Smooth Floors and Locked Doors

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Then they go into a sex trance and use dissociation to deny any empathy for the “target” they are about to fuck. Then they merge with their male and put their intolerable feelings into him, sometimes even staging “merging dramas,” terse discussions like the Nazi mass meetings, where people held up their arms like an umbilicus and imagined they were pouring their polluted feelings into each other.  Next they deify the Wizard, making him into a terrifying figure who can help them avenge their traumas, organize the pantomime into simple structures and go off to the rest of their lives and every day is like a  sacrificial rebirth ritual, during which the power play between them reenacts earlier traumas and rejuvenates Its potency by becoming the powerful one torturing and killing the helpless one.

My hands shake and shiver again and I sit on them, close my eyes, the soles of my feet move over smooth floors and my back against a love battered wall. Every touch is a pulled heart and you stretch out naked on the bed, smooth that place by your hip the sheet like silk although it is from Marks and Spencers. The sigils are swift within you. That power, those tits. Makes me want to stab myself in the face.

I sigh a given breath for a minute as you sleep. I smile for fears to gasp and bitten lips, for your hair pulled tight, in the amber light from outside.You sit there with blank mind and blanker page and in it poured like ink that fills with all the darkness you can muster up. In your dreams we chase shadows and dark things. We catch them and hold them tight. For the harder we squeeze them, the more it makes us right.

 I can sit with my back against the wall and watch you play all night if needs be. I smoke a cigarette on the cold floor and brush back my hair and smile. Your fingers deep and your shattered orgasm. Your heels clatter, the buckle scratches the floor and the day will wind upon us as we seek the darker paths. The 23 maybe.

You choke on your joy like an animal and the fatter souls do ponder your fingers wet and lit. I smoke my roll up watching as we tackle the spaces between us and your fingers wander and that’s best for all. You tell me you sold yourself for £500. They got you cheap. I would kill them if I found them.

For this bitter man and all the sour world offers simple solace for scattered words utered on cheap laminate flooring in the middle of this shit filled city and I fuck you slow, as you like that. The serpent winds around both of us like the innocent truth and your heels dig into my back. The crucifix on your neck has gone upside down, I see the whites of your eyes. You are gone.

John; The scheme of things? That sounds like a plan. That’s what a ‘scheme’ is. Managers managing things, making everything in order.

Eris; At the age of twenty a young man is sure of his world. At thirty five he thinks he is becoming suspicious of things. At fifty he is watching the strings on the puppets, watching the badly painted scenery moved wondering if he should turn his head and look back behind him.

John; He’s fucking that broad again. The English Teacher.

Eris; She looks like an Angel.

Number Of The Least

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Working it out the architects subtle plan. The way in which the sellers learn to teach the blinded man.
But it’s good to stretch out in bed, look at the weather outside. Know the hand that figures is hidden under the blankets. You know he’s evil and has a shattered mind. You know he has shit to find. The 23’s become 33’s and the 5’s are alive. The 44’s are all of course and the 7 by 7’s all fly. The 65 the 99 and the 23 does ache and the shattered man does 666 divided by 88

Orange Tango Lips and The Exegesis of Jack Parsons

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There are no songs for you dearest thing, never more.
Tight my grip on a bloodied sword, eyes set on the furthest shore.

If we marry inaccuracy with apathy and the sort of actions described and hinted at above then we have the potential for innocent people getting killed and even killed some more.

Jack Parsons it must be remembered held in trust several ‘artifacts’ given to him by ‘Ex Nazis’ Black Sun Occultists. This included the Staff of Arashus (the totem of the wandering Jew), The Spear of Longinus Aquamelde, and the Bible of The Black Parliament which was a compendium of teachings from their Prophet Mathew Hopkins the Wytchfynder General.

These individuals were fast in arranging the assassination of JFK. That Jack Ruby in turn murdered Lee Harvey Oswald simply out of personal grief was a fact that flew over many peoples heads … McInerney, the assistant Attorney General who was involved in the Jack Parsons investigation was a made man in the lower echelons of the Black Parliament

The sky was a sight indeed, as I slip on the Violet Heather that wrings wet moisture from its waxy twisted leaves and I wait for a second to see if the day will bring this feeling again. That of disaster and arrogance a fine delight as I sit back and laugh at them from the safety of my little mountain. What a delight it is to be free of the trappings of the filthy shitty world. I am free (and shitty) and yet in a way locked to this outcrop from the earth, this granite lump that pokes its head above the crust of the world and reaches to the sky.

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

This place is on a borderland between two places, two separate lands where each population in times past went to war. They died, they lived wounded, I see the stinking horses now as I sit. Pray for blood you soldiers of old, you sorry things that would think War is an answer to your problems.

As it is, the gulf between each was a language, their culture. A simple thing, a changing of a word or two would sweep these peoples to their deaths in the very valleys below me. I lie back in the soft grass atop the Western side of my mountain. Here of course I may sit and watch the setting of the Sun and the way the clouds break on the higher mountains to the North. Often I am wont to do this, even though the snares are filled with the bucking of frightened Rabbits choking, I sit.

What would become of this place if I were not here? I care not, you would think me soft and stupid to think this mountain belongs to me but it does not. At times there is a procession of soldiers beneath me, not ghosts of Knights and simple men who wield evil weapons but a more modern version. Those beings have armoured cars that crawl slowly belching from deep within them a fuel spent and turned into blackest smoke that sours the fresh Spring morning. Who they are I do not know, I slide over the wet grass to hide awhile as they travel that road that winds around the mountain to go South and West but I care not.

I wished I had an umbrella but didn’t really
then I saw you through the crowd of shit walkers
and daytime angst suckers
hurrying to meet me tottering on your heels
like a young Giraffe balancing your bags
full of things to tell me
and they were rampaging through your head
and you smashed into me
and the rain had made your make up run
and your hair was like a mess
and you jammed your tongue into my mouth
there in the middle of it all
and your breath tasted of mints
and orange pop

Orange Tango Lips and The Jack Parsons Exegesis

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There are no songs for you dearest thing, never more.
Tighten my grip on a bloodied sword, eyes set on the furthest shore.

If we marry inaccuracy with apathy and the sort of actions described and hinted at above then we have the potential for innocent people getting killed and even killed some more.

Jack Parsons it must be remembered held in trust several ‘artifacts’ given to him by ‘Ex Nazis’ Black Sun Occultists. This included the Staff of Arashus (the totem of the wandering Jew), The Spear of Longinus Aquamelde, and the Bible of The Black Parliament which was a compendium of teachings from their Prophet Mathew Hopkins the Wytchfynder General.

These individuals were fast in arranging the assassination of JFK. That Jack Ruby in turn murdered Lee Harvey Oswald simply out of personal grief was a fact that flew over many peoples heads … McInerney, the assistant Attorney General who was involved in the Jack Parsons investigation was a made man in the lower echelons of the Black Parliament

The sky was a sight indeed, as I slip on the Violet Heather that wrings wet moisture from its waxy twisted leaves and I wait for a second to see if the day will bring this feeling again. That of disaster and arrogance a fine delight as I sit back and laugh at them from the safety of my little mountain. What a delight it is to be free of the trappings of the filthy shitty world. I am free (and shitty) and yet in a way locked to this outcrop from the earth, this granite lump that pokes its head above the crust of the world and reaches to the sky.

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

This place is on a borderland between two places, two separate lands where each population in times past went to war. They died, they lived wounded, I see the stinking horses now as I sit. Pray for blood you soldiers of old, you sorry things that would think War is an answer to your problems.

As it is, the gulf between each was a language, their culture. A simple thing, a changing of a word or two would sweep these peoples to their deaths in the very valleys below me. I lie back in the soft grass atop the Western side of my mountain. Here of course I may sit and watch the setting of the Sun and the way the clouds break on the higher mountains to the North. Often I am wont to do this, even though the snares are filled with the bucking of frightened Rabbits choking, I sit.

What would become of this place if I were not here? I care not, you would think me soft and stupid to think this mountain belongs to me but it does not. At times there is a procession of soldiers beneath me, not ghosts of Knights and simple men who wield evil weapons but a more modern version. Those beings have armoured cars that crawl slowly belching from deep within them a fuel spent and turned into blackest smoke that sours the fresh Spring morning. Who they are I do not know, I slide over the wet grass to hide awhile as they travel that road that winds around the mountain to go South and West but I care not.

I wished I had an umbrella but didn’t really
then I saw you through the crowd of shit walkers
and daytime angst suckers
hurrying to meet me tottering on your heels
like a young Giraffe balancing your bags
full of things to tell me
and they were rampaging through your head
and you smashed into me
and the rain had made your make up run
and your hair was like a mess
and you jammed your tongue into my mouth
there in the middle of it all
and your breath tasted of mints
and orange pop

It’s Just A Ride

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I lifted my feet two inches at a time, first the Left one and then the Right one. Repeat, concentrate, ignore the stabs of unfamiliar agony. I was high, so high it felt like the Dalai Lama himself was giving me a hand job. Primo High, and my friends they is nothing like free High. Right leg, left leg, up and down. I looked down at my stomach, they had cut me open from side to side like I had been bitten by that Old Bastard Jaws the angry pissed off Shark. Two inches at a time. Keep doing it. I drifted out of consciousness. Morphine or Pethadine, I don’t remember, I know I had a button that spilled more into my arm.

At the top of a Ramp again, smoking a Spliff again, looking down the Transition I felt like being sick. It was stupid, it was like Five Feet high, I sat back down. I threw the Roach away, I was sick from the Platform. It was OK there was nobody there. The Sun was Hot and baked me, the Spliff baked me. There was a burning pain at my side, baked and sick again. There was a Dude walking his Labrador who stopped on the Path as his Dog ran around. His Dog stopped to have a Shit. The Dude pretended not to see. He walked off and the burning from where the latex gasket that sealed the bag to my skin was like acid.

What they did was open me up to see what was going on inside, and they found some Cancer and some bad things. They cut them out and threaded my digestive system out through my Abdomen and sewed it to the surface of my skin. I now shit through a hole in my abdomen…I had to shit into a bag.

It was cool. I leaned back against the Guardrail on the Platform and watched the people funking around the rest of the Park. Some Scooters, a Bike, about four people on Skateboards. I keep getting the board on the coping ready to drop in, I cant do it yet. I am afraid.

You see, they put 115 staples in me to put me back together, a week ago they drained the last of the Chemotherapy into me, Stage 4 Metastatic Cancer. They gave me a month to live. I laughed.

I lay in the Intensive care unit, they had just performed an emergency procedure to slow a rise in blood pressure that was making my eyes pop out of my head. I had two really big needles in my main artery in my neck. Big needles. This put a large amount of drugs into me. I lifted my legs, two inches at a time to strengthen my abdominal muscles. They thought I was going to die that night. I laughed, two inches at a time.

I speak to Nurses in tongues I do not know or have ever heard, they turn up the Morphine and it drags at me, pulls my inner self away into a golden sunset every time I speak to them. (Two Inches) I am unaware of my place, I am not sure where I am located. Are they Nurses? (Two Inches) My bitterness and confusion well up and overtake my physical ability and I lie on the floor tangled in tubes as they rush to put me back. What is this pain? (Three inches) Why am I so close to death? I can touch it and feel it, it is no danger and my body yearns for it. I look at the Hill and Valleys of my Bed sheets and I skate them in my mind.

The Colostomy bag fastened over the ‘Stoma’ or the end of my Colon which now exited all my waste (my shit) into. It was a Latex adhesive ring that stopped any shit escaping while I did my life things. It got sore. The Chemotherapy meant the raw red skin around it never really healed, it was like having a fire lit on your stomach. The Surgeon came to see me. ‘When can I skate again?’ I asked. She laughed. I laughed. Four inches off the bed, one leg then the other.

Who do I seek for inspiration? Who do I look to? It’s skateboarding, its different to other stuff, this is our lives. We inspire ourselves, battle ourselves to do things others deem foolhardy, stupid, dangerous. We knew it made us live, makes things worthwhile.

We die every day on a skateboard, we live our lives constantly on the floor looking up at the sky waiting for the pain to subside, hoping it will go away so we can try again. We are the upside down Turtle that struggles to right itself. We fight on and we suck up the pain, our heads sweated are cooled by the concrete as we grimace. Training for life, trying to ‘do that thing’ in essence we fight ourselves.

I put the deck down on the coping again, I am wearing full pads and a helmet, I don’t normally wear them. It feels weird. Not as weird as the remnants of the Chemo that pulse around my system. The sickness, the dryness, the sore mouth, too tired even to turn over in bed and try to shut out the pain. She said I could die if I fell wrong. She said I could cripple myself, my Colon could explode out of my stomach like a glistening Red Snake. I shuffle my back foot over the tail of the deck, hover my front foot, touch the front of the deck, check the transition…

Two inches at a time, then raise my knee as best I can over the tangle of bedsheets and wires, the tubes snaking in and out of me. I think about Duane Peters and those mad FS Rock and Rolls in beautifully lit California Pools. I don’t care what they say, are they stupid? I’m a fucking Skateboarder, I am the one who skates. This massive wound rips me in half, heal you Motherfucker.

I look to the Sky again, always the sky. When I was a kid I marvelled at Skateboarder magazine and the Blue skies, always Blue skies above Alva, Peralta in some smooth pool. I stare into the White Hospital sink and puke, but I’m grinding the edge of it. There isn’t any Blue today.

I drop down, keep my weight central, concentrate on the finish let everything become natural, let the body remember these joys as we swoop upwards, over and around, to the bottom of the Transition, set up for the next one. Click of wheels, squeak of Bushings, rasp of my foot on the Grip tape. I stack it, I am thrown off. I lack the muscle strength to pull back up. Gravity has kicked me in the balls. I have bitten my tongue and taste blood in my mouth. My board hits the opposite transition and bumps back into me as I fight to get air into my lungs. Concentrate on breathing. I lie there for a while and somebody puts their hand on my shoulder to see that I am OK.

I lie still on the bed and the machines they have put around me glow. The Machine lights star through my tears as the cramps build up and the soreness tears through my abdomen. Across from me an old man smiles, his pain as mine makes the smile a forlorn one, abandoned we are for a moment. The ward is quiet and still but the machines are driving me mad. The Catheter in my cock is making it sore, every time I move a little is like someone merrily sawing me in half. I have a tube in my nose, I think I remember them putting it in my nostril but am not sure. I try to move it but my hands do not work as they should. Two inches at a fucking time, build up the strength. Skate in your mind as you rot.

The hand on my shoulder moves away, some breath forced into me, some life. I get to my feet, my vision is fucked up, my hands have pins and needles from Chemo damage. Down my left leg is a splash of golden shit from my Colostomy bag, it has popped under my body as I stacked. Fuck. I have shit all over me. The Skater who touched my shoulder has gone away. It stinks, I stink, the Skatepark stinks. I start to cry a little, not for me but for everybody, I hobble back to the platform to try again. The Skater appears. He was not afraid of a little Shit. He has a load of Paper fast food wrappers in his hand. His other friend runs up with a few packets of Wet Hand wipes from McDonalds. They give them to me and carry on skating. They never said a word. They didn’t have to.’Thanks man’ I said. They threw me the Horns. I get back on the Platform, I have Gaffa tape in my bag. I’m going to Gaffa tape the Colostomy bag on.

The Ghost of Tom Node

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Five full Fed cars coming over the bridge
Jump and fire the the slack hand
We run and hide and yet we showed
We were waiting for the Ghost of Tom Node
You update and fascinate the Facebook freaks
Cuss the Nazis the violence and the bloodied sheets
We watch the sleepers prone on the pavement cold
Waiting for the Ghost of Tom Node
Too busy? Too scared? Working for nothing
They bleed you and scar you for the deep prison needs
Into the blackest of nights we rode
Searching for the truth of Tom Node
Defied and defeated alone untreated
Sick men to last the product timetable
For the laptop gets a violent shove
A crash for a kiss
Shouting at the sky for the Ghost of Tom Node
The information flows and our hands are slick
Watching the eyes of the government click
And they pay no taxes and don’t give a shit
Laughing at the ghost of Tom Node

Kanye West And The 43 Golden Temples

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Kanye West is a person who makes metaphysical waves. From the persona he adopts to extensively manipulate his Eigenstate, to his vast intellect, he is a Man of the hour.West is the EigenScion of the Great Sorcerer Balsamo and when we see Kanye West upon the stage we see the skill and knowledge of Cagliostro unveiled. When Kanye stops for a second he sees the world for what it is and what it will be, a great trait of the greater Shamans of Africa.

The finer points of his History may be written by other hands than mine. I travel the Eigen and see the great Monuments those between the walls have built for him. Around this grand hallucination the trials and tribulations of its inhabitants lie heavy upon Kanye. His brow is heavy with the need to provide guidance and idea and yet his very Pantomime defies him as is the way of Eigen Magic.

In his eyes the need to inform and to guide and each subtle shift in rhythm brings us the hand of Kanye West. The hand that claps by itself, the hand that gently pressures the power points of the body. Thus powered by this mighty Shaman we either dissolve into the pantomime and see a relative view of Kanye West distorted by the hate for a Black man who has achieved success, or  become aware and utilise the power he has given us.

“It gon’ take a lot more than coupons to get us saved”

Do to Kanye as you would to any mighty Shaman. Listen and avoid his eyes for he has intimate memory of the path that he has trod and the steps he took to bring his knowledge to us. Do not listen to those whose tongues work with no thought. The ones that do not see. The ones who tap at keyboards bitter bile. Kanye West shall in the end prevail and I see… after the cataclysm he has prophesied, Golden Temples erected in his name.

Let those who have this knowledge of the work of Kanye West name him Kanye Trimajestus. Shaman of the World.

 

 

 

 

Me and You – You and Me and the 23 Rock star Route

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I’m not going to comment too much on the ‘Eigenstate’ or ‘Phasing’ technique. But I have to say something about the path. Discovering the ‘Me and You-You and Me’ and the ’23 Rockstar’ routes was a major breakthrough. Initially I had thought the Robert Anton Wilson narrative to be the correct one. A breaking into the pyramid kind of effort but one that may have yielded secrets or a true path through the Eigen.

I retreated from the Discordian route as it started to mimic and resemble the false ’23 Skidoo’ route. There I was captive for a while locked in paralysis and I would never attempt it again. Hence my reticence on Social Media and other sites for people to choose that route.

I called the other path the ’23 Rockstar’ route as Anton Newcombe of The Brian Jonestown Massacre enjoyed using the meme. Tainted by Black Parliament symbols and cultural references it was I suspect used by the inhabitants of the Laurel Canyon working group in the 1960’s who were at the time heavily sponsored by agencies within the deep state. The route uses ‘self’ phasing and extreme ego worship to provide powerful phasing which often overflows and is dragged to the ‘Grand hallucination’ we exist in.

However, the ‘Me and You – You and Me’ route is the most promising I have found yet. At the moment there has been no negativity in the state which has all the resemblance of a village in the Yorkshire Dales or even Wales possibly. At the peak of the phasing I am driving down a valley, over a bridge and into the large village where several people wave at me as if they know me. So far I have reached the ‘Storehouse’ and parked the car which incidentally is my MG Midget. Here the Eigenstate breaks down and there is a lack of symbol to define the next route.

Eris is an ever-present, a distinct and beautiful distraction providing insight and randomness in equal measure. If you evoke Eris as the facilitator of Phasing then you can expect no less but randomness evades the most subtle and solid of banishing rituals. She doesn’t give a shit. In an Eigenstate you will love her unlike any other. In the Grand Hallucination she is destructive, hurtful and menacing, but you love her any way.

The ‘Me and You’ in Bingo calling = 2. The ‘You and Me’ = 3

An old man walks to the front of the gathering in Saint Pauls Cathedral, London, England. He is bent and helped by two beautiful women who place him in a chair a few paces away from twenty five or so sober, suited and booted men and women who lean forwards to hear him. They sit within the pews, like cacklers at the sordid funeral of a Clown.

He is hooded by a long cloak that drapes the floor, underneath a black suit, starched white shirt and a simple black tie. He looks like the dry desiccated hands of a funeral director. Veined he is, bluish, like his blood suffers anguish at being pumped around that flesh. The lush companions turn and click their heels, a swish of auburn hair, a look back at the assembled, the look of Murderers. Which is what they are. They keep the Old man safe from harm. A person that laid an unbidden hand would find it flapping at their feet. These Evil souls so beautiful protect him now sat.

The Black Parliament assembled and let no eye stray or hand tremble, let no idle thought slither out like snot. No one knows of these people, this group of things. From a humble Labourer to a Royal Prince their colours as can be spread amongst the peoples of the world. They sit and prepare to listen, they listen intently, an important announcement or snippet of truth offered? They did not care, their lives depended upon it. The old man, pointed his feeble finger at them. Accusing? Perhaps, a little. More so he uses it to gather his thoughts before him as a Writer would pause with his pen upon the paper. With a cracked and raked voice he begins to present his thoughts and argument. He spoke and his voice did not echo.

‘This Prison made for Humankind…a thing we do not understand, or have ever…..we stand upon a cusp, an edge. We….who for ten thousand years have waited for the truth to come upon us….are not the Jailers also the Jailed?’ The finger drops, and he waits for a while, gathering those seeds again.

‘Let no soul stagger under the weight of the Alchemy and the Magik of it, it bears no investigation. This Erisian Heresy, this awful challenge must be discussed’.

The peoples in front of him trembled and a roar of accusation, of inquiry, of needing an answer overwhelmed them for a moment. They forgot themselves, these  Magi, these gathering of Black Shamans, this Black Parliament. Ten thousand years old they were, immortal perhaps, they themselves did not know. But no hand of feebleness touched them, no boredom of the Earth, they lived well upon the gladness of their never ending existences. Never at risk this endless life of joy and experiment unless……unless an escape is attempted. Somebody tries to get out.

Yet hunched over those Sigils a story emerged and offered answer and evidence. As I looked at those ancient stars and cursed myself I felt the gentle prod of history upon my back. The candle beside me splutters. Water in the wax. The Mediterranean wind was warm but held a slight coolness. The evidence pushed History forwards. The lesser energy of its fall trickles down to us and makes shapes from the Eigengrau.

23 Prayers For Augustine 23 For Laura May

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“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. He turned the Lizard skull over in his hands and there was still an energy within it. Something so alien it made his bones throb and his spirit lack.

We tried honey buns we tried, and in the essence of the whole adventure we failed. The philosophy wasn’t correct. The masons stone had crumbled underneath us. Hastened we were, into an adventure where we played the ‘people in the background’. The extras swallowed by the whole. The earthquake victim, the biters of stray bullets.

Still, it was an adventure. A whole new world for us to explore for those captured moments in that corpse cold ground floor flat. The touch of the floor was as Ice. Your feet on me in bed as you tried to warm them up after making a cup of tea. We had to drink it quite fast as it went cold, didn’t it? Yet she was so fragile underneath that toughness, that facade she propped up with bitching and too much fucking wine.

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 the crucified remains of his family, his children. 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.

He would watch them. Their angst and suffering a social thing and he was not want to share his thoughts yet, after all these years. Those stitched wounds still weep. Still awake the nodding exhausted physical.

“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, Mom 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 golden shining surface.

As she fucked him she sat above and rode. Her blonde hair as a screen to hide things as it swept across his chest and a flash of gold as her crucifix swung. Backwards and forwards, her passion, his denial, their moment lost. The cold still blessing exposed flesh and the Police sirens outside bounced off wet brick walls and filthy glass. ‘They’ fucked and ‘they’ sucked and ‘they’ were outside but inside it was ‘us’ and they were gone for a few seconds. Lost in Birmingham streets. The siren just a fail wail. Her breasts full in his hands him afraid to touch them. Both of them angry laughing even as the tranquilisers started to take off the edge of the anxiety the room softened and was gone….

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 where the birds seemed like they didn’t know what to do.

“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 fighted them.” She turned the Skull around in her hands as she spoke and the Sun glinted into his eyes like…a golden cross.

23 bottles hanging on the wall

23 bottles hanging on the wall

fuck the shallow hearts of politicians, the counters and our fall

There’s still 23 bottles hanging on the wall