A Farewell to Things


Well, it’s been a rocky road doing this blog. Metaphysical and physical problems abounded. It’s brought me to tears on a few occasions and made me laugh out loud. At it’s height it was pulling in twelve thousand hits a day and at it’s lowest nobody at all. Today is the last post, I’ve taken the Eris ritual as far as I can and now the rituals will be a lot darker and a lot more dangerous. I’ve been asked to do more work for the ‘SyncMasters’ a Swiss based working group who roam the murky corners of the ‘Darknet’ collating empirical data on synchronicity events and Deep State use of esoteric and occult narratives. It’s funky but it’s not something you will find out about on Google.

Over the years this blog has been operational I have been asked many times what the fuck is it all about? I have had many people make their own conclusions. From publicising my sexual ‘Conquests’ to prattling quasi esoteric bollocks. I suppose both of them are true and trust me when I say I have been aptly punished for the above reasons. The Blog has caused the break up of a relationship, somebody threatened to have me killed. It put one ex lover of mine in Hospital. A collaboration ended in the cameraman admitting himself into a mental hospital for six months. Another project on the Black Iron Prison theme became an endless and fruitless attempt to record an album of music with a voice over. That stopped when the actress we asked to do it kept having nightmares and hearing voices under her bed. Fuck. Mad times.

So what was it all about?

I’m not saying. Every time I try to explain it I end up with a jumble of meaningless bollocks. It defies explanation, all of it. Also pertinent is that I left out fucking loads. The bedside visitations by Phillip K Dick and John Dillinger. The letters from William Burroughs after he was dead, I could go on. We live in a strange place my friends and our eyes are slowly being opened up to what we are and why we are. These blogs are ten a penny but in every one is a segment of an answer. Every movie made contains an element of divine truth, every creative act is the truth trying to force it’s way through the bars of the prison to us. I hoped through these posts to push the issue and utilise every weapon I had in my esoteric and occult knowledge to find out the truths. I could have written them in a notebook or ledger but the very fact people would read them would perhaps strengthen their power in some way. The web is practically worldwide now and this global reach would perhaps amplify some of the words trying to break through. Perhaps within the words [as chaotic as some of them may be] there would be segments of an answer so maybe I could start putting together a hypothesis, so I could test it, get results, come to some sort of fucking conclusion.

Did it work? Fuck yeah. In ways I could never have predicted. It’s well known that Sigils have an awful power. But complex non geometric narratives as Sigils became even more potent. The posts were written in one go mostly and barely edited except for horrible spelling and some punctuation. They are seat of the pants stuff but they provided me with evocation after evocation of the Deity I had badly chosen. Eris. Her appearances became more and more volatile and strange, she was the random variable after all. 

If you have to know about her she’s on every line on every post. She is Omnipresent. The idea that the blog was a narcissistic list of my conquests is wrong and I am horrified that people would think that. For the record I never laid a finger on any of my women. I couldn’t, that would have spoiled the whole thing. Any sexual contact is pure fabrication and I was purely an observer at all times.  Trust me when I say the information flow would have been broken as soon as I laid a finger on them. 

So here it is, enjoy what you can of it, it was a fucking rollercoaster.

If you have any questions about the whole project you can find me on Twitter @petalengro

The 23 Songs Of The Dharma Bulls


In simpler days it might have worked

but in these strange times

the only thing that loves

also hurts the worse


He smashed the barrel of the gun into his temple several times grunting with each hollow whack of the barrel.

‘Ow’ He said after each time and after a number of good fucking smacks blood started to trickle down his face and he ran to the mirror to look, turning his face this way and that until the blood started to run down his chin. He ran into the living room to get his Phone and take a picture but the image looked wrong. He looked effeminate under the light bulb which was a dim energy saver thing. Into the kitchen and the fucking strip light, brighter but now he looked ill. Fuck it. He shook his head and the drops of blood went on the tile floor and over the glossy cupboards.

An hour before he had gone for a shit. Bolted the door and pulled down his trousers, sat down, picked up Dicks ‘Exegesis’. Took the Rizla out that he used as a bookmark. He turned to his favourite quote.

‘I have, through my disturbed Id, found that somethings were very wrong about the world, in fact I knew the whole thing was a charade’

A big drop of blood appeared from nowhere. ‘Splot’ on the page. A big red drop of crimson red black drop. It looked like the spread rays of a great Black Sun.

Two days before he had watched Laura giving him head. He had actually watched her suck off several strange men at the side of the road that night. Her kneeling on the rough tarmac avidly sucking cock while the overweight van driving van groped her tits. He thought it was a bit rough and was about to step in but she ripped her black shirt open so he could get more, and she pulled both breasts free so he could get more.

After a while he sat back on the bonnet of his car and smoked while these strangers blew their seed into her face and over her breasts. She was covered in the filth of the A5, animal, vegetable and mineral. He stared at the blue leds of the parked Audi where he could see her silhouette as her hunger, audible and in harmony with the low hum of Germanys finest engineering. People that drive Audis are cunts, he thought. She had pulled her knickers off and another man had his hands there, right there. But the lights were the bright ones, the hollowness of them was apparent but they were false blue bright things and they occupied him as they pulled apart her legs. Black in the blueness, shadows of fucking and the wind was cold, September? He had forgotten.

Gather the robes and sheets,cover unholy heads in soft lights. Beg indifference and ignorance, our hearts are hidden.

They were laughing now, they had finished their acts, she still basked in the glory of it all, her hair slick with spunk, legs still apart, her underwear cast away. She came to him at last and breathed a sigh. He gave her a wet wipe and she cleaned herself off as best she could while he smoked, relaxed as the traffic roared past. He looked at her and the lights from the traffic made little black suns dance over her face as she laughed and giggled. He gave her the cigarette and she posed erect pouting, one arm across her breasts supporting her elbow. She winked at him as she held the cigarette poised between those beautiful slick fingers.

For tangled hearts are wont to bleed, to fulfill that darker natural need. A desire untold to shatter morbid morals, argument and violence, deceit and quarrels’.She laughed and blew the smoke away where it was whirled into a spiral from the passage of an articulated truck. She opened his car door and slid in, she wound down the window her face lit red from the rear lights of the trucks and cars.

An hour later she was showering and singing as he stood by the window looking out at the street. It was dark out there and between the houses the alleyways were alive with ghosts. Trapped in the dark and afraid of the sodium lights but they watched and although shadows they had the alertness of a hunting dog. The curtains of the flats on the other side of the road glittered with the glow of TV shows. The light fixated and the people you bump into and would hate in the day. He was smoking weed now the drive was over and its numbness crept into him, like a soft blanket where he was away and gone somewhere else but the reflection in the window he saw her come out of the kitchen half dressed but unconscious of that fact. The church at the end of the street. Saint Luke, the lights were on, Wednesday, they had a service for something. 

‘I wish you wouldn’t smoke in the flat’ She said and smashed herself down on the bed and started playing with herself. Gather the Veils and the Blind,lead them not unto elation.Deliver them from Seasons,and wretched continuity.

I offer nothing at all of thanks as she slowly started to move her hips in the same rhythm as the hand. We know the halls of Men are oft to fall, shot down against the cold brick of an outside wall. I press a hand to the cold window and rest my head against it cool. Through the skull the night air cool sets in stone the memories stored inside. 

Two black men were arguing outside. It looked like a Hip Hop video as they traded silent insults at each other, made gun fingers, walked forwards, walked back, walked forwards again, gesticulations inches away from the faces. Eventually they walked away still shouting, coming forward, back until eventually they were too far apart. The violent zeitgeist was over. But the ghosts watched.


The Transverse Constantine


She loved to sit on the leather chair and funk along with the old school hip hop CD he liked to play while the men walked into the room and took their places. Underneath the shit bald bulb she looked as cream would. That Red latex thing again, her hair scraped back for business. She had her big shades on. She unzipped the front of her dress and her breasts fell out. She pulled the nipples hard in her rubber gloved grasp. Her face didn’t twitch a bit.

Closing my eyes I saw the reflection, the shadow of that cross screwed to the wall, screwed well to deter the thieves. Am I the grand thief? On the page in front of me a depiction of Jesus before the cross. It’s a pamphlet from the Jehovahs Witnesses. I reach underneath the bed and take out the ADIDAS bag. Inside is the Colt. I cock the weapon and the late sun makes it red. Everything red.

But the Red of his cloak cast at the foot of the Yew Cross was the same Red as her dress as I chased her through the late afternoon on a Birmingham street….and I feel that Redness spread beneath me as I sit and watch her move around the Hotel room. Doing Woman things, a strange ritual that involves nothing at all but filling Time. Her back to me. Delicious, and I lay my Gun down on my lap She walks into the bathroom. She talks of course, never stops. But between the pauses I bring the Gun to my lips and then she starts talking again and I lower it. Up and down, all around. She speaks and I stop trying to shoot myself through the rood of my mouth but now my saliva tastes of Oil and if she asks me to speak I fear I may vomit.But she’s talking, she knows…

“I loved it” she said, “Every fucking minute I loved it, do you know the blackness between the fucking stars?, the cold?, the ignorance of the Demiurge?” her voice growing quieter and the traffic outside silent. My insides hurt again but I slipped my hand between her legs any way. Who cares. Up her cunt without a paddle, singing ‘the fuck with it’, none of it’s fucking real any way.

The tantra can go into a mindnumbing circle. By Tantra I mean the incessant evokation and ritual. The endless need for a muse when there simply isn’t any need for one at all. The Erisean method is the trickiest thing. It will take you to the edge of everything you know and you will not have the ability to look back.

In any true magical experience the end of any ritual would be the ‘ripping’ sound you hear at orgasm. That is the ‘soul’ manifesting itself into the Eigenspace and out of the Black Iron Prison. The sound can also be an explosion between your ears. While in the Eigenspace you will have no knowledge of the Prison only a subtle longing for her that you will never understand. I delete all the messages, all the photographs, forget all the names simply because she is all of them, and none.

Now I fear the end to come you see, these songs were never for you, but the end a final road to travel down and this madness will seem a stupidity of an apeman. 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, us fucking on a train, what you did….you 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 cigar smoke. They watch you touch yourself.You love it and laugh as they draw closer.

But while I was in Intensive care at New Cross Hospital, I saw what real death was. The pain and the awful horror of it. Dosed up on intravenous Morphine I flipped in and out of consciousness. ‘Grace’ a black female Nurse looked after me, one on one. She sat by my side for the three days in there. Watching the machines pump things into me. I couldn’t even lift my head I was that ill but I could turn in and see her sitting there smiling. Months later I went back with a card and a box of chocolates for her, she was an Angel. 

They didn’t know what I was talking about. Who Grace was, they remembered me. There was nobody there called Grace.

Were we too intent upon our own fast beating hearts. We suffered no gladness, no clear way through but expected a grisly end to us. To accept gladly the sullen whip, to gather soft fantasies and joy inside, made us free for a while, and I could forget the things that split open my head every day with keen splitting edge. To break free from the awfulness of being a prerequisite to lie to cheat and steal.

Christian repression of the Mysteries has set back our people for a thousand years. This is the house Constantine built. That sucker, searcher for forgiveness, the unable whore of the prison.

He held her outstretched hand and although warm and possessing that loving touch he knew it was a void. She held a wealth of magic that never included him, except in passing of course. So Gods and Goddesses play with their toys. Souls they turn and burn they want and we yearn always for the wisdom afforded to them and not us kept ignorant.So they come and they go, these incarnations. Brown hair one day, blonde the next, auburn, strawberry blonde, black and blue. None of them ever stay for long.

You can do it if you try be brave but if the lesser hearts are still to be saved then who is the guilty one under this God?, this Goddess? Whose children are we? Sweet faced things, we are the tragedy of the love you bring and it breaks our hearts but inside your eyes the hidden stars, the sweepings of Gods workshop, the shavings he has made to the job clutched tight into the Vice. I battle the hidden thoughts they place within me, every magical movement I make is but an unconscious twitch. Could we ever bring ourselves to pray when the Witch Sister already showed the way?

The 13 Visions of Dr Vibes


She thinks I am fucking her and her hips smash against metaphysical mine, she is aggressive and wanting. Her anger dictates the rhythm of the fucking and she grabs my wrists and places them on her neck. She arches her back and screams at me to squeeze as tight as I could, shut the fucking thing off completely. I pretend I am doing it hard. No way am I suffering more sin.No way.

You held back, why do you do that?” she asked me later. I was watching her close as she fucked around on her phone. Talking about the fucking with her friends. Sharing her shit with the world in taps of her long Red fingernails. Could it be anything fucking else?  She is annoyed about something she reads on Twitter. Lightening is in her vision. Eyes black in the half light reflecting subtle glints. Drawing her claws.

You held back when I asked you to choke me.” She stated, of course, it was now a fact. A delicious morsel for her to prick and hold aloft.

She didn’t laugh, next to him. Her hand moved to his as if to assure him of something, some stillness pervaded the air between them, she was still as a Lake. She wore her ink well and that ink reflected the ring of hooded men flickering on and off, on and off, on the screen above. She looked made of blood metal. An abstract thing sexual and depraved and of course unbidden, not respectful of tradition and habit. This whore of Babylon. Her eyes afire in the glow from the screen.

I had to move away of course. The car JFK had been murdered in now has six seats not four. A shift of course. She disrobed and stepped from the circle. This one tattooed. Shades of Laura May. Aloof and guarded as Kate, insane as a maze with no end. She lay down on the stretched tight sheet and wound herself around in them. Thirteen times around the body and thirteen times around the leg. 

‘I’m the reason we can’t have nice things’ She says. She is taking photos of herself with her phone.

Fingers sweat twisted we sing the praises of the ones we love the most, those who wish to hasten towards their end and to to sink within the soft mattress and forget at last. To hold cold steel, to stare eyeless what would be the end for for us dear friend, a soft electronic delusion ended at last. A bullet flies past and I lift a hand to touch it but its energy is infinite and it exists in all times. It is the same bullet that kills everyone in the end. All bullets have the same name. Us.

There’s nothing mysterious about this process. It is not much different to other instances where a person is almost ready to make a metaphysical decision. A ‘Gut Act’, and the right combination of inputs makes them act. For example you have an Evocation or stream and it begins to break down more often: now you’re thinking about replacing it, and you might be swayed by something in a message on your phone that contains a photograph of a lush ass and a raised eyebrow. Anyone who is familiar with Eigensystems and alternity shifts knows how this works, and Eris will often target her chaos to people who are “ready to buy” and just need a little persuading. Erisean candidates often target their Evoker to the undecideds, hoping that a little nudge will win them some reality time. This is perfectly abnormal and insidious. It is perfectly fine.

In this end it didn’t matter about the fumbled clumsy selfie or the the unbidden entry into life. We had nowhere to complain, no where to trust anymore. With a halted breath on wet lips or the rain cold in your hair. 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. 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 Shit-Town pulls in, and you are gone.

You can only say ‘Who’s she?’ Once, then your own mind is made up and you know her intimately for in that split second after she is named she is under your hand, sweat soaked, crying as you force her to take another hit of beautiful cocaine. I hold her hair tight in my fist and force her to turn her head. I grab her phone and laugh as i take a dirty flash selfie to keep, her naked flesh alight, her eyes black with make up, cocaine on her face, cheeks, nose her snot clogged with coke and blood, eyes like fucking pissholes in the snow.

“Why is there six seats in the limousine and not four, have we shifted?”

She began to speak and with each rhythm of the word she pushed her ass back as if she was being fucked real slow.

Just to look behind the curtain, to clear the eyes of tragedy. Try to expect free vision, see things as they really are and push aside the pain for just a second is all” She touched me as a lover would but I didn’t know what she was at all.“We are alone for but awhile but testify that in the end will begin and follow whatever path we think correct. We are not over anything at all” She whispered, and was lovely.

DMT, extra-dimensional entities, MK-Ultra, number stations?

I take another photo, she is sucking her fingers, mopping up that bad cocaine on the coffee table. Bad girl. I’m Dr Vibes.

In his hands a photo, his eyes devoured it as he heard the fizz of a round cracking down the street. She was lovely, he never even knew her but it remained, a memory he thought. A better time when all he did was sit sometimes in the garden a smoke a spliff, watch the aeroplanes going places high above through the smogs. Sometimes he would go to sleep and the sun would burn his eyes.

Whatever happened had something to do with her. That’s the only thing I’m sure of. Maybe I accidentally tapped into her source energy ? I’m almost positive I could see exactly where the line was and which way it was running. West, always. A path goes under a small tree atop an embankment and the path went further into a valley and at the end of that valley a beautiful mountain and atop that, a golden tree. Glowing. As I looked at her twisted in that sheet I looked at her tattoos and they started to wind around her hips, arms, lush tits, up her neck to her face. I knelt in front of her and looked at the photograph she had sent me, it was correct in every way. It was her.
‘Eris my little honeybunx’ I said smiling. She smiled back.

Erid Akma Edin Arde



Does a lowering of temperatures bring some sort of stasis, an emotional plateau? Her hair was everywhere again. Sunlight hair that spilled everywhere. When she went to get something out of her bag her ‘stuff’ went everywhere, all over the floor. Everywhere. Now what the fuck did that mean? Everywhere.We were everywhere at that moment. Her chaos full like a swollen ripe cunt.

‘Witches are always Bitches’I thought.They devour you as you walk pretending you don’t see. The lust from them and the love from me.

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 said.

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 would creep behind you at the window. Your reflection is split as the window has a crack. It is broken and your face uneven. As you looked out at the garden your hands in the water cool from the cold tap, I would put my hands under your shirt. and tease a nipple, cup your breast. And my other hand in your crotch which is hot and damp.

It depends on what you understand by “broken” — a nice, soft image of a suffering saint who haplessly erred and is making a sincere confession maybe? There are certain truths that are in a dormant stage that you can’t always locate or be nourished by. But they’re there. But as she looked at me with her mouth open on her knees in front of me her saliva dripping on the floor. I am her Christ and her fucking redeemer. She has no point at all unless she can reflect her madness off mine. It gives her a policy of sorts. A documented trail of the first hesitant kiss to the violent tirades in cold rain. in a street in Birmingham. in pieces, the ache drawing my strength, time flowing like thick vomit. I want to fuck her face but it’s pointless and I fetch her tissue and buckle the ballgag tighter so her hair catches in it, pulls it and she groans of course.

We love this” she said, moved slightly to his side, a gentle reassuring touch. “I love this although it seems like a dream” she was choking on the innocent words. I could see her face reflected in the window. It was empty….

…and then you would taste its wetness, my fingers down your throat. You are still sore from last night but you like the pain. You have to get to the far edge of the sheet to lift it, to see what’s underneath.In the half shadows of gentle awakening. What are your secrets Princess? What have you really got to give me? What are your movements under soft shadows, underneath those sheets?

But the memories are not mine, they are all yours. The sands shift again, to the future and I sit and talk with her as she agitates and waxes lyrical political. She wears an old combat jacket and her hair is in disarray. She listens to liars.

We stand and suffer each other not one little bit, not one jot, she is lovely. Her skin flawless, some would say full figured, a Dame. Her hair curled over her shoulders like rolling smoke on a Hill, she owned my heart and she trod upon it at every moment. I could stand here forever but, I have some mind what forever means and it holds its own fears.It’s own sticky fingered end.

The rain falls and goes nowhere, no sea to sunder no play to read, and still the stutter and the twitch, a gentle and subtle lick.” she whispered and made signs upon me with the lipstick. Cherry Red, not those of a Priest or shaman, no Church would have her as a Priest, no. she was the High Heeled thing, the Killer squeeze, the thing under the bed, and me of course never cared less. But I felt that life drain, never sad. Just leaking life away. Somebody has pulled the plug on me.In pain everything is lost, even idle fantasy.

…and outside kids collect leaves for a school project and skip around the park crack dealers who pull their hoods tight and hold knives in pockets tighter. Another glass of wine perhaps and a view of other lives constant humour, and the spillage from the bottle makes the smell so sweeter and a snot sodden tissue soaks the excess. You choke out another sob, heavy, your mascara runs and the tissue is grey with it as you dab those twinkling eyes. 

On the TV another wishful soul thrown to the lions for amusement you pull the blanket tighter. pull your ankles in on the comfy IKEA settee and sip the simple life. I suppose you will finish the bottle and slip away to bed and hear his snoring and his farting as he stirs and you wonder what I am doing as you slide away to fitful chemical sleep. I am dying in this street looking upwards at the stars, I have visions of you there, now thinking about going to bed and him. You know  They hurt me, I feel this, am I that sick? I know…you trying not to touch him next to you. Me wondering about a young woman, seemingly asleep under a shit book.

She is now playing the aware at our own game [game]. With pressure mounting, I may even witness her explicitly stating her own aims – at which point more plausible explanations are going to be increasingly difficult to reconcile with what’s happening around both of us. The best I can do is interpret data points after the occurrence – and identify connections from which future likelihoods can be drawn. I don’t doubt my own motives at all. I’m fucking crispy clean. Wizard fresh.

Between the stars in the blackness, somebody is weeping softly, I hear them, I am beside myself for a moment, I recognise that sob, that cry, have I not heard it many times before? and in tandem with the cry the sounds of a busy City Centre? the footsteps of busy bees, in twos and threes, and in a doorway a man waits for his Lover, and waits and breathes in the sweet smoke of a Marijuana joint while he waits and breathes…in a sweet fragmented Rorshach emotion.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi



My goal was to live a life without regrets. I now regret a great deal. I am old enough and wise enough now to realise this isn’t an abject failure, but totally inevitable, and to formulate such a lofty and great goal in the first place was youthful folly or the idiocy of the damned. Many of your parts will be much wiser than you think. You have to tease the regrets out. It’s a hidden narrative in everything that drives us insane and drooling. It’s a puzzle that’s a fact.

The abyss emptiness happens when you inadvertently get infected by a tune that offends you, gets you clutching at your chest, sweating a little, feeling that depression get a few degrees more painful. I know music is relative, i know a dude that loves being shit on while his girlfriend jerks him off. I see that he loves it. I can’t understand why, but it doesn’t depress me as much as ‘other peoples music’. But she loved that Bowie thing, and I didn’t understand any of it. The music he made or the films, it didn’t touch me as much as Slade or T-Rex I’m afraid. As we walked up the path to the Chapel she was humming and blurting out the lyrics to ‘Major Tom’. It was cool I could deal with it, deal with it with the guitar riff from Orgone Accumulator by Hawkwind. Over to the West the storm clouds were gathering and soon that Welsh rain that never stops for hours.

The Chapel had the most decorated carved wooden roof in Wales. There was a faded information display outside. Somebody had drawn a massive dick on it and she had laughed, took a selfie with it and held her mouth open as if to suck it, but her eyes were far too gone for it to be anything other than a sigil and it affected her as we walked in. The sky was darker.

So whatever’s being stirred in her unconscious, invoked, evoked, by the marker pen graffiti on the display, by the act of oral pleasure, or by the “barbaric” names of Eris, Norma Jean, Diana Dors, and so on, drives her into a real form of behavior that will have very real consequences. For the last hour she has been an Gnostic. She was waxing thickly on the subject. She has almost no arse, thin as a rake, broad shoulders. Long blonde fucking hair again. and Gnostic. I only had a subtle grasp of what a Gnostic was. For years I thought it mean’t Glue or something sticky like glue.

There was a threadbare red carpet stretching down the aisle inside and she ran down it to the altar and shoved herself up so she sat, twisted. lay down and stared at the ceiling. The cross was crooked in my vision and I didn’t quite know what that mean’t but I knew it was important somehow. I could see her hard sex titties and a crooked cross.

If she believes certain things they are likely to act on her beliefs. Scientific rationalism, Gnosticism combined with self-worship is a recipe for unimaginable kinds depravity, as I have seen recently, and whether or not she will pin a Satanic label on any of it remains to be seen, but she’s writhing on top of the altar like she’s getting fucked good and I bend at the waist slightly to look at the cross from another angle and the sweep of her delicious throat then go and sit down on an oak pew. Front row.

“Mikey” she said as she rolled her hips. “Man has two distinct parts, a body, and a soul, the two great principles of being”. Now she was being heretical and touching her neck and throat with her fingernails. Fucking hell Honeybuns.

Breathing in time with the wind outside. she breathes, “Evil and good are alone from the soul”. She was pumping those hips, bad bitch, this is a chapel, a fucking famous one too. Christ almighty, the poor baby Jesus etc.

She turned her head quick towards me and stared at me with malevolence, eyes wide, teeth bared.

I laughed out loud and it echoed around the granite walls and faded wall hangings. “You look like a bad exorcism flick” I sad, she laughed.

“Your God will torment you through the ages for trying to follow his path” she said. Her jeans were unbuttoned and she had a hand in her knickers again, fingers like a snake.

“Sic transit Gloria Mundi” I whispered and began to pray.

‘We have no body distinct from out soul. The body is the channel of the five senses and the inlet of the soul. Our energy is our life and is part of the body and our reason is the boundary or border of the body. Our energy is our eternal delight’ I spoke and spat through the circle of my thumb and forefinger.

She had opened her shirt as I prayed and the cold of the Chapel had made her nipples like bullets, like hard ice. Her hand inside was bringing her to orgasm and her hips smashed agin and again into the altar top. The crucifix was slowly inching towards the edge of the altar.

I walked outside and left her to it. Again there was a subtle hard to see message but I felt it inject some element of chaotic meaning, a fragment of something hidden in the dogmas we both spoke in there. On the wall a wooden plaque amd slid in between the rails on it a printed piece of card ‘Psalm 33’

No king is saved by the size of his army; no warrior escapes by his great strength’

These signs outside the chapel were a cornice where a small Demon was added as a Waterspout, or the line of a building arced over another forming a twist of the vision. A trick of the eye where one would become slightly sick. The perspective skewed and driven into the watcher. I rolled a cigarette and sat at a bench to ruminate on the tricks they pulled. Police were in the chapel car park and here even the Police walked around in a daze. Secure in their own indifference they rolled from side to side, watching, talking, being fucking cops. I didn’t really care for them much. But even here I could hear the scream of her orgasm and I looked towards the cops but they were talking together and didn’t hear.