How Do You Keep Your Black Wings Clean

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A flash of light, the intensity of it pulled away my flesh, my mind was shattered. The Abyss, the Eigen, the tree on the hill. He watched the spirit of the Christ ascend in Glory as was his right. To approach the abyss and to set foot away from its edge. What minds could stand this? A shaft of the Yew tumbled on the wind towards me and I held out a hand in slow motion,as if it was under the control of another. it floated towards me and even though the wind raged and cast small stones with force around me I was untouched. Anointed perhaps by the vision in front of me, my eyes splashed with the Blood of the Christ.

‘add to the flames’ she said. I gently put out my tongue and licked her top lip, just the tip, on the lip. The faintest touch, solder hot kiss. Her eyes were half closed and rolling. All that magick mean’t nothing then, and it never would. The macrocosm reunited with the microcosm. She always masturbated when she watched a Jesus flick. Her short gasps and my head rocking as I yawned and watch Jesus get a kicking again. She loved them. Couldn’t keep her hands off herself. Jesus Christ.

We all played dead I suppose. All pretended. The noise in the corridor. The omnipresent strip lights.The death rattle of busy feet.Skipping a second. One foot catching up with the other. Unbalanced.

I think we disappointed somebody in the end. He closed his eyes in the darkness, her hand busy squeezing. He wanted didn’t want to know, he felt like he was swimming as he sat.But the water bled into him cold memory glint and construction of the whole thing. The whole scene man. Even with his eyes closed he could see her, smell her, turning her loose. But as he closed his eyes he too knelt down, jostled by unruly kids and he saw her legs first. They were thick and she bent down on the floor with a pair of black or Red patent leather heels. Even I smiled. “Look at the mess we have made Baby” he said to the airs. A breath an approval, the slightest sigh, a beautiful Summers sky she whispered, “It’s all going to be OK”.

As my fingers touch the edges, my hands also grip the sheets. My tongue touches dry lips cracked and sore and I fancy I can taste her still, on my lips. In that corridor he hid behind the lives we lead and carried on his day as she swept past him, he held the papers tighter and hurried on his way breathing her scent in, the ghost of her scent as she had gone, turned a corner, to do whatever she was doing.

Babbalon said ‘i am the infinite’ dressed in red again and pushing her tits up in the dress. Pouting at the mirror. All was bitter and all was grey and woe to whatever and the infinite blah the awful blah and the etc. She loved to go to the cinema and let a stranger , sitting there alone, finger fuck her. As they watched DeadPool. And it was all very quaint and seedy of course. Little Miss No Knickers. I wanted to Pepper spray her in the face. But it wouldn’t make any difference. She would love Pepper spray.

‘DR Pepper say?’ she shouted from the toilet where she was having a loud piss.. I shook my head.

‘Yes something they say’ I answered. I took a photo of her shoes with my phone, secretly, I would look at it later and probably be sick. Red or Black?

She pulled apart her legs and ripped off her panties as she hissed and writhed. She cast them aside and held both her hands to the floor, it seemed like she would burst apart, she had a need to cast something out of herself. He saw this, he had seen someone give birth, on TV, some documentary he had chanced upon as he sat stoned flicking through the channels on the screen. She pushed, writhed and screamed again and between her legs as he watched aghast and afraid something slithered from her vagina and with small claws ran up her body and into her blouse dirty and dusty from her contact with the car park floor.Her Red or Black heels skittering.

Rarely is this scene remembered by me. I watch it as a film. I watched the people watch the film after my death (before it became a popular example for this supposed ‘ESOTERIC effect’), as it was irrelevant to the Eigenplot. Yet, when the specific scene is mentioned, MANY (apparently) vividly/immediately recall the girl wearing red heels independent of any other viewer’s observation, but in fact (poor word choice) she isn’t. They are Black. Also, every memory when recalled becomes layered with the recollection of the memory, and the context of that recollection, ad infinitum.

I would creep up behind you at the window as you looked out at the garden your hands in the soapy water and would put my hands under your shirt, in the window my reflection black.tease a nipple, cup your breast and my other hand in your crotch damp. You would taste its wetness with my fingers down your throat. You are still sore from last night but you like the pain as you have to get to the far edge, to see what’s underneath.To see what it’s all about. And as I look at the reflection in the window your eyes are like evening suns and your black wings, those blessed things have spread and there is no light any more.

There is beyond any doubt, in my view, such a thing as esoteric memory (affect) has been brought into the Eigen. and it’s this that is the source of trauma, memories that can’t be mentally or emotionally assimilated/processed and so get trapped in one part of the body.

On the other hand, most memories, later in life at least, get converted into aural-visual data and then, by talking and thinking about them (re-membering them), they are effectively converted into language files. I remember. She is the living language incarnate, the way Gods talk to each other.

When you bend right over and I pull it tight we dream of the lovers that sealed the life in us, shot it into the sky like a cheap Rocket. Deep in my black heart I have a secret love and I keep it choked held tighter still. The facet believed that even on tender nights, we still hold that last breath in the pit of the stomach and metabolise the oxygen in the lungs, Then at orgasm reach for the gas place, breath kitten, the subtle bow of sparkled light as breath feeds the blood. Pumping hard fucker, cold breath at fucking orgasm. One breath and the mask goes on again. This awful thing taped and bound holds the fear and ask why the simple vapid gasp, as the world falls away.

Illuminated windows scatter softly the Sun. That only you know shines while  bitter Vespers rattle and chime, cast spent beads litter the stone floors and plaster from the roof has fallen. It is hard to walk here, amongst the mess.  Outside, the children throw stones and splinter the craft upon the Holy floor. I pick up a book torn and burned a book of Psalms or Curses. Under the stare of nameless Saints I offer nothing at all of thanks. We know the halls of Men are oft to fall, machine gunned shot down against the outside wall. I press a hand to the cold stone and rest my head against it cool reading the memories stored inside which whirl like Carp at a ponds surface. defiled and exiled from the place of men, come back to give the love again, to laugh at the greatest silence of the Abyss. Laugh and send to them our  love and a simple kiss.

 

The Hate Matrix

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Lost and bitter weed choked lives we have, all lost to lust, and text message riddles forgotten. The Salad days have come and gone, and we run with Demons at our heels.

‘They will all fail you in the end. All of them” 

“Why? For fucks sake. You doing your old man things. I bet you leave a bad vibe anywhere.”

My will is considered to be a delightful invitation and yet walking down the subway I am announcing no decisions, plotting no course. Thinking of no decisively boisterous deeds to bleed out onto the piss stained concrete. Deficient men oft conclude the sicker sides to be out of sync and our rough accents and rougher hands are seen as bereft of artistic sincerity. So our art is not dragged out into the wine filled blaze of the eye and we layer the concretions of high sins here in our hearts in cold rooms and fired hungry stomachs. Additions lack softer resources, softer breasts to lose oneself in, to suffocate at last safe from the idle hands that push us away. Our love overcame distance and through electronic delights we soared but you were never the soft lips in hard cars. Never the awful greed clawed meetings in the gardens of the dead. Never caught in the raindrops that fell on the windscreen. Never the pain of it. 

They don’t really mean it of course. They just want to see somebody else burn and that’s cool. But It does get exhausting knowing that anywhere on the journey to that place you are going to get ghosts picking away at your sleeve. But I made a map and when I’m dead you can find it among my stuff in the mahogany box. In there are blood spotted pieces of manuscript I couldn’t throw away and on them is her real name and you will want those to find her and ask her questions.

The trick is to avoid the ‘social’ angle, the meetings in pubs and the little plays, the festivals and the fanzine piss ups. The gentle messages that whittle away your time. The dogmas of the dead will never be written. Lone Wolfs don’t get remembered. But the dichotomy continues for them at least and they too are always alone regardless. But us? What a curse it was. It felt endless at times even if it is a phase. A mere splitted second. But how do they deal with that foot over the edge? This is what fills me with sympathy. It is a torrent of it and I would weep if I had the tears.

The circle has to be made big enough for you to sit within. It’s pointless concentrating on putting her in a circle as it exists purely in ‘Prison space’ thus is answerable only to Demiurge. You have to sit in the circle. Salt or chalk it doesn’t matter. The once she tried to devour my foot as I was jerking off watching her and my foot slipped out. Madness. I laughed all the way down the road towards Wales and the forests but I had taken the acid again and it looked like a ‘Yellow Prick Road’ again and I awoke being beaten by two Shropshire Cops.

We wait for Revelations, that never come, we desire that which remains undone. A deeper love to plot the course, among the vile headstones, the foil balloons, the teddy bears, the cards, the ribbons.

“You fucking liar”

But I wondered as she performed an act on me how ductile she was. Changes were imperceptible at first but I encouraged her with that 23 route. I even carved the number on my torso and she was alive with it. Frothing at the bit. So I tightened LB’s gag and did it fucking tight too. One eye on her, the other on ‘her’ and off we went on our merry way. Which made me think how stupid they were but I was wrong. She opened up what seemed like a smooth concrete tunnel and beckoned me through. I went of course and somewhere that wet mouth worked as I noticed the tunnel was getting tighter and tighter then there it was. Trapped with my arms crushed at my sides and her tongue going deeper and deeper down my throat until I couldn’t breathe any more and I panicked. Fuck. I had to jump. Then there I was.

“I can’t understand how anybody could be taken in by this”

You see. John Dillinger was never the fictional character I made out. He was indeed concrete and real. He was my ‘Spirit guide’ of course, although he was lax in moments of self investigation and often I would be left there within the walls of the Prison and of course with his strength and guile it never affected him. But me? I have spent nearly 300 years of that time there, a blink of an eye here, and I’m still not sure it was a trick of the Eigen. Who knows?

“I’m fingering my wet cunt. My man is coming over later”

I don’t recognise this place at all. There are subtle differences then massive glaring ones. The glitches and sync are ridiculous. Of course they are on the one hand Demiurge directed fantasy and subconscious submagikal workings on the Eigen. Working with the AOS inspired Ekotic sigils I can work out which is which and have some idea (in the untouched innocent) which is which and I ponder at nights what the value of knowing this is. It’s ridiculous and getting faster….. and I write quickly

“My will considered to delightful invitation

announcing no decisions, plots no course

of no decisively boisterous deeds to bleed

Pleasured Souls lack vision I suppose.

As we delight in tearful repose.

Walk the rain soaked streets, unaware.

Of safe hands on shoulders.”

Blessed with her beautiful brown eyes and her hair, brown  shot through with sunlight captured in the cells of it. Held for a while until she decides to let it go. She was being stalked by the Demiurge, i knew it. She didn’t. But I had walked through the subways in town and had let my fingers faintly touch the graffiti on the walls and I knew. Subtle communications. Sigilistic meanderings of the Gully men and the lost souls who wander them at night ‘spray’ the night. Feel it and touch it. Kicking the Jams and the underneath. But I spent a moment crouched down at a recent piece. Mu. The KLF thing again, it’s rampant. So I sit down and feel the shizzta and the groovealongs among the McDonalds throw aways and the distinct pissy smell to everything and the lights in the subway dim. And thats ok too as I am beyond help I think. And it’s cool.

I held my arms up and they were thin again and from the end of the subway, notes, musical. Alex fucking Harvey. It was funny but not but she had her fingers on her bottom lip and she whispered ‘thank you’ but I don’t know what for because everything changes so fast.

I was suspended near the ceiling directly over the circle of salt and this was her power. My old scars opened and out spilled my poor intestines and they splatted into the circle and the salt and the pain was just that. Pain. Abstract laid low pain, the thin drumbeat of the nerves pulling me to cry out and scream. There were no glistening naked sex here, no idle masturbations and no errant spilled breasts but this. My eyes would not close as the salt stung my exposed organs but…I fancied perhaps within the shattered mind that maybe possibly there was a way. She showed me, her face tired and real. The evenings spent twisting fingers and burned tears that splashed. For her yes everything was going to be OK. She had ‘invested’ herself in the Eigen and the interest would pay excellent….at first.

Shadowplays for puppets, that’s all it seemed to me, at this moment any way-or how and the only way I could explain any of it was by abstraction and confusion. That’s why these posts are confused (to you) as you lack the capacity to understand any of it. Maybe you can grasp the more idle parts. She lifted her little finger up to her nose where a thin trickle of blood was slowly appearing and her eyes went back into her head and she moaned. I was nearly in hysterical laughter, the joy bowl of fulfilling which had spilled.

 

The Seventh Black Sun

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‘Guten Morgen Mikey’ she whispered. She was there within the weaving and the tangles, glistening she would be, and dynamic and my poor hand waved around trying to lay a finger. But…There are 5777 days between 9/11/01 and 7/7/17. 2017 is the Hebrew calendar year 5777 and the numbers click and tick and her nipple is in my mouth and I bite.

The rolling vomit of the Emerald grasses in abandoned fields, twenty years past? More? The moaning of the darkness at night as the wind blew through the vehicles abandoned on the M5 just over that hill, there. Dire thoughts as to storms fluttered through his mind for a moment but the present, here and now the glassed in night heat glistens and the heat on the planks of the old flat bed truck fades and bends the light from the sun, it waves like petrol fumes in the air. Beautiful Somerset, even more beautiful since the Farming and Agriculture went away and the Tops of the hills and the fields were covered by vegetation, young Trees, you could walk from Bath to Shrewsbury now and never see the sky. Unless obscured by gently moving limbs of the Tress full of leaf. He walked as he did very morning before starting the days chores, which meant chopping wood or some Electrical work on the Solar panels. He would wander around happy for once, forgetting for a moment those days lost in the past. Through the smoke and fire of his Youth, a Baptism of pain and understanding. In a Hedgerow a patch of Blackberries, he eased himself down to double check, his eyesight, now he was in advanced years not so good. But, his hands were still shaking and he had characters and moods to adopt, to slide on like an old coat, to ease on.

‘When Trump was inaugarated as President he was 70 years, 7 months and 7 days old’ she gasped as she rode me as spirit. On the radio Ronnie James Dio. I couldn’t reach for a drink of water as she had me too fucking tight and my muscles were locked up….she was this and that. It’s Ringo Starrs birthday today….he is 77. Fuck The Beatles. Fake Rock. 

77 Sunset strip. On the piece of paper in the pocket of my leather jacket and I’m on a motorbike. Vincent Black Shadow and I’m smashing through the scenery of the Big Sur California. It’s 1965 and i’ve taken a sugar cube of Orange Sunshine acid. 77mph and I’m in that Hunter Thompson thing and abandoned. But the air is good for the Vincent. It’s perfect for the gasoline mix and the girl behind me has tricks, and her hands are at my crotch and I’m hoping the road doesn’t run out. Her tits press on my back and I laugh. I’m on the way to kill Jerry Garcia but I’ll never get there. His presence or his absence mean nothing.

He shouted out ‘Helen! Blackberries!”. From a little way ahead, a young girl, maybe Twelve or so years old ran from a gap in the Hedge and down the overgrown lane, the Tarmac now only small pieces of bleached greyness among the sprouting vegetation. She ran to the old man, “Grandad!” she looked alarmed and the old man gently placed the small handwoven basket he carried to the ground quickly scanning the surrounding area. She ran to him out of breath her lips stained with the fruits of the countryside. She had beautiful Chestnut curls, she was so like her Grandmother it stopped his heart for a moment. A momentary pain, in his heart. Not physical, the ripping of muscle as the heart explodes but, the subtle emotional pain that made him feel sick, after so many fucking years too. She tugged at his sleeve, up the lane a way, just around the corner they hurried. Among the overgrown hedge the remains of a Helicopter. Its fuselage was smashed as it had obviously rolled down the hill after crashing many years ago. Faded markings on the shell were still just about visible.

She was speaking German again and it was guttural and erotic. She had her hand over my mouth and I could smell the soap on it as she pressed harder and I couldn’t breathe very well. I could see both her hands at either side holding two strange jeweled skulls and in the center of her forehead another golden stone shined bright and entered my own skull and thus the law of seven was initiated and the halls of the Gods did fucking tremble and the Gods did stop their jollity and stare with those star filled eyes they have….

“Its a Copter isn’t it?” she asked and went to climb into it. “Stop Helen” the Old man said. It wasn’t safe to explore, not in his mind, not yet any way, and perhaps it would always be the way. Excited she ran around the rear of the craft. Its rotors had long gone but from the hatch still poked a rusted and bent Machine gun mounted to the fractured floor. Webbing hung tangled with Ivy and other Vegetation. It was obviously a previously undisturbed crash site. As time went on more and more discoveries like this, now it was safer of course. Inside, there, between the seats of the Pilot and Co Pilot, bones. Not the Bleached bones of a Soldier or the discovered corpse of a Civilian, no.

“Helen, to me!” The Old man shouted, she was halfway into the cockpit through the vacant staring Cockpit window. She obeyed him but before she did there was that same old need to discover, and she hesitated, weighing up the consequences of punishment versus further discovery. So like her Grandmother and so unalike but….

The Bones inside were not Human. They were the same as us practically of course. Their camouflage was brilliant owing to having the basic physiology of a Human. Tangled in the rotten webbing and the detritus of the crash he saw two sets of remains. A female and a Male. The Female known by the cleft in the Jaw, the Male had none. Alien because of their colour. Iridescent Gold that shone through the myriad of Lichens and algae that had settled on them. These simple planc. Of earth that would settle on something horrific. He leaned into the Cockpit and grabbed one of the Skulls and brought it out into the sunshine. Helen next to him reached out her hands to help and without though she grabbed the skull from him as he tried to get the old muscles and bones into some sort of order and he unbalanced struggled to extricate himself  from the opening.

Sometimes when it rained hard and I stayed within the cave my home and felt the magic as it coursed through the stone below to the sky above. I was its conductor and I closed my eyes to drink it in and then vomit it out and this is my existence. To see the world is to step aside and look. Stand as a thing cut off from it’s parent and see with new eyes. I stand in the entrance amidst the hanging plants that shield the entrance and my face is upturned to the Sun above on days when it shows its face, and I dream as the Gramophone player winds through Elvis Presley ‘Love Me Tender’ once more. It is the only thing I possess for my pleasure and I think that sometimes the Gods speak to me through it.

“What is it? Don’t tell me I know, I think!” she giggled and shouted. She found a small clearing further into a former crop field and sat down with the skull in her hands. She had cleaned away some of the Greenery that had covered it and it shone even brighter. The Old man noticed the basket of Hedgerow fruits next to the wreck and grabbed a hold of it. He walked to his Granddaughter now sat in the sun holding the skull. She looked up at him with absolute delight. She loved these relics, these bookmarks of time that scattered the Countryside around Glastonbury where they lived. But nobody really spoke of them, or the Human Skulls that always turned up under a Spade or the Plough, the new foundations of a House or simply scattered in the open air.

‘Sehr gut’ she said. But the mind did pour out it’s fantasies and it’s glamour and she wove them above her head into new narratives and new possibilities that seemed as threads of ethereal light that wove around her slick sex body that moved in a hunger I was not used to.

“You know what it is I think” He said, his old Midland accent flattened the ‘You know’ into ‘Y’know’. He sat down next to her and took the skull from her for a moment. Similar to a Human skull and yet so different. The ‘Bone’ was a Silicon matrix that had precious metals ingrained within it. Silver, Gold and within that precious stones which shone in the Summer Sun. The Eye sockets were slanted giving it a distinct Reptilian look. She had never seen a Reptile of course, too young, and most of the books gone now. ‘The fucking things’, random thought, not easy to grab onto, not easy to feel and make familiar

“You can show everybody at School what you found if you like” he said. But it was the wrong thing to say and he stopped himself. Usha Bains who taught at the School would not let it into his small House by the Brook where he taught the Children of the Village. Usha would probably fall to his knees and look at the Sky, then he would emit a keen of grief like an Eagle screaming. Remembering and grieving again. Nobody would stop him, but they too would sink to their knees next to him, wrapping their arms about him they too would cry, if they remembered. He knew he would, the familiarity of the terror, the loss the awful fucking grief.

“I know some things..” Helen said. Her eyes a beautiful chestnut like her hair, big eyes that would bore into you like Magical things. “I know about them, some people don’t like to speak about them, Mother especially but I like to, I like to discover things”. Her voice floated on the heat a little, always chatting as young girls are wont to do. He passed the Skull back to her and she delighted in turning it in her hands and watching the Sun reflect off its surface.

He was somewhere else of course as all the Old people do, minds flung back into different times when things were sadder, more horrifying. Hands gently touching memories and then only gently, not remaining too long but recollecting like wandering down a Hedgerow in deepest Somerset searching for Fruits to take back home or to gorge oneself on them and just lie down in the Sun and grass looking at the clear Blue sky above.

“I know you don’t like to talk about it, nobody does.” She said staring into those evil sockets of the skull in her palms. “But today is a special day I think, one for talking I think. You have scars you never talk about, and when the cold comes you walk with a limp and they say you saw them and fought them.” She turned the Skull around in her hands as she spoke and the Sun glinted into his eyes like…

“What did you do in the Lizard Wars Grandad?” she asked. But he was lost again in those deserted Streets of Birmingham. The blasted windows of the office blocks in the City centre were like eyeless sockets but at one moment the Sun came out and reflected onto a rare unbroken pane of glass, into his eyes. There was Gunfire ahead…the sound of guitars. 7×7 by Hawkwind for sure and I remembered putting my head on her breasts to sleep and she soothed me with other songs I did not understand. And the panes of glass fell into the street and shone with the light of the dim sun above, almost Black it was so bright.

The Ballad of Antons Boots

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I fuck you slow, as you like that, and the serpent winds around both of us the innocent truth and your heels dig into my back.

Within the circle. I sit and watch the Eigen swirl around me anti clockwise and I have to keep the lax concentrations and the idle flicking of the index finger as the swirlies become girlies and their heads are above the water, just about. I’m supposed to be sweating even in my naked ugliness and my scars are glowing golden threads that wind around my torso. Every golden thread is really dead. Every gasp the discombobulated heads make as they try to keep breathing the air the Eigen gives them as the ritual unfolds. Unlovely things. But they tangle now and again and their bodies naked rub against each other in a lofty pleasure as they remember. But I don’t. No not at all. There should be words here. Great secret words from the Masters that came before me but here and now? Just guttural animal noises. My forefinger moves in small circles and the whirlpool of cheap chipboard and stolen screws revolves faster.

We laugh at starlit glades and that sword lies heavy in my hand and i may put it down a while as I am tired of it. I may watch while you dance in dark spaces in between the stars my Super Star Princess.The Dragons can fucking roar all they like for all i’m bothered but for now they writhe under the mountains occasionally dreaming about those gaps between the stars where they would fly around her head like a garland of sorts and she would laugh and try to catch them in her hands. But they were too fast for her, always were.

The path 23 is a dark road beset with traps that weaves itself through the gaps in the sands. For isn’t it a blessing that we have time to forget? There are two drops of fresh blood on the cool white sheets by my hand as I rest. At the other hand three fresh drops. Even as my mind struggles through the pain to understand the voices continue to mock in sing song voices, as children skipping and singing then as the emaciated voice of mine, cracked by the cancer and infection. Cracked by sin. 23 fucking skidoo. Opposite me the old man raises himself with difficulty and barks the number at me.’Ah’ if you come to fetch me, I won’t need to bring anything except a coat maybe, and my tobacco. 

The anger is that I think sometimes, and wonder about the whole validity of the process. It is a process of course. It has a beginning but no fucking end and the Buddhists thought they knew, but they didn’t. The Zen masters found the best way to exhaust their thought was to abstract the ideas further and further until the zen fractal philosophy just became riddles and puns that nobody understood. Unless you laughed out loud at it. The evolution had come to an end and I thought I had left her standing their by the rail. Her red lipstick was sticking. Most things stuck here until you didn’t have the strength to support your physical body any more and you fell face first onto the walkway and she dug her heel in your hand. I think she loves me. I crave the attention as the sticky lies thick and enters my mouth and throat closing it in a mockery of tumour and flesh. She did love me.

Does she? Watching the Attendant smear the filth of flattened Fly further over the glass she watched and parted her legs a little and let her soft hand fall between her legs to her panties that finest slip of material between the sweet air and the sweeter dew. He watched her gently slip a hand into them and to press a little, the finest of pressures to alleviate the need, the strength inside, to let it out. He watched and she let her head turn, towards me, just staring into the sky alone with my demon clowns and jugular jugglers. Outside the car the attendant a mere slip of a man aged possibly twenty five or forty five years old, she never cared.Opened.

Soon, I will come for you, don’t despair keep your strength, don’t fear any more.” he said.

She unbuttoned the top three buttons of her dress and let her breasts feel the encroaching night the enchanted evening to come. Her nipples swelled as she felt the eyes of the fuel stunk man outside pressing his crotch gently on the paintwork of the car.

“We are the Power, the essential force, the guiding lights. On Earth we wrangle our lives from thing to thing. A job, our loves and hates, everything they make for us and we are trapped. They harvest us and have hidden away the UnLight and the Blessed place, Home….did God turn away from us? When he took him home?”

If only you were a Totem of another sort. A tree or a place, it would have been better. But the Eigen wanted blood and it got it. Death of a Thousand Cunts. I wriggle on those hooks every day and I never cursed one of them.

He saw her in the cell, she was tiny and bone thin as he remembered. Her parents rarely fed her. She pointed to the wall and the circle he had drawn. In each corner of the cell she had placed a small Chestnut. He knew her so well. The Chestnuts kept away the Spiders.

The Sliders kept away the Spiders, THE INSIDERS. The back street fiddlers. I made the whirlpool go faster and they fragmented into a thousand stars and there he sat. Straight in front of me, mocking my cross legged position. My Lotus groove. My own mockery of the Masters.

They sat in her car and talked as the occasional funeral went past, of death, life, plans, futures, of sickness, and sex and death and all things. Until mouths dry with talk would glisten again as tongues searched each others mouths and hands would press in warm hard places. Abandoning their morality for a second they would romp within the confines, on the dusty velour graphite grey, seatbelts, the smell of cars, petrol, oil, the soft smoke from the Crematorium. The fresh Pine from the air freshener that dangled from the mirror.The stink of it. The layers of stink pressed.

Your future, my sweetheart is a thing to needle and vent sour wounds,to placate the idle wretch here in this place. You may plan a fortuitous event with friends, amusing chats at night on the beach but this stink is a stench of a thing a pleasure taken away. We were a flawless black and white film, a plot against cruel Kings and underneath the odour of hot sex and sticky fingers, and yesterday I cannot love you as today. I have no strength and cannot think awhile as hearts have ran astray like errant kids at play in parks and gardens and husbands plot destruction a sadder thing and say I’m sorry my darling.

It is itchy on my skin, a found rope, fallen from a passing lorry or just left as waste who knows. I expected some kind of Epiphany. Instead a view of Shropshire Hills, the Long Mynd, the Brown Clee. I stumble from the trunk in a half leap half fall and the rope catches tight around my neck and pulls my shirt from my trousers. I see stars and try to gasp but my weight pulls me down and that rope bites all breath from me. No pain. I kick a little, my body still trying to save itself but my mind calm. I try to breathe again, nothing, but at least the sun has come out. It is warm on my face.

You have smudged eye-liner and weak lipstick, and that far away look you have when you stare out of the window. The Crucifix at your neck bounces over shit hole roads. I have a feeling it wont bring you any joy, that Jesus thing. But what do I know? Magician that I am. Thief and Liar. The more knowledge you gain the more you know its all shit. The books to read cover to cover until the words just smother everything and we need to breathe.We always get stuck on page 23. There on the page is a photograph of Antons shoes again.