Tangled In The Mangle



Bristol 2012-Birmingham-2009

These Space Witches are Bitches. They never let you in or out. It’s the torture mile and your feet are tangled in the sheets and nobody hears you cry out I suppose. I mean I never did through all of it. I was enough of a passing phase to treat the whole experience purely as it was. Communications from the Black Monolith, little nuggets of flesh through electronic mediums. Platitudes in megabytes and at the end you discover you have an emotional dyslexia and it is as if William Burroughs has been cut and pasting your memories into new ones and you wonder if the slap of flesh you heard was real at all. I will always be trapped in that flat with the plastic laminate floors and the thin doors where you could hear everything. That memory can’t be touched. You see I kissed her full force and with a feral passion every morning and her breath was always as sweet as a peach. Her hair always ruffled and complicated to look like it was done for fun. Even now I cant bear the thought of her hand on me. I shiver in the cold night air at the thought.

But this is why can’t I write about it. The scent of gun oil and the hurried laughter we had. The easy way in which you always knew what lever to depress to set that car seat back into just the right position? You wanted to fuck that was obvious but I still clung to the illusion that you were real in some way. Even now as the murky muddy waters rise and the sun has started to shiver and turn to sleep. What of it? Nothing of course. Just the tip tap of electronic love baby. The dark cloaks we wrapped around ourselves as we watched the sunrise and were bitter for every ray of light that came down and fell on us. You stuck there in the Evergreen and me writing about it with clumsy hands the chemical had killed spitting out the broken teeth and smiling cracked and half insane.

Crooked Wizards always walk alone and that’s the rule. Things hold you back I know that. Your cosmic ever lengthening laws fill the books that stack between us and that’s good too. You see I learned many years ago that Witches are always Bitches. Always sense the surface of things and that is the most sensible thing for you and yours. To sense the ripple of the meaning as it gets blown by the winds across the still lakes of our existences. Always the ripples, always the leaf that gently drops down onto the surface to rise and fall with each errant passage of your time. Limnal I am. Deep within it. I watch from the bottom the movements above. They shiver and shake the light just like you did and it was good for a while. Until the aching pressure of that existence pushed down on the lungs and the inner savage wanted to rise to the top, to break the surface and gasp in the cool air. But they found my rope and then all the hope was gone and I am watched constantly for the signs. I am forensically kept here by eye and by text message, by email and by whispered conversation. Even though I have no rights to be here I am kept and the whole merry-go-round swirls and turns, up and down, lost and found.

Now as much as I would like to explain it to you I won’t purely because you will use it in some strange geometrical sigil and then another clasp of iron falls around an ankle that can barely swim as it is. Limnal. Stuck on the bottom of the lake looking up at the ripples above. Wishing the savage would die at last. Then I could breath in clean air and run barefoot on the grass and there would be nobody there at all. No errant codes, no sleight of hand, no lies and no stories unless it was me making them. Then the stories would be funny of course. I would laugh by myself again. Whistling through broken teeth. Drowning on the water of life, getting close and tight.

In the landscape there seems to be something wrong of course. She had a brass handle on the door and now it is silver and as I walk in, it has a different feel. A strange sense of doom possibly even as she brushes her hair while standing those coils of brass fall and are lit by the screen of the TV again. But she is taller possibly. I slip a hand inside her dressing gown and gently squeeze her breast as I look at her with analysis rather than love and it is there for sure. Isolation through the medium. Her code is corrupt and void at last, she is not who she pretends to be and her hip pressing on my crotch is just a movement within the syrup of our existence. It is a thing that should not really be and that’s good. It means I can see the sides of this great stage and the pig eyes of the bastard squad leering in the shadows. I go to her mirror and lift my shirt to see the scars and they are not there. They slashed my body with their intent and it was existing. I saw it and touched those toughened cords of scarred skin and knew them intimately through those years. They half killed me baby. They left me to bleed in the sheets and left me to rot. To die. But I came back for one last go but none of us ever really know.

Reflections in windows and my hand on her cunt. Her effortless movement divine grace, a sacred beauty, a passion that lacked empire and quantity. Her ignorance and her inability to throw herself to the Sun dogs and the motes of brilliance through the sexual act. Defunct or un-pressured I don’t know. But she stood in the window of that flat as the sun came through the window and lit her flesh alive with rays and illuminations, of movement of that stomach and the way she moved her hair out of the way. Instilled in it I was, for a while. I loved every minute and did curse every hour. The demons had indeed gone crazy baby. We never knew there were so many of them. We didn’t know who they were and they wove their own threads in the tapestry of the fucking we did. Before we knew they were there the threads lay thick among the beauty of our acts and they were dull black among the chrome yellow of our touch and only you wept. I wrote. Cross legged on the floor. A simple notebook and a blunt pencil. I write it all down baby so you don’t have to worry about what it was and what they did.

It’s a map of sorts for sure, directions to places you forgot about, places that exist only in your heart I suppose. Where the dark hides to escape the illuminating possibility of novelty and creations. But in that darkness is quiet and stillness. We manipulate the chemistry to alleviate the strange and clumsy way in which we treat it and communicate with it as it has no real function here in the realm of the Demiurge. Within it is the gap between the anesthetic and the awakening to bolts of pure pain and the sweat of infection, the folded harsh sheets and the kick of a leg under the direction of pure animal shock. Within is the passion of sweated flesh upon flesh and the clawed hands of passion. Of forgetting and not remembering. Of the ways in which we regarded each other with horror and then looked at ourselves and the mirror that held no image at all.