Excerpt From the Chapter ‘The Mandela Effect’

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The cell encompassed him, became in essence the world he lived and existed within and in his memory he could find no precious childhood, no past that existed before this place. There was nothing just him and four grey walls and one with a door, one with a small barred window set high.

What twisted memories he had, mere tendrils of concrete thought. A man is dying in a Hospital plagued with regret and lost love. A man robs banks and murders others, he lives in the shadows of the great Goddess although his time may come soon. Him, he, Within the Prison, No memory of his past or power. Another man, ageless who lives within shadow.He communes with Gods.

Often he would laugh and bury his face in his hands so the Black clad Guards wouldn’t hear him. Another hour in another memory he would be watching Fairies dance in the Clouds as the Morphine they pumped into him held him aloft and free, without much of a care, just waiting to die, blessed by the Golden airs of the Opium Poppy. Turned by the soft hands of hard tired Nurses. The fire behind me now, just a smudge of a glow against the Mountains, the snow beneath my feet hard and frozen and the small Brown hand of the Shaman held aloft.

Yet sitting upon the cold damp concrete he sends out these memories like young children. To discover the bounds and the ropes that bind him. Settling his mind somewhere he is familiar with, a gap between lives where nothing ever grows or lives but exists nonetheless and nevertheless to discover the limits.

Lets try to remember the shaded subtle spots in our lives and those horror filled times as thoughts expected not to see but to heal for the shadows lie and the heart doesn’t feel, just yet. What do you do now those times are past? It seems to me that we deny every reality but pick up your phone again to see what strange things you have done to me as I sit and listen to the Brothers clad in Black.They speak in tongues babbling inane shit talk under the door.

He sees a man sat on the edge of a bed and his life force is nearly spent and this man picks over the silent memories he has, the loves and the loss he felt and now utterly spent he regards them as lost moments. A chance lost maybe, and eventually all things end in jealous words, angry countenance, bitter movements under sheets.That stiff cotton weave twisted by weak hands, holding on tight? Or loathe to scratch and bite?

Try to see the Golden paths, the life we have is past and gone but pressure ties the bonds between us and is strong. We are edged and bright and the cold stills the night outside the Hospital. The anger you held up for me is lost in the pain I have now but send a text message and a forbidden word quick! Read it before he sees.

I will sit and let my head touch the floor and my heart bleed. I fear the spiral and feel the burn but don’t let your heart be lost and never fill with lust again. Besides our own griefs that of the street outside where the learned weep and the Holy plot their lies. Be content, for the children make Sigils in chalk on the concrete slabs.

I know your lips are dry again but I cannot believe we save ourselves by taking the sorrow in greed, filling ourselves with it, drunk on it. Ever present is the sore question in need of an answer but my false words turn around in forensic circles as you pick apart the false Gods from the liars and thieves.

I put a lock of hair behind your ear, and my hand catches a warm fat tear that tracks across your face but you turn your eyes away and this fluid errant phase is lost in the cold and the Police are driving past slow. They watch us.They are the agents of provocation. Pulse Police.

The mind of the Prisoner aches with the memories not his. He knows no slut Goddess, he knows nothing of the world these memories sit within. But deep within the Prison, within the bowels of it if they had an end, he hears the cogs shift and the beams that hold it strong and aloft twist ever so slightly.

A memory that is his? Alone?

Now I fear the end to come, the end a final road to travel down and this madness will end. A fear inside of what’s left to bear, or a scrap of paper and a stinking poem no one reads. A pleasure I suppose unlooked for, a crowd of cops, a deserted alley, what you did….abandoned me. To let an idle hand slip, a warm hand into my lap, to veil my eyes with delights and free things to love. Other hands are calloused with desire and hate for us. We see you for what you are, a simple lonely shining Star clad in your Red dress while upon the screen in Black and White they murdered and loved. While foul things called men settled in soft chairs, in clouds of smoke. They watch you touch yourself.

 

Day Tripper

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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.

Is your coat warm enough?

Does a lowering of temperatures bring some sort of stasis, an emotional plateau? Her hair was everywhere again. Curled brass that spilled everywhere. When she went to get something out of her bag stuff went everywhere, all over the floor. Everywhere. Now what the fuck did that mean? Everywhere.

‘I don’t know any more’ she said. ‘Why I feel the need to fuck so much and each step up the ladder of passion rings the sex out of me further and further and I need it. That Catharsis fuck in order to be material and fresh for you’ She bent and picked up a lipstick and opened her shirt and lay her breasts free from her bra. With the lipstick she scrawled a Sigil upon them and two words. ‘Hard Fuck’. I didn’t know what she was getting at.

‘I find it hard to be bothered I know that’ I said. I used a wet wipe to clean her off as she stared out of the window like some love lorn poet. Like me probably. With that look that we had that made us stay away from railway stations, steel bridges and high places. I kissed her neck tenderly and smoothed down her hair. Buttoned her back up and dabbed at the tear tracks.

‘Don’t let this place blind you to what you are darlin’ I said. She smiled, beautiful thing. She broke my heart the first time I saw her and every single time since. In the background the club pulsed in quick finger bursts. There were men waiting for her, to delve her and she wanted them, was hungry for them. I wanted the rain outside and I walked away and left her to it. Opposite the club was a doorway with enough light for me to write as I waited for her. The Sigil she wrote, it looked like a 33. Ah fuck off. The rain was cold and the door closed behind me shutting out the laughter and the forbidden acts.

Twist your hands. Rip up the ticket in your pocket into little squares. As you wait.
You know five bites on your back are strange and it’s obvious he’s a wicked man. A transparent shadow puppet a fired up case against the holy gleam that is you. The lullaby won’t soothe and the sicker you get, reach out a trembling hand and yet. His feet scrabble the mud at the root of the tree and his number etched is 33. You see, most peoples number is 33.

She teases them with her seed covered breasts. The licking beast and the hypnotised God. The Om is always On and the Hod always full and 33 a number till the demons belly is emptied.

Perhaps a Mile away from the edge of the Abyss when it gets too steep to comfortably scrabble down, you will find an Altar. I have no clue who built it or what traveler caused it to be. It is made from what passes as Granite in this place or something similar. On several occasions i have approached it in order to examine it but there is a thicker strand of time here. Carved upon it in Simuylian are the words ‘Behold the Slut’. There are the remains of fire on the polished top. Placing your hands upon it allows you to see the three visions of Summerland. You must be facing away from the Abyss or the Eigengrau will close at the contact of the hands with the stone. The three visions are;

1. The Frosted grass at night, not far from the Inn with books and friends.
2. The Path home with a leather bag and fellow travelers
3. I sit at the edge of the River and weep at it’s beauty

The reverse of the three visions are..

1.The Slut displayed and sodomised on the sheets of smooth Irish linen a trail of saliva from her mouth to her breasts.

2.She masturbates furiously whenever she can with the awful truth that she feels. Those fingers rarely stop.

3.Her shirt is far too tight and her breasts are in danger of spilling out but she loves the stares she gets and can’t help herself.

If you are disorientated and close the Eigengrau by standing upon the wrong side then if you have Eris still beside you put your hand upon her throat and one upon your heart. This way the Eigen will rapidly rebuild from the Base Prison Male Monad to the Complex Life Female Monad.

On the Horizon between the blackness of the Heather
the darker skies above streaked with midnight
i laugh as they kick me in the balls again
their anger is sick with passionless embrace
soft squeak of boots on the filthy floor of the cell
they are artless freak fried and denizens of nothing
they fucking permeate the substrate
they try every minute, to see what’s in it
that bit you have left for yourself, that you share
pick like scavengers and thieves, kick like a Donkey
smile like a Priest, you feign sicker minds than yours
i laugh through broken teeth and mask of blood
what loves to give, if you could be arsed you would
you sit and fiddle while home burns, you sit and feel
the pain of bones too sick and tired to heal
what fucking clue you have you peel aside and reveal
a sour eyed cunt with no heart to feel
this presence i have to know i walk alone
to see thee as players on a stage to preen
yet you castigate me with lashes of dire need
the flashing of your teeth in the dark led me to believe
we were safe here but it was not to be
every time we believe them for our own sanity
they plot the ways to grind you up, spit you out
these creatures lesser beasts , the number 33