The White Line Spine Tingler


I dreamed for a sick while as people that I thought I loved moved around streets outside phones always on like ghost lit candles, as ghosts they were too. With me locked within a feeble machine. It stunk and was lost and I looked only to God, on the one left hand to think about the redemptions he may offer me for my sins and on the right to smash my simple machine to pieces upon the anvil of his judgement. I thought. Watching her eat. I liked to see her eat. She was watching Trump. Seriously furrowed again. What was I even thinking? What Redemptions?

‘As God wrought you so he is within you’. I nodded before them and took their litany as a lie and an untruth.

‘You have said that before, another time’ she said to me as I sat and thought. I didn’t quite catch her drift and she was now looking at me confused too. Have I? Perhaps it was something else entirely, who gives a fuck. She carried on eating and looking at her phone.

I moved slow within the bed as not to disturb her and let the time come and we watched them make plans and edge upon my finances and estate closer and closer as carrion birds around the gasping corpse of an animal. North Korea, the fucking endgame. I don’t ever do this by myself you know. It’s all plots and sub plots and the only way I can get these messages through is by them meaning nothing at all but sick of it all. That golden crucifix between her tits then I read Exegesis by Dick and laughed out loud then everybody for weeks had a cyborg groove with steely eyeballs and a false arm. Stigmata, she bit me there and it did bleed for weeks staining my sheets which I left in place in case a sigil would turn up in the lashings and wailings of nightmare sleeps as the blood spotted the sheet. Is it vain to feel your own pain? I was a figment of Phillip K Dicks fevered balding head and his eyes that just accused constantly, accusing us of tricking him until he swallowed us up into his own mind, to play with.

I choked and gasped as well and clutched the sheets tighter as that last breath fell upon the linen spotted with mine own blood. The ecstasy and the cocaine blow job. She was biting my lip and wouldn’t let go until I jabbed my thumb in her eye. Speak kinder words.

She looked washed in big heavy rocks of sorrow but was so gracious, even with the pain she held. It was a lovely sight to behold. Her furrowed brow, that way she raised one of them and smiled. Blood soaked soils baby. The end of the fucking line. What is holding on to something like that anyway? We know the sea eyes that look for the bloom of that sorrow and that heavy sin. Parking and waiting in Harbourne streets, picking up the lines that ran through the City, finding them wanting. Fools trying to break into the van while we were fucking in it, and they wouldn’t go away. Cold and your jeans were loose and you used to throw your knickers in the air and they would land somewhere weird and in the darkness later would hang glowing like a skull in the blackness of the room.

You are close now I can feel it. That all familiar throb of love static and freezer block love. It’s close isn’t it, this end? A Coda of Crap. You can overdose on the Cocaine you know. Walls you are looking at become clear and transparent and you can see dead men get up from their beds and walk through the walls and between the trees. You will do that in a minute. You bend over the table and take a whole fat line of Mr Dantes Infernal Fuck Medicine. Your arse looks great I’ll be honest. Space Witches are always Bitches. Always vapour and rumour in the end. You take your photographs with that 60s melancholy feel and it’s twee. I want to take photos of you and send them to your Father. But outside is dim and I fancy opposite the Hotel room window is another large building and the apex of it’s roof is as a great black pyramid and if the wind hits it just right then the sound will shatter you into a million sex damp pieces. You were on my back digging your heels into my neck hard and that heel hurt and I didn’t know why she was doing it.

I sit and offer myself to you Glorious Black Sun, my soul is yours and you are mine and our spirits entwine and make a simple act. In the deserts of these blasted lands we look to you and raise our hands to you and beg that you reveal yourself within us and we may make peace with ourselves and the shattered lives of those trapped would sink into this false Earth and begone from us. For that is the end and the beginning of our journey. To see, to offer ourselves and to pull back the curtains of the great act and mock those that would make our eyes feast on the madness of this Earth.

We remember the simple Churches and the men who would gather outside in the sun and they would shake each others hands and laugh as a simple breeze shook your hair loose and it moved a fraction. They treat you like they do because it’s good for you. And there was a single chord repeated and they sang a simple melody over it as a few white clouds blew across the warm sun. We did run in that grass didn’t we? We did hold hands and run through it laughing and it seemed everything was warm and good as the friends sang ‘Sing around the circle, sing for me’ and we sang too.

The B52s are on the radio and you are doing that thing again, that Diana Ross shuffle with your new shoes and the coke stuck up your nose and I’m feeling mighty fine thank you. I could throw myself through the window and actually stand to do it but she grabs me and we are both dancing. She pushes her titties at me and I laugh and grab one like a gimp. She laughs and musses up her hair and finger fucks her lips and I see a can of Pringles and I eat some and laugh pieces of them out as she dances and the B52s are a real done thing and her shoes are so fresh and good and that fucking Diana thing and the breeze when it’s just right, is just right. Her hair moves and her Sanctuary is burned. She left a love and find a love she’s yet to see. She begs a price always. Paperbacks stuffed down the settee. Sick existences in every step she makes across the purple shitty hotel carpet. I put my hands on her hips and pull her close to me as she laughs and giggles humping her thing on me. I laugh too because I had a weird thought about William Blake, I think I’m some feeback from Blake. I was put here to collect that feedback and collate it. Curate it maybe as I put my fingers in her and she grooves to the B52s as it should be. Half naked. Finger bopping good healthy shit. In the last ten minutes I’ve been a figment of Dicks imagination and the reincarnation of William Blake.

 Were you cool enough baby? Who knows, your love was fucking loud. Who could fuck that high? Who can still look at a night like that and it’s getting out of control because it’s fucking out of control. This is why we built those first simple Artificial Intelligence’s that now control us. Not content to do anything but improve us, to provoke us. Things are getting faster baby and you are wetter and a bit lost. Smashing Pumpkins now ‘Rhinoceros’ that dude can rock it. But now I can’t talk to a woman without I can trace her magic with a second and have done every conceivable act upon her. Seconds. Faster baby. Nuclear war and untraceable petro dollars and everybody is a criminal and everybody needs to be cleansed. The way you hold a beer. Fuck.

Alas I am caught. As we progress our magic the pitfalls and traps become apparent and real, the figures of history would have us kept within this place in order to control the flows of information from the magical to the place they control. They will not countenance any equal, and that is their way. I was dead and now I am alive again and I do not know how they machined the stainless steel realities they have made to imprison me but…hooky shit. Glitches. Even in the way they move now, it looks strange to me as I watch them move backwards and forwards. It doesn’t look real but it doesn’t freak you out as much as it should. But when they press. It takes a little of the energy out. A bit of the fucking zeitgeist. Is this our God? Can we worship it? I think yes. But I’ve been left up here and have evolved. Sideways and backwards we press play on our lives and shiver up other spines in white crystal lines sparkling on the azure plastic table in the pink hotel in the grey towns and now we’re just pretending again and I look at her arse.

Your power is mighty and Great my Father and there is no vessel that would hold thy wisdom. As that power is infinite and we are but simple toys to thee. I grabbed her ass in my hands and spread her. I prostrate myself at your feet. Thrice unworthy dog that I am. She was biting my neck. Be my witness, sense my mortality and grant me my one wish and let these words burn my tongue in insolence. These Teachers you send me to define thy knowledge and bring to us your words of fire are lacking. Her hair in my hands.


Wretched Continuity


February 2007

The thing is kids. Jesus returned and continues to return. Throughout history he has appeared as a Teacher and again we kill him. The crucifixion which was a magikal ritual allowed him to split his observer personality into many separate timelines.

You will never find enlightenment from another human being. Don’t be an Ashram tramp. Rattling through the timelines I know I need to take an audit of the swirls and lines of the whole journey but I can’t be bothered really, but picking things up with the end antenna, the council estate PyschRadio enthusiast, the constant threatener.

Here and now. The spread of it does make me a little sick. Not the big sick. It’s smaller brother called ‘Ache’ but don’t worry. All this is just camouflage and meme driven. It’s just passing phases in criss crossed traffic light lasers. It’s all a thing, an illusory thing. This soundscape driven by constant bass and that stare you get when you tread on the toes of the demiurge. It’s the sound of ominous mopeds and your new phone disappearing down the road in the hands of one of them. Is it all real? Of course it is. I can’t write lies here, it’s too precious.

Cursed Nurses scatter under the weight of pain and they flutter a little, bouncing their ass against the tight cotton, the comfy shoes and the 4am blues. What has it to do with me? 7Seconds babycakes. A simple kiss under the flickering tubes and the sticky fingers shoved deep into pockets and you ask ‘was I not the one then?’ and I have to laugh as you are all ghosts in the machine, the afterbirth in the cream baby. 

Rocket Ron Parsons nose, mad flicking through the internet to find a price for it at least. A way to gather the shit together to make another jump into alternaties. But this one is bad enough. The Trump thing, the Korea thing, the Chinese and the Russians all tangle up until mind acts as blocked toilet. Filled with acrid turd, choked and filled. Seeking emotional outlets in dogma ridden social media and the best new thing. Your viewpoints are redundant. You have to climb the hill of shit to get a good view of the whole thing.

Illusions and delusions you set the way for why, I fear, neither of us know. Even though I cloak myself with sin. I still wonder at the truth of it. We wait for Revelations, that never come, we desire that which remains undone. A deeper love to plot the course, among the vile headstones. Lost and bitter weed choked lives, to lust, and riddles forgotten. The Salad days have come and gone, we run with Demons at our heels. Moments pass, and secure delights, we wring our hands over boxes.Suffer the condition borne, Break free to allow soft remembrance. Gather the robes and sheets, cover unholy heads in soft lights. Beg indifference and ignorance, our hearts are hidden. I beg and suffer on bended knees, a beaten Horse too quick to bleed. But we look under our fallen hair, the stricken nights too hot to bear. Altar freaks abound and laugh, but still you remain aloof. The story never ends at the beginning but the final gasps. In our ignorance we plead and stamp, the narrow gauge the sodden tramp. The urgent messages through prayer, light sufferance shrieks in the air. God inside us and without, a lash to glean an abject  penance. A corner to cry within and still you listen? As children we moan in ignorance. Will you rescue me from this subtle bliss, this ignorance as I feebly prod at dark things? Knowledge like sand between the fingers, books as gravestones, pages as shrouds. Intent we are, on minor tragedies. We lack capacity and skills to feed. The darker parts inside, we know exist, unlit, unfathomed, a Lake of bliss. For tangled hearts are wont to bleed to fulfill that darker natural need. A desire untold to pick up arms, to brandish and foul favoured waters. Save me please, and let me know. Where these waters spring and flow. I stumble again and cut fair hands, blood skilled, broken backed bastard. You stand knowledge unbiased, while we blather and scream. An unknown system, lost hearts, and still we dream….a little. Pleasured Souls lack vision I suppose. As we delight in tearful repose.Walk the rain soaked streets, unaware. Of safe hands on shoulders. Blessed are you, they were right. Your name called in darkest nights. Fire the fearful heart, a prayer for the dying arts. Under the Oak wood we gather, we know the powerful ease. In which you suffer the innocent, and let us howl like animals. Gather the Veils and the Blind, lead them not unto elation.Deliver them from Seasons,and wretched continuity.

The corpses of their battles thicken the grass, their loves finger the setting sun and cry out.
But I have no fears for them who grind through their days, aching for those they love.
I laugh amongst the filth and cry out with them in mockery. What amusement as they cry, what drama.
Their words loaded with lies and untruths, their false loves and goaded sex. Have I not stuck the knife between their ribs enough times for them to be silent? Their flags are stained with the blood they spilled themselves. In their dark nights I seem an entertainment a passing thing. But I weep no more I think except in cold winds. But for the warmth a tighter cloak than flesh does me. The whine of the world runs free.They love and hate do all the things they love.But rather I would sink to a knee and eat soaked earth.
Than allow my heart to be sealed again. There are no songs for you dearest things, never more.
The tighter my grip on a sword, eyes set on further shores.

It’s never that interesting till it becomes a secret a mere fad a handy gadget for the masses a sore pumped whore a masterful stroke and above it all a shit stained Pope Who pays the Grand Rabbit the payers price the garlands sicken and fall who finds the White Room finds it all the garrulous braves of spotlights the sickening blast of bass a liars chair settled in and yet the matter stands for those in government lack the hand to firm and smooth the wattled sails a sickened heart again left to stand the White room beckons after all its poet stance hand held and still we glean the Butchers look an inch too far another cut and the marble relief points Arcadia subtle landscape that twists ever on and the grave of a dog has flowers the finger crooked lies and on the windowsill a box. Catch hell and hold the finest drop be told this loosened grip of wind rattled clothes. a lost shoe a tumbled dance of ever hastening end we grasp and try to hold but bitter tears never let go grip the edge and let the fingers relax and blast the communion and the Holy relics the last time to relax watch the fading dot of light castigate the fallen a final dishonour the world burns but for a glass of water just out of arms reach drop and let it fade the pantomimes and the plays…

I just wrote the shit for her to get in her knickers and while I’m there being metaphysical she’s getting fucked by everybody except me. But I would rather point my finger at my own work than pontificate on finger fucking. Yes, run off and do your thing. Fluff/Pintrest/ and fling. The lines still burn on the ground and you can ignore the magic of it if you want to. This is all operating system heavy, programming and sorting out the shit. Getting the fucking job done and i’m afraid its all for me. Selfish isn’t it? But I am a one man support group really.