Fall From Grace



The trouble of course, with women these days is that you found yourself talking to the tops of their heads. Very often. As they perused the social media platforms their friends used. The face of the woman was aglow with the corpse light pale light easy blue from the screen. People drive vehicles doing it. What am I supposed to do? I had finished hanging the third perspex pane from the rafters in the attic. Etched on them were the seventy two names of God locked within geometric shapes. They were heavy. I could sit on the floor and see the relationships between each pane. A small Laser reflected through the clear perspex, mirrors bouncing the light through the panes in a cats cradle of tangles. When the smoke from the candles would reveal the thin red line.

They devour you as you walk pretending you don’t see
The lust from them and the love from me

She was hardly dressed for her dance through the perspex sheets and the Laser. Warming up stretching. The muscles on her body taut. Stressed. Hair tangled in the Laser. Solid Bitch astral trailblazer. 

Hopefully the lack of language. The absence of any sound would make the evocation as honest as possible. You can’t lie through dance. It demands limits to work within. The dance is the oldest form of communication that existed. 

The days change and men do suffer and die and you are left unchanged. You define everything there, as you dance. Your sweat falls upon the unpolished wooden boards, doing your thing. Veins I have that fill with disgust at your touch, this essence purely yours. Flow bitter mountain tears and grip the my heart tighter and call to errant Fathers. This day cast bones among the others and scrabble in the Hills above town.The laser catches a fingertip, a breast, her thigh as she dances. I pull my hood further over my face and watch the light illuminate the collection of letters on the perspex. 


The attic had become quiet. Only her feet scuffing the floor. Her breath in gasps and strained as she moved twisting and turning between the panes. Her foot squeaked, a high pitched sound. 

He’s not sure what’s going on, he doesn’t have a grasp on the situation. The present is a confusing place even with the senses reality-dulled. He sat on the floor cross legged with the familiar pain coursing through him. The bleeps from the medical machinery, the stink of disinfectant, the groaning and the hasty steps squeak of tired feet in comfy shoes shivering from bed to bed to tend the ill. And one who was steadily losing his mind.

If she touches me I’ll puke. I don’t want her touching me any where. But she looks so good. Hungry she is. Not for sex. For Hex.

AKEILMNSOE. A sweep of her arm hitting the light at points of the geometry and of the middle sheet. Etched Sephirothi. Trees of life. The Foundation. Her sex centered on Binah receiving my energy ‘Chokma’.

I was in the Host of them and we waited in a great unbroken line, a mass of warriors. We held no fear, only jealousy. We held our shields tight and were ready but…how could we strike our own Father?, doubt in me…Their banners were muted and black and no wind blew them as I felt the press of better men either side of me. As ghosts they were and I raised my own sword and it was pale and ethereal.My feet hurt. I was hungry. From within the press of men rode HIM in his majesty. Such was his power that spread among us some wept aloud in joy to see HIM.

I spoke words to him and they formed in my mouth and fell from it, solid symbols of all colours, like vomit they fell between us into the Grey dust at our feet and writhed like worms until they melted into nothing. This is what words do in this place, maggot ridden lies, untruths and observations of nothingness, relative descriptions that dissipate like smoke.Only truth may be spoken and the man upon the horse held up his palm at the horrors in front of us.

The man spoke, and motioned with his hand at the yawning depths. “This thing, this Abyss is the place we make ourselves and is the curse of all Humans upon the Earth, it is the place for our hates and loves, our anger every emotion that will cross our face and heart will make this thing bigger, wider and deeper. Others have sought to cross it simply to see what is on the other side….this is the greatest mistake of the Philosophers of old. Their greatest treasure unbidden and lost… The Magic performed would cast thee into the depths at a moments notice for the arrow that shoots down the travelling bird is shot by thine own hand……it is ‘Monad’ and only you may build the bridge”

The Abyss makes me remember, and the memory burns me, I dip my forehead to the Sands and breath in a little dust. My Brothers sit palms upwards faces upturned to the sky. They are flawless Masters. I am proud of them, I love them, we are not guilty, I think. Just lost, and nobody to show us the way home at all. We seek a hand also, of forgiveness and guidance, we are tired of making this place.

She moved and fixed the eyes that looked. To seethe, leer and fuck. She opened her legs and from her Vulva. Lips slightly parted, she gave birth to the sacred words which fell onto the boards in front of me. As every golden letter fell into place she buckled and twisted in joy. Each letter a hot tongue. Each word a subtle lick.

He didn’t have any idea of how they had got them, how they had bought them, he didn’t remember working through any strange rituals.Twisting twigs into strange shapes. He instead remembered the man that came to him at that time, running away from something he had forgotten about, screaming at him in an incoherent rage his words tumbling and spilling making no sense, indeed at the end he just made animal sounds as the words stopped at the root of his tongue.


The Black Heart of The Demiurge


After begging and threatening the publisher of “Operation Dark Heart,” by former Army Reserve Office Anthony Shaffer, not to publish the book on the grounds that it revealed national security secrets and having the publisher refuse, citing its first amendment rights, the (Knights of the Demiurge) Pentagon sought an alternate solution, buying the entire first run and burning it. Subsequent pressings will have blacked-out text which the Pentagon can impose on material they deem to be classified. Those subtle mantras of the Demiurge. Endless. Taliban as fucking Fred Flintstones. A little voice shouting out ‘ You fucking know Robert Anton Wilsons fans are just the Methodist wing of the Timothy Leareyite nexus, right? right?’

I wonder constantly about Cave art. To the extent I awoke from deep sleeps and the first thought I had were the images I had seen of Ibex and Tigers that swept across the natural swells of folded and fractured geology deep underground. I wondered and I worried. The great and good of the academic world blew of he questions I had with grand theories of our ancient ancestors involved in frenzied artistry in the changing light of a small torch or oil lamp. Later they involved Shamanistic ritual, sacred mushrooms and magical rites. Their John the Baptist Terrence McKenna . 

“Jewish sects in Palestine at the time, who were waiting for a prophesied warrior Messiah, were a constant source of violent insurrection during the first century,” Atwill said. “When the Romans had exhausted conventional means of quashing rebellion, they switched to psychological warfare. They surmised that the way to stop the spread of zealous Jewish missionary activity was to create a competing belief system. That’s when the ‘peaceful’ Messiah story was invented. Instead of inspiring warfare, this Messiah urged turn-the-other-cheek pacifism and encouraged Jews to ‘give onto Caesar’ and pay their taxes to Rome.”

I set up a simple ritual. Opposing swastikas of the Demiurge. In my attic space, on one wall a second world war Swastika flag. Opposing it on the opposite wall a Tibetan Swastika with opposing arms. Would the power of the Demiurge be annulled and neutralised? That space between the two symbols. The salt circle and the seven point star. Would the whispered verses of the ‘Negavation’ still the minds of the Demiurge? 

For what is the Demiurge but a combination of the warped consciousness of the World? We watch them every day. Listen to them. Speak with them. They are not like us and we weep for them. Poor blinded souls but powerful. 

I know that in the far past our peoples wandered the earth and knew the Demiurge watched their every move. The Demiurge although watchful knew that Man would fall again. As they always did. This Man lived in small hunting groups. They waded through thick waist high grass and hunted beasts. They ate Berries, nuts and all that Nature could supply them. The Demiurge watched. 

Man knew that the beasts around him must never be named. That they themselves should carry no name and that the things around them should be unnamed. These peoples knew the value of everything simply by touch and by smell. They spoke simply with one another by arched eyebrow and subtle blink, a movement of the finger or hand and all these unspoken things became a rich and varied way in which they could speak without speaking. Of simple things. And they named nothing as they knew once it was named it was made real.

The troubles we suffer today are evidence of the First Sin. Man knew the vagaries of the Demiurge and knew it’s power. That power lay in the naming of things. For naming a thing gave it substance. Thus Man knew that by taking a stick and making articles and lines upon the soil he could make the descriptive images real. For if a few lines described an Antelope then that beast would appear within a few hours, for this was the making of the Demiurge and the workings of it’s evil.

Remote viewing the contents of the Ark of the Covenant (held in an old ammo case in Syria) I could discern no writing on the stone tablets of Moses. They were blank and the message was clear to me. I knew that inner calm and mindfulness is not synonymous with the war against the Demiurge. Blankness was still only a description. A weapon of the Zen Fascist. A tool of the Demiurge. Didn’t the Nazis invent ‘Speed’?

The caves? The rock art? Pure counter cultural manipulation of the reality we live within. On the one hand the Legions of the Demiurge [our ‘governments’ and religious institutions] and on the other it’s direct counter to the systematic model,  the coolness of the opposite. Knowing full well the powers of the Demiurge they would seek to utilise the instruments of the enemy for their own defence. Those ancient humans knew that the naming of things and the descriptions of them in sigils and in pictures was the end for their relationship with the EigenEarth. The Demiurge can never mar the face of something that the Eigen has produced. Only in letters. Objective and relative until the world becomes meaningless and everything sacred is lost. Eye blinking as they emerge from the cave they saw a new world where the sacred can never be restored.

Our early humans made their pictures in the darkness of deep caves not for ritualistic purposes. They made them in torchlight purely because they knew it was forbidden. Inside the circle I could see [through my peripheral vision] the right Nazi swastika and in the left eye the Tibetan ‘flag’ swastika. For the gears will always make the opposite cog flow in the opposite direction. The engine still turned, I still faced the West, but the face of the Demiurge was turned away from me as I gazed at the golden fields of possibility his eyes denied me.


Feral Steroids and The End Of The Dream


‘It’s the end of the dream, you know that don’t you?’ She said. She was twirling and twisting some item of material in her fingers, weaving it between her digits. My mind I must admit was occupied by the movement of it. Her statement was just that, a statement.

But she prances like a dancer or a drunken slut, whichever she wanted and although I feigned disinterest she was slick and heavy on my mind and a thousand of them wouldn’t turn my own head. For what was this woman but a woman and that only. What way would she let me take her? What new trickery to alleviate my boredoms? What can she offer me that all the rest haven’t. A something was all I asked. Every sexual artifact was a three way interchange totally invented by deep state intelligence, totally fucking fake. She pinched her nipples and I knew it hurt her but….we are stupid most of the time, we need to be told what we wanted.

‘Don’t gossip about other people, you must stay involved with Unit Humanity, the group you find yourself within’ I told her. She laughed.

‘Don’t be negative about any subject you are involved with. Negativity is traceable and solid. They will find you a lot easier. Don’t question things, simply accept them’. In the glow of the TV she was just a black space.

‘Seig! Seig! Seig!’ she suddenly shouted, her arm in salute, fingers rigid and her eyes rolled back into her head. Nazi Bitch Meme.

‘I’m all over the feral steroids’ she gasped and clicked  her bare heels together. Germanic or just manic, I couldn’t tell.

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 the Meme Killer? The Centered hand? From different times I called them locked within their Prisons…he has put my head upon the granite altar.

‘I have known since maybe 1995’ I think I said but I can’t be sure. 1995 was the last time I remembered being involved with anything these cunts hatched up between them. That was the year I discovered that ‘Barracloughs’ Biscuit company had never ever existed. There was me remembering the adverts on the TV. The catchy songs they used to have which became the angle by which they sold the idea that the bakery business was a jolly two man outfit when in fact it was a whole fucking octopus of arms and suckers and needs.

That time was redolent with the track ‘Nevertheless’ by The BrianJonesTownExperience. A band. Their singer Anton something had morphed across the screen on a TV show I was watching while she sucked my cock. I didn’t even know she was or did or why. Probably. But I knew the conduits and the changes being made to the world by them. and I was a little bit sick and a little bit sad at everybody being ignorant and asleep. So the Sheep occupied me. Her lips did too although I was about to tell her to fuck off. It is the end of the dream darling. This is where the whole pantomime rushes to a close with all the actors in their brightest clothes and the thickest of stage make up would erupt onto the stage and cheer and sing and do what they did best which was to serve up the wax fruit and the wooden show breads.

The whole thing is a honey trap baby a total fucking sticky mess for us to get sticky and wet as we struggle to hear the jokes and the punchlines. It’s an attractive loop where we paraphrase the very poison they use to control us. Our language is of course theirs and as they spike the nuances and the glibness they control us. Where the Aliens kept us looking up instead of around.

‘Except for Wizards’ she said. True. What didn’t I see? I see fucking everything and even that subtle tint they wanted hidden glares at me. Give a Wizard a rope and he will either hang himself or come back with a magical cow. With linear events in time you have the chance to evaluate the data. Time (straight line time) gives us a chance to define the evolution of the messages. We extrapolate our responses after thoughtful examination of the messages. We internally hypothesise  the questions the world asks us and respond.Then I throw up countermeasures. Here and now, whatever it ‘is’ breaks apart the narratives and now we are Black Ironbound to deliver the audience effects.

The Circle acted as a transformer, a toroid of hate and love that flowed in opposite directions to each other through the circle. Their power is amplified to rip the people of the world away from their real home. This was the essence of the world we see. Asleep or dead and yet nightmare dreaming, they affect the system and tip the balance of the memes and informations which they sip in their minds. A Nectar this is to them for whatever reason.

A hand grabs mine and I recoil into the falling Iron, it is her again! My Prison falls at last! The Key found! My last days at last to whither and fall within this sick tomb of my own mind. The hand grabs again and holds tight and pulls at me as the air rushes around and I am snagged beaten by the granite. Underneath my feet I feel the soft touch of grass upon my feet scarred and bruised, bloodied and fouled. This cool grass this heavenly thing soothes and yet offers no grip. I am held and yet, that hand is not the pale stinking hand of the Black Guard but a fresher more brazen hand, scarred yet fine, it was strong and I felt no fear from it but a different thing. Had I not been shattered for however long in the vessel of the plagued? I had not felt a touch like this, I had never felt a touch as this, at once tender, and free.

The Train has an engine and the engine pulls the rest of the carriages along with it. Where the engine goes the rest of the train follows. Soon people who watch the train start to set their watches by it and the arrival of the train [on time] will be something that makes the people nod at each other, slightly narrow their eyes and smile. Things are good and on time. Soon they will build houses alongside the tracks so the arrival of the train will be something that connects them with each other. They may look at each other and nod as they hear the whistle of the train as it nears them. Of course some people build their houses along one side of the track and some people on the other side. We become that side or this side. The This and That divided by Who and Where.