Tiswas is The Opium of My People


This story in a much smaller form was published in the magazine ‘Burning Issue’

Look it’s an extremely passionate and generous act for him to do this. Passionate in that he draws a direct link between them and you. It’s a ‘baptism of fire’ so to speak, or maybe it isn’t. But he will dip his finger into the ashes and recount the Prayer of Prayers, he has to. I was bumping my forehead gently against the window of Poundland staring at the cardboard cop. Thinking about Jura. Big Toblerones, the confectionery of the Illuminati, quid each. Walking the line.

‘But isn’t it a bastardisation of the exaltation of the Messiah in Black, Johnny Cash?’ Sally James said. I was hugging her tight so she didn’t get cold. She was only dressed in slick tight leather trousers and a little leather waistcoat, she had a bullet belt on. (I can’t remember). It was cold this far North, this desolate place. Underneath the turf I could hear the dead of that place at their slumber. Gently turning over and sighing in their graves. Getting their hair tangled in the roots of the Juniper and Heather. I haven’t the care to understand the ‘moral’ implications of anything or that I affected deeply the happiness of others. That’s why the dead always turn over when I pass. They understand and the whispers of that pain they remember, just for a glancing moment. Then their skeletal hands will curl a little and they will tuck their knees a little further in.

Sally” I said, “I’m not interested, all this conversation will be is me saying something about your lips, or your hair or doing some perverted sex act on you and to be fair I’m tired and confused. And bored”. She turned away into the wind and her hair….But I could tell she wanted to say….’Hi how’s things?’ but I wasn’t listening and my hands typed replies in front of her on a keyboard that didn’t exist. Below us someone was laughing.

As Johnny Cash stepped from the burning fuselage of flight N3794N (3+7+9+4=23) (in which the bodies of the Big Bopper and Elvis burned to death)local farmworkers who rushed to help saw Cash walk from the plane partially aflame. One man described the fire around Cash as ‘A Halo of sorts surrounding him and his face was smiling and joyful’. Then Johnny Cash spoke the words ‘Blasphemy In James’ and the words which Cash proclaimed were responsible for the destruction of the Hebraic desert religions. Johnny Cash would proclaim himself the King of Jerusalem in 1976 and he would have his bride brought to him from England. He sat upon a throne made with the bones of his enemies and before him were the Kings of other lands far away. They did abase themselves at the behest of King Cash.

I can’t explain the effects of this transitional moment in the lives of thousands, millions of people around the world and verily Fulsom Prison was the Bethlehem of his people, and Lemmy was his John the Baptist. Wait. Sally is redolent. She has wings that are maybe thirty meters across, they are afire and here and there on the mountain little areas of grass are aflame. She is bare breasted and her eyes are ablaze with power and glory. At her feet petals from tropical flowers drift down slowly onto the hillside. She holds a sword on fire with a blue flame. Three times she cuts the sword through the air and every time she does this I am cut on the arm, the neck and the abdomen. Thick blood spurts from the wounds and pools at my knees. My God save me, this Sally James speaks and the words are from the True God and I have no intellect to explain them and I feel the blood warm on me.

We sat in the cold winds of Jura and watched the shenanigans below. Cameramen, lights, cars, vans, a huge pile of money on the ground crushing the stalks of Red Fescue that grew there. A few of the people present were dancing in a dance called ‘Happiness’. More of a cavort. Somebody was filming it. They were setting fire to it. But over the distant fire overlaid with it were the views of Ladbroke Grove again. 1970. Hawkwind playing a gig and Lemmy playing thick bass chords that sound like an old British motorbike.

I noticed that we had a small brown paper bag of rolls and rolls of banknotes from somewhere along the route. He didn’t have any idea of how they had got them, how they had bought them, he didn’t remember working through any magical doorway. He instead remembered the man that came to him at that time, running away from something he had forgotten about, screaming at the banknotes as I tried to burn them. He was 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 notes blew down the street like chaotic fiery pigeons. Little fire demons.

The fire of you in the fire of me” she mouthed the words as the light from the fire reflected off her skin. My Sally. She had a spot forming on her chin I noticed. The last song I had listened to was ‘Over the Top’ by Motorhead. She looked like a glam rock angel. The leather vest with her tits falling out, that feather cut, those lips. Her and Lemmy had chemistry. After he appeared on the show she got more leather. More dangerous. I looked at her closely. She was pouting, hands on hips. That’s the way I like it baby. I don’t want to live forever. I bit her breast and she screamed aloud, her hands at my hair pulling me tighter within and closer without. It’s my Orgone accumulator. It makes me feel greater. I have drawn blood I can taste it. It makes me feel sick but she grabs me hard and I forget, I see the shadow of a Rabbit against the fire they had made below. It’s eyes have no depth.

They’re burning lots of money” she said. Her lips were cold again. I should be hugging her tight keeping her warm as we watched the people below prepare their fire. There was a scent of Summer about that heather, it smelled like funeral homes to me. To him it smelled like Butterflies. To her it was pure overkill. Even here amongst the magical and the esoteric I felt unattached. Who were these people? There were far too many, far too loud.

I couldn’t help but think of Lemmy and Johnny Cash and Sally. It’s all that held my attention at that moment. It was getting colder on that hillside. Wind had turned up. It was blowing the banknotes into a swirl, a dance of partially burned pictures of the Queen. Each one had a number saying how much it was ‘worth’. You could have five of them, or ten, or twenty, or fifty of them. I tucked my knees under my cloak and kissed my Sally, tried not to crease her, as she pouted at the camera, somewhere. I carefully tucked her back into the plastic envelope. On the back of the photo somebody had written…

‘This is the last photograph we are sending you. If you try to contact Ms James again we will be forced to take legal action’. A block stamped signature ‘Ace of Spades Productions.

Love messages. Above the pile of money a familiar figure revolved in the air, the flames intertwined in his spiritual form. Our Lord Johnny Cash. He smiled at me and said..’I fell into a burning ring of fiyaaah’ and verily I pulled the hood of my course woollen black habit and kissed my skull ring. It was time. Johnny sent me a cheeky wink.

Trump Agent Orange


The TAO of Trump

Nine hooded beings sat in a circle and no words were spoken. A person passing in the desert moonilight would see shadows of the nine cast on the ground and they would shiver and pass on quickly, but no person passed here any more. It was hidden, it was waterless and desolate, a place of Demons.

she was texting her boyfriend and her knees under the blankets made a pyramid and she was a babe in blue light sending her love. but every click of the fingernail, every long white sail every breath and every sigh you make. falls and is gone. i was counting the clicks 3-5-3-4-4 mentally depositing them in my memory spaces for later, sitting looking out of the window at London glowing on the horizon. a lock of hair fell over her eye. she blew it out of the way from the side of her mouth, it fell back she blew and clicked 3-3-3-4. blow. she tucked it away concentrating on her phone, what she was saying to him.

This Black Parliament sat and nourished themselves in the desert sand. Hooded and robed they plotted downfalls and events of fantastic sight that may bring a feeling to a kind soul, a smile or an intake of breath, and that breath that feeling would be stolen by them. For that is their want. Occasionally one of them would raise a hand or finger and swirl the air in front of it in complicated design, as a dance it was or a mime. They had these bodies that knew no desecration or ill, they were as young as the dawn without line or care. With effect some were female but knew no creation or birth, and some were men who would know no craft.

‘it wont send’ i said. The phone networks are on high alert, saved space for vital communications. the words the killers use to ask things, give orders and devour the intelligence from the deep sea sub and the loaded up electronic planes. the lunatics. but it was inevitable this war. hadn’t I seen the signs clicking on the internet, the synchronicity building up. the subtle changes in the atmosphere?

she didn’t listen and that was cool.

but they knew we were here and they had infested the room where both of us lay. between us from the phone a fog drifting between us. the swarm of things. Reality and fantasy had meshed together like rutting cockroaches. Fucking hell Baby. What are we doing?

The Nine sacred servants of the Demiurge cast a World and made it for themselves and sat in the darkness for an age or a second none of them knew. But they felt the solid ground and the madness of their infected minds made mountains and rivers that knew no light to illuminate. For what does a beast know of Mountains, hills and streams. What would they know of gentle scenes and tragedies? What would they know of fakery when all was false?

The machinations of our sordid affair had felt out the boundaries of this ‘Invention’. Our intricate lies had formed a back drop to our relationship and now these fantastic lies had become concrete and real. We had delivered ourselves a source of sexual release. A failed reality had become a successful fantasy albeit one ruled by the random variable. The truth [being a relative subject] was clay to be molded.

It’s all just bad theater. But one where you could manipulate the words. Control the words of the fantasy and you control the people you involve in them.

My phone vibrated and I ignored it. It was US election night. Trump was winning. I knew the US military backed him. It was obvious that the CIA and Clinton meant war with Russia. The US military couldn’t see any end to that one apart from THE BIG END. It was stupidity from the CIA war machine. She had to be stopped.

She had to be stopped of course. She smoked Marijuana most of the day and looked like a punk rock Audrey Hepburn. A classical beauty. She smelled good I guessed.

Trump was the Great Beast. On to his broad and muscular back we will heap our disdain upon him constantly as we sip our Brand Coffee and wear our networked Anti Fascist bandannas. Pile our own weaknesses on him. His great wide mouth opens and out comes the very lies and fantasies we wish him to speak. So our own sores may be drained. Trump is the mouthpiece. Trump is the Straw man. Meanwhile the State of the Demiurge becomes our ally and we love this ally as it mirrors every single opinion our fantasies require. It was as sharp as an ISIS head chop. The Liberal Left will embrace any monstrous project that comes from the broadly defined ‘Left’. No matter how bad it is the bogeyman must be stopped.

I wanted to ask her about it but I knew it would be a waste of time. Her words were also wrapped up in lies and earlier when i had ejaculated on her face and she was breathing like she had run a long race….that she was or was to be a NaziPuncher. Because her appetite for fantasy had been wrought when she was created. That beautiful body was cast in a foundry of lies and fantasies that even now she craved it. Like the cocaine she loved and the late night madness, the loss of a whole weekend. How many had we done now? eight or nine.

But here when I was inside her the real truths came out in every twist of the hips and unconscious muscular movements as she climaxed. The way her eyes would half close and she would tilt her head up and gasp a last sweet breath before the fantasy occluded and was gone. But on her body, the sacred Kabbalah. Here between her requisite breasts DARPA and the myriad of National Laboratories that served Energy. At her navel the Defence departments and the suits of war. At her sex the Alphabet agencies like CIA/MI6/GRU Intelligence and the promulgation of the grand plan. The place for secrets. In the center of her forehead the University systems, Silicon valley and the Elon Musks. All interconnected and alive, all communicating the vibes.

I know what she had messaged him. A simple thing.

‘I Love You’







She was Red Ice the hard drinking thing

you never fooled me for a minute, the dire soft chase

murmuring sweet negatives and hidden speech whispers

filling the gaps with the psycho narratives

‘I don’t care about your life. I don’t understand it’

Her main theme [as she was bubbling on the ballgag ]seemed to be that the mass of humanity is enslaved by an Occult elite, who she refers to as monarchy, banking, religion, corporate, miscellaneous institution families, some of which may be Reptiles. Amazing shit. She was sending me thought forms as she bucked and twisted as I was strangle fucking her again. In the background thrash metal. She hated thrash metal, She LOVED Dave Mathews and Tragically Hip and edgy was Mogwai who her University boyfriend loved. He had seen them at a live gig and somebody spiked his drink with Ectasy and he was in hospital and an old man rubbed shit over the sheets and the food was bad but…

‘You have a Cocaine addiction drive for secrets they never spoke of.’

The men in the High places who drive the whole sordid train of humanity flicking through tunnels analogy fucking, squeezing those fucking variables. She was being well fucked. I’m brilliant at that shit.

‘Because Jeff Rense.com is like taking acid. Yellow letters on a blue background and Jeffs awful portrait avatar beaming from the corner like a permed sex freak feeding you his daily dose of Nazi Flying Antarcticas and Pyramid societies and the Jews. Never forget the fucking Jews.’

Especially the Flying Saucer Nazi Jews and their incessant Radio broadcasts from SNOWZION. It was true. Buck and writhe sweetness. Her hair was wet with saliva. Bent over her sofa. Her back breaking surely. She never cared.

One way women enter the realm of heart orgasm is through the confirmation of their greatest, sometimes irrational, fears. These fears become a skin they dress themselves with. Layer after layer building up a series of characters they would play until when they really wanted someone to open their heart to their real personality was covered under a stratified series of people they had designed and built as a protective personality suit. The real them is lost underneath. Here the abyss watches them. Lost thing. Bodies under my hands as they sweat at last and throw off the built and the manufactured. But I was holding my head now as I fucked.

The evidence is out there. You just have to look for it. Wake yourself the fuck up. Get yourself a Space Witch girlfriend. Watch her reveal the truth. I think she has passed out.

They don’t want you to know this. To reach your peak sexuality and to grow and utilise your sexual energy is a weapon against them. She has a sheen of sweat on her skin but I am cool and dry. No power on earth can stop illicit fucking.

The Roman Polanski Orange Sunshine Motherfuckers. The Cali-Nazi Bread and Butter Cowboy bands.

‘My Boyfriend never fucks me like that’ she says. She doesn’t say his name which I know. Frank. He’s a mature student who studies Law or something. Why doesn’t she say his name. He’s a nice guy Frank. I feel a bit pissed off for him. Once he was knocking the door to her flat shouting her name. He was drunk and I’m sure crying. She of course couldn’t answer. She had something in her mouth. But we didn’t think Crystal Methamphetamine was a real bad thing. My mate had said eat about twenty Ginseng pills then do the meth. That way your cock will stay hard and I was seeing Red Dragons over her back as she sucked my cock and it was cool. And in the background Frank behind the door moaning like Morrisey.

‘Karen don’t you see, taking the piss out of me, in your stockings and suspenders under the hands of a-nuvver man. A violent man’

Was there a lack of sacredness and context darling? I asked her be-dragonned back. But she was hunger then and so was I. But bound she was nothing more than an organ. She repressed and bound herself in many ways. Her Tantra was artificiality and preening. Her own strategy was self hate and she couldn’t come to terms with who she was under my disinterested watch. For what was she but the magic? Her forms were treasure to me and everything was marked and scored with the subtle notes of the metaphysical and they wove a path through everything. Didn’t they?Do they?

Has the damage been too much. She loved the speed and the greed, the needs. Her Father was Russian and she was studying Russian.

I am the JAWWAH. But don’t expect me to deliver on any of my promises. I’m as honest as a Hippy, honestly. But fucking her I can see her abyss and mine consuming each other in the great cosmic drug addled fuck fest we do and have done and will do again. No hard wired connections, no solid concepts. No listening to her layered crap apart from when she’s coming down and you know the third line will send her right over the edge and she tries to push my hand completely into her mouth whe is wide eyes and trying to fit. It. All.In.

Weren’t you listening to each other at all? Couldn’t you see it coming?

Fog Sisters

August 2009

The way we can walk past each other without looking at anything
Frequencies squashed
Antenna belted and raw
Bound straw men clothed in modern rot
Cursed verse only fit for futures past
Bibles forgotten and woven threads rotten
Vowels that have edges and clicked dry tongues stick
Fingers twisted in pockets
Fingers fisted around lockets
Sisters lost in fogs