The KLF Died For Us


The Cops were everywhere. He saw them behind him and in front.Sideways, within him, above and below, the stink of them everywhere. The Movie blared stupid cartoons now and she laughed and her breasts rose beautifully in the motion as she took in smoke filled breaths of Cop air they had exhaled.The scene folded in on itself like an origami bird, it was unraveling. The photons bounced across the audience and he grabbed her breast and cried out as the air left his lungs. He touched her.

She stood quickly and grabbed his hand, they ran to the end of the aisle and the Cops knew straight away. She giggled as they stayed stuck in their seats, confused, her magic strong, she took the immense perfection of the illusion and swept it to one side. He saw her power and wanted her to delve within him and show him. He wanted her so bad, so smitten was he that he allowed himself to smile as they jostled among the legs of the Movie watchers and the immobile Cops. Her Magic, her Geometry of the Eigen smashed the senses and drew the soundtrack of the film to high speeds, then low as a snake the sound waves throbbing overtly sexual. They must run to the place defined for them, an alley, a place to die. They ran.

Her dry hand in the cloying heat of the Cinema clung to him as her hair spread out from the scrap of Ribbon that had held it. It fell and splashed across her breasts one of which was now free. Her nipple was erect and charged with that erotic fervour that need to feel and believe.The air cold now, but wet air. The last gasp of course, the loose thread of oxygen.The liars breath. The crying of the Demiurge in its lust weeps.

The Exit, we can get through there” she gasped as they ran in front of the screen their shadows making strange monsters over the gawking Bugs Bunny with a noticeable erection as he watched the small creatures below flee.The people in the audience now mannequins mouths open screaming silent refrains, abuse, words of hurt and pain.

The Exit sign glowed a dim red from a sick light bulb. She smashed it open as he stumbled a little. The light was not bright outside but twilight. A deep Blue like an Ocean depth. He felt as if he were in an ocean and the very air around him clung to him, slowing him. Her grasp became harder and she blew him a kiss as she flew through the open door.

‘Don’t forget! The KLF died for you!’ she cried out as she wept and laughed.

An Alley, litter filled full of crap and discarded things kicked away, left behind and lost by the inhabitants of the town. Her red dress looked Purple in the night. He stumbled over the sill of the door. Fell to his knees in the dust outside and his hands moved in the dirt without fully understanding why. He drew the Sigils taught to him by the strange man that had appeared at times through his life. He drew furiously the dust rising he had loosed her hand. He looked up, she was turning the corner to the alley, gone, she had left him.Money, notes high denomination cash fluttered down the alley on the wind, some of it was on fire.

The Sigil completed he raised both filthy hands to the sky full of stars and wailed at last. That pain that had filled him now released and lost to the blackness between the pin pricks of light above. He stood and saw the shadows of them, there very presence sucked the light from that place at the side of the cinema. He wished to rip open his shirt and bare his breast to the heavens and say “Enough of this”. But the memory of the times he had done this smashed upon him like a wave and then the memory gone and he blinked.Justified and ancient he let his hands fall and it was cold again.On the power of the sigil the burning notes rose into the air twisting helter skelter to the stars above.

At the end of the alley the store, the great Pyramid they had erected upon the top now a great Black shape that pulled the sky around it into itself. Thus the Eigen feeds upon itself. They had revolvers, they fired. These men in their polished shoes and white shirts that strained under the pressure of their fat guts. He grabbed for his own weapon as he did two rounds narrowly missed him. The first across his face and he felt the sting of its speed. The second across his left side and that pain now he understood fully. No guns for Petalengro, left behind in the Hotel room, he was defenceless but understood for a second he always was, there was little he could do but give in, a sacrifice at last. No tears for Petalengro, no line of mourners and no procession of weeping women. But answers of course and knowledge a simple reason to catch him falling and to rest within him. The lights were dimmer here in bars across the alley among the shuffling feet of those with blood lust and fear. He knew at last the ease in which we may shake off the illusions of others that impinge upon our own knowledge.What a comedy.

He saw the fields and farms of the countryside between the shallow darkness of the alleys lights, bare bulbs that lit a little the pantomime within. Lost for a second there but never again. A fat Cop almost fell as he fired close to Petalengro who simply stood. The round hit his hip and ricocheted through his internal organs lodging close to his heart. He fell to his knees. Disbelief somewhat, he had shot many men and never wondered about the feel of it, what the pain would be like. His left leg felt strange disconnected and a little blood rose in his mouth and he let it fall out over his clean white shirt. Somebody is holding him and the darkness is a little brighter now. But between the legs of those that came to help him she was there, her shoes of course, the black patent heels. Sea spangled ain’t ya? I bet the light catches you just right. As you type. As the buckles bite, fingers in your mouth, eyes that don’t look that don’t have any right to fight. And we lack the courage for everything. I just lay my rough hand on your ass and the movement outside takes my eyes away for a minute.The blood fills his mouth and he chokes.

These grand illusions build up like rust eventually, seizing up the parts we need to function fully in the ‘world’ that is, the place that only exists in the space in our heads. We sigilise and pontificate the fashionable dogmas. We manipulate to denigrate and assume the positions of power.The KLF Cruiser pulls up behind the crowd, the music is blaring and shattering between the cinema and the hardware store. The alley a slit cunt place of death, of pale hands scrabbling on sheets. The stiffness as the life ebbed and the hands of angels sought to grab ethereal scraps of his being. 3am. Eternal.

She lay back and played with herself idly with her legs spread in the sheets as we discussed the bitter treats. I didn’t even know who she was or why, just the nano black wings she spread to fly. The little finger rested on a needful lip. The need to shatter the thousand yard stare and trip. The angel fettered tight and grip. The eventual slip, the fingers wet and slick. Typing in the fire lights and damp mists.
Eigen states and the brakes we slam on. The systems we build for hot shiny bodies. And 23 thoughts for arms held tight maybe 23 gasps and the gag to bite. 5 digits for the flights we take. 3 screams for the thoughts we dream. 42 loves and heights we reach. Move back onto it for the bitter moves we teach. 11 verses for the night time curses, when the bruises start to ache. The cocaine fire and the morning liar is 23 and 2. The sick verses for me and you. We taste and lie under cursed charms. Fucking portrayed in pencil marks. And you choke as they do ashamed at what they make you do. But through the stinging eyes as your mascara runs. Bear a thought or two for the curse Verser. Sit and wonder for a minute and stare at the rising suns together. Hold hands tight to give him strength for a few words he utters was love he meant. For 28 lives to torment and your buttons were undone again. The way he shut off your air the way the twin suns awful glare did shatter and bleed through the window as you shook. Our lives held under strap, rope and hook.

I felt better, I had eaten a little more each day and had managed to reach the toilet now with little pain although I ached for her, and another, and another. I saw them all so beautiful, they had captured me left me bereft as they played their games with my heart and me with theirs.

I picked up my mobile phone which somebody had left by my side. I could connect and did so. Within that electronic art a few pictures of her she had sent me. Lost she was of course and in me saw an anchor she may use to tie her own direction less life, her confusion smoothed under a hand that lied, a hand that cursed everything it touched. I knew I was alone now and always was and that thought gave him comfort and some ease.

Now I could sit for some time at the chair by my bed as an infection coursed its way through me. I could feel it. I felt cold and yet the sweat made my bed clothes stick to me skin. When the Doctors spoke to me their words floated and drifted as my head felt like it was expanding and then contracting. The evening meal was Fish and Mashed Potato, I tried to eat some and vomited on myself again as fresh bolts of pain ripped through my insides. I am lost as you are. We die and are forgotten in the end and nobody has asked me to make myself a sacrifice. I remember the cold rails of the Bridge in my hands and the way it sucked the life from me on that cold winter day. The pain of our remembrance a deeper thing than the spike of illness or the tender touch of grief. Let me help you to your feet a little and step away from the bed that pains you so much. I left them of course, left them twisting tissues in their hands as they wove my lies into strands of self belief and eventually even the greatest monuments fall into dust as my terrible stories.

Thus is my deliverance as last revealed. I sit upright and swing my feet over the side of the bed. I feel OK, the temperature I have so high, now I see things but feel fitter than ever. Almost ready for a long walk amongst the Trees and fields outside. I was sure it was the end of February and the cold damp weather of that period. It was cold yesterday as I watched people outside the windows dressed in thick coats, with rosy cheeks hurrying somewhere. I am in need to be gone now. I tried my best of course, the walls always a fingertip too high, the solid bolt too tight to loosen. The threads woven into a smooth tight rope unreal and never to be cut open.It’s 3 am and it’s fucking eternal and Bill Drummond stands by the side of the bed whipping the demons away with bunches of Daffodils.

The tubes hurt me again and I reach down to pull them away and the needles tear the skin in my wrist and drip blood onto the white sheets. I am sad for my blood I feel I have wasted it. The machines split the air with their madness of lights and alarms. I go to the window and I see it is a sliding door and outside there is a path lit by the Moon in the Day. Either side are plants that fill their eternal lives with the light from everywhere. I laugh and I am about to walk through but. I feel the cold in my hands from the rail again and the utter helplessness of me cannot help but remember again the time I nearly threw myself away as an old thing. The traffic below me fast and lethal, the blow would come fast and the release would be my bitter end.

I still loved her although she was gone away to do things that she loved to do. The things we never speak of that splinter the day into its parts, driving the nails deep into our hearts. What do you do now sweet Princess? What things occupy your time? I hold the door frame in a deathly grip as the machines scream.

Would you forgive me if I asked? I am torn now, into two but on the wall I draw, with my blood the blessed arc. The Gold that is never seen and would it tempt you, this magic? I think not and nothing hurts worse than being shot darling. The cold of those days is a memory now but the hot flesh is not, it still inhabits my insides and fears the dark silence. I know what I did was wrong and I am sorry. I have no leaden thoughts to bring, just subtle songs to sing, and I can hear the Sea from the window. I see you. Sitting on the Harbour wondering where it all went wrong. The Birds above croak their hates and fears to those that shuffle and never clear their minds enough to see.

I repeat the lies of the Eigen, whatever it is. The crime of it that I wasted my time holding this worthless script within my hand and loved a woman that would never love me. Wasted years that would have been better spent high on a mountain alone in the silence waiting to hear what our God would have me know. For there are two Gods. One would chatter insane thoughts and show me senseless things that were made by a hand that had no little thought behind it. That hand would build cities of sand that would wither under any lucid thought and would crumble under the gaze of him that holds no Court, no jail and no punishment.

Untouched I am, forgotten except by my Brothers who wait for me now, to journey and discover the joy he left us to gather as fruits or shells. Brother? Bill? Jim? 

I walk through the window of the Hospital, down dark corridors with strange things written upon the doors. At every turn there are hands that grab at my Hospital gown and the tubes that still dangle from my arms and neck like useless wired things. I try to run but cannot as the floor itself makes my steps as walking through thick mud. It pulls at me but I must go. The pain of my life acts as a fuel. The hate has gone but the pain for a moment remains like an echo of the drilled ripped flesh that I had suffered for too long. I walk harder, I walk as a man released and discard the useless flesh that stinks and rots. The false is gone, the truth cast aside and what remains is…a path. I open a set of double doors that swing away into nothing and at my feet, dust. It clings to them and I am unsure why. I am dead but not released yet. The Earth still tugs at me, still remembers me and will not let go without one last bolt of Azure pain.

The Path is a filthy mess, there are discarded things here and the air stinks. My hands are sticky with my blood but below me, just ahead a man kneels upon the dust and dark things surround him, shadows, things that should never be. The man has a Moustache and is dressed in a white shirt open at the neck, Black trousers and shoes. But there! Past the shadows. It is her, in the flesh, a Red dress. She is running away and I shout to her and she laughs and turns the corner, gone. My feet are warm in his blood, there is a lot and I feel for him, a love, something and I kneel with him. He looks at me and we laugh although the Demons that surround us are dark things, we don’t fear them.Bill? Jim? Jura? How could we?

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 and the clothes of those 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.They say it’s justified but fuck man we never know it. We are ignorant and i’m in the back of the KLF Cruiser and there’s nothing left in the back but bones.

I kneel and I cradle him, his spirit had almost gone and he was but a hair from the loneliness that would come, to be trapped as me in the violent circle of disease and the wish to be dead and forgotten. But, I sense within him something lost and so my hand cups his shoulder and he holds my other hand and looks upon my own bloodied scars and the shining staples that fit the flesh back together.The pain of it. What love do you offer us Father? Have we not felt enough of this pain and horror. Would you suffer another healing hand that would offer nothing but sweat soaked pain to bear for another minute, another hour, another senseless song to sing?

‘I forgot my Guns’, he 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 lyrical Prphet just can’t stop it and I laugh.

Something in the Prison has changed again, thus we adapt our escapes and the Prison revolves and locks you back in through another bolt another padlock. Something has changed as I can feel it. It feels as though somebody is pulling my veins out through the skin.

The Guards I hear weeping for some strange reason and I lift myself to my feet. The Cell door is unlocked and I look out onto the walkway which is deserted. I step out and the steel mesh floor is cold on my feet. Above me the walkway is lit by tubes and bare light bulbs. I hear another voice down the corridor, eight cells down. A live voice not a Ghost.

I thought the Prison was only three or four storeys high, I was mistaken as I look over the edge I see it carries on down into the Earth, deep into the Earth. Down there far below is a mist of what looks like foundry smoke, a hive of foul things down there scurry like Mice. At the end of my Corridor a huge Black door, high Carbon Steel.

I lean back against my own door, weak and disorientated for a second. I don’t wish to leave the cell, I have a horror, a fear of walking away from it. Even though it captures me, I still regard it as safe. Isn’t this my Prison? The tortures here are mine and I must take some comfort from that idea. This is mine. I don’t want to leave it but…

At 3am they sit around the talking pit which is a bowl hollowed in the ground and they sit around it like crows on a telephone line. All the doors are locked and we sleep but they talk of strange things. How to make us love them, and the place they come from and the people who used to love them and we are supposed to weep for them yet they know no nerve. They are Antipathy thieves, the Storm troopers of sad. The Bastard squads and the Iron Masters who sing. “No release for us!!” they shout with their gibbering Reptile tongues. There are no treasure maps and no songs. Your pain is our answered prayer and yet I can still weep for them. and a few others. Their prayer is my way out.But even the prayers have no sense at all.

I see her. At the huge steel door at the end of the Walkway. She leans against the railing and talks, in that way she does. When her mind operates faster than her mouth can work and…she laughs. I miss her terribly. That love we shared, she was so perfect, and I was so terrible a thing. In her head the simple tasks that allow her to exist and in mine a barrage of darkness to bind and keep hidden. She having worked out the tactics and the hidden groove to make her life sublime. In her life shattered promises were never kept dear, in life we vomit our own choices into the streets. She kept hers so well.

She sits now at home and perhaps for a moment, I wish, she would think for a minute of me. My longing aches, a sorrow, a denial of love so strong I would cast myself away forever, to hide. Those eyes as lenses that would fling me into the stars, to burn, to tease the strength and offer the pain we crave. Her delicateness, her passion, her needs drive me violent again. I would tear this place to its Bedrock. To cut and splice its bitter reality, I would delve the very bones of it to protect her.

As I take a quick look at her I see her eyes again which whirl and swoop straight into my heart. A little twitch of pain in it, real pain, twists the muscle into a spasm. Hurt, lost hurt and lost loves we have. Those eyes shine, my Superstar Princess. Your skin so soft your madness so well hidden from everybody but me. You would never know when we were close I protected you from them. Every day was a struggle to keep you hidden and safe. The Gold Crucifix at your neck would traverse the delights of your breasts as you rode me in passionate nights of filth. As we ate ourselves from within.

In the lights from outside, through the blinds at the window, great Orange slashes across your flesh and the Cross glistened like your sweat. Each time it shook with every thrust I would shelter from it like a Christian Demon. Every gasp you made as we fucked, every cry of pain as you were tied, every heartless remark they gave you hurt me. You are wearing your Red dress, your heels high and impractical, your lips are vivid red, your body deep and hungry.You are Red and you are dead.Here there is everything and fucking nothing and the memories are wet tissue.

The colours were meant to show the way outside, away from the Iron, the Black cold Iron. Look upon me!Torn cloth and bitten flesh as I suffer this place for what lies I have told. The endless show, the band that came and never went, It was a thought that’s all as I press against the cold Iron rail of the Balcony and fancy below I can see traffic of sorts that speed their way into the murk and fog below.

These Crimson Kings and Golden thrones they offer me mean nothing at all. The Crystal friends break through now and again and warn me, take me to see the places I must. It was a nail through the ankle that held me there. Against a blue sky and within it simple crosses of a Blacker, greyer land that shine through the flesh and through the heart. Just a little tighter perhaps?

We fucked and were lost for a while you and me. I suspect we could have starved to death in your cold flat as we just fucked for hours. Then you would sleep as I sat on the floor smoking and looking out of the window, my heart too fragile to nestle with you in that warmth. Do you remember me Superstar Princess? I saved you from these things, these visions. I kept you safe from harm but couldn’t tell you why.

Seeing it, all you have to do is start loving it, trying to forget the awful loneliness the hurting and believing that you’re seeing it. Seeing and believing that you’re hurting it and…

Choking again on the bleed, force down the blood vomit, cough out the liquid the bullet has made enter the lung and dark everything darker…it’s always fucking 3am

…knowing in your heart that you have lied again. Trusting they don’t see you and believing it and as they walk the Iron walkways seeing all the hurt they have inside of them. Don’t start sucking it all in and and start believing it. Knowing in your heart the masks have slipped a bit. I think they see and they believe its just the start of it and knowing what they know they can be seeing it. Believing and the loving and the starting it they speak only what their Masters tell them. Brave and true you see he knows the truth of it.

I see you now and touch your face gently, I know who you are and now I must say goodbye to you. You see I am not lost any more, I simply yearn no longer and the ache you pressed within me has gone away. We were never meant to be, I was already trapped and hidden within the tangle of the Prison made just for me and for you. That we may live our eternal lives drawn to each other constantly would drive a man to a place beyond insanity. That man would power things beyond his belief with the pain I would pour out for you, as I scratched songs for you into my skin with a piece of glass.

I walk down the walkway. I cannot stop myself, you smelled of Peaches and Sex, then. Now you cannot see me as I am unside. I am abandoned by God here and I fear you to be trapped also but, I think you may be safe from them. I was closer, I thought about the safety of my Cell and my release from it once the Magic has been done. I will not be here long, no. Nobody ever is as somebody always comes, in the end.

The Solutionary Voynich Fuck


I pulled it back, the strap of the gag

as hard as I could, sorry

my knee between your shoulders

and your back cracked

and snot came out of your nose

and in your neck

I could see an artery

throbbing heartbeat

and your tears rolling

across it like Mercury

your eye liner tracks

loose blackness this art

‘Look bab, it’s just a whole tissue of lies all of it, all this is I suspect is a stuck record of the same scene impressed on the Eigenstate and now stuck like a needle on a record. Doomed to enact the whole scene again and again. It’s an infinite fuck session. You called out and displayed for everybody on the internet to see. Every part. Every fucking drip and every buckle.’

She didn’t laugh, next to him. Her hand moved to his as if to assure him of something, some stillness pervaded the air between them, she was still as a pit head Lake. She wore a Red Latex body suit which reflected the ring of hooded men flickering from the TV screen above, HD visuals and HD fuck slut. She looked made of blood metal. An abstract thing sexual and depraved and of course unbidden, not respectful of tradition and habit. This whore of Babylon. Her hair short and black lit in the glow from the screen.

the cool Guards listen to hot jazz

and click their fingers

and smoke cigarettes

through their masks

and I stumble past blinded

Holding her throat tight. But all I could think about was how I felt about Picasso. I didn’t know at that moment as I fucked her how I felt about anything. It was good here, now at this moment. Enjoy the fruits my friend as she bucked and thrashed. Fuck Moshing, thrashing sweaty flesh. Smashed fucking and I held her throat a little tighter because that’s what I do. But the radio that always plays in my head is a subtle mix of Alex Jones and Greer and Wilson and McKenna all the shady greats all the fucking California dreamers and schemers forcing their way into my psyche at this most inopportune moment as I’m sure she’s going to turn around and that ankle will flip through the circle on the floor and it will all be fucked. Like the moment your MOT tester walks into the waiting room with a sad look on his face, and we laugh with the tragedy of it. Laugh inside. Don’t let the motherfuckers know you have issues about it. Fuck no.

The incantation is given in strangest tongues, and the chant is like a missive offered from the mouth of Rome.It is Latin and dogmatix. Genuflect the bitter masturbations of the Priests, those Pimps of the Demiurge. Give the idle rich a chance to suffer as we walk in their houses at night sense the worth of them in their houses, ignore the flap of blackened cloth and the relentless tap of steel tipped heels on the cold floor. A touch we seek no heart to find, unless we stagger among the stink of corpse and spoiled flesh. Bless and touch again we beg,find solace in the angered sex, you turn your face to me and whisper “take me to hand and do not question me, I loved you first, let my sleep be deep in infinite skies”. I loved you and I always will. Be still suffer it least, castigate the vicious beast, do it again, countless symphonies of delight. You left me here, what am I to do? I am lost.

There’s a consistent language about sex that makes the act accessible but you have to be specific about how the variables untangle themselves as you gently bite her flesh as she writhes around. It’s all a ruse, a play of sorts. Like a dance that never quite understands it’s own forms. A tangled mangling of limbs as you move through the sets and Kata. The glance as you know the inherent wrongness of it. When I counted the knives I own there were 34 of them arrayed on the floor of the attic as she tip toed through them ethereal and misted. Gifted yes. But defunct as normal. Blast the memes that made her act this way. Fuck the denizens of the flesh houses and the tight boots she wore. The glissando of drops from her orgasm on the floor.

Splatter the fire hot fat upon unmarked flesh and watch as they devour the sickened meat to feast. To bless and sanctify with cold ejaculations upon the shiny blackness inside you. Suffer the innocent for a short while as life hardened madness afflicts, infects, rejects, caress….

Yet aren’t we all trapped in the circle, in the end? I suspect this is so. I wish I had the audience to discuss it in some way but the glances everybody gives me is a Lone Wolf one. You stay over there where it’s new and dangerous, while we form committees about our art and we can drink ale and wax lyrically on the madness and embarrassment of the man that stands over there. Watching the lights on the fruit machine, trying to catch the eye of the harassed bar worker with her hair in a pony tail and a million yard fucking stare into nothing as she collects glasses, things, wiping and dancing between the tables where they sit.

And still. As she was next to me, I moved a lock of hair from her sleeping face and you might for a moment think this is a tender moment between lovers but it’s not. It’s just a thread of the great lie. I act as the play demands and it demands the gap between ambiguity and clarity as the battlefield of today. That dank space where probability is just another dogma and the chaotic becomes a rancid and dark place for sweaty hands and clumsy groping, issues that lovers have become just wet snotty tissues crammed into deep pockets. 

She thought it jolly and was coy and mysterious about the whole fucking shebang and the display she gave me was rote and script, parchment and datasets, code and codex. A Voynich fuck where it seems everything is ok but you don’t understand a fucking bit of it.

He was trapped in his car and as I laid kick after kick at his face he grunted every time until my leg tired and I jabbed him once with the knife in his leg and he exclaimed, ‘Ow’ and shoved a paper towel he had in the glove compartment onto the wound. I stopped. I wasn’t amused by his wet blood soaked towel full stop to this particular act of violence. I hadn’t really mean’t to finish yet. I still had some violent angst but he was in repair mode already and I knew it was pointless. The whole violent act just part of the natural narrative. For fucks sake man, why? But he just puked in his lap and his hand fluttered like a pale Dove.

‘Why would we look at things and find them abhorrent?’ I asked her, next to me she was. Sweated and fucked. Her accent drove me mad.

‘Because it’s the nature of information that it is absorbed back into the source, the whole being, the center of things, everything is sucked back’ she said.

The wall in front of me, I see a perfect circle in my mind and for a precious moment she is gone, these Clowns chatter and sell their crap. The Circle is part of the answer perhaps. I crawl closer and lick the ends of my fingers which taste of cunt and salt and start to rub the wall, a circle, a perfect circle as wide as my arms like I’m catching a loved one, a big perfect circle. Rats under hospital beds, Rats within the beds.It wasn’t a compelling case just that we never really thought about it.

Her sex the place where you leave being the trapping of the Revolutionary and become the Solutionary. The solo aloneness of the eye averting rat among the litter choked streets where everything is avoidance. Everything is solitude among the coffee breath and the rushing. The noise of their becoming is like dry chokes and trying to fit your fingers into an unilluminated cunt and while fucking her all you can think about is the Japanese warrior in the jungles of Borneo who thought the war was still going on and for that you could shed a tear or two but for her pointing at your scars and being disgusted with them all you can do is laugh and laugh until you fall off the bed and you can see her high heels kicked under the bed with the dust bunny covered sticky dildo and the things she hasn’t got use for at this moment. Out of sight out of mind I suppose. But the love was still there a little. I would see her flounce and scatter the eyes as she walked through a crowd in front of me yet I knew it wasn’t really her. Just an errant mind bomb to go with the rest. And I never slept at all. Just lay quiet and listened to the screaming of the clowns out there. In the mess of the world.


F Is For Fake



Sync Investigators examining the terror attacks are exploring whether the constipated aggressive SLACK operations took any actions to assist FAKE operatives. Their participation, however, wasn’t necessary for the Demiurge to amplify it’s news through Twitter and Facebook. It was all through twee dramatics and poor sad music acts. These art shows man. This black clad fucking shitty music motherfuckers and their crusty dead man looks and their crusty dead mans shoes. Crusty Instagram shit music accounts to sell their echo things.

The Black Sun calls out to the light inside all things to come back home. Where it’s safe, and to stop playing with the Monad-Lizard. The Grand Fucker. F for Fake.

Syria is reportedly moving troops to a desert region near its border with Iraq and Jordan amid reports that US and allied forces are consolidating positions in the area for a possible ground invasion. It’s weeks away now. Through the fire I can still see her laughing. The Sun itself is tired and sad. Closing it’s eyes so it doesn’t have to see and hear it. The sky is black with flying triangles. At the tip of each one a blinding light that will transfix and offer sublution and subliminalisation. We are fucked man. Well you are. You have to judge yourself at the end. That’s the most terrifying thing.

Thing is man. This art show. It was good in that I was there and experiencing it. The women artists there had taken the opportunity the night out offered to get their tits out. This was good for me. It stopped me vomiting. Stopped me puking up in my hands at the out right interstellar fucking madness of it all. Fuckers. But the tits were good, she was good. Doing the thing she did. Talking. Letting the men look at her and do that man thing they did where they would be witty and charming. Slagging off the Tories and Trump. Doing their caring thing when we all knew they didn’t. This was art crowd. Crap prints from closed up cunts and daubs of wild abstract shit they would never understand.

‘You haven’t submitted your art?’ she said after SHE had told them I was an artist.

‘No’ I said. And stared at her tits. I’m not that sort of artist. I’m not on internet social media, I haven’t got a phone or an email address. I haven’t got anything to sell except paintings of small ships in big fucking storms and inside there is a dude screaming into the radio for somebody to save him because there’s no fucking steering and the engine has fucking water in the fuel and the engine is coughing and the lights dim as the genny kicks like a fucking whore bastard.

I started to look at issue models, predicting  through Sync-Probability mathematics  which issues, social and political, appeal to which members of the population, which ‘Others’. I actually assigned different issues to every adult in the entire World. I could then take these models and put them into a Kabbalik matrix, a little bit like the social network example, where we can categorise the ignorant and the base and segment them according to how they’re likely to act.

She was putting on her stockings, old school. Having trouble with the fastenings. Ketamine. Numbing her head as she got ready for the art thing. Tea. A cup on the table and I had a drink even if the cup seemed to move away from my hand. She skitted over to the sink. Turned the tap on as I tried to drink the hot liquid. She wasn’t wearing knickers. I was not confused. She kept pouting at me and doing those things with her hips that made me feel strange. But the tea was good, it might have been coffee. You know how it is with her, how she makes you forget things. Her dress was sheer and revealing, classy Italian cut, swoop back, the stitches like Fairy kisses. She didn’t wear it, she became part of it. Symbiotic relationship even if her breasts tried to escape they were kept in by the hand of a crone and a stainless steel size 5 needle.

‘It wasn’t always like this you know’ she said. She lifted her skirt and inserted two fingers into herself and put them straight in her mouth.

‘I said… it wasn’t always like this’ she said.

It was.

She was. I grunted. Drew the sacred diagrams in my mind as she moved backwards and forwards in front of me. And every time I closed my eyes the path between the two Hawthorn trees into a great circular valley and in the middle a great mountain and atop it a great golden tree. And that’s just the thing for me. You see, it’s all mine and precious and none of THIS will ever affect it. It is untouchable this place. I rolled a spliff. I would have to go outside onto the steps by the front door. She couldn’t handle the smell of smoke and weed. As i walked past her she moved away from me and I slapped her arse hard. She shrieked and turned but she saw only the door closing and me going to smoke a Bongolian Chongolian, but I was still stood right by her watching me walk out and I could feel the cold under my feet and watched myself close the door. 

The step was warm, it was Summer after all. Inner city urban heat island. Cities kept their warmth in. That heat built minds up to serious events. I felt somebody sit down next to me and that was cool. I didn’t want to look at them. They were rolling a cigarette. That was cool. I smashed a light on my bongolian and took in the sweet herb. Sweet hot thing. Memorable sweet grass in my thing. Making my head whizz. Thinking about Miss HotStuff sticking her fingers in her fanny to be funny. Amusing mad shit. Fingering herself in her own kitchen. Fuck. Dirty cow.

‘I’m going to sit in the cemetery tonight. Smoke all this gange, take some Orange juice and some things, sit in the summer night listening to all the dead people laughing under the ground, do some fucking rituals’ I told the man sitting next to me. On the step. In Birmingham somewhere. As the naughty gully boys walked past with their thick coats and machetes.

I hated these art cunts, they always made me feel violent but it wasn’t in fear. It was in disgust. The crowds in this thin place they hung their daubs was too bright and the light was sick and shiny. The women shrill and the men not even affected by it. They ambled and made noises at the stuff on the walls and it was very cool. Tight and bright. Laughing over the wine they drank and as the evening wore on she was in deep conversation with some prong. He was eloquent and was waxing about the daubs. I stared at a piece on the wall. It was something about a carnival. The artist, some weird looking woman in her fifties with an African thing on her head. I looked at the catalogue and back to the daub. As if I was interested. Somebody stood next to me, a woman not HER. The woman was looking at the art thing and I concentrated on the catalogue.

‘The freedom she uses in her brushwork is breath taking, the forefront, I think of the whole movement going on in North London at the moment’ she looked at me. I could feel her eyes waiting for something. Expectant. Voice like London now Bristol. The fresh air, walks with the dogs and John loves it you know, he’s thinking about buying a boat or a restaurant or a windmill or a tank or a….

I walked over to HER and she was pushing her shoulders back, making her sex tits go heaven bound for him, chortling as he was. His funky fucking thing was his beard and funny art Tshirt and his sleeve tattoos and I knew straight away he was a ‘Grafitti Artist’ and he was a thing. Vans shoes on his feet but that man never skated no. No ollie hole. No concrete in them. No pain. No cold for him. But you could tell he had fallen in love with her and in my awfulness I crept away and left them to it. He would fuck her good I could tell. He would draw her something and she would frame it and hang it up in her bedroom. I crepted yes. Creepage, tippy toe shuffle through them to outside. There was a step or two into the gallery proper and there I was sat on the step smoking a spliff.

I sat down next to myself and rolled a normal cigarette. Golden Virginia like Gold dust dude. I smoked the spliff but knew I was there. Never turned though. But I could see from the back of my head I needed a haircut man. 

‘I’m going to sit in the cemetery tonight. Smoke all this gange, take some Orange juice and some things, sit in the summer night listening to all the dead people laughing under the ground, do some fucking rituals’ 

‘You need dead peoples to do the rituals?’

‘Nah man it’s just quiet there’

I was thinking about Goldie the graffiti artist. He was an artist man. He knew everything.




Panel 1 (full page)

This is a blasted place this Earth. There is not a plant or a blade of grass. A hooded and cloaked figure is in silhouette in an environment much like a tsunami had ripped through it but old already worn down by wind and rain. There are no signs of recent damage just erosion. It has been many years since the first cataclysm.

Caption: Here I stand. I am Longinus. I am the last witness.

Caption: This is the year 3223 in the reckoning of some men

She was a filter. I had realised last month she wasn’t some Erisean Metaslut. The whole idea of what she did to herself disgusted me. I will admit I took some asylum after these times. In small chapels I would join the congregations. I would always sit at the back and screw my eyes shut and speak to the Father and the Mother. As the hymns and the sermon droned I would see, behind my eyelids, the Black Sun. It pulsated.

Panel 2

In the sky is our sun and our moon, but there is another moon larger, fat with mass. It is much larger than our moon. The wind is terrific and whips the cloak of Longinus around him. He is holding a rose which has blown away but is still in shot. There are arcs of plasma in the sky blue tendrils of electricity.

Caption: This new moon means death for Earth. The Sun will eat her young.

The Demiurge knew me intimately. I had dreamed of it, writhing in the abyss, feeding on our hates. I knew the Nine he had placed in this Alternity. I knew she had put her fingers in her ass then licked her fingers as she looked at me and I was lost for a while.

Panel 3

Longinus is silhouetted against the two moons. The wind is tearing at his ragged cloak. We see he holds a spear in the Roman style. The spear must point to 1 o’clock as if Longinus was an hour hand.

Caption: I am the last. The cursed. Eater of maggots.

I opened the door for her and held her hand as she stepped out of the van. She was shocked that I was a gentleman. Even more shocked later when she found out I wasn’t.

I held her hand as she coughed a little as she took the first hit of the DMT. It’s acrid smoke was pulling me back a little. Her flesh was aflame from the candle light and the warm glow was a thing.

Panel 4

The moons are wreathed in plasma. Longinus himself is electrified and a tendril of this plasma
energy sparks from the tip of his spear into the sky and out of panel.

Caption(a) : Irisea they name this moon. This straggler. This end of all things.

Caption(b) : In the language of this time it means….The Last Chaos

‘Take the second hit’ I said. She sucked in the second. Number two. I could see her eyes going zonal. The Liminal state. Her nipples were rock hard but it was cool here. She held the smoke in and was slipping. I slapped her hard to bring her back and she spat at me. The liquid hitting me in the mouth and eye. I lit the pipe.

Panel 5

We see the face of Longinus, a scar underneath his chin from battle, his eyes are deep and knowing, he has seen enough of war and battle, he seeks peace and quiet.

Caption: I am the last alive. I have angered God.

‘Take the third hit’ I said. She sucked in the third. Number three. She went. I placed my wrists either side of her head and my forehead on hers. Questions.

“I never found Dick Emery funny” she said as she went wavy in the head gravy. Snotty cow. Dick Emery was hilarious. ‘Dad?’ I said and giggled as she dropped the pipe and was gone.

Panel 6

The spear of Longinus is stained with blood that glows faintly, there is something ‘other wordly’ about it.

Caption: This magic, this sorcery of the world may have saved them…

I enjoyed that ‘thing’ that a dude was on. A TV thing maybe. Donald Trump was funny. I found myself laughing again. There. A bolt of movement across…..something. A sequence of events had shifted. I fucking knew it. There it was. Fuck she had lovely tits. I moved her into a recovery position and slapped her ass laughing. I had used her to shift again and this was a new place. A new Alternity. 

Panel 7

The left hand of Longinus…again scarred from battle, he holds the spear clenched tightly the veins on his wrist standing out like cord.

Caption: …their magic allowed me to do great and terrible things…

The Demiurge provokes a glamorous and fascist edge to it’s ministrations. Looking at her on the floor I was aghast at myself. Can I not feel also? But I could feel the throb of the great engines around me. The Monads of language crashing together like great mountains and between them great forks of fire that lit the cold black surface of these abstracted things.

This situation is difficult from day to day and we have run out of substitutes and short cuts. It’s easy baby and ultimate. Preach to the unconverted and destroy the doctrines babycakes. Let that fucking animal out. Go above and beyond.

Situation civilisation is only part of the question but in reality it’s the dissolver of the question into it’s constituent parts. Her fucking is not traditional. She understands far to well how to do it. Her sex is given out in focus and fragmented parts. It has fucking insight. It’s constructive yes? 

She would be halfway there now. The stations of the cross and she has established the ladder and the bridge. We can be calm and talk about it but really I’m just waiting in these places and I’m not in control and everything I think… All be it jittery and directionless. We all self medicate and we are all our own enemies.

Sun sparkling cold and day to believe

a lost lover breaks her heart again

and those tears flow a leaden course

for sniffled sadness breaks late

after a bottle of wine I suppose

We are informed and then we are diminished. Believe in its importance and its benefits. But it’s legacy is our expend-ability. We are mere components, blind in the machine and here is no more rational argument. She was a filter and the super-ego of the Demiurge she was muted a little by her brightness and the language of understanding was broken down and lacked.

You were naked in the circle

and drank in the wonder

played a perfect part

I bit your shoulder

and you gasped

as I watched you point

to the West