Prophecy Mechanics


Her eyes were black ice you see. She refused to look at the sky where I pointed out the places of entry and exit. She didn’t want to look. The Chemtrails were in her eyes. Those black ice eyes. She knew she would get a face full of it straight away. The awakening and the quicker things that flicked up and down her nerves. Safe as the sky baby. You can feel the earth changing from second to second now cant you? Last week it was the end of the world. Probably next week too. We will yawn as the radiation blows in and nobody will tell us of its danger of course. We don’t want to know, we love fucking and smoking weed, you sit on the windowsill in the sun and we talk about mad Led Zeppelin tunes and how you  fancied Joey from Green Day. But the sun is different too. It’s bigger than I remember and her hair is halo full and flowing and the violet rays sparkle as they tumble through her onto the floor. It’s all too much this prism prison, these delights. But what’s a fucking mountain top if you cant fathom and suffer the depths yard by yard baby?

We ate some soft cheese on toast with the butter running and crumbs stuck to her thigh as she ate. It was stuck in my teeth and I wanted to gag but I smiled through the whole method of course. Screaming though, inside. But it was OK it was always OK. Fucking Prophecy Mechanics. Jesus warned us, in headlines and fools we never meet. Will there ever be an end to the songs and prophecies? Wasted don’t knows and everybody stares at the floor and whistles. Caight up in 1932. Jumped up Fords, hot cars, machine guns and things we have in stores. The Morphine, the tubes and the fucking lubes and we never questioned out own hopes our own fucking despair. It was all a show for bored towns. It was a fucking mmetaphysical act baby. An act of belief. Just deep into it, womb deep, hot gods and voodoo dolls. I lost my teeth. The better than me cracked them. I never ate for weeks and I never knew, we didn’t know where we were supposed to be. God in heaven and the dogs on earth. Hot barrels and hotter women. 

She lay outside in the Siberian cold. It ate through her suit which was ripped at the leg, there was blood there, sticky. It had congealed but the cold, inside the suit. She must have been knocked out, A headache too, splitting. her visor cracked. Head cracked and unsure, nothing but thoughts like birds, trying to catch them. The helmet heavy she nods and touched the cracked plexi glass to the frozen soil, barren and dark, the mosses here, and grass pale as the North, the ice. She crept away and sat, the capsule smashed upon the ice blasted soils and no horizon, but a freezing mist and she was ghost, sucked into the scene and freshened but the thought. She had crashed, all was lost but how? Nobody knew. But she remembered the song now, here in her head, an old rock tune, and sun, and cheese soft fresh, creamy, he looked like screaming. 

Don’t try to fly in the dark, your heart. Let go be a child again, the finding and choices inside baby, you’ve got to try. Put out your black ice eyes and turn them to God, put your face to desire and find the world that is yours, climb baby. We try to die every day and there’s no hope for the lack of hope. You know the prophecy and the unbidden leap. God is close and you are all I have got and need. We try to guide, our lies are not hidden. Our faces are desire, turned holy and the world is the final last minute goal. Climb baby, more gas, more dleicous pain free joy. More desired ends and crescendos unseen, unknown.

Who loves and gives in. Does it matter, stand up straight and be cool. Drop in and taste the what it’s for, the settle down and the funk brother sublime moonbeams that played across her flesh in the night. She whispers. ‘I never loved Joey from Green Day more than you’. and her lips parted and I think she was asleep and I was half gone in the dreamspace. The who wants the hurt carnival. She was asleep because the blood from her cut head was in her eyelashes and the moon and the mist reflected off her visor and she looked like a ghost. Within. Not hearing or seeing but believing. He put the gun down on the hard cold ground. Kissed the visor. Let me out. Let me in. 

Find the guides baby. She will not die. Out of body what you think. I’m not a gambler, I’m a nothing in the scheme of it all. She has blood in her eyes and she thinks she has cut her head, which she has, the helmet microphone split the skin deep, it wasn’t serious baby but I know you thought it was as you couldn’t see and your glove just pointlessly wiped across the visor. There was a man standing in front of you, he was armed. A gun in his hand, dressed strangely old fashioned, a gangster hat upon his head. A moustache, he looked like a mischievous man. Behind him, flashing lines of geometry in vivid purples and cobalt powerful blue, viridian and neon pink. There through the ice mists behind him, the abandoned places we hold in our hearts, this grey pyramid loomed and crept back into vision and gone again, the mist, the thick white ice, the wind that stabbed. Above him unhindered by the weather and her fogged eye the ultimate end. The thing that is to come. The blessed black sun. Shone and is to come and she didn’t want to know the secrets and the shadows in her own heart. She would drown and not swim in the Black Sun, and she would not dip one finger as she closes her eyes and see the burned vision of the justice, close you inner eye, ignore the voice but look in and get loose baby, be the colour, be the stare at the bus station, the hand on the breast and the ignorance of knowledge. Didn’t we sing these songs forever? As we wept. It’s not approval confusion it’s stormy smiles, getting loose. Watching you snort the gear, kill the fear, the killer heels and the taxi back feels, the soft. The care fleshy lechery mechanics, the fucking gears of whore baby. Black Sun revolver, in the sky it turned and she blessed herself with the sign of the cross. 

Our eyes as always mixed like our breath and we drown and never surface, in each other, we witness our love and please. Stand in front roll away and stretch out your legs let the air on your skin. Prove to me your filth, I am but the animal, I am the rider. Drop it all, play dead, put your legs on the dashboard and sit. Call me and take us away. That’s you and that’s all we have to go away, far away baby. We tried to get use to it, the crumbs and the dry drives to passionless ends. We cry I suppose but never sigh. 



The Black Marble Conspiracy


Paralysed with it. Black marble paralysis. Chipped corner gravestone and platitudes in gold enamel. It makes me sick. All around this cemetery walk the previous ghosts. The ones of me. They don’t wail they just kick idle stones and look West, longing. Kick dust and whither on the wind. Settle down in the places the mower can not reach. And they never weep, hands in pockets. Sick still with memory and horror. They sting still sores and bites the flesh he has and yet never would he put a hand to it and exclaim. But better to keep that fever still inside that spirit and bite down on it. Let it seethe and move within the penultimate horror. The stink of eternity and the gun in his hand. 

Do you believe what you call “Black Marble Conspiracy” plays a single (or even just dominant) “partisan role” in the current SPIRITUAL landscape? Or is the paradigm of conspiracy activated by interests all over the spectrum. And what do you mean when you say “ATHENUS?”

For who listens to these songs? Still? The numbers and the chalk lines fade and still this errant phrase will become a lone verse for him that walks and talks. A still message that gathers every scrap of black silk that unfolds from his abdomen and winds it’s way around his torso. I try. You see to blink at this moment would be a sin for her, and possibly a ghost or two. Lies and flesh wind as the black silk. The pressure dogma and the nefarious end. Blacker clouds fade not the simple tasks we have here. For is it not said that through him salvation? Through him, yes something. An abstract play of semantic propaganda or another more simple esoteric message. Who would know amongst this noise. This awful fucking cacophony. Not me. Gun held and still. Like a black fox. Like a broken thing. Wave the barrel in front of your face and wonder. Ghost. Idle spirit wretch. Dark thing lost in the confines of atmosphere and of space. Filled with things. All of it. Ideas fallen to gutters and to create to make another edifice for that which controls. For has he not symbols too? Can he not break the cycle with chalked line and exclamation?

“Indeed, I may not be fully decided on any particular question.” Indeed. And indeed, you may in fact be fully decided, but simply completely unwilling to admit the truth. Indeed, you may be lying your face off in a belated ATTEMPT to save your neck. Indeed, you may be paid by the CIA for what you do here, or indeed you may not. Indeed, I too cannot be held responsible for anything I may appear to assert, because I indeed may not be fully convinced that you are indeed paid for it, or in

deed I may in fact be fully convinced of that and yet simply reluctant to admit it. Who can tell? Fair’s fair horses for courses, pot. kettle. slack.

Indeed within and without. So above but not below. Where idle thought and chatter sink to the foundation of all. The black marble will always call. Always stick under the wet sheet and remember. The way her hip dug into thee. And me. Softer skin for hard and thankless tasks. For endless rivers of lust. For those who would care not for soft words and empty promises. Dillinger knows the arc and the turn. The great deal done with that which would protect and succour the stabs and the bitter punch. Lie broken and see, the darker hints for you and the abyss for me. He takes the gun away now and locks it within the black silk lined ebony box. There is a brass lock with a key long lost. But he pretends any way, to lock it. He throws away the key that never was over his shoulder and flattens his hair with a calloused hand. The box stays on his knees and he hears them in the street below crying their tears. Doing their things. Dust covered remembrance and songs that choke the life from those who would give it up without anger, without a hypothesis. This is the crux of bone. The songs on hills where men nailed and cried. Where Fathers never really cared. But the box was heavy and the pistols grim. For her a softer touch and a smile but no, there was nothing for him. But this awful thing that weighed and suffered. This hollow pit and  existence and more. 

In the halls of his mind there was some light I suppose. It crept around and did the deeds it was supposed. The flash of it startled him sometimes as he sat forever on that bed and thought. That things would be clearer to her. That he would be able to speak without recourse and paddle out into the dark lakes with a lantern of sorts gleaned from those flashes he saw in his mind. Light the way and offer a strong hand for my sake. Rescue me and let the demons run. For this is the ache of the lost. We wander roads full of ghosts. Woke and then sleep deeper still. Let not the man you thought you were win this battle. Construction it is. Fable and lie. Illusion and dream. But fuck, those phantoms bite and scream. For what is this in the end but a box. On a mans lap. The water flowing and she washes. This is all. 

The Balance Of Cold


Not all are saved. Some just twist and curl their way through the whole moment. I suspected they were all part of the great moment. But it was never like that at all. The manuscripts, the lessons and all of the hermitages were redundant faces of the three fold mask of this Demiurge. All part of the great mask. Some revelled in it and were taken straight away. Taken and thrown into the fires of experience and their cries and screams were just fuel to it, just errant whispers in the schemes of things. Just that. We suffer because we love, that’s all. This love a fuel to fly higher and deeper and escape the black robes of that which would keep us within and without. The houses past the train windows blur, and she touches my hand without knowing and I cast my eyes away in case. In each case I die and travel further along the road. And rage will always lead to sweated sheets and tangled feet, a hand reaching for the water not there for starched lips, for cracked lips, for hot moist lips. Not a word shall escape my darling. I hold them within my scars and they are safe. Within me and within thee.

For what it’s worth. They castigate that man because he tries to save us. Thoughts lack from those that would insult instead of debate. The voice you think is yours is truly theirs. For their importance as the mouthpiece of the Demiurge gives them truck to suffer their words upon you. Those words are evil and twisted and you should not listen. I turn off the TV and never look at it. Never read the newspapers and never watch their words tumble like sick vomit and ached blather. 

You always fall in love in the snow?

You barely have the time I know, to placate hard edged sympathies and soft touches. Cruel winds blow and nobody answers the simple sigils for help and the need for rescue. Not yet of course but they will in the end. I suspect workings and deeper maybe needed refrains that ache and suffer within the insides of these movers. For what is a word or an idea except for gold and cash. Favours maybe and bridges built and burned the same day. They will glow on the horizon until we as well turn away and rub our eyes with the heat of it, laugh possibly and turn again to look but the glow is gone and the faces of those on the other side are soon forgotten in the shine and the pleasure of home. We sin and see the twisted echelons of the condemned, we also see the shattered shards of this experience lie heavy at our feet. And still we gather the strength we need to stand straight and look to the East with something akin to fear. For in those wastes the Demiurge has built his forsaken pile, and there he utters the name ‘John’ and all will fall at his feet and weep. For that is written also. In dark valleys, by men that would hold no truck with the soft flesh of a woman or the slick inserted finger of shafted and clumsy love. This is the ninth end and the sicker troll love of the eyes closed, the mouth sealed and the ear that holds no sound but the cry of pains.

Always in the snow. Then as soon as I do I break. Whether in the mind or the body it is always the same. The Hospital again and the bleep of the Morphine masters. The cries of those lost long ago either side of me as they die and whither. Their bodies long ago cast into the spaces between and the fingers of the demiurge. Always in the snow and cold? Always. 

Are you the novelty sent and the message returned? For all the wicked of the world will be nine of every ten souls and these are made by the hand of their maker. These nine will make you suffer and ignorance is a word they coddle, evil too, although they have no idea of its root. This much is said. I bit her breasts in some passion and left bruises although I did not mean to. But she is found and will never be returned.

Drinking coffe in this place we see the slack and the idle lack of idea and intense life left behind them. This much is true that I have the sight to see and the ears to listen, underneath the awful gasping of their days they plot to steal joy and pleasure from us. But we know them. We know our ends although as soon as you were close they placed their hands over your eyes and bid you return lest there were things within that holy meadow and the fear of it would turn a greater man than we to a heap of tears and thankless grief. So they did. But are not we woken by this effect? This ability to see through this pain and listen to the greater songs. I think so. But my body shattered though it is would keen for a moment if this sufferance was visited on another, And I would weep for you and those rivers of water salted bitter pain would be a river. At the end home again, for all paths lead there for us. But not for them.

They whittle away the days as we fuck slow in the early evening and bodies make sound too I suppose and it is muted by softness and muffled hips, the swish of lips upon lips, and the slip of delight in the colder more vicious night. Prophecy maybe, but more the lack of engagement and the sight of the sleeper. He lacks the hand that would be firm and to soften the blow his experience lingers in the spaces between the words and the shallow gasp of orgasm. The second we awake grab my hand a go. Fast across the grass towards the sun which rises now behind the canopies of green forests, the streams and rivers, the delicate meadow grass wet from the morning dew and the simpler songs that waft upon the warming air of the valley.