The New Puritan


Piety. It runs thick upon the future. And all messages should involve this piety in some way or another and God has not made this clear to me. It is said that this New Covenant, this new Puritanism is the one which will which break the back of the current thinking memes. I would rather walk than sit and break bread. The pious. The clock ticks. You in black leather. Me setting the final pieces I think. Has not God spoken to me? It’s voice ringing with sodden and fuck warm truth. The world has come and set it’s place among us and we are in love and dream of sacred things. She lies still and the world turns around again.

‘It’s always like you said it would be, you were right every time. Everything is a short story. Everything love and heroes, every day a blue sky, every flower perfect that it should hurt our eyes but it doesn’t’, She spoke softly, just as I knew she would. Her dress had moved up and I saw she wore black stockings upon that lithe ballet figure, and it was purely for me and not for thee. The lights outside flashed on and off as we drove and those lights were as strobes flickering and revealing her power to me. That power was chaos, that power empty love.

Dillinger, as he sat in the theater a few years ago watched a film on the screen that was more documentary than film. It had information thick within it and he took that information with him into the alley at the rear. As she ran she told him not to forget, as the Fed bullets ripped through him. How they mocked you John. How they made fun of your holy body, how they laughed. John saw the crows tangled in the telephone wires and in the screams of the birds, a sea song, a sad refrain of the New Puritan. We were lip locked, kissing in a way and in the way, of the crowds that shuttled cares across the polished mezzanine floor. The reflections were acrid and stained with something as he looked as he kissed. Her tongue hot and probing but avid, like a fan, like desperation for something he couldn’t fathom. Out or in? Perhaps he did love her and would think about her sometimes as he sat somewhere quiet and pondered mad things.

He counted out variables, scattered the tarot where it would go and he saw there in the future the new beginning and the new opening of dialogue and negotiation. You can’t trust liars of course. You can’t trust anybody. There would have to be a purge, where the idols and the collectors of pretty things would be dragged before altars and the meeting could then begin. And the people who dragged them there were dressed in black and they were but a choice sent by God and you shall not utter a single word about this God lest you be struck down.

Hot thing.

Soft visions of sleeping angels eh? Slapped we are and castigated by it and I still ached for it with the thought that you will read this and remember it, some memory there within you that will awake and you will rush to where I am and wake me up. Grab my shoulders and scream in my face the truths you have within you. I called you ‘Grace’. As I died in the hospital I saw you there in your blue Nurses uniform and your smiling face that said everything was ok and it was Grace and you saved me. But you were never there were you. Just a ghost or an Angel.

But between her shoving that pretty tongue in my mouth and holding me tight she was saying things. But holding me in the style of ‘eight’ was a thing. Another hot thing as I put my arms around her as she slept and I held that void tight as I could without waking it. Could I encompass that love? It was a hole that’s all, as that is what voids are. Just big holes for you to pour in your own views. Your own assumptions. She flickered like a cheap light bulb and tottered in heels far too big. Tried too hard just like the shoes that were a bad choice for I could hear planets rumbling around in orbits. The Sun grumbling as it is pulled. Her hair pulled too, right back so she couldn’t breathe. 

‘It’s good, it’s fifty shades of Hey’ I say. 

But dressed in black. Which is the new cool colour for religious nutcrackers they swarm the streets and placate their own sense of worth with dull songs that fail to even echo off the emotionless slick glass fronted offices. So Mammon builds and we cry. So those things climb ever higher until they are lost to meaning and academic rigour. We are uninvolved. I myself am uninvolved. Emotions are just litter in that place. Blown here and there by the wind channeled between the awful buildings that whip and caress a simple wind into a torrent of air. Pressed between. Funneled to blow these things in our faces, twirling the dust off the street, making the songs fall flat.

His thumb moved within his palm and moved with the sigils he was ordering. He was attempting. What? Even he couldn’t say as the words have not been invented yet that would make these magics apparent. She stood idly by and close to him because she knew even this New Puritanism was to be a defunct and abstract thing. The words had been invented for this and were ‘revenge’ and ‘horror’ and the man on Horseback would understand. The man drenched by cold winter sleet would feel that familiar sore break open on his back or between his hard ride thighs and the chafe of rough wool shirts. For this man is that man. All memetic humankind devolves and becomes slicker under the wet hand of the whore. The baseless and the weak.

She got into my car. Locked up in it. I couldn’t even put the key in the ignition. Slick glass brings you closer and be all I ever needed. Bring the sense here and here she lay breathless, same as always, same as it’s ever been. Sideways and away as soft as butter, we never surfaced surely. Enemies, Lovers and witnesses waiting for a call. She was lovely but never confuse her with the other evocations. Fuck no. You never stray over the lines, never improvise. That’s your brain tricking you. Making another prisoner of you. I rubbed my hands hard into my face. What’s wrong with the scene. She spoke, only her eyes lit by a bright store front. As a blindfold of light.

People who do not acknowledge the Black Iron State, collude with it’

Still he was in her. Those fat breasts loose and in his hands and those fingers deep within her mouth and the senseless horrors outside were just that. Senseless. And with an absence of sense was the knowledge that things that have no meaning are treasures of the demiurge itself. They were the gifts it showered upon the world in the corpses of small children in the street and in bullet framed nativities of hate. In every body lying in the street he would look at the bloodtrails and the drops and see within them the hand of the demiurge and the oppositions of the New Puritan.

But surely they are just acts? Later as he sat upon the horse and watched the sleeping village below time would waver and he would be flung far into the future. An act which the horse reacted to by bellowing a hefty fart which turned into a grey mist about him. But there were walls that appeared in from of him and he held the reins with leather gloved hands, tighter, tighter than a Witch bite. On the walls were those same sigils. That place far into the future five hundred years from now still echoed past the woodlands and the motorways. Were still etched into the tarmac and the streetlight. The angry knife wielding young man. The bitter tears of those that bought into the whole idea of their works and their things they would place around themselves to stave off death. Yes, only a lick of spray paint caught by the wind a little and blown into a confused face. Only the stink of bicarbonate and cocaine.

The men carried around sadness and piety so it got into their clothes, into their skin. At one point we sewed some of our mouths shut and we also filled the night with prayer and invocation. Rage at captivity went into the animals, our food source, our lake, and drinking water. The rage and surrender to it surrounded us and became a part of our lives, so unfortunately it was all abyss’

Your straps on your stockings are very tight and they bite into your soft thigh a little as do the little triangles of flesh between the nylon and they are all little pyramids aren’t they? And my finger goes in and out of your cunt really easy because you are wet and hot. The wind that blows between those evil edifices would indeed cast you into some erotic lunacy if it touched you now as I am touching you and your hair is in your eyes as you groan into another thankless act and another slick beginning that we see and have talked about endlessly. The blackness that leaks from the TV is just that, A manifestation of your own madness I suppose.

But backbiters. Hollow men. Soft hands from bourgeois bastards that would meld into the Puritan ethic with a softness you wouldn’t believe baby. We are the vanguard for the new filth I suppose and give meaning to every choked orgasm and every time I let loose and scream at the ceiling as you move and are lost again. The new groove baby. It’s our duty to lay the filth into the open and castigate the moral and the good. To lay waste the dogmas of soft unworked hands and to drag them into the street for justice and that will happen. You will shiver and shake under the hand. You will scream out for deliverance as you are fucked senseless. For that is the art, in swirl and layers.

Catch over and let the massacres cross over while we keep turning. As if we feel the heat from it, burning and unsettled. We are the lost and the no-one. We are the shot and bloodied corpses that lie upon the cold floors of airports and railway stations, those torn by bomb and bullet from the hands of confused men.

Outside in the cold. Another bitter cigarette and the smoke falls to the frosty ground as it is -2C tonight and it envelops me like a cloak this cold. Trying to work out between the parked cars outside some element of that Puritanical meme that is soon to flower some twenty years in the future. I am out there a long time because that is exactly what the hollow man principle is. My emotions have been dragged out into that street too many years ago for me to feel anything at all. The death of those emotions were nothing seeing as I didn’t know I had them in the first place. You choke and I joke. That’s the future surely? 

‘Throw the wind out and let the curious care for shattered lives and those things that make them vomit and choke’ She said. But just a moment Angel, we just watched ourselves walk by, our madness mirrored in the sky. Come back with me, catch the things you left behind in the foolish mind.

Placid Geometry


What do you mean it was all getting a little too much? The touch? The lingering fingertip? The blood too hot? The bumping and grinding of the carriage. The past catching up too as the whole thing gets faster, and the happiness will never last(a). Of course in the wide scheme of things which dictate at least some semblance of order, the whole caboodle crunches not grinds. It’s the one that will offer a damp hand and a quick peck on the cheek as you fondle your way onto the methods of transport and the confines of it maybe. But what are words when the horrors that befall us seem to stack up. The woodpile of woe isn’t it? The strange narrative of grey men in an office and access to the internet. The wide glaring slickness of their web pages and portals, the ease in which they squeeze you into something you ain’t baby.

They’re just chalk lines babycakes. Lines on a cold floor that we crouch and watch as they shiver and change, candles flicker and the air gets fucking thicker. It’s not dog whistle sex just hallucinations maybe, as you kick your legs out and get your freak on and everything doesn’t make sense and that’s the greatest thing of all surely? The way we carouse and fondle. The way the need makes you ache and the lies you lay onto your fantasy just shakes and shivers. Makes your breasts move just a little as you look and I say ‘there’ and you see. But look past the lines and make the eyes ‘able’ make them sicker to see the truth as it stands. In ink, paint and intent. Your breasts loose and not a pace away they sit and read newspapers, talk shit and get bit.

She knows that time is very short, she see’s it in the air around her as it winds and curls around the memetic drifts of information flow. And we do make repairs to sex engines with sigils too you know. We do know how the Police watch and we do suspect that there’s a crime in there somewhere if we look close enough. Especially as God has turned it’s back for a few of those endless interstellar seconds. We know and it knows. The clouds look strange above the town today and we wait for something and I touch your little finger and watch the humanity course it’s way through the tunnels and the systems. What we have? Well she has her husband, and we have the metaphysical spaces to grow into, they are vast baby. Big endless dollops of variables, the static maths of a tongue here and there. Of kisses that taste of cigarettes and the acid remembrance of that line you choked back and that cord fastened tight as you wondered. And he never fucks you just right. You don’t even blather through the damp cloth of your pillow. He is the dampness incarnate. He is the forgotten body in the street. Endless and anonymous. Puerile and sick. He takes photos of the food you make and say’s ‘Yeah wait a minute’ as he laughs at something on his phone and he never noticed your hair or grabbed your ass as you passed him around the table. He never looked at you the way I did but you had no control here darling. I was lost years before and now I just stumble.

But your eyes of course reflect the abyss and the muscles around your eyes turn that pretty face into a mask as you know you can’t let all the information in. I slap your arse as you get up and you giggle and that too is a mask for need. A covering of modesty in your naked madness, a civility not deserved after what you just did and what you cried out in your joy. It’s all pantomime and you know it, and i’m thankful for it, as I think you understand even if your real language is that of a drifting hand and a subtle touch, or a laugh, a sigh maybe.

Of course tumbling through the air was pure acting, the backwards jump into traffic and the words I could write fall into the spaces between the keys and I need 333 letters in this alphabet. 23 that I can use straight away and the rest…in touches and bites, teeth on flesh and the sudden need to hold on tight under the pressure and the spite. 

Cap-Lock fucking everything louder than anything else and the roar of blood blurs chalk lines fast doesn’t it? The fakeness of it belies what a danger it is. My hand around your throat and I say am I not a man? Do I not have rights too? As you have hobbled strange chains around our feet we stumble and fall while you dance free. You mock but we remember. And it is us that fight Dragons not you. All is lost baby, all is gone to dust and I suspect thirty three days is all we have and the dust will fall on the pretty things you stack around your room. The essence will always stay of course. My hand moving under your shirt and my thumb pressed between your lips, and the dress is too tight but you look good as you move and we grab onto each other as they walk around oblivious and strange. Lost in their own way between the sheaths of finance letters, bills and promises and the likes you get on your new photo and he lies snoring next to you as you ache bitter thoughts. Maybe. 

He of course stood on the Dam wall and looked over the lush greenery of the valley and all was quiet, all was pure peace upon it as he guarded and watched. Over the valley the six peaks of heavens edge glistened under the fall of snow they had received, but no snow ever falls into the valley and no leaf ever browns and falls. On each peak an Angel of geometry. To watch with him was ever their end. To watch and see the valley and to cover the sacred tree with their light. But he ‘huffed’ and walked across the thick flagstones across the dam and his feet blurred the chalked geometry upon them and a little chalk dust was caught by the wind and blew over the dam wall into the forest which knew no decay. All was good.

In the Hospital I tore out the tubes and lines and I fell to the floor. Quickly I arranged the tubes into the geometry across the polished surface as the blood fell from my arms and neck onto the floor. Across from my bed the old man watched motionless apart from his thumb which pressed constantly on his buzzer so they would come running. I had to be fast. Here and there where a tube was too short to complete the sigil I dipped my thumb into the blood and finished the lines. The blood coming thicker now and I was covered and the slashes of that pain bit through me and some yellow liquid was caught within it. A plasma of sorts and a sick end for occult rhymes and sicker words.

In the toilet we fucked and rattled and my hand was again on your throat as you moved to keep me inside you and the pressure was intense and you were lost for more than a couple of moments as I watched the scene through the mirror on the back wall of the compartment. And all was lost wasn’t it. We had done this thing. All was lost. I was finding it hard to concentrate on anything as the lines shifted me out and in. I’m sorry I didn’t really treat you as a real person, but I was lost I think, trapped, always drawing sigils in the blood that fell from me. It always does fall, and with it my ability to function in this space. Dizz-Function. and Jizz-Functional. Your head banging against the side of the wall and your hands spread for something and my hands pulling apart the fastenings of your clothes and the buttons and zips of reality itself. And you wondered why the messages were sparse and coded. I was lost and getting lost(a). Found and abandoned.

Why will it never work out? I’m not that person. Locked into the ring of pain meds or scratching sigils on cell walls, gangsters sitting in cars while she unbuttons herself for the eyes of other men and you watch the line of light split the maroon desert sky. It’s leaning against the VW Beetle as the sun strikes you just right and you laugh as I look for the ten mm spanner. It’s you having a baby in the future with a man that looked like me. A child with a man that is the opposite of me. It’s the spiced plums you make. It’s the WitchFinder on horseback under an English rain, an English Oak tree and shuttered windows in the village below. It’s the nine bar gate. Lizards behind every face you see that is involved with you and me. Tubes and dripping blood and the platitudes of Nurses who can overpower your weakened state and throw you back into bed. It’s the arms that press and hold you down as the Pethidine kicks up a fuss and you freak and accuse. It’s the Prison we build ourselves and it’s the final joke, the giggle and the wiggle of your arse in that dress, as you look back and laugh and we dance into the night, till our feet hurt and the jazz is dead and quiet.

The noise and annoyance are just that. Minor things really and there is a spot of my seed on your lip and you lick it off and laugh as you taste it and zip the finality up and the curtain gently closes and it’s back to the same old, the rampant pace moulders and rots and the film blares it’s start again. The intermission is just that. The between spaces, the endless faces that press and are apparent. The glances and the stances of the great show rumbles on and the needles are always replaces and the tubes are taped harder and fastened. 

On the Dam he walks and will walk for an eternity glancing often at the metaphysical geometries on each of the six peaks as they turn and shine their light as diamonds onto the forest below. But he will never remember her. Never taste again the sins she had to show him. The light twists and tumbles from each cell and is taken up by the black orb above and the information flows are not hindered by magic. Never will be. They are kept safe for that beauty who will finally understand them. A process that has already been performed by this state. A process that will never be forgotten. But his foot kicks a piece of chalk that lay on the stone. It makes a line as it skitters across the cut rock. It forms a line which intersects another and he bends down to look he sees. Her upon the bed, her flesh glistens and she is lost again as she writhes in delights unknown to him and he looks at his fingers and they they are wet too, like her, and he tastes her now on his mouth and she digs her fingernails into her breasts and cries out. But he never understands. And on the mountain tops the geometries turn.