The Hate Matrix


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.


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