Door Ray So far Little To Do

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10 September 2012

Would you come back and lie about the times and the fun you left behind? If we could fly, in this town at least we could escape I think and watch the kids waving underneath us as we swooped across the acid gusts. How much easier it would be? But how the fuck would we clutch the books we love? I don’t think we would leave any legacy here. The days are done and we’ve lost the sun totally. Tumbling and twisting, even the birds would turn their faces away I suspect.

I stood and waited for her but she was busy falling, air frigid again, the light falling instead of us and our days I think are numbered from one to twenty three as everything we touch turns to sunrises, always beginning and never ending. We never seem to get a grasp on it. The Syrian customer argues at the checkout as I watch but his words are new and unformed in his mouth and they come out unexpected. It’s ‘slow time’ in the dry beams of the Sodium spotlights outside and the falling rain, light, is slow. She comes out of the shop in a huff. She is angry about something and she tells me but her words are garbled like the Syrian and she struggles to collect the needed grammar and syntax but the feeling, the emotion is there. She isn’t done, isn’t quite ready to lapse into the lover time and her violence is in the way her lips move and she is in a fighting stance although she doesn’t know it.

But the atmosphere is disjointed and wrong…probably because she is far from Earth at this time and her existence is dilated.

“Fuck off you cunt..seriously fuck off, you total fucking liar, how could you?” She says to me and it is whispered and each word a gunshot. Her rages are cataclysmic of course and I can see the parts of her where the maps are worn at the creases and the roads, tracks and borders become faded and mushed. She whispers threats and they are broken hearted gestures at me, I’m blameless, I don’t ask to start any simple thing and I’m abstracted from it all.

We disagree of course, on the origins of our sadness. But I grab her throat gently and push her up the side of the van which is slick. I put my hand down the front of her jeans and she stops. Everything stops and i’m not close to her body at all. I’m ‘apart’. She releases herself mentally and the anger drips out of her in quick bursts as my fingers work and I tighten my grip on her throat. Closing my eyes for a second I can see the lines she draws and the fractured blurred and broken images of the environment. She was stuck in her own personality like a stuck CD of rainforest sounds and the soothing voice of a media hypnotist. The lives of great men all remind me this is not the world ‘that is’. My fingers in her cunt is the only truth. Do you remember? Do you see?

She does for a moment see the anatomy of the illusion but her errant thoughts scatter like lost rabbits under the glare of the sodium and our footprints on the map are swept away in the glory of her orgasm, here on the car park of the Tesco One Stop. Her mind is electric and each circuit follows it’s intended route one circuit at a time A to Z throughout the network of her world experience. Mine shatter each circuit at once and the world is laid out into monads of sense emotions and dreams are the resistance of the network.

I put my lips closer to hers as I finger fuck her and she drops a plastic bag full of something and her leg shakes as she knows the corridors have all locked doors for moments such as this. 

“You know it doesn’t make sense to get annoyed at anything at all. they will see you, you are not camouflaged” I whisper and my tongue touches her lips gently.

Behind me somebody is saying something and his words are bottomless and meaningless but as she spoke softly horrible words I sense the emotion in his. My fingers out of her cunt I turn and look at him. In the light he is grey and his eyes shadowed nothing. His lips moved but didn’t match the words I heard at all. As he was close I headbutted him fast and he stepped back. I neatly slipped my foot behind his ankle and he fell onto the tarmac, I moved to his side and saw the bone sticking from the bridge of his nose. The blood black under the sodium, black on his grey Nike tracksuit his hands fluttering. Minor character he snuffles through the blood as I squat and watch, she is saying something and I don’t know what it means but I pull his hands away from his face to see clearer and his fear is apparent, he flinches and I don’t see where he could possibly go from here. The way is there for him to find and the flashing of the lights from inside the shop are empty phrases.

‘I’m tired now and ready to go no more songs of regret and sorrow
just one foot in front of the other just point the way and I’ll be off’

If it was only that simple Darling. He was bleeding heavily and I contemplated finishing the job of emptying him. His hair was cut short and his blood streamed through it. Now other people had come outside and were standing around talking asking and the solid smash of the van door closing was loud as she got inside and I was bold and ready to castigate and judge them all, here and now. A total reign of light and the darkness wouldn’t enter me now as I was just a vapid space where someone should be.

I stood and walked around the rear of the van and got in, drove slowly away and left them all behind as I joined the flow of traffic. The fear for him left behind. She was breathing heavily and looking at me as I drove. Her breath short, disgusted probably, fearful, excited all abstract all meaningless. But my hands on the steering wheel had blood on them and it shined like stars and then became black as oil under each streetlight we passed. It was a litany of effect, a nothingness.

‘When we get back, fuck me’ she said.

But I am foul and there is no residue of lust, just a toy of interests and the rampant thing in me trembles at the very thought of her flesh on mine. Fucking hell Darlin’ Jesus fucking Christ. But as we drive… 

I’m settled for a minute

It’s quiet

Who knows why they have

these quiet moments

but soon the slam of a door

and the dogs will bark

 

The Bostik Gnostic

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Written February 2010

You see the minute you drop by the chance, it just drifts away. You end up gazing at the sun for hours again. The chance gone. Your hair in the wind from the traffic that has been awhile, come on by and see what you left behind. In the end of course we all cry, we all laugh and it’s always the best thing ever isn’t it? But, at the crux of the matter, is it all part of the same pathology? Ideas we take at face value today were unthinkable yesterday surely?

Sociopaths are always charming on the baser levels of communication. I was busy crumbling the lush weed into my folded Rizla, being careful not to spill any but my hands in my dreams were still cold and the evilness out there was bringing me to some sort of metaphysical despair. On the lower plains of course, I could feel them tickling me deep in my gut where the Cancer was sitting. I watched her watch the TV, she had my hoodie on and I could only see the tip of her nose, the hood was up. I didn’t lift my head to look. That would have burned as her fire was harmful. Just my eyes slowly looking up from the Rizla. I licked the edge. One Skinner.

I had no way of knowing which way she would go. Deep depression or the flights of madness, joy, laughter, dancing in the cold flat, her socks sliding across the floor happy disco soft music in the long distance of the digital mp3 format. Did any of us know? I knew that whatever the conclusion I came to as I smoothed the paper, I couldn’t tell her. I could not quite get to it, the point. I feel the cold that she leaves behind her, behind the delicious perfume in the air and her face full of blame. There’s nothing left to see here.

The cold that she leaves. But what role did those shadowy alphabet agencies play in disseminating the great works we read now, at this time. Nothing can be published without ‘their’ permissions, their grudging patronage. I turned the spliff over and over in my hand. I was cross legged on the floor again, away from her on the settee. I couldn’t get that close, not yet. Her friends so fucked up, like her. They would come later and she felt the fear of people again. Walking around the small flat and seeing again, the things inside it. Sterile and clean, IKEA love, the splashed confusion of the rigid Scandinavian. The defunct smell of factory spruce. The collected DVDs. The magazines, the empty glass of wine. But it was easy 12 feet to the door, there was no way I would make it as her cold fire did things to me, sitting back I let her psychosis bleed across the laminated floor towards me and I moved my foot away from it. It squeaked. Shit, She looked around at me her face relaxed and bored, but I knew,

I knew the universities were fertile ground for producing the madness of tactics and plans of the Demiurge. She pulled up my hoodie and her breasts sprang out and her face didn’t move at all. How do you love yourself? Science-Technology-Espionage. What are the breadcrumbs she leaves for me. She teased her nipples diamond hard then rammed two fingers into her mouth like it was some errant hard cock, she gagged, she was being violent with it and all the time she looked at me for some reason.

I stood and walked out as best I could with my stomach cramped up. Her eyes followed me out. It was said that no weed can be smoked within the hallowed laminates and IKEA loveliness. Verily. I couldn’t work the catch on the door and then did, slip, didn’t and then did. I looked back and she was gagging again and being violent with her breasts and I closed the door and stood outside. The snow had hardened with the frost that night and it was lethal but I still wanted to run as fast as I could but. I lit the spliff, the ‘get off’ module. Hello warm thing, confused passions and visions of sleep. I held the smoke in for a long time and even the ache of the cancer shut the fuck up for a few minutes. I sat down and felt the cold of the step through my jeans which were tight once but now tended to subtly hang.

The words of wizards are always carved in hearts and minds and yet I could not speak a word to her that night and yet outside in the frost and ice the words formed in my mind and were immediately left behind, bare bones and desiccated in the awful glare of her madness. But those eyes dear thing cut me to the bone and I knew whatever words I could speak would be that powerful and strange they would seem as idiotic garbled shit.

I was trying to think what she was watching on the TV. Something to do with cooking or decorating. Ready and available mind crap that would serve her well when she eventually married. She would be the perfect wife of course and I loved her all the more for it. She would decorate her house she shared with him and it would be tasteful and beautiful and she would have a Cat, a vase, a spray of magazines and the wine don’t forget that. Bottles he would bring and they would sit outside on the decking in the late evening sun, it was summer and she would laugh at all his jokes and he would think himself witty and debonair and she would instigate this building of his ego so his happiness would plaster over the cracks in her own mind. Stuff chintzy wallpapers in them, sand down the emulsions of the needs which would be unserved.

We are always convinced that the world is reasonable and we base our findings on the psychological factors we crash against in the day to day meanderings of our lives while we burden our Gods further with every chance lost or forgiveness never offered. In doing so we become possessed with the idea of our freewill lost and laid at the feet of whatever Demiurge we bow down to on that day. I walk back into the flat and it is warmer. My eyes are colder, although my hands shake I pull off her hood and she leans her head back for me to stroke her hair and I do, for that’s the whole point, the whole project. She looks up at me and smiles with those teeth and those lips and I lean down to kiss her tenderly and smile too. But it was a Boys From Brazil moment when the beauty of creation and meme shatter against the practicalities of hidden hands and forbidden loves. My stomach cramped again but I didn’t show a flicker of pain, that was good.

Sacred Sisters Of The Black Sun

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We forget we are living inside the simulation of the Demiurge, we forget as soon as we enter it. Like waking from a dream? What if we are waking up within the dream and so on and so on? But if the simulation can be broken, then we make the simulation ours and we can do what we want with it. (But how do you break it? )

And if it doesn’t mean a thing. Why do we talk back and forth. So much. Her hands were too small to strangle and choke herself. And;

The conflict never ends you know. No matter how much you describe yourself as ‘Fighting back’ and getting more turned on to your consciousness it’s all going to be a failure. Every crystal you wave around your head is a lie. Every time you mock the system it will find a way to laugh straight back into your face. Here the entropy grinds on and what exactly is entropy? It’s the grinding realisation you are getting more and more fucked by the system regardless.

In the bathroom she locked the door and thought about the day as she disrobed, her inked skin seemed darker under the light. Somehow moving. But her hands wavering a little thrill shaking them, just a little tremble, one that you could hardly see but it was there. The scalp tightened and the skin on the back of her neck. She touched it barely. A whisper of a touch like a lizard tongue. Like a snake.

At the minute a vacuum in the way we look at our world. Technology is powerful Juju. The Great sorcerers are Bill Gates and that Apple dude, Elon Musk. Wizards of the fucking keys mate. Techno Clowns for the Demiurge still torturing you, still taking the absolute piss. Because the Demiurge knows all the tricks, all the passion. He remembers your first kiss better than you, he is the witness. Baby we’re all fucking trapped here.

Her bathrobe belt is under the towel and she loops it around her throat. She is playing with it pulling it a little tight then letting it go. Pull it tighter let it go. She liked it and it was strange comforting, the letting go of everything. The feeling of constraint and gentle suffocations. Her body is glistened and fresh, her body is lithe and ready to take action and her cunt is wet. Her actions dictate the result. Her actions are unique to her simulation and she cranks her hand down on the belt arching her neck so it’s pulled back and now it’s harder to breathe but the simulation is glistening also and the motes are the bits and the bits are the bricks and mortar of her scene and she breaks the natural and the empathic and fears the savage need to reach that height she had forgotten about. Is she lost? Is her simulation glistening?

The violence throughout the world is at an all time high. We destroy countries on a whim. Our media is the mouth of Sauron and we trust nothing it says. This Media evil spins us the tales that increase the diabolical entity, this hegemony of foul untruths and we sit and drool at the effects upon us. Strolling in the dark we are. And you will happily serve your Masters whims, the Masters of the constructed chaos you see around you. And you have transformed your life into a living hell.

Those who have taken the time have found, under careful and empirical observation, that the world of the Demiurge that we take to be so real, is in fact something of a fantastic illusion … a copy of the Black Sun “physical” reality.

Her fingers are wet and she is wet. Her body as wet as a thing but sympathetically the rapid onset of her orgasms makes her fall to her knees and loop the belt around her ankle. If she passes out then she will be safe from the belt as it will fall loose. Leaning forward her hands free she can now touch and massage her wet breasts and she is gone for a moment. On the bathroom floor and the simulation aches for her but there between the orgasms and her short breath and the fireflies that dance in her eyes the realised real has gone and there is only passion and the blackness of the sun that explodes within her and the essence of course is seen and she abases herself spreading her legs in the locked bathroom. The sink is the altar and the minutiae of the [cleaning acts] are her sacraments.

As we simulate. The glitches of the dentists waiting room and the slick operations of the place you work where you answer the phones and you look out of the window as the sun catches the glass and the light is so very bright at that moment we sense that it’s all wrong and all fake made up in the minds of those chained to the Demiurge. Once chained always pained, and once you label yourself as a Master of the Universe you are fucked of course. Lost in the tangled robes of the False Maker, the Master Faker. Designed. What a disgusting word.

She drops her head forward and is done. She wants to tell him what she has seen but he has that many characters to disable the fake glance of the Demiurge he wouldn’t understand, the twisted hands wet, the ache in her legs, in her wet cunt, the absolute abandonment here in the bathroom, slick and wet, her throat slightly sore and she touches it with her fingertips her mouth her lips part and she feels her own lips press, a kiss that means everything when his didn’t mean a fucking thing. Opening her eyes she sees herself opposite, kneeling on the bathroom floor, an image of herself, her essence forced into a dichotomy of fucking passion. She puts her finger on her opposites lips so she wouldn’t say a word and she didn’t have to say anything as she admired herself. But she picked up the belt and put it around the throat of the essence, she hoped to see, what? She wouldn’t ask that question. She must have been blind as she tightened the belt around the others throat and put her wet fingers into the cunt of the other and fuck the Demiurge and fuck them too.

Stretching human patience like stretching space and time. The Military-Industrial-Entertainment-Complex. The fingerings of the Demiurge. Internet Sanitation. But, Black Sun Sister. Do your thing Honey, put it back in it’s place, we know the truth is between the bits of information. The blacker places.