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.

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