and Lions. As we moved closer, I saw that the Clowns were fellows and women I knew. They cavorted around in a grotesque manner befitting a Porn film not a Circus.

The Master came to a stop a little away from them and said, “We rattle as beans within a can, forgotten for a while, ignorant and casked. File away the events of your lives, here within him. Castigate the Young with tales of woe.” A bright ball was thrown towards us and rolled to the foot of the Master who ignored it. “Put Ghosts in clouds, in shadows. His hand never stops to gather rest, his robe swirls and passes the test.” Happy he gazes towards the sky. He never fears for you or I. I can feel them pick me up, the arms of Angels to take me back to sleep.

He came into the cell, the ‘FuckBox’. I was twenty five years old. The Pigs let him in without the normal shit they would make a visitor go through. Just brought him right up to the cage, opened the lock on the cell door and in he waltzed. Slick, like a Banker, wingtip expensive shoes, black suit, white as white shirt and a black tie.

Do you remember her?” he said and I blinked…

She was eighteen years old, like a strip of a thing, slim, beautiful tits, like she could hunt something and kill it. Her eyes blue cold wide apart, she had a good nose distinct masculine. Hair was Blonde dyed, harsh a little, rough from too much Bleach. Legs that went long, went far and ended at last at the pertest ass I ever saw.

My side hurt, my left side. Oh the pain of it, burning into me, endless, the definition of ‘sore’. A bullet had twitched into me, snaking and ricochet, fast hot gun barrel love just nicked the flesh. I hold my hand over it but, it feels deeper. I start the car and smash down the street full of cops and hot guns.

She caught me, wanted me, needed what I had to give, it drove her insane, the need to fuck me. Even then I was broken and battered, a puerile hater of things. She took me as she wanted and spread her beautiful legs whenever she could and wherever. Her shirt open and breasts bare she would ride me as she smoked a joint and the ash would fall onto my chest and she would laugh, throw back her head, and orgasm. Her abdomen would swell and breath was quick, and she would laugh again. She loved me. We fucked and got lost in each other and the days then were beautiful and free and is was without pain. My fingers were in her and she rocked gently against my hand….I remembered. A touch from the Grand Funeral Director and there she was, a memory but, still there.

They have made us suffer these things from God, these Crows, these Insects of the sands” He said and waved a hand in front of my face and the heat. The coldness of the cell was gone, replaced by the brazier, this fired place, a desert. In front of me twenty three robed things, as human but their shape undefined, as if they have forgotten the form God bid them to take. They sat in a circle, a place abandoned with not a feature upon the Horizon except the endless sands. They sat and hands as they indeed resembled scratched upon the sand geometry and angle, what seemed like numbers. At points they would all pause and look upon one another like a communication although no words were spoken. I could not see their faces.

They are the Prison itself, the Light Scion rendered inert…these things bitter to look upon exist here only as ghosts, they have forgotten what form they took when when they thieved us from our Father…they exist in another place and yet the will they possess allows them to settle here within the walls of our captivity” The Banker let his hands fall, they were animated as he spoke…and now they hung in the heat, I gasped at the dry air my eyes like arrows to them, to him, to environment.

You remember her as you remember me , her that IS. The Whore and the Virgin…be still gesture not, you know me as Abel, the last, the Slayer of the Christ, not Lucifuz or Barrakuk or Daemons that have lasted. I am Abel and here I stand” He bowed his head and the circle of hooded Black robed things animated and hands scratched and swooped above and below the dust. They murmured now and then, with the wind I thought. The same wind blew a lock of Black and Grey hair upon this man’s forehead and I knew him. Had I not dreamt of him for all of my life?

I was standing at the back of a nightclub, holding a drink, relaxed. The Ramones were playing through the sound system, it was hot, I was wearing a leather jacket and it was stuck to me with sweat. I was afraid to take it off in case it got stolen. There was a guy in the crowd with a hooded sweatshirt, a Red hooded sweat shirt. He had the hood on, I couldn’t see his face, the coloured lights of the club obscured him, took him away from the sexy bodies and the subtle grope of the dance floor. Everybody looked like Joey Ramone except the guy in the hood. I had a knife, I held it close and followed him through the crowd to the stairs to the exit. I reached out and swung him around so I could shank his Liver.

Her hair fell out of the hood and she laughed, and I did too and we ran up the stairs, smashed through the Exit doors and into the cool New York rain, the street glowed afire. We grabbed each other, easily like two parts made from the same jig. Her lips were cold and soft, she tasted of Rum or……Oranges?

I spun her around as we laughed and spoke softly to her…

The Songs we sing through our lives take us always back to that day, the cinema, I left my guns at the room. They were under the bed with the Shotgun and the Money….what happened at the cinema?” I asked her. Behind me the bouncers threw somebody out and they landed with a thicker slide onto the street. She was so beautiful she made me want to kill something. Will you love me forever?

Nine Not Men

the shadows were just the skid marks of emotional lust
We would hide and wring our hands
Tie the six turn grinner and push the rope deeper into the bag so it doesn’t remind you
But the kisses on a sweated brow still stung and the final product was a cheap half empty box and the handles just gold painted plastic
Elvis, for Gods sake, why?
Plaintive refrain and the gas fired coda
Lean youth and the razor sharp coda
For the nine never sat on cool mountain tops and discussed great and mighty wisdom
But sat in a circle in the desert and giggled as they made the forms we knew
The marks will always wash out and the bruises always fade
As we look at the sigils those nine bastards made
Don’t do anything except forget.
For the sigils wind and tick regret
They tick and fear inside grows real
The years thicker than these pretend thoughts we feel
We vomit and grip the staircase rail with fingers bitten to blood
Around upwards the spiral sideways and down
Towards the emotive tested frown
And the sigils you put on the steamed up windows of the bus
Always concerned me you and us
Nine bastard none men sitting in a tree
To fuck us them you and me
Nine fucking shitheads doing what they can
Nine ways to disintegrate, if you possibly can


A Little Glance

Your fractured vision afterwards
settled on the glass coffee table
where your love was lost
and the drip of wine spilled
was like a splash of anger
your finger traced circles
Hair loose and hostile
But we never had a chance you know
Triggered by the civilised and moral
stuck in a rut lifers
We said goodbye on a snowy night
I slipped a little on the ice
You laughed, I smiled
the pain still raged
Funny how that smile got lost
driving down the Birmingham road

Build The Tower High

How’s the new deal the older than the fresh feel? The stinking way we point
Another body hits the floor under the eye of another fucking desert bore
A round jacked in and jacked out
Empty words out of the cracked desert hermits mouth, our fingers for lost Gods and younger lambs.
It’s all done under a frantic pace grasping and fiddling with the gestures always under a fucking liars face
Start your engines and let the ‘for fucks sakes’ begin
Grasp your own sweaty hands within
But don’t pray, give the bodies a chance to settle and the whisper of smoke subside from cold smuggled metal
Light a candle if you will but don’t kneel in the blood if you can
For all the sad songs of the world will stand you upright for when you’re judged the pointed finger firm never wavers
The little bitter bastards never win but palms upright beg for the rain to deliver them
Crossed out and exhumed your own guilt will suffice and the wind will scatter the ease of soft candle light
The boots will crash on doors at night
Feel free to offer no earthly delight
Deliverance and judgement for who and for when?
Upon the heads of the grey money counting men

Put Wilson Pickett in the stereo maybe 10,000 dances when the world was no better but we had futures and able chances. Light another spliff man, block it all out and steel yourself a little. There’s maybe a slim effect that we haven’t seen yet. A fine future with no caramel sun set. But the fingers in the sand still scrabble and the Priests of no God still babble. Chance it and watch the world burn or dance and find an honest word.
You know it’s never going to make any sense but it’s what we do, the drama the play acting the grey heart defence. The word pushers and single set play makers, pantomime set fakers
and the whack of a bullet still shocks but the world you know will always be fucked.