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.

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