Kill Kill Kill The KLF

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Fucking Idiots.

Bill Cosby’s Son Is Slain Along Freeway By B. DRUMMOND

Why doesn’t she send me any photos of her tits, what’s the fucking point anyway with all of it. I’m waiting with a fucking sweaty hand and Jesus Christ if I hear that fucking Tardis song again I’m going to flip out MKULTRA POP BOLLOCKS and I want to kill that cunt from Coldplay, and that Anton Newcombe dude and that cunt from the Charlatans ALL OF BLUR and five fucking minutes alone with her Jesus Christ on twenty mikes….oh and Alan fucking Moore the big purple dickhead…

I dreamed for a sick while as people that I thought I existed moved around the bed with lit candles, as ghosts they were. With me locked within a feeble machine they called the physical body. It stunk and was lost and I looked only to God, on the one left hand to think about the redemption he may offer me for my sins and on the right to smash my simple machine to pieces upon the anvil of his judgement. What things tempt me here. What madness they offer me. What ignorance.

What Time is Love?I do not know and in this place I see that it is a made up thing as a Map it is under the cosh of the artist as he lays lines upon one another to depict a place here and a stream there. So it is with this Prison, their artistry becomes them for the landscape outside and the interior of this place is the product of a mind that does not know the shallow helpless mind of a Man ridden with the memory of his past, of green fields and trees, the sharp frosts and the crying infants from unglazed windows. As we sink into the subjects they wish us to love we lose of course the very thing that we possess and they do not. 

I’ve got some nice shoes don’t get me wrong. They are style fresh things fully car to carpet. Flush no concrete touches the soul of these things. Fit like a London gimp suit. Flash like a bomb going off really truly. In the whole scheme of things she needed a good hard fucking, but I wasn’t the one to do it. Not today Lord please, not on a day like this. The wind was lashing across the ships bow and my hands were cold, so cold they were like claws holding the……rope?

Under the thermal layer 55 fathoms from failure. From the lips of the drunken wailer To the ears of ships dead sailor.

The Discordian underground was always full of shit. That old CIA bastard Robert Anton Wilson, that bearded MI5 asshole Alan Watts, the gurning cunty face of Terrence McKenna, all of them an endless fucking parade of assholes controlled by the forces of the Demiurge. In Alternity 23 of course they were dragged onto the Sports field and hanged from the goal posts. Here they just withered and died. There they kicked their fucking legs in the April Sun as the Jesus freaks and the Allah freaks got their freak on. I’ve had my fucking FILLUMINATI Joe….Joe?

“They never burned any money on that place man it was just fake money yeah. They had an old photocopier and got drones to print out sheaths of that shit and when the whole project seemed like it was going on forever they just cut the paper up and glued real notes to the top, I saw it man because…..”

In Hookland I rode my horse to the edge of one of it’s village and stopped underneath an Oak to succour a vision or some enlightenment it may offer this aged and gnarled thing, this massacre. The cold rain whipped around my horse but he stood gallantly and unafraid of the place.

It sat, this village upon the edge of a small River like a blackened scab. Many of the houses within it were unglazed and had rough blankets nailed over the windows. Animals half starved and moaning moved around these places. Perhaps there were two hundred souls within it. According to the Magistrates of Westminster there were tasks to be done. Not the task of shifting hay or perhaps sipping plain water at the table of the Lord of the place. Shifted Wine still like spirits, their odours still apparent in their rooms although quickly covered and hidden at my arrival. They are dogs of course, gilded and fine, they run their lives as they see fit and I do despair sometimes that it could be them upon the fire instead of the agents of Witchery such is its flavour.

Who is this he, the I who’s turned into we? He be the name, of intense energy. From the quantum oscillator. This Greater power is achieved. The evidence observed, Yet it’s still not believed.

There wasn’t any TV here but I knew Trump was close. Corbyn, May, Tories, Korea, Manchester. All vying for attention. The Demiurge knew we loved it, the information and the angst. I rarely knew my own position in the matrix but I know a good ass when I see one. I wanted to stick my tongue right into her ass to be perfectly frank and honest. Sit on my fucking face. But then I would have to shut my eyes and the rain would start again. The salt fucking air, the cries of them LASHED. The cries of them under the boot of the Demiurge locked into the greasy plank and the Marlin knots.

Andy rolls up his sleeves. Droplets fall from the leaves. And the branches above Lovely petrified trees. In water you freeze, my friend. In water you die. That’s just the way of the world. Was his ghastly reply…

…aghast and lashed. Her innocence was a fucking sham. I knew her. She wouldn’t stop banging on and fucking on about what a Demagogue Trump was and it was like everything she breathed in was Trumpian. Even when I slid my hand up her skirt and slipped a finger in she was abrupt and political. It was like fucking one of those Socialist Worker women. Abject abstract fucking with conditions and rules and all the paraphernalia of her current madness.

Who is this he, the I who’s turned into we Scrimshaw the name, of intense energy Scrimshaw picks the game If you choose to play along A cipher is embedded Somewhere deep in the song The only catch is it’s death If your answer is wrong… Left sightless and deaf With no the soul to prolong Marimba, a gong and the dead timpani Buried at the bottom of the Solomon sea Cross dimensional slayer the antique record player Sounds the semitones of death Through the chlorinated vapor…..whispers through the traffic underneath as the rubber hit the tarmac. It makes noises and signals that get mixed. 

I was kissing the side of her mouth while she smoked a cigarette and she huffed and puffed then blew my house down. Hilarious politics. We were waiting for a taxi. Puff and huff smooth down the back of that dress and squeeze her ass here in the street. Groper. The five knot roper. Sick bastard.

I’m not sure of any of the timelines any more. It’s all a confusing mess. I can still feel the bruises of my errant attempt at suicide. The leap from the bridge. Six maybe seven years ago and still the fucking thing keeps calling me back to it. To stand on the middle of it and feel the throb of the traffic underneath and the cold Iron in my hands that turn to a soft breast and then an icy rope. She was ever present, just there in the mix always. She was the only one that said ‘everything is ok’. 

Outside the windows as her lips move softly up and down the shaft of my love and that silver saliva glitters over her lips, and her hair is all tangled and our lives are all mangled and she licks and sucks…..the children sing in a circle and hold each others hands as they joyfully sing out past the blackened walls we build….

Kill Kill Kill the KLF-Bunch of bastards-Bunch of Cunts

Kill Kill Kill the KLF-Bunch of bastards-Bunch of Cunts

Kill Kill Kill the KLF-Bunch of bastards-Bunch of Cunts

Kill Kill Kill the KLF-Bunch of bastards-Bunch of Cunts

This post contains lyrics and inspiration from the work of Aloysius Scrimshaw
Twitter @AloyScrimshaw

Katie Hopkins The Whore-Gone Accumulator

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Katie Hopkins is on the TV and I am in the midst of the great ache. The MDMA is in me and is not entwined with the arc at all. I’m gibbering. a mess. Fucking Muslims this and fucking Muslims that and bodies lie still on cold pavements and the hate is palpable and real but abstract and meaningless. All is according to plan. Keep Calm And Get Your Cock Sucked. Katie Hopkins-Mathew Hopkins. The Great Witch Hunters for the Demiurge. Sticking it in Kates big wet cunt again and again. I grab the TV and put my head closer to the screen to see withing the pixels. her voice enters me. But outside is wet with rain. Wet as Katie Hopkins cunt. Wet as the black cloak of the Wytchfynders.

The days change and men do suffer and die and you are left unchanged. Veins I have that fill with ice at your touch, this essence purely yours. Flow the tears and grip the my heart tighter and call to errant Fathers. This day cast bones among the others and scrabble in the dust. Let the infants cry their own tears and remember nothing, not a thing. I rejoice about nothing for nothing is the food of the ignorant.

The chains of Parliament they gave me hang heavy at my chest and I ask why? The clouds still move slowly and this place burns all the faster. We resent bitterly this act that even the elders scratch thinning heads. To strike out in anger, to breathe the thicker air and gasp not. To run with limbs that do not ache with the damp of English Autumn. Let the rain fall upon me and my Horse, castigate me more, I care not. The Wizards of this land lie deep within their mounds and we forget. The innocence of youth wasted upon our heads, there is no remedy for Time. No real Wytches to find. Is it not all a great perambulation?

She is spent upon the bed and snores. This Bride of Christ. my Nun fixation finished but for the chemicals etched upon synapse. To bend and snake twist the cords and tubes within my body. And the Ecstasy courses into my cock and Katie Hopkins face fills my vision blocked by errant pixels and HDBLU rays twisted through eyes and emblazoned. I feel the dull rain itch my collar and the shifting of the horse beneath me. The Nun with issues as she bent beneath my will. Her need for Christ now gone and destroyed. In Katies eyes the bent cross of the Demiurge. The machine continues on it’s way.

As children we pray and build our foundations of falsehood. Such earnest hands clasp together and send our Prayers to an empty vessel. To believe, to suffer and thus belief becomes the capstone of the Prison and we are imprisoned and our hollow prayers are collected within this house built from the pain of our lives. We are mocked, we are pointed at and beaten for our truth and this is the want of the Prison and of the greater untruth. Teach, to feel the lesser things that plague our lives, to castigate it and dress it with the blooms of falsehood. Let these teachers now stand in front of you Glorious Black Sun and see at last that your vengeance means nothing. Your anger is meaningless, your heart burns with the truth and those who would stand in front of you for judgement would be waiting for an eternity. For that is the final act of your existence. To see, to record and to make those who require your love to kneel upon the barren plains of your infinite mind and weep. For the Heart of the Black Sun is within all, but the finding is the key. Forgive yourself, to see the history of mankind to be a pantomime and a discourse of the ill.

Vallaro icht ar’ant vechal gan ferrelo. I grab my cock and push it against the screen as Katie Hopkins delivers. It’s all over her face and her eyes are wide open and she’s talking about something but the words don’t mean anything. volume low. don’t want to wake her yet. Sister of Christ. My hands shake, Hopkins shakes. On the screen she is dressed as a Puritan fynder pointing her finger at me vehement, angry. I put the tip of my cock on it and I am sure the finger breaches the lcd screen for a second. The Nun on the bed stirs. The MDMA purrs.

What is this sin they heap upon us? I asked her. To love and to cherish, to seek punishment upon those that have wronged this Earth they have made? The Masters will plot and seek to crush your Black Light upon us but we know, those who have looked deep within our own hearts or have been cast to the edge of the abyss will see, at last, the glories of your existence and know you are the truth and the wisdom. But no one will listen as we stumble, nobody will care as the edifice crumbles.

She is behind me as I stare at the screen. I feel her soft Christ hands upon me and her small hard breasts on my back. My skin crawls. Affection rejection. The Whore-gone Accumulator empty and spent. The Rorschach blot of ejaculations on her body look like a man in black upon a Horse, under an Oak tree, it is raining.

Katie Hopkins speaks through the television as her hands now on my cock moving and kneading it to hardness…Hopkins. Of course. Her lips move on the screen as she speaks to me and I feel the Nun wet…

‘This I see’ Hopkins says. Her lips wet with vengeance. ‘and yet though I bear witness and travel to see these things I say to you fly as well as you can through the trials of your life and let me bear this burden alone for I am not worthy of this knowledge. Let it be known that I am the great Liar, the destroyer of life and of joy. I am the unworthy thought a friend who would put a knife to back or to those deep within sleep. Nightstar, unbidden guest and the shallow depths. Chosen as a messenger I am from the Charnel house of the Earth, the sickened room, the sleeping sea and the knife ever sharp.’ But then her words are lost and she is eloquent on the Muslim menace, the lack of action.

I turn and hold my Nun tight and twist her nipple hard in my hand, she tries to move away but I have her tight. Christ Bride wet and ready in the night.

There must be an attractive quality in holding in a sense, a human, for am I not of flesh and was I not brought from death to this place? She was on my cock now gasping, her nails within her own flesh raking and pulling, for what?

Thus my spirit exists and now I see through the passions and they have played trickery and sorcery upon soft pliant flesh to bring me here, to look upon me and eventually destroy this thing I would call myself. What sympathy does this influence have upon my spirit? I know not yet but I will, for although they have taken away the knowledge of myself and I am as a new born upon this place I still know still have the knowledge that I am what I am, I exist independently of them and have a sense, if you will, that I am complete.

No Monuments For Bastards

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Whether or not the controversial ‘Book of Light’ are false or authentic does not affect the symptomatic value of the document in question, that is, the fact, that many of the things that have occurred in modern times, having taken place after their publication, effectively agree with the plans assumed in that document, perhaps more than a superficial observer might believe.

Burned out white boy? Burned out definitely. White boy? I can’t even see my own skin unless I look. There’s an Anti-Consumer Corporate dialogue going on somewhere around me but I don’t quite have the faculties to look either. But these corporate drones bustle and fuss over the fine details of their lives and thats cool, they wont look at me. Bourgeois bastards with their hearts firmly stuck within the gear of Neoliberalism. That somehow the gears of the machine will not crush their lifestyles of soft leftist bicycling.

In my kidneys that ache again. When I was ten years old my Father took me to one side and gave me a kicking. It was 1975 and he still wore those Mod winkle pickers with the sharp toe. He used his feet well only kicking me in the ‘soft’ parts but couldn’t really resist a final punch in the face which split my lip. Now I could still taste it. Bleed. But only the aches remained as I crouched over the spreadsheets. There is no resistance to violent commodification. No release from the chain. Only the ache from the scars on my vital organs. And whenever I hear Neil Diamond play ‘Sweet Caroline’ I vomit those aches up, into my hand and put the yellow handful of fluid in my pocket as I don’t want to upset anybody. I don’t want to make a mess, and nobody listens any way.

The divine personality becomes more complex as the ritual goes on and again she bucks and weaves, pulls and pinches. But she embodies the creative urge and she has but a hand on my shoulder and bumps her hip against mine as she stares at her boyfriend. He is slightly drunk…

‘You want him?’ he says. Mocking a little I think. But he doesn’t see my hand slide down the back of her trousers and rest a finger on her asshole. She doesn’t move just pushes back a little and I know I’ve found her again. Slow movements as she argues with him and my fingers suffer the bump and the grind like the fucking Wizard I am. Simply abstract. Sexuality is defunct. Manifested in the image of violence and metaphysical arrogance it’s all a fucking ritual, every stinking bit of it. Why do I bring out the worst in them. Didn’t they warn that the eigen will give the thing you most desire? Alienation? Dysfunctionality? Discord?

Later that night when she lost him and was finding herself I tried to grab her hair but it was too short and she was moving in ways she should not have. That hunger these women feel. Sick feelings. The ache of Father with the hydraulic hose and the endless repetitive beatings that made you just fucking bear it, for a while.

A balance of the harmonious passions. Instinctive impulses. She was becoming aware and her spiritual journey was at the start. I was deep in her ass trying to hold onto her as she pushed back harder and I saw through my closed eyes a great black mountain and at it’s feet a tree with golden shining leaves. It’s there I know it is. I was making cereal late at night, I was thirteen years old and he heard me crinkling, making and preparing the late night snack. I was only aware of him when I looked around, I felt an itch like somebody was watching. He was watching and as my head turned he hit me straight in the jaw and I dropped unconscious. I knew it. Out for the count covered in Weetabix crumbs. In the blackness and single spot of light. Not illuminated, not lit. The Illuminator, the Lighter. Me. And the light swirled as I felt the blood of the act as an acid. Revisit the violence on others? Perhaps, for a while, while I get my head straight and my jaw wired. But in my Father the acts of the Demiurge unveiled. The unfocused rage of those trapped within the system he had made for himself. The final terror? You judge yourself in the end mate. You can’t lie to yourself, and you will fall with the rest.

‘You fuck so good, fuck me forever’

The Chalk is used and is an indecent nub, a mere thing of dust. The walls in front a dire mess of Geometry. Lines which trickle from end to end, like an arc of the Covenant, a pleasing design. Arc-Box and Red-Box the conundrum within, a flight or fight syndrome, a thing held as mine. The Magic held for a while, a minute or two, enough for me, to get through to you. Do you think they will read it and understand? The placid regrets and the one night stands? There is a secret deep inside, a chance to escape, a deep place to hide. Even though we barred the windows with planks, they got through and proffered their thanks. Fired up hearts awash with Whisky, they trod and defiled the sacred spot. In braid they tied our hearts together, as we bled to death. Cast them to the Dogs, this much we know. A stabbed corpse, a sodden blow.

She was spiritually poor and miserable in her current state not because of horrific imbalances intentionally built into her system, but rather because she deserves it. I watched the scene at the foot of the mountain. There was definitely a path. As she cried her passions into the still room I watched and tried to concentrate but It was all fluff and bollocks all of it. I wanted to throw her off but underneath me she writhed like a primordial snake. The ooze of the act, her ejaculations wetter than ever and her gasps were just that, bereft of effect. Stuck on the 6th Holy sea of passion and I wanted to cry out myself, not in passion but remembrance.

‘Stick it in me again’ she asked as I drew sigils on her back with her passionate liquids.

‘Its been a weird time for me over the past few years’ I whisper to her back. Whisper to the sigils. All I ever wanted was to ask was offer me forgiveness and some level of emotional understanding but I suspect it was now too late for that. I was gone and those emotions had been left to dry out in the toilet bowl full of blood when I took a piss after the beating. It was all in there, the white porcelain and the scarlet clots of blood and piss. Real power comes through the pagan ritualistic, the old time waving of the wands. Where power was the massacre of a village without the divine knowledge that the Demiurge would protect it’s own, for now.

But later as she lay on the bed underneath me, in the middle of her forehead revolved a Black Sun and it’s rays like tendrils snaked from the orb over her face and down her neck, all over her body black veined filth, a cry to home, the ceaseless machinations of the demiurge fighting that which is opposite, nurturing that which is corrupt and defiled.

Where apes are the devolved men. The crux of the Demiurge. The South or the North. The left and right hands. Does anybody else sense the evil of the machinations from the South? My cock was only semi hard as she suckled on it, tried to find susenance on it but she suspected that it was all fake, a ruse, a riddle of love that brought her to me. My sickness personified in the abstract expressions of love. The way I slapped my cock on her forehead and laughed. She was beside herself and her sisters all over the world. She was defunct. Fraternity of the Fucked hey? 

Anti Lust Machine 


August 2009 

Nine faiths lie for faith healers faces turned to a black sky. Hands unclenched and  limp upon the pages of the liars rage. 

I couldn’t even look at her. Her left leg over her right leg she holds her glass with her little fingers erecting stiff pyramids for very idle glances from me. Her eyes were dead. But her hands were alive. 

Sacred valleys are just deserts here among the noise and the shrill demands for anything. Just something to fill the vacant spaces between the words we spoke. She had it all worked out. I passed her the paper in my hand. A page of close insane Akcloctic script detailing the approach to the abyss. She put it down without looking. 

In the end you love all of them regardless of their madness and my need to be affected by any of it. If only the films were true we would be running hand in hand through the rain as they chased us. ‘This way quick’ I would shout and she would stumble and I would cast her into a dark alley as the black jaguars drove past. But it’s not. 

‘They’ don’t chase. I reached over and popped open her tight shirt so I could look at her flesh a little. She put her drink on the page of strange symbols. ‘Ashom’ the sacred breast. It was dark in this place and I leaned over and gently bit her soft breast. But it was another time and now those memories of her grow dim. Isn’t this the traffic of the Demiurge? 

The ink on the paper ran. The sigils blurred and ran. We ran but here we sat and stared at each other and my scars vibrated with the memory of the surgeons knife, the anger of a Gods human wife, the skin twisting arrogance of the Demiurge. 

What are you but a concept? The only power you hold is tender skin and the way you grind your cunt on me while you soak me with your animal lust. No justice for thieves darling. Didn’t we have a chance when we discovered it was just me? 

I figured I had 45 minutes at the most before the pills made me lose consciousness. I wanted that last period to just watch her sip her alcohol. We had nothing to say but everything to see. But bitter pills get stuck in the throat and make it hard to breathe. Or was the barbiturate shutting down my ability to breathe? 

Rainbow bridges and kisses. Fumbled fucking under the gaze of wicked snitches. Liars age bring the accused to test. To fuck and cry to deny us rest. The music here was loud and it wasn’t what I expected. Not what I had envisaged. 

In memoriam I shouldn’t have even tasted that particular bitter flesh. She was aloft and in a heightened sense of rage unsure whether I was a figment of the Demiurge and mirrored my own thoughts on the matter. Alas with her mouth full of my seed, her lips snarled and castigated the act of rjaculation into pretending. Just plays. She swirled it around her mouth as she stared at me. Accusing. Letting the cum slowly drop out over her chin as I held tight searching for the vision, another answer to the puzzle. Instead of joy the split pain of denial at the border. The visions were dark and hot. The presence mute. 

Dear Whoever you were,

I never believed a word you said. I never believed anything we did together was anything but pure lust but what you saw in my broken body I’ll never know. 

But the trickery of the eugenics made me travel to distant shores held high on the crest of indifferent whores. Phone tappers, lost fingernail nightclub slippers. The smell of you on me. The strength to open my own eyes and see. And they hassled me to write everything down. But I never did. There are some things that should be kept secret you know.

‘I’m hungry’ she said