How Do You Keep Your Black Wings Clean


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.


Comments are closed.