Elon Musk Techno Satan


Elon Musk wants to destroy the world. His simulation theory would destroy the universe as we know it. He is the ultimate Villain. Cat stroker. He is a Shaman without Portfolio. But the most important thing is ‘Nobody asked us’. We are the ones affected by this monumental decision and nobody fucking cares about our opinions. I f somebody would ask me then to be honest I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. But it’s nice to be asked. What will she do? She has divine knee length boots that shine black and when she wears them her back arches like a cat and she knows she is a Goddess. But as they hoard the money these TechnoGods they take more of our lives entwined as it is by the commerce and function of finance. They take the world we know as it stands a thing of beauty and magic, of ‘other lands’ and they replace it with hand held portals to the horror of ourselves. With the screen and the hardware replacing ‘The land that never ends and the Unicorn’. Stuck in the Probability City. Hands deep in your fucking pockets. Trying not to be seen. Trying not to look at the adverts. The people driving and looking at their phones. The shit music from every device and you have to shut it all out because you know she hears it too and she loves it, trapped as she is, she feeds still. And you think your Dyslexia is a fucking treasure, a gift.

Alan Moore looks like Roy Wood of Wizard

But he doesn’t give a shit

He’d rather look like Aqualung than Eddie bloody Izzard

If I squint just right and look in my peripheral vision I can see Stars more clearly. Something to do with rods and cones, the position of things I don’t have space to understand.

I was sitting up in bed waiting for the Doctor to get to me. He was gargling with the old Indian man next to me. Talking about something the Indian man didn’t understand. I could get two paracetamol 500mg and 50ml of Morphine by mouth. The Nurse on night duty would come by between 9.00pm and 11pm. She would be happy double checking doses then squirting it into my mouth with a syringe. It would taste good. As well as the intravenous morphine I had attached to my arm. The ‘Morphine Machine’ was in a perspex locked box on a stand and wheels. I thought it was so I wouldn’t be able to increase the dose. But it was to stop people stealing the clear bag of Morphine loveliness. In the afternoon as the sun was low. It would shine through the ward and hit the bag just at the correct angle. The sunlight would split into refracted rays that sparkled and shone like rainbows.

I was reading ‘Watchmen’ a big paperback. Listening to Metallica on my headphones, ignoring the splitting pains in my abdomen. Rorschach. He wore the mask because he couldn’t bear to expose himself to the horror of his world. I always had the idea Rorschach didn’t wear a mask at all but it was our inability to see ourselves in his eyes that made us block out his face completely. The shifting patterns on the ‘mask’ just variables or potentials. His disguise is our confusion. The idea occurs to me that the Greek Medusa was nothing but a perfect mirror salvaged from a crashed UFO and hidden away deep in a cave somewhere. When would dare to seek it out and in finding and seeing themselves truly as they are, they would lose their minds.

You watch through the window carefully because you know I’m out there somewhere. You know I don’t need to be close to send you back to the place from where you come. All I have to do is think it. I see the light in your window dim behind the curtain. Tonight I swear the anger has gone and no matter how far my prayers go home is never found.

You must try to swing the pillows harder girl. Swing it hard and fast and join with me on the road that never ends. The five foot leap for the ten foot gap, the never fucking catching up. Your touch of magic has sucked the fucking life out of you. Draw the sigils on the front door to keep me out, get the five chambered lock and the vicious dog. You are left behind, you are the cage we left behind years ago.

You know we can have a lot of fun baby.

But you have to forget the extents and the permissions. You have to let the tingle in your fingers define what you are and what you subject that perfect mind to. You see you all live in the Stars but what are those shining lights but traps? Define yourself, put away the fears and the traps they lay for you. The Masks they make you wear. The fake weakness they sponge. The Nurses keep bending over my bed and their uniform tightens for a moment as they tend to my needs. Every day here is an awful pain and here I fall in love with every one of my Angels every day then she is gone. The possibilities here are endless, I can see that now. I see your knotted hands. I see your fears as you lie in bed eyes tightly shut. I smell the anger like burnt bleach. Smell the Antibiotic, the infection, the cold sweat, the bleep bleep bleep of the Morphine machine.

At the moment she lacks the courage to define herself as she wears the masks of her day. Each one harder to take off, harder to prise the nails underneath the edge to lift it off and say ‘This is me’.

In the car she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs as she spoke to me and the latex would creak and she would lick her lips as she smoked the spliff I had rolled her. I drove and wondered. I was a Gnostic looking into the mirror, the refracted things corrupted and foul. Always looking beyond the digital thing they had made at this analogue beauty, sitting in the car, getting slowly stoned. Adjusting the seat back so her skirt rode up, not for me, for her.

Later on she would be naked under a coat in a crowded pub, because she liked the way people bumped into her not knowing she was hot skinned and raw underneath. I laughed with her as she did it, holding a beer that was making me feel sick. Every time I grabbed her ass and bit her neck I drew a Sigil on her.

The First Mask of Ashmod. The Veiled Constant. The Sixth Seven. So on and on. Every Sigil I visualised the TechnoSatans. The music in that place was a travesty. She bumped her hips in time with it and I knew she was going, knew she was total vibration. Her eyes closed. We must stop Elon Musk.




Engine Of The Demiurge


16th March 2013

So what is the Swastika? It is the sigil of the Demiurge. Each arm of the crooked cross ends in a right angle. Each arm defunct and ended. Yet the Swastika is also the engine of the Demiurge. It is a simple depiction of our lives endlessly seeking, exploring and eventually declining. It is this life we lead that revolves the Swastika. Gives energy to the Demiurge.

These Nine sat in a circle and the Earth underneath them revolved as they were the Axis on which it turned.Est Linea Recta. Dillinger did not know this and was for a moment he was confused as it seemed the Nine hooded things floated above just enough to scratch upon the bed rock and the sands beneath them the Sigils and arcs of their Magic. Thus was the world born,the fall of the sigils the fall of the earth. see this in front of your own eyes. Dillinger in the shade of the German Bomber let the scarf fall from his face and above him reflected in the sky an Earth twin, another planet floated blue and beautiful. All was revealed to Dillinger within this place and he saw his plan a fine one, and fit for such wondrous revelations.

Trying to work out the whys and the wherefores of how the chronic classical music of the 18th century has anything to do with the delicateness of 80’s synth pop. Is it a thing we need, this travesty of comparing similar techniques with stiff back combed hair. Or have we forgotten everything again? We have a polymorphic and pluralistic view of it of course.But we forget why.

What ‘they’ want us to know is that they have fine tuned the linguistics. Polished the art up by constant practice and now they can deliver their bile through all the elements of the social networks. What we need is a new way of communicating. We must change faster than the Stormtroopers of the Demiurge who kick the ash as they wait.

Having died of Cancer I may lay wax on the hows and trys, the lyrical twists we use to describe the stages of time we utilise to communicate. and its all true.

I walk through the window of the Hospital, down dark corridors with strange things written upon the doors that dot the walls. At every turn there are hands that grab at my Hospital gown and the tubes that still dangle from my arms and neck I am a useless wired thing. I try to run but cannot as the floor itself makes my steps as walking through thick sickness.Ahead of me Dillinger head back onto the cool floor. 

He has blood upon his lower lip and I take the corner of my gown and gently wipe it away from his lip and chin, gently, softly. The wind blows down the alleyway [corridor] and the clothes of those us assembled are thrown violently around and they shield their eyes from the dust. I don’t fear any more. The Bridge cold lies distant now and the thoughts of that day when I would cast myself onto the traffic below have gone away. ‘Let us be’, I ask the Demons and they point to a Great Black Pyramid behind them. ‘Not yet’, they shake their heads.’Not yet, there is no time like the present’

‘I forgot my Guns’, Dillinger said and slowly shook his head and smiled, as did I. Did it matter any more? Any of the past that tumbles away from us? The flesh we touched and the lives we ruined. You want this? These two Souls on knees before you? What punishment you have given us. We shared her and now we share our deaths together our Spirits locked and the strangers knock the door and we giggle and hide so they cannot see us, we must wait, a moment.

The European enlightenment of the 18th century, the empiricism and belief in Science has destroyed us, nearly. This Democratic experiment has brought us to our knees. We must return to the God King. We must return to the Elder Gods.

I knelt next to the sick man and phantom or not I held him close to me and whispered words to him of healing and friendship. How could I not love him as he knelt in pain to help another man mortally wounded and bleeding heavily. He had been mortally shot. The sick man used the corner of his nightshirt to wipe a little blood from the dying man’s lips and I held his hand close to me and bowed my head.

As is our want we stretch out our hands across the abyss and say our platitudes to the Golden Father and Sapphire Mother. My hands hesitate no more and I design upon the Eigen a return to the truth, Am I not John Dillinger? The Left hand? From different times I called them locked within their Prisons…he has put my head upon the barrel of his gun.

We have to run from democracy, it’s the illness of our time and the doom of us. Why do no politicians get assassinated any more? Why has the anger we should feel channeled into a closed system? Why has the Demiurge hardwired it into this DNA we carry?

The Crooked four armed Circle acted as a transformer, a toroid of hate and love that flowed in opposite directions to each other through the circle. Their power was amplified to rip the people of the world away from their sleep. This was the essence of the world we see. Asleep and yet dreaming, the Nine affect the system and tip the balance of the dreams which they sip in their minds. A Nectar this is to them for whatever reason.The circle turns and gives energy to the Demiurge. What are our tears but watt and volt.

What trickery have you done to me!”. Dillinger cried to the sky. But he knew, for him nothing, but he has seen our ends and at last may see that the True Father will let us back into his arms and rest will be offered. For this is the nature of love at last, that a child may fall and graze their knee and running will find the embrace of those that will love and offer healing and rest.

What are we? Playthings for a False God that sets his Arch Angels upon us, using their senses and power to build a place to torture and to bind, a place to observe the pains and joys while their Master grows fat with whatever power he gleans from our simple bones and his crooked cross. This Demigod a trickster and a thief of the black light who turns the cards deftly between its fingers and they click with hate, conjures and folds our fears upon us.