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.

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