The Black Kabbalah



We trace the patterns in the bits of shattered stones, in front of me. We see him and twist his mind. He has loved and this thing is our Iron Key to manipulate and make them suffer. His past lovers destroy him, strap him to the bed and give him the ‘sapping of will’ to make sense of his life now. We press on all sides and my Brothers whisper, the sounds cracked and alien and the air rattles over the dust encrusted throats not used for two thousand years.

Esch Ferh” The whispers said in the language from beyond the Abyss. “Bring Fire”


It was said that Satan himself asked to see this place so that he may learn of the things we make and the construction of them so he himself may build one and enjoy the suffering of the ignorant. It is also said that at the doors of the Prison he stopped and reached out his hand to touch the lock and he touched it not but withdrew his hand a little. He pursed his beautiful lips it was said and a black tear fell from his eye.“I have never mocked my Father as this does”. The words of Satan whipped by the bitter wind. swept away by the bitter cold wind.


In the corner of the White Room a woman, Black haired, Blue eyed, the steep whore, red lipstick and the Blackest of Latex for the Blackest of Places, the White Room. She minced with her sharp instruments, the pullers, the gougers and the twisters. Her eyes were black pits, she didn’t scare me. I was only scared of something else, I couldn’t remember what it was. I loved it for a minute and was lost. I hear the water splash on her body, I see the rivulets and the drenched sex of her. I hold my head and try to shut away the madness I feel slipping into me like it always has. I feel but am resigned, like the lost and the shuttered in. But I know when the singing and talking has finished, what she does with those hands on her body. She cannot help it, she has a hunger for this life.


He saw Abyss and stood alone upon the edge of it, his toes over the edge his heels implanted upon the scrubby grass, his eyes ahead searching for the other side. She made noise, he could feel her naked breasts in his hand, he let his thumbs gently touch her nipples, just the tips and she laid her head back and groaned words he could not understand. He slid inside of her, lost for a second, intent and wounded with a love. 

She smiled closer and I leaned in and just probed those cherry lips apart with my tongue and for a moment, in the Sunny afternoon, with the House at my back I drank her in. We found somewhere quiet and fucked in the grass. A she reached her climax underneath her head crept a Strawberry beetle and she grabbed my wrist and placed my hand at her throat, to squeeze. Her hips bounced against me as I held her tight. Later as she smoked a cigarette and lay in the flattened grass naked she told me stories of her life and I instantly forgot them but for a moment when she pointed to the West and laughed.


In simpler days it might have worked but in these strange times the only thing that loves also hurts the worse


I enter her from behind and she wakes slowly and softly to press back when I am in her fully and draws away when I pull out, rhythmic and lost she fills herself with fucking her body graceful as she accepts the offering, the unveiling of the love. This thing we do as your soft flesh scrapes against my legs, this thing you give me, lost in Pethidine, lost in fucking such an innocent woman, my filth and depravity knows no ends….and the Demons sit upon the headboard in a row like Crows on a telephone wire and they laugh and point as I fuck her and tears unseen I cry for her as they giggle. Twisted around my fingers a single black hair. But in my shattered mind I sing a song.


She does a tiny shiver break and her orgasm glistens and her system revealed. Two great golden wings faint but true she is a holy Angel in masturbation. I write the numbers and try to figure the deal as her fingers work angry and furious. The Calamity and terror of her sexual act is from heaven full of tears and sorrow but the record is done. The poem written. This I cry for you and for your sins. I hold her throat tight, and look to heaven.


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”.


Should I show you a cut vein to bring you to heat? Her love splashed my tongue as it traces words of Magic, the three lovers, four seats to the left, and twenty three to the right.

The swell of her abdomen is beautiful as Porcelain, dotted with the occasional blemish, patina and I close my eyes as the horizon swallows the sun. A hidden gasp as her self obliterates and births a star that explodes in her body and every ray a joy as her hips rise and we couple, lost. Every node is a Spartan pleasure as she peaks these fingers of mine ache and offer a subtle pain her eyes through the mask plead, and I sink the needle in. Take a breath. A deep one.


The snow outside was wicked cold as we stood on the doorstep and we kissed, your gown fell open and you were naked in the street icy air. I pinched your nipple hard and put my fingers in you and you were red hot…me, I. 

I would creep 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, 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.


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.

The Evoked have come to play and I bite your nipple hard. I cant hear what you are saying as the lines intersect. So I stick my cock in you and fuck you like a bastard you dirty fucking slut and wonder what they did, how they did it and why. I place my head in the center of the circle and close my eyes. My fingers bleed and drop their blood onto the floor. The concrete is cool on my head. This filth of his drains me. I have no clue of what inspires us to it. I lean back and can hear the sleeping screaming deep within the prison, they screamed so high pitched it was like a train whistle.


Fuckliminal 23 Obsessed Cunt


It does seem that there was a shift in the Eigen, however it’s understandable given most folk avoid Phasing and Liminal states if they can, preferring the dominant narrative as that does provide many certainties and social benefits. The right Tools for the Job of getting on with your life rather than the apparent vacuum of ignorance when faced with the Metaphysical.

But what did this weeks phasing bring to the table? Don’t forget. The new-new thing for attempting to explain consciousness from a “Scientific, Empirical” perspective is “integrated information theory”: IIT. How that mashes with illicit sex or strangle fucking I don’t know but stay with me.

56. At his feet Sarfus bound a rough rope more to stop the twitching and movement. He had to drive the largest peg through the Achilles heel at an angle to get both feet in one peg. Longinus had only seen this once before. 353. It had been a Greek that had offended some minor politician and it was a direct order for him to die in the most painful and longest manner possible. ‘What were this mans crimes?’ thought Longinus. ‘Why such a thing?’ Sarfus made no mistake and the peg drove through the flesh like a hot iron straight into the pilot hole. 29. The scourged man hardly moved, a kin to pain, a brother to it, it was  a normal part of his world such is the Prophet dragged from the Ambrosionics. Shortly he was lifted into position and as the men made haste with the crowd at a lower point on the hill Longinus inspected the work and the stationing of his men. 

I might add, that I don’t believe it will ever be possible to reach a general consensus about what consciousness “is”. Like all Liminal/trickster phenomena, it evades reductionist or empirical explanations. I do think that at an individual level, it’s possible (through Phase Shift) to get a better feel for what it is, and what it is not. Fucking at the edge of ones phase is vastly helpful in that regard. Fucking desperate hungry women who don’t want to care any more. When they decide to ‘fuck’ you then you look inside and see yourself looking back.

39.The scourged man now naked on the cross apart from his Twisted Crown. Longinus had forgotten to take it off. 63. Time it seemed had stopped for a moment and Longinus had a moment to stop and lean upon his spear and take a breath. The workmen and a few Soldiers had left the hill and were picking their way down the rocky paths back to the City. Most of the crowd followed and left behind were perhaps the scourged mans family and friends. They were quietly crying and sobbing outside the circle of his men positioned in case the small gathering approached and took the scourged man down. 105.What sadness this was, Longinus was tired and felt a lethargy upon him, a loss.

The Secret horseshit-entrapment-matrix parlance, despite every Guru’s insistence we “only use 11.36% of our brain,” the most robust result of all these measurements is that meditation seems to reduce brain activity rather than ramp us up into some super-powered state. Meditation is Mind Control, it turns you into a grinning fruitcake. Pliable beast, cattle, Oxen, happy at the yoke.

Two thousand years into the future Longinus would sit at that spot, eyed by Israeli Police and Palestinian tradesmen selling Cheap souvenirs for fat Europeans and Americans. Buildings crowded around him as he sipped Tea from a Vendor. He sat and pretended to read his newspaper but his knowledge now poured from him as fresh sweat. 23. The position of that Crucifixion now a place for people to sell refreshments and cheap things to take home. What did they know that he did not? But the rockets and the bombs flew over his head in that particular Jerusalem. That particular place The City of the lost of course, linked between lines of power it feeds back within itself and leaks some of the Eigen into the reality they live within. 65. It pulls the Souls of these believers into it and twists them to hate not love. Jerusalem is cursed. The New Jerusalem a lie.

It would seem that our understanding is always mediated through the sexual act. The act derives meanings through emotion with other psychological forms via intellectual structures that provide correspondences between the various forms. Some very wise folk seem to feel a need to ‘return to the HomePath’, so as, it seems to me, to transcend inherent limitations of this fucking Monad based world.

Sons Of Eris-Sons of Silence


So, after all, there was not one kind of Strife alone, but all over the earth there are two. As for the one, a man would praise her when he came to understand her; but the other is blameworthy: and they are wholly different in nature. For one fosters evil war and battle, being cruel: her no man loves; but perforce, through the will of the deathless gods, men pay harsh Strife her honour due.



The reputation of John Dillinger has been the subject of post-mortem media devices meant to tarnish his symbolism as a Metaphysical icon much the way JFK’s has.

So we can expect hyped confusing disinfo about any of the Discordian propaganda as long as people remember who they were, what happened during the 1960s, and while there’s still a war to sustain. While we still have the ability to wage that war. Their ‘culture’ means nothing. Defy it until the end. Change yourself to confuse them. Remember, they will always lie.


You writhe atop me in passion as the Dawn comes slowly above us, 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, a list to pray for and chains, to to whip our sin away to chastise and batter the Golden Halls. 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.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.

Fired up hearts awash with Whisky,they trod and defiled the sacred spot.Fucking Hippys. In steel braid they tied our hearts together, as we bled to death. I waited there for what seemed hours, that man who was soon to rot away, stuck in this English love, this filth of cultures. Cast them to the Dogs, they bleed on their stage, they bleed filth, this much we know. A stabbed corpse, a sodden blow…..I knew. They had tricked me, I was lost, there was no escape. As a man is trapped underground by the fall of Satan he sees the world he left and I see this as well now, here in this cafe. I have been split. A pain in my left side, I fall to the floor and I can hear the grinding machinery of the bomber, a radio plays ‘Good Vibrations’ by The Beach Boys, the shooter, the slamming of a door far away.

Why remember? What good does it do? Climb the walls outside to escape and leave the sickness you hold so dear, the illness that bears the fruits of care and love.

In the Cemetery, he stood by the Car and watched them fuck. He pulled his collar up against the cold rain, he felt it drip down his neck. He was close to the Car, he saw through the rain streaked glass her passion, her ultimate play. She was killing him, she had to be fifty five if she was a day, but she was destroying him with her lust,her brutal loveless fucking, he could see him dying. She curled her lip like a Dog, like she had to bite. She clawed her own breasts in passion.Good Vibrations by The Beach Boys was playing on the car radio. She fucked to the beat. On top of him, her palms flat on the car roof. Unveiled. Faded Red hair.

My hand was wet from the rain when I leaned upon the cold metal roof of the car as they fucked. I touched my tongue to it and tasted it. Wormwood sour. The sun dim through the now clearing rain was like a leaden disc and next to it, the twin of the binary system. Havoc Bringer, Defiler, Horn of God.

Not long now before judgement when all you know will end. For some the path ahead. The Temples built by those that trod those lands can never be counted. Always to the West and Home. For others, assimilation their loss nothing, their lives forgotten.

Brussels Bombing & The 23rd State of Errorism

“We’re an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you’re studying that reality—judiciously, as you will—we’ll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that’s how things will sort out. We’re history’s actors … and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.”
Karl Rove

Ivan Sypos watched three ambulances scream past him. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and hurried on. The CCTV footage ‘still’ from the Brussels airport bombing had no context so he supposed he had to stay calm and vigilant. Wait for something to happen, sit down in an empty Cafe, order coffee and watch the madness around him unfold while he processed the madness. But he was a bit surprised that controls at the borders were only introduced four hours after the attack. It takes only a little over an hour to get from Brussels to the border. It was strange.

He found a small Cafe off the beaten track which still operated normally at least to his eyes. Travelling by foot not too fast he  had passed unhindered through three police checkpoints. Hastily set up and bored looking Paramilitary cops milled around smoking and laughing. He sat down and ordered Coffee, the waiter said something but Sypos didn’t understand.

One must eat or be eaten. One must kill or be killed. There is no alternative.

Sypos wasn’t sure sure if this represented an error in the bedlam of the aftermath, but he got the impression from the original report that this operation was not rigid. The operation was flawed in some way he couldn’t work out at this moment. The noise was terrific. Sirens. Sitting at another table was a young guy who looked like the image of Leonardo de Caprio talking earnestly with a beautiful young woman.

Ivan Sypos didn’t buy it about Paris or Boston. London. He thought it odd there were so many suspicious Pri(SEC)/training exercise/metaphysical assistance/synchromystical-by-design aspects to these attacks, but the possibility intrigued him that maybe a little of the Eigen had ripped. CERN maybe? He sipped his coffee it was lukewarm.

Sypos knew Laachraoui and Abrini, like virtually every other suspect involved in a tangle of terrorist attacks across North America, Europe, and Australia, were well known to both ITK and D23, having both been documented as having traveled to Syria to fight against Damascus under ISIS, with Abrini having been arrested and jailed several times in the past,( including  a spell in the Black Iron Prison) and Laachraoui already having a 2014 international arrest warrant issued for him in connection to a trial involving recruiting Europeans to fight for ISIS. Why didn’t D23 pick him up again?

Ivan Sypos is about to go on his first date, and is nervous about what to talk about. He asks his father for advice. The father is looking out of the window of their small flat, he replies: “We are the Clan Sypos, there are three subjects that always work. These are food, family, and magic.”

Ivan picks up his date she is beautiful and her name is Katerin, they go to a small cafe. Ice cream sodas in front of them, they stare at each other for a long time, as Ivan’s nervousness builds. He remembers his father’s advice, and chooses the first topic. He asks Katerin: “Do you like Belgian Chocolate?” She says “No,” and the silence returns.

After a few more uncomfortable minutes, Ivan thinks of his father’s suggestion and turns to the second item on the list. He asks, “Do you have a brother?” Again, Katerin says “No” and there is silence once again.

Ivan then plays his last card. He thinks of his father’s advice and asks Katerin the following question: “If you had a brother, would he like Belgian Chocolate?”

Microsoft has been forced to dunk Tay, its millennial-mimicking chatbot, into a vat of molten steel. The company has terminated her after the bot started tweeting abuse at people and went full neo-Nazi, declaring that “Hitler was right I hate the jews.”

Some of this appears to be “innocent” insofar as Tay is not generating these responses. Rather, if you tell her “repeat after me” she will parrot back whatever you say, allowing you to put words into her mouth. However, some of the responses were organic. The Guardian quotes one where, after being asked “is Ricky Gervais an atheist?”, Tay responded, “Ricky Gervais learned totalitarianism from Adolf Hitler, the inventor of Atheism.”

Quod Nigrum Solis


Artificial intelligence and the Skynet are meme. Soon the world will be at risk from “offensive autonomous weapons” or  a “Military Industrial Complex  A.I Arms race”. autonomous weapons have been described as the third revolution in warfare, after gunpowder and nuclear arms.” The GoogleGod

In 2015 the first shots were fired, not by rampaging Robo-Bastards and Terminators with strange German accents. But by The Net. The AI war is 10 months old and we have already lost. AI alters election results, puts in power those 2d Lizards. Provokes war and dissent through the web via Aggrobots. Destroys economies, countries, lives through the power of the internet. We are Slaves.

She walked around the room naked apart from those fake crocodile leather shoes. She scraped the heel over the wood marking it, marking ‘her’ spot. The chair, she sat and spread her legs wide for me and the suns rays shone through the dust on the glass. I wrote a sigil on it and the light brighter like a laser on her skin. As my finger moved on the glass slowly the rays moved on her skin and a thin sheen of sweat appeared and the slick light met the slicker skin. Her hair afire eyes like amber, your lips part and sigh. Too far, too high

‘Adomas Adothai’ Sigil ‘lust and the wet fingers’ I wrote over her heart and she murmured words only to herself and the magic touched her there in her cunt and she was lost. I licked my finger and marked my position on the glass and turned to look at her. Bucking upon the chair in constant orgasm wild, lost under the sigil…

Look to me Blondie, see the truth as best we can prepare it. Look to me this parted head that sits upon the shaft. Look to me and see the truth to set yourself free as they even in defeat attempt to trick you, these Masters, these sick things. Servants of a false God, they make shadows and you watch them. They are the Black Popes….Intelligentia artificialis

Jack Parsons knew his Rockets would hit the Void Wall. He wanted to smash it and reveal the face of Quod Nigrum Solis. Jackson Pollock had seen it and painted it. What eyes he had to see, through the mirror and straight at thee. John F Kennedy described in, ‘The Military Industrial Complex, the will of Quod Nigrum.

Outside I could see the Militia patrolling, silent, gaze those as eyes silent vehicles. I wrote another sigil upon the glass ‘Eris Resplendent’ and the light spread to her sex and she ejaculated in great hot spurts of her passion. Breathless and fired up. Her own fingers deep in her mouth feeding on herself. Random chaos sister firer, blessed lost thing that soaks into the wood under her heels. She marks it as all good Goddesses do. I draw two wings upon the sigil  and behind her those two golden wings spread out behind her and she arches her back to stretch them her face in joy, rapture. You held the sun in your hands and the mirrors didn’t matter any more. I watched.

The Nigrum Solis would enable you to (quite possibly enable your software to) write a flexible script that could be used to prime, actively exploit the Eigen-effect and evoke desired schema associations, generally it would lead the conversant wherever you want them to go… with some degree of likelihood. A Mystical dream come true. For you.

“What did you do?” she asked.

On the wood floor the pools of her orgasm was sacrament, there dose of mental clap, the joy to fill their vessel. buck your hips Blondie, the very thought intrigues me, and we may use this magic to control or batter down the Holy doors. Who are we to incinerate the loves here? The Holy men speak in codes and shutter the night away behind their own madness and dogma, they control the Blessed Lambs to suckle feeble breasts, they gag on infested Dogmas. You fuck and they pray. The wet leather underneath you belongs to me.

Helter Skelter Frequencies


Well you clicked on the link! Brilliant! We are getting to you at last. This message is the work of many people who love you, we have been trying so hard to get through to you and this Blog was the only entrance into the world you are living in now. You have been asleep for many years, in a kind of coma. This message is our love for you and we want you to wake up and come home! Please wake up!

“Britpop was massively pushed by the government,” he said. “Someday it would be interesting to read all the MI5 files on Britpop. The wool was pulled right over everyone’s eyes there.” Kevin Shields

The Trauma toads are sparring with my social judgment and the former will eventually win so what the hell. I want so much to know what the hell happened to me. Something sure did. After that time in LA, I isolated having smoked something laced with angel dust or LSD, and did not fully come back into my body for years. What it means? Who knows.

The end had come and he watched the Sky fall and that place be taken away. The breath from his mouth was sucked away from him by the strength, the wrath that fired the ground beneath him and cut away the detritus. He held the raw Yew tighter as the crucified man wailed strange words at the wind. “Why have you taken me away when things were left undone?” This Man cried out. The sudden blow stricken, tight, too bright for me to see, I feel the anger of a Father, the rough hands of him who makes things, the shavings of Cedar at his feet are fragrant and he walks from his workshop to stand in the cool breeze that blows from the sea, his hands on his hips, proud. The Sun is hot but the sweat on his brow is as refreshing water. He can smell bread from the stoves across the way where the Bakers sing Hymns and songs as they work.

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 or incidents, driving the nails deep into our hearts. What do you do now sweet Princess? What things occupy your time? Homes Under The Hammer? Large glass of wine? Your feet tucked underneath you? The snotty tissues tucked under the cushion. I hold the door frame in a deathly grip as the machines scream. 

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 head 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 and that’s why I suffered but couldn’t tell you why.

I see you half asleep on your bed your beautiful body unveiled like a Phoenix, that hair so long, so lush and so teasing. I unbuttoned your shirt and I opened the blinds so the Sun came in. I gently bit your neck and pinched your nipple hard, and you said “Fuck” and had an orgasm that shook your shoulders and made a tendril of your hair slip over your eye. Coiled Gold. Blue eyed. California girl.

Swiftly with some fear he swung his Spear around him in an arc, his preparation unique, flowing, he was a Soldier of course. To the end of the shaft he slid the Iron hard wood to its end and pierced the man upon the cross. The spear entered his right side and our Soldier twisted it searching for the Hepatic artery and a swift end for this poor beaten thing and an end to this suffering. He did not deserve it, he did not ask for it. The Spear withdrawn caused a fountain of the warm blood to cover the head of the Soldier and drip into his eyes. He held his head tight and cried out to the night. “Charlie? Charlie?”

Eigenwise these Eigeneyes. My Brothers still shudder at the hand that cast their God aside as an errant child. He cast them aside as chaff in the wind or a lock of hair. Saw myself and my Brothers as Ash to be cleared away from the hearth. What power this God had and indeed what power he has in us too for are they not figments of his thoughts? The Eigen is a curtain used to hide and make simple stories for those that look only at shadows and think them real…

Articles Of Faith and The Polka Dot Dress


Fortunately i didn’t waste the better part of two thirds of one entire incarnation searching for truth. What a frivolous existence that would have been.

And throughout the field footprints were found forming the covert traces of the mind control manipulators from government-supported labs tracking the trends. Polka dot dresses and the Liars end.

She came shattering down the corridor and if the plastic office plants had life they would have bowed that much is for sure. In worship this ancient meme.

Carrying an armful of textbooks and paperwork that came spilling from her arms onto the polished floor. She had a Polka dot dress on that modestly covered her annihilations and heels with the strap, tight. Her hair ‘spilled’ ambrosionics, frequencies that made me look away and then hesitate, to help? Or put a first step onto the path of the unrighteous heretic. There is nothing in me except ‘Nomad’. Wanderer, the always lost, taking comfort in the silence between these ghosts and me.

I helped pick up the books. It was all a ruse I find out later, to speak to me, to communicate and press the subject further. I could not let flow the slick lies prepared for these occasions, these unsubtle polyphonic slips in the turgid flows between classrooms. She spoke, I was lost straight away. Those clipped vowels that resonance, those lips, those hips. Better to battle away the lines we spill, the lies like vomit. She demanded truth and she got it.

For a second there as you picked up the fallen papers, your hair brushed my arm and stopped my breath. You smelled of soap and books. It was the whole story I suppose, your will made real, you unlocked the door the Doctors told you that you wouldn’t, or couldn’t. Why are we the enemy, what do we have to face and where do we have to play dead? We are better off I think, ignorant. And things always lean over the bed, always make us suffer. Our ability is foreshortened, we cant play dead any more…

Even curious lab rats eventually tire of the cages and bite at the probing fingers.

In this end it didn’t matter about the fumbled clumsy finger or the the unbidden entry into life. Nowhere to complain with a a halted breath on red wet lips or the rain cold in your hair that made it curl. You shiver and press against me, I keep you warm, and then I keep you hot. A hard button close to clasp and I give you a sour teatime treat at the railway station platform, my hand in your dress as the people press around us and the trains roll on. I find that my hand on your sex makes you bump your body against mine as I bring you to orgasm and the world turns on and you close your eyes for a second. They move to places and you become the center. There is a drop of rain on your eyelash and I feel your nipples hard under that thin dress and we are taken in a tumult of harsh noise and a Diesel filled wind as the train goes past and the people crush. I taste you on my fingers as the 8.15 to Glasgow pulls in, and you are gone.

The fake civilised conversations over time have evolved from the Bible, the Koran, the Torah and other esoteric instruments of social and religious instruction and coercion to the more recent subtle, subliminal and alleged, almost ethereal quantum controls – to the point that mass meme manipulation manifests without manifesting openly or appearing in any material manifest, using delivery systems to the brain that the targets cannot detect until desired outcomes arrive.

The foundations of the Black Iron Shithole rocked to the bedrock, the bare bones of the cursed earth and seven times seven locks the door and shuts the sun out the paint it peels and softens when the Black Sun crosses the border. Only the young still have the warmth they brought in with them, and they will watch and grow old as the tendrils of their intimate knowledge falls away from them. I try and I try to cling on too, and love too but maybe I’m too old. We look to the West and mountains they look much too cold. Maybe the simple songs are the ones that get higher the higher and the taller and our love it will sting the sourer but the pain it grows on, and heartbeats are meant to die slow. Someone is holding my hand.

We wait for our Princesses to save us of course. The wait aches.

23 Degrees See Annihilation Methods


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.

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.

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.

Ever The Clumsy Mystic


Photograph by Michelle Copeland-Robinson

The Photograph reminded me, and even though I try to let those fingers of memory slip. It’s a warm and subtle joy I suppose.

The strangest thing is for a man to walk and have no idea why. We settle ourselves down comfortably like a dog in front of a fire, we settle our hearts firmly within the warmth of human sufferance. Which is why I walk a graveyard. I am not settled, I have no idea of any use, all of them are pointless vapid electric animal codes.  I have a pain in my side that gnaws and bites as I walk through the leaves and rubbish. I go back to the car with the lovers fucking, they are gone, but….they never went past me, their car is gone into thin air, the ether, disappeared.

Another push of the envelope and he feels the Earth turn and burn at a touch. He was sitting on a piece of storm worn tree on the shore as the wind from the Lake refreshed him he could hear her in the cabin further up the Beach settled and hidden by a stand of Acacia and Birch. He could hear her rattling pans and doing the things she did. He let the water gently lap against his feet still in shoes and socks. He sat and let the odd small wave soak his shoes and he sat, and watched but felt no need to move. He remembered instead standing at the doorstep with her and the eyes that looked somewhere else even though she was looking straight at you. He had a need to upset the Apple cart, to flick an idle stream of spit from his mouth to the cleaner floors. Maybe those floors were Hospital floors. He felt a pain inside.

I rub a clean surface onto the wall and a circle stands out upon it, maybe an inch or two thick but perfect. I sit back and look upon its beauty for a minute and hold my poor mouth which bleeds a little from the socket of my snapped front tooth. A Circle yes. On the floor a small piece of concrete no bigger than a fingernail, I start to make the circle bolder and more clear by scraping the small piece of concrete, using it as a chalk.

She never stopped talking, of her friends and the things she had done. She had become breathless with it all and threw herself down in front of me with her eyes wide open, smiling and then serious almost comically.

I have to admit to something” she said, she bit her lower lip, while I died for a second. “When I was at University a friend of mine said he could fix me up with a guy and have sex with him for £400 and I did, what do you think of that?” she asked me. I smiled and kissed her lips softly. “He got you too cheap” I said. Her face became as an Angels. I turned my head to the pillow so the Nurses wouldn’t see me weep.

I turned away and concentrated on her. She moved like a snake, subtle tilts of the hip as she walked around sipping tea, putting on make up, chatting about the day to come, re-energised by the fucking and the biting she was ready to face the day. Why would this affect her so much, what energies did she store from wicked love making? Her lips beautiful my own mind shattered.

Hey dude” he said, to nobody in particular. “I’m really tired please tuck me in, tell the ghosts be gone. Take the wires away and pull out the tubes, draw the curtain around me be still the work and the noise. Bury me deep, where they cant hurt me any more”

Every word she spoke stuck into me like a Prison shank, a blade shoved right into my gut. She could recite a shopping list and kill me by the time she got to the milk and bread. What am I going to do with you? You have wrapped the world around you so tight it’s like a shroud. Your eyes blinded by the height of the walls plot designs upon the faceless brick.

You make your days full of the simple things that make these lives revolve and turn. Lest we burn up in the awfulness of our experience you layer the lives and the machinations into ever greater heights and distance. You have made your Prison a happy home, somewhere you feel safe. Trapped but free to demand your own loves. He that rots in a Hospital bed, he that sits and designs within the cell the things upon the wall think of you always sweet desired. You made such a cleft heart in these men and still they suffer your gentle touch and I try to heal them with continuity, of a sense that things confused as they seem will in the end be laid bare for all to see. Forgiveness will be offered.

The Red Dragon In Black Leather


No matter how complex our instruments may be, no matter how sophisticated and subtle our theories and calculations, it’s still our consciousness that finally interprets our observations. And it does so according to its knowledge and conception of the event under consideration. It’s impossible to separate the way consciousness works from the conclusions it makes about an observation. The various aspects that we make out in a phenomenon are determined not only by how we observe, but also by the concepts that we project onto the phenomenon in question.

Matthieu Ricard

The dead would ride by asleep in long black shiny cars, ready for whatever, the mourners sick with their own mortality cry tears for themselves, mindless of the sex and the filth but a hands breadth away through steamed windows as they glided past. The rain would fall and his lips would be on her breasts hungry and grasping, mindless of the pain of it and the sheer anger their lovemaking entailed. Arms and legs smashed against the interior. She would cry out and he would close his eyes and steady himself, lost.

She would anger quick, the fucking energised her, made her want to exclaim, and he would would shush her and hold her nipple tight in a grip of pain betwixt finger and thumb, rolling it. She closed her eyes and through the windscreen and the world about the clouds parted for a second and the low December Sun shone through and lit her exposed breasts and throat, her lips parted a little and she opened her eyes and the sun shone out of them a blue so blue, so lost, a blue of Arctic skies. The thin light made the drops of rain on the windows shine like diamonds on her skin. Leave the light on sweetest heart, Let me think of the summer, and let this evil be gone. But it never did and the frigid damp air of the cemetery blew through the window. 

He offered her a Conker he had picked up this second. It had split as it had fallen. But don’t we all? A beautiful seed, polished and here, it occupied a position in the grass aside from its kind. So shined so expertly produced a marvel it was. He offered it to the girl who stood before him before him. She wore a simple Red dress and white cotton pinafore, a mass of tumbled blonde hair that had been kitchen cut and slashed but not tamed yet. She laughed and kissed his cheek and ran into the greenery. He looked down and saw he had pissed himself. In the sky a black triangle revolved.

The desert was abandoned, the desert sucked him in, made him feel like a thing, a cog in a whole complex of other cogs. He drew heavily on the cigarette to dampen the heavenly smells of the Gasoline mixed with the perfume of the night blooming desert flowers. As time flowed around him he felt time itself as a shroud to be escaped, and now here so close, he could feel the tendrils of it fall off him like mist. He saw the Eigen split, and he shrunk before the power of the the vast sky. Within it a Great Red Dragon spun between the spokes of the Suns final rays. He vomited again, between his feet. In the distance ghostly cities long gone and soon to come drifted on the horizon.

Here and there a Rabbit would bound from bush to thin bush looking for something or some other Rabbit, It bounded, hid behind a depression in the ground then jumped again, skittish aware. It stopped at a plant and started to eat it looking around at all times for some Predator or what ever.. As Dillinger watched it, unnoticed across that Purple and deep Blue sky a thin White line appeared from the North, thin and crisp and with great speed it split the sky in half. The upper half Blue and Black, the lower half Purple, light Blue and Golden. The line changed direction once twice, three times etching the sky with geometric precision, a set of lines that made up Triangles, and squares within squares, triangles on edge, upside down slicing the skyscape with ordered and accurate lines.

He looked at her smiling and smiled himself, despite the pain. In the Circle clouds made shapes of a woman laughing at something. Her sunglasses are high, pushed back on her head. Her breasts bounce as she laughs and the sun shines. The fuel push-rod on the Beetle is worn and in the distance the  Farmer idly pushes the dirt, and there she stood and framed herself in the mighty sun and she shone like an Angel. The wind blew and her hair moved with it and got in her eye and she laughed and spluttered as one went in her mouth she leaned against the Car and her Red dress tightened across her belly her hips bumped as she laughed and covered her mouth as she was shy now, who knew why. Her eyes told a story made free with sun frozen stars so bright speckled and golden like little suns in the Desert night cool air. Her feet are dirty I clean them with some bottled water and she laughs as the water is cold, but her feet are clean. I light a spliff and a radio somewhere id blaring out the Crosby Stills Nash and Young track ‘You don’t have to cry’. She laughs and sings along while things get hazy for me.