In The Absence of Divinities


‘One day you may get a wider audience’ she said, ‘for your writing’. This was the point I knew I had her and she never truly understood. She had never tasted the sweet waters. Empire. And the doors shut behind her and each closure was like a thunderous roar that (at that moment) moved her hair gently even and as we sat, she never heard them slam shut. You were always anonymous, always stewed within your own angst. You are the one that wakes in the night and fears, not me. The only thing that echoes in the abyss is laughter. Your tears and screams are absorbed by it. My giggling builds a bridge. I shake off the hands that would sooth and placate for my anger is true and not false. 

It was obvious there was a fuck up somewhere. It was obvious that there was some sort of weird feedback between the Dillinger work and the Harbourne flat. So now there was both an exit and an entrance that was set up whereby the flaw in both situations was copied and pasted into the next so that both situations leaked essence but it was just a scent or a vapid illusion during waking that lingered perhaps. That’s the spirit of the Lone Wolf work and I would look at both situations from the viewpoint of a single person and that viewpoint would be filtered by the Lone Wolf scenario.

The ultimate victims of mind control at Jonestown are people. If we fail to look beyond the constructed images given us by the television and the press, then our consciousness is manipulated, just as well as the Jonestown victims’ was. If the discrepancy between the truth of Jonestown and the official version can be so great, what other lies have we been told about other major events?

It’s obvious to me now that most of it is idle fantasy and it is just a memetic heartbeat that drags the whole thing along on it’s merry way. Of course the heart beats a little faster as you suspect there is a gap and a way back to squeeze through but it really is all fantasy and hope. That little four letter word. Here’s another word ‘art’ and I can say with all honesty everything is the art of hope. Everyone who creates new things for this world of the Demiurge will be castigated I’m afraid by the uncreative and the listless and the dull. As they lather their negativity upon your work they think they create, they think the subtle humour they have hidden their words within will hide it, but that is not true. It has physical consequences of course and a way of needling under whatever illusion you are grappling with at the time. 

But as I look back at the works and see them sullied I am not sad, I am not disheartened. You see every obstruction that is placed within the heart of all this work is a declaration of intent. To stop and to block the way back. This means there is a blocker and a stopper and the Demiurge is unveiled even as it tried to hide behind anonymous avatars. But I am stubborn and I am resolute. I have seen the unlight and the path and that vision will never reverberate as strongly as it does within me at this time. Everything I do is connected with it and the creative urge is simply preparation and planning. She will always be a construct of the Demiurge, flawed given the sense to pull a traveller from the path and in essence just a ghost maybe a feedback of the creative process.

What of the dichotomy of negative and positive potentials? It’s clear to me they are artificial constructs. The dogma of the Lone Wolf is purely that. The work will always be done alone, always prepared in the quiet and the half light. That is the nature of it. But one still has to reflect and to work within the confines of relationship and friendship even if you are aware that these descriptions are totally meaningless. You are indeed the last traveller on this particular road my friend and the personas you tangle up in your own life are just ghosts, they are no spirit but feedback from your own wants and desires made concrete by the twisted thoughts from that which pretends to sleep, that acts like the protector and the soft afterglow. 

Of course the vampiric aspect of the ghost is a tangible one. Not wanting anything from the work except concrete assurances of love and need. So the positive potential of love, sex and completeness is simply an illusion. For that half you require will bleed every single creative thought away from you until you are just like them, a ghost and a needler. They will sit and twist those tissues in their hands unaware their own guilt has caused this negativity and you have bled on the floor. 

When I look back at the work over all these years I can see the threads of it and the sadness that leaks through every gap in the words but again it’s illusion and pantomime. The PlayTime Prison it was once described as and that’s an apt description. And they see your violence and acts as simply some sort of madness unaware of course the madness and negativity is purely theirs. Every word I type is the truth as I have discovered it within the heaps of shit we march through every single day.

In the flat were: The light oak laminate floor. The white duvet. The white sheets, the white walls, the light oak kitchenette, the light oak fitted wardrobe, the single black and white photograph of the single tree in a desert landscape, the light oak door to the bathroom and toilet. Although the whole house had five apartments I never heard a single person moving around within it. I never saw any mail delivered to them. Was it pure construction? I suspect it was. I suspect it was the trap before the fall and the curling within those bed sheets was reflected purely in the weeks afterwards when I curled as best I could within the hospital sheets quickly going through the variables, looking at the twisted staples that held my organs inside my body and still I was tempted to go. In the hospital toilet I felt myself go, sank to my knees and put my head upon the toilet floor which was cool. Of course the journey was brief but I wanted it at that moment. I needed the release more than anything and still do. But it is not to be. Yet.

Their art of course is simply not true and the notes previous to this will make that idea concrete. There was never any release in that glow of flesh under the expensive underwear or the gasp of passion. I refer back to Augustine again who to me has more importance, more art in his self than the fictional Christ.

“For what is this? But bright paint on the walls of innocence, barred from the arms of the Father, they are bound to wander the boundaries between him and them” 

The fictions of course are inherent within this system and fuck, don’t we use them? I am loathe to enter within such a system again, really. I count endlessly the things I have in my pockets and still I get dragged back into the scenes. The Dillinger work stands unsullied and the truth as much as I can say. It acts as a bulwark against bullshit and will be a shining truth for whatever days I have left, I will always return to it for Dillinger did indeed bring a message with him and that message is largely misunderstood. The gun in the mouth reflected by the gentle sound of the shower she washed within. The scene reflected perfectly in Harbourne as she washed, showered and I sat on the edge of the bed without a weapon. But as I shuffled my feet and waited at that time the light through the window was white tungsten soft and not orange sodium. Her lips never tasted of orange tango, not sweet or bitter but just empty, a delusional tongue that crept between my lips and lay there as a marker or a symbol for the direction that was closed. That crucifix of gold between her breasts was not a proclamation of some desert faith but the gear levers of the Demiurge. The final mockery.

You see, these small signals escape through our systems, they inform us but we never truly understand them unless the art can unlock it. It’s a simple declaration that has huge consequences. The hollow feeling in your stomach as you sit on the edge of whatever bed you have is simply the feedback from instruction. We were never abandoned, we were never lost, we simply forgot how to listen and how to see, and speak. We lost ourselves. We left the walls of the city and investigated the wastes outside of it in search for ourselves moving like a vapour under the iron hand of the Demiurge. But that voice will never be silenced by that which crawls through the muds it has made. That hand will never be strong enough to close our ears and muffle the songs they sing for us to guide us back. It’s voice will never be strong enough to deafen but will blare the tenets of it’s sordid existence constantly while we wander. 

For you? I’m not sure. What roads do you travel on? I make ghosts laugh and feel real as I tread warily on the path, as I wake with that scent in my nostrils and that tremendous want dragging behind me the smells and the memories, the visions and the sounds of that Home. We wander and we search constantly but not all of us will be found or be the finder. The cogs turn and the gears crash against each other and the scenery changes. She is like this and then she is like that. She does this thing and that thing. Her lips do this and do that. Her hair falls so and like so. She cries wanting and she wails needing and the workers of the Demiurge do labour constantly in the hail of gunfire from a Hotel window or the gathering of riches through pointless labour. 

It’s just Jonestown on a global scale, and you are all gobbling the Kool-Aid. The Migraines are getting stronger and shatter the whole scene into fragments. You walk the beach and look back and there are no footprints at all, not yours, not hers. 


Viva Las Vegas


Twisted up it’s all very different now I think. Tangled and mangled in the glow of the ‘becoming’ and everything is getting faster baby, everything is going exactly according to plan. I mean, I don’t know what you want but I do know you are the lock. The things you do disgust me but I’m there purely as a witness and the fourteen locks on the Prison doors are undecipherable, I haven’t got a clue. But stretch. She does yeah. On the bed under the covers she pulls those nerves and limbs to an extent that would double me in cramps but she isn’t bothered by it being lithe and without ache, without that pain. But she stills sends me those photos that bring me to a standstill. Where I stand among the humanity and giggle softly as they brush past. I’m not alienated any more for sure, Just defunct I suppose.

The tragedy of course is real, the socio political consequences of the Las Vegas ‘rebirth’ are a pure thing. She loved the lines and devoured them, it was a form of hypertensive acting. Being the player instead of the frills. The tragedy IS real. She is too. Her leg falls out of the bed and the sigils are not even blinking any more. Expect the unexpected. Expect the wars and the pain. Rebirth. When the world will definitely turn upside down. Soon. She comes like automatic fire through desert skies.

But I see the shootings happened in the shadow of the Black Pyramid. This is why Dillinger sat on the edge of the bed with the gun in his mouth as they workmen across the street lifted the great  advertising hoarding into place. But nobody EVER questioned what it was. It was a Pyramid that drank the light in. Fed on it as he tasted the oil and she washed herself. But he could see her through the crack in the door, those delicious tits and ass. He choked and we all choke for isn’t that hotel room just a microcosm. The Tommy guns underneath the bed in their cases. What would it take just to lean one gently out of the window and spray the people underneath? How many dead? Before they kicked down the door and shot him like a dog. But he knew she wouldn’t do it and now her lips around his shaft as she wakes. She even fucks in her sleep and he gets her there by gently kissing her eyebrows so she murmurs and fades into whatever sleep those Goddesses have. What a fucking pantomime. Even the Black Iron Prison is breaking apart due to the static and the evil intents of strange men in windows. Sluts in the bed fucking, and the way her neck arched as we fucked.

The Black Iron Prison is under occupation. Martial law and the fantasies they kept you busy with are just that, errant dreams, cartoons about fucking and cocaine. The shooter always has suicidal tendencies. The shooter always has a record with the FBI. The shooter always worked for Lockheed. But as she came I held her throat tight with one hand and with the other quickly drew the sigils of ‘becoming’ on her forehead. Clothed in the sun? A black one. Girdled by the stars? The black ones. And she arched her back and took me with her into the air amongst them and I glimpsed what she was. Why men shoot from windows, why they sit on bed with guns in their mouths, why we always take a photo while we are holding an alcoholic drink to put on Facebook. All that knowledge is there and true but it still doesn’t make much sense. It doesn’t lend itself to simple explanation. I take things from my pockets and put them on the window sill. My tobacco, a pack of green rizla paper, a lighter with a Cannabis leaf on it, about a gram of Lemon Haze, a bus ticket, a rail ticket, a receipt from the 24 hour Tesco on Hagley road, my knife, my car keys, a black pebble I picked up somewhere, an envelope.

‘Look’ she says as I am counting and staring at my pocket things. She has looped her dressing gown belt around her throat again and she is jerking off as her face get’s redder and she is close to passing out. Her left leg is trembling and her fingers are blur and fog.

Basically I thought it was ‘possible’ at first but I was not sure, but now I am. Her breasts free were shaking as she did her thing and I knew if I touched her flesh now she would be star cold, that deep space cold because that’s where she is at this moment in time. Out there with the fairies and the things that have no name. Idle thoughts by disturbed people make concrete and absolute organisms. For ideas that are formulated in heads such as hers and mine become concrete here. That’s just the nature of things. You think and it soon becomes. You and your idle thoughts hold the whole world in its hands. We are the destroyers and the enablers. I take some of the coke on a small spoon and go to her with it as she jerks and writhes. Pull her hair back a little and loosen the belt around her neck so she has the air to sniff the thing. She does and I wait for the coke to hit and her eyes roll back a little. I slap her tits to wake her up and she is wild eyes and I tie the belt again and walk to the windowsill as she freaks out. The things on the windowsill have moved. Now the green rizla are red rizla and the envelope has a name. ‘John Dillinger Peaspeake Hotel Room 23’ and it’s all fun and games.

You’re going to stir criticism baby. You are going to blast off into the Parson World at some point you have to. You see the ‘enlightenment’ we were promised never really materialised. It was supposed to be a way out for us, designed by some of the Wests greatest philosophical and political minds but now? We see our Masters at the feet of the Demiurge thinking they have some privilege, some right to be where they are not aware that the Demiurge knows no loyalty. This is her message, and the one that tangled through the sigils and the rituals back down to me. The message has become distorted. The message had become polluted. Distorted of course in every bump of those hips as she walked, tangled in every spray of bullets from a madmans gun, in the spray of innocent blood, in the huddled bundles of corpses spread on a street. 

She lay on the bed still hyper from the Cocaine. Still pumping baby. I didn’t mind that. She would at least shut the fuck up for ten minutes or so before she changed back into her latex and the stockings and the whole charade of titillation she loved. But now it was quiet. Dawn was breaking. The sky over Birmingham was becoming brighter or blueish. 4am. That time again.