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.

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