784 Degrees of Shift-The Psycho-Ecology of Sex

 

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The Barons of Bastardy yes? More ironed on glissful refrains into the stinking bullshit of sanctimony, of Mastery and of a deep sense of fulfilment I suppose. What is it all? This raising of weaponry and this easing into the fantastic idea that has a content of nothing at all? All Angels had Black wings but none are Blacker than hers and we scatter platitudes that mean everything of course but ultimately they live on and don’t die off in curling smoke like forms that fritter the edges of our consciousness. Like everything thing fucking else.

Speaking for herself there would be earthlike forms that are the oil on water of sensuous delicate touches and phrases that sweat a little at the edges, that make you bite your nails in the dark and look at the ghostlike chalk lines on the attic floor where the psychoecology tends to gather at night and you can see it right at the edges of your vision like peripaltic spasms of glint and form. I motion to a non existent camera…’here we see intent in it’s purest incarnation’ like some deranged Richard Attenborough. 

No grand success for me as I crumble the walls for one day, sleep then awake to the repaired sections of the cell and I wonder what the point is. But the bloodied fingers are definitely a sideshow of sorts and I can paint with it on the other wall. Sigils at first, great confused things that looped and complicated each other until all it was is a mess of cell protest crimson instead of shit and I notice I’m covered in blood too. I hope it’s an artery and laugh as I knot the sheets for another night and grasp cotton in gnawed fingers and shivered in the blackness. 

Bitten necks at windows again. Soft touches of this and that, it means everything of course and it’s a type of Morse code for flesh, a communication that they can never understand but it is relentless I suppose. The endless voice and the fingertip verses I play on her flesh which is warm and then cold as she cycled through the levels and her form became stronger in this system, but faint in others and I really haven’t a clue. Knot the fucking sheets. Injection. Tear the fucking walls down and then watch it rebuild itself again. But there are lights down there you know, in the ink filled 270 degrees of vision. 777 degrees on stinking shit filled landscapes. 23 degrees of bourgeoise four wheeled drive cars, 666 degrees of comical laughter. I remember what William Burroughs told that shivering sixteen year old outside that London Art Gallery years ago. He said ‘Michael my dear boy, I’ve been searching forever and I am tired’. I can hear a tube train deep underground. And he is right of course. It does tire you out. 

A stopwatch, a packet of Rizla, maybe half a gram of Haze, a ticket for a Metro, an Orange lighter, a grinder, a drawing of a wind bent tree which is folded in half and then half again, a poem written on graph paper about a pair of shoes, a song written on printer paper that you mean to record but never will, a job offer, dog attack spray, a Buck knife, traces of bad cocaine. And it could have been raining or it could have been dry so I will wait to see what he wants before I say.

I read an article about someone called Nick McCabe who used to play in a band I have no idea of so I listen to them through the walls and it sounds like space is happening on the other side and I laugh but the cell makes it sound like I am screaming. It’s a seven essence hell for sure and I don’t know how long I can keep it going…you know…the whole thing. There is a guitar now that sounds held back like it wants to sing but somebody is strangling it and it turns into her voice pleading about something, or maybe demanding. I press my ear closer to the cell wall and it’s just that, just her talking to somebody and the wall is hot now and they suffer me no respite. I write ‘Nik Mkabe’ into my notebook and shove it quickly into the crack in the wall under the iron bed. I write the ‘Shode’ sigil quickly in the air and the crack closes. It’s the only fucking sigil that works here…for some reason. ‘Close’ 

The shotgun was all show, all angry bollocks. It was short and sawed but it gathers size forged conclusions about it. You see the trigger once pulled would unload the lead shot and scatter it into a four foot wide stripping storm of pellet and attitude. If only one pellet hit it would then concentrate the mind to a wound, or the wound. Then the 9mms. Drop the shotty and it’s hot stuff. Pull out the Millys and take your time then. The idle of rage have long since gone only leaving targets and upturned stupid faces. What do you think woman? I ask her and she laughs of course flicking the pieces of brain from her dress laughing. Fuck. I’ve shot myself again haven’t I ? The targets gather around her and whisper the rumours and the blue conversations and she giggles at them. She is wearing a red dress. She has $200 in her hand… as part of my face slips over my eyes and I can’t see any more. 

“You really have to do better you know” the voice under the cell door. It’s black comical tongue licking the dusty floor as it moves. I can hear it’s body moving outside as it bumps and jumps. Yes, I should do better really. You see they always said ‘he would never be any kind of success’ and that’s true. It was a short career. Above and outside the meteors and comets had started falling and the sky would be filled with wonderous awe filled crashes and booms, the light scattering on the magnetic substrates and being pulled here and there by the beams that lock you in, that lock you up tighter than an Otter arse. Scratch surfaces and always serve a purpose.

I wonder why the voice even bothered. Used now to the propaganda thieves, I usually laugh but outside the Prison I see that man walking right on the edge of a cliff and I shout out of the cell window for him to be careful but I think he doesn’t hear me but that’s also good because I can hear the wings on the wind when I shout at somebody. Love, until they rush in and they are dressed like 1970s Cops all shiny leather boots, blue shirt sleeves rolled up over angry arms, set faces dim with beer from the Police Social Club behind the station. They rush in and kick the bestest of places. Your balls, your Coccyx, the solar plexus, you vomit and one of them covers your nose and mouth with his hand and the vomit fills your mouth and you try to breathe and then your lungs fill with sick and everything is sick. Because the Gaffer plays Golf with the Chief Constable you see and it was him really. He was a drunk. And I bow at the wall and offer some prayers and I notice there is vomit splashed up the wall and that’s no good. Emptiness, like somebody had just died. You could feel it in the cell. there has been a removal of something…I could tell. 

In the morning twilight I stretched up to see through the cell window. Today it was quite clean as there was a slight breeze which blew the comet dust off the glass. I could see the blasted hill and the Yew tree today. The tree was bent over and always nailed to it was him. Great wooden stakes through the wrists and ankles had fastened him to it and a slight hail stung him and his nakedness. I wanted to shout at him again but there was another man in front of him. Even as the stakes drove through his bone he offered kind words to the man with the gun in his mouth. The crucified man did smile but he was not their Jesus. The man with the shotgun shot himself through the mouth and pieces of flesh slapped the skin of the crucified who wailed something about a woman. 

Who knew. It was Friday…and that means fish and chips.