She was very intelligent, this deity. She was focused that much was true. A Brunette thing. Ethereal probably, metaphysical traits rampant and the need. The dude onstage was doing a Miles Davis thing. 50% Right. He was a black dude.
Somebody knocked me and I felt a stab of the violent then remembered. It was a Jazz Club. Miles Davis. The black dude. Her. Young sitting poised on the edge of the seat looking bored but dangerous. Refocus your fucking efforts lad. Redefine the edges. She was beautiful and for a moment I tasted the grease of the gun on my lips all those years ago. She dressed magnificent. Puritan. That flesh to gaze at hard to define and where vision lacked the mind filled in the gaps.
‘bambambamtiddlywiddlybop taa taa taa sadaratta derderderder bam bam bam darratta’
The band said. I said ‘Your lips are lovely, I love your nose, your tits are nice too’ but it was too loud and I said them to myself.
People who do not acknowledge the Black Iron State, collude with it
Her strange dark green dress and those lovely slinky heels. But I could tell she knew something about it all. Which one are you? Mysterious thing. The stable variable? I knew last week that the violence of the world and it’s state would evoke a stable variable. This was her I was sure. Wrapped up like that watching Jazz, in a club, at 2am
You see ‘The men carried around sadness and piety so it got into their clothes, into their skin. At one point we sewed some of our mouths shut and we also filled the night with prayer and invocation. Rage at captivity went into the animals, our food source, our lake, and drinking water. The rage and surrender to it surrounded us and became a part of our lives, so unfortunately it was all a pantomime’.
Hanuman is said to be able to assume any form at will, wield rocks, move mountains, dart through the air, seize the clouds and rival Garuda in swiftness of flight. He is worshiped in folk tradition as a deity with magical powers and the ability to conquer evil spirits. Also known as an avatara of Lord Rama, he is considered the God of power (Maruti [ god of the Wind]).
Rama Lama Ding Dong. You have to help yourself of course all that talking and remaining in yourself and we don’t even believe it any more. Help or sink into the abyss, sometimes it’s easier to keep your mouth shut. These words are fake sigils, slick combustible nonsense for the masses. We know we speak for the future when we have escaped the adulation and the joy as they read about us. It will be all they ever need these tales of me and you. We help ourselves by getting lost, by sleeping and waking, our sigils will never bleed on the pavement.
We wont let our lives turn alley black surely? She knows the Black Sun ray. She knows the stink of the Prophets, those instruments and the caress of light leaving our bodies and let the nightmares sink and die. No flowers for us. No confusion.
She got into my car. Locked up in it.I couldn’t even put the key in the ignition. Slick glass brings you closer and be all I ever needed. Bring the sense here and here she lay breathless, same as always, same as it’s ever been. Sideways and away as soft as butter, we never surfaced surely. Enemies, Lovers and witnesses waiting for a call. She was lovely but never confuse her with the other evocations. Fuck no. You never stray over the lines, never improvise. That’s your brain tricking you. Making another prisoner of you. I rubbed my hands hard into my face. What’s wrong with the scene. She spoke, only her eyes lit by a bright store front. As a blindfold of light.
‘roll and throw away tonight all that night air and let the world burn. We can’t prove anything any more.’ She dropped that straight out and put me at ease straight away. She tucked in her knees and I went around the block again, the streets deserted.
‘Throw the wind out and let the curious care for shattered lives and those things that make them vomit and choke’ She said. But just a moment Angel, we just watched ourselves walk by, our madness mirrored in the sky. Come back with me, catch the things you left behind in the foolish mind.
Catch over and let the massacres cross over while we keep turning. As if we feel the heat from it, burning and unsettled. We are the lost and the no-one.
Angel. The signal to noise ratio is too high. Soon these people we see around us are going to start the ultimate conspiracy, the ultimate plot which will make all the other plots dither. Witch hunts and pogroms Angel baby.The trend will be exponential. You turn to look at me at last. Your voice cracks emotion electricity power.
‘It’s always like you said it would be, you were right every time. Everything is a short story. Everything love and heroes, every day a blue sky, every flower perfect that it should hurt our eyes but it doesn’t’, She spoke softly, just as I knew she would.
We have all the things we need. The key is to arrange things so that they work with each other, you know synergistic.
For this we need to create new correspondences between our categories to create better chances for resonance and mutual support. Angel? You want to play hell with the narrative? Be the stable variable, the straight line graph? In this world turned to chaos?
“If a person comes up with evidence that is not an extension of an existing framework, but rather demolishes it / shows it is wrong, then the degree of reaction from the system will be proportional to the number and strength of vested interests affected by this information.”
Maybe. I drove onto the M54. The Mountains will know. She smiled.