Tenfold Split Voodoo Geometry

Good and warm in the black again. The treacle and the sticky things. Pulled over tight and all complicated so no one can really understand. That’s good. We are warm again and quiet and familiar themes lie as torn cloths and threads around and about. Good things. Anonymous tirades again. Bitter words. Targeting and the identification of victims takes place now. No places for gently putting down the blames. Just gentle sighs and whispers among the trees. It’s ok I think, to start again and blink.

There are parts of the system that have seen much action and jocularity of the Clown kind. Here is where the skin has been rubbed cleaner and thinner. Where the patina of laughter has failed to stick to the hot brass surfaces but instead has worn away a little or a lot really. But some of it has certainly been lost. That surface. That wall. Now of course where the plaster and concretes are thinner you are a little closer to God and you can feel God gently prod at you through the walls. Pushing you on, to the finish, while the Clowns for a moment stand silent and the drool gently leaks onto the floor as they wonder why I am smiling. But I’m not smiling really, it’s just a grimace, an odd reflection of the Clowns own emotionless pantomime.

You never want the answers to these questions but it’s the way and the dogma we have to follow. Ask the questions and then wait for the answers. Make up your own if you wish, get a dog to bark in the pale sun and listen to the way the sound waves and distorts according to the dim heats from above. Listen to the cold wind crackle through another tree and another fucking blasted concept landscape just taken off the shelf so at least we have another place to complain. It’s good and cool and you look great in your new shiny place you have made. It is good that the Suns you turn your face to are new and fresh and mine is Black with crooked rays that revolve to the left, 666 degrees to the left, 777 degrees from the bottom.

She was holding the Dillinger Doll she had found on the road as the UFO circled overhead. A car had ridden over it and the Bank Robber looked like Frank Sidebottom now. Deranged and flattened under tread, her fingers slightly dirty from the road dirt. She turned him over and over trying to get the Doll to speak. She shakes him and shouts at him but he is just a bundle of cloth, poor stitching and a very stupid face. He breathes a sigh of relief as he can see the blood start to slowly trickle down the gutter, slowly at first, hardly shifting the flotsam of the gulley, the cigarette ends and the discarded crap. She screams at it as the blood rain falls a little faster. “Why?!” she weeps. Man, where do I start as I move my little cloth mouth into shapes that might let a word or two escape. The fucking Nova bitches man. It’s not about the Novas any more Bill. Not the Police and not the Spies. It’s about the fucking Nova bitches man. The cloth lips mumbling as the stuffing falls out of his guts and she throws him back into the gutters full of blood because things are happening over there and here is shit now and boring.

Not Wolves but Dogs sniffing each others arseholes. It is the way of the world. Fucking Nova Dogs Billy, you never saw that coming did ya? Fresh and clean always mean, always sneered and smeared, always ready for a quick remark, a cutter of a word. A slicer for sure. I pat myself on the back as no one else will. Another bloody lock Michael but none of them are locked and nobody has a fucking key. But she rides Dragons you know and Dolls at the end of the day are an odd Voodoo. Blood on the Waterloo road and blood on the Hill, there will be blood on the evergreen and blood never sits still. Unbutton the shirt if you will and let me see, the distinct hate you have for them and me. I will sit and watch and write, the fight is gone and I sit still you see. The Nova Bitches freak easily and are free. It’s see geometry. Only when her flesh is naked will she turn the hip slightly and inside her a glint perhaps of light escapes and that’s it. It lights her flesh and illuminates it for a split second before her own wet fingers are diving and splitting the geometry. That’s it of course. All the bitches have the light and they just hide it in flesh so we cannot see it but we feel it. Just at the point of orgasm when you close your eyes and it flickers and you chase it and you again, fall.

What is to do? Another dull canvas? Another splash of colour thrown into the black and scarlet? Letters form words which can be spoken and it’s all art and misunderstanding. The Clowns are in here again and are kicking me to death. I can’t feel it any more and I am numb. One of my teeth are kicked out and falls to the floor. Clown boots, steel toe capped and polished highly. They are relentless and I don’t think I have touched the floor for about ten minutes and I am the ragged Voodoo doll in the gully. I hold the broken tooth close to my chest and the fists and the punches and the stamping goes on and the Clowns are silent. I can smell beer on their breaths. The make up they smear on is liquifying under the heat from the 23 watt lightbulb above. A bass guitar plays and someone is gruffly singing down the corridor. I vomit blood. I always vomit the blood but the walls are getting thinner my friends and the Clowns are getting dimmer.

Clowns are shit

Asleep as you can be here, trouble the locks, it’s easy just jiggle them and see if any of them just fall apart. Do we even have hands? I’m not sure. There is sand underneath my feet but I know the sea troubles yours. Outside the Detectives play cards on small cardboard tables and chairs from beer crates. The Sun was low and setting but is now rising again. I suspect the grass has even turned over and is currently upside down in the rightside up. In the glow of the poor lamps I see your hand stretch out and grasp. I can’t really describe it. The blasted and sanded earth here. The scrub. In the sky the pantomimes are playing again and there we are in full suncolour and fresh as yesterday and the day before. Intense isn’t it?

The land just sinks lower and lower to the altar. I think the chasm or the abyss is about ten miles away judging by the way the land sinks towards it. It has no gravity of course just geometry. We know the maps can lie. We know the creased and stained parchments we hold do not offer us a way forward. We just tangle up the ways and the routes until we laugh and try to beat our heads against the rocks that pop up through the grass here and there. But it never hurts because Clowns love to laugh and they don’t want their little fantasies splayed out on the grass like dead toys or defunct cars that rust and rot. They want live shit. They want this Kulture buncle firmly in their own groove. Noses are red, violence is blue, I stamp on your head then put it back together with glue. Cavort in the rain. Dance in the dampness. Curl harsh words to the sky.

On the Dam wall he scrubs, suspended by ropes he wove out of the creepers and vines that tumbled down from the Angel light richness of the six peaks. The ropes of course cut into his hands but it is a light labour and now and again he would manoeuvre himself around so he could look at the valley far below and this too was good. Because when plants grow so healthy here it means the Angel light is good and precious and the Clown mess is gone from here. THERE. They don’t even know what a Clown is because a Bee buzzing is funny, or a leaf gently turning suspended on a strand of Spider web. Clowns are shit compared to twinkling sunlight.

“It’s a diary of sorts where he just put in random thoughts from his oxygen starved mind” she said. But none of us really breathe here. We just pretend to.