Lift hand gently and let it fall again



There are never any people in a Prison such as this. Only characters that flit in and out like soap opera chancers, bit part boppers. You can only tend to yourself here and that is the whole purpose of it I think. That’s the whole reason behind the edifice. Even when I sneeze I want to vomit. They even take that small joy away.

I lack the confidence or the strength to fight it any more. All I can do is point now and say “This is it” and walk away as far as the next wall and the next set of bars where I walk up and just rest my hot forehead on cold architecture. 

What would you have me do? To dangle from a tree or the Tupperware box route? What do I have to do, I cry out for someone to just tell me something that isn’t dredged from their own personal madness, where they make their fists bleed hitting walls that are not there. I am not from where you are. I want a big arrow pointing at me to say ‘you are here’ so I know which direction to walk away when all I ever wanted was to belong and to seep into the group mind and the herd mentality, to share my pain with others, to feel arms around me…disconnected in the connected. 

It’s still hot under phantom suns. Still existential. Still painful when the eye stares at everything you hold dear and precious. He awakes on a cold marble disc. The veins of colour thread through the rock underneath his slightly sweating hands. He opens his eyes the merest crack, the smallest lift of an eyelid just so he can peep. He is tired you see and doesn’t want to look any more.

Underneath his fingers is the inlaid metal of sigil upon sigil until it makes so much design, so much intricacy he shuts his eyes tightly and clings on for beautiful death and for loves sake but he wont open his eyes yet as the spells are still strong. He knows the breeze is strange and the spices on the air could be just another simple ruse. But the rock is cold. The sun is hot. He is somewhere in between and he knows he is still alive because he still has the voice inside that prods and pokes the simplicity of a man having a few minutes to orient himself after…what? No knowledge of how he got there and no care either. This man is flotsam and useless. This man has no mind to do anything except be content to be cast from waveform to waveform endlessly as the universe turns, burns and fucking yearns. 

But he can hear birds singing and the breeze through the trees that surround him. This he works out through still shut eyes. Hands still grasping the marble searching for a small crack to push his fingers into so he doesn’t fall away again, and he knows that there is something deep within his mind that remembers the ‘journey’ to this place? He is sure that he was battling some fire heavy demonic thing and tumbling over and over into nothingness and then this. More sigils? More magical bullshit? He should have a customs post in his mind that says “No, that is contraband thought and not allowed.” But it always is of course. Packages of self doubt always wind around. He feels the cold marble underneath his hands and keeps his eyes shut. No more magic, not today. 



784 Degrees of Shift-The Psycho-Ecology of Sex



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. 


Dance of Abomination


August 2014

In the absence of this whole root the demiurge will take hold and the boundaries will move in. It’s all number now, all content. There is a point of civilisation, orders and hierarchies. But what’s happening. A spurning. A powerful bolt of the horned and blasted rejected son. The figure  of force and King of the wilderness. The Myth maker and the cutter of living wood. Earlier her mythology was natural and tense, the story of every woman. It is a historical marvel for she is a living thing at last. Naked and with full vision and condition. I mumble and complain, for she has a wisdom I do not. It is not clear any more. We have withheld our own knowledge and the tension is palpable and Angels sit tight to the doors with flaming swords. We have shifted and feel soft skin on our hands and the Angel is symbol and the world dries up and all is gone. 

Resource Masters and the Kingdom of remnants. Hot coffee burns the lips, we tangle our hands and wonder why we are the way we are. Nature and the revolving of the true pure sight. Abomination masters. Addicted and intoxicated with scent and touch, addicted to substance and our behaviour is rampant and is lust in physical form. A dramatic crisis and the information is fixed within us and we are bonded. 

We look for the Law and even the subtle fingertip of Heroin and its ideology shows us paths ahead and the landscape becomes us, every curve of your breast and hip are not lost to me. For within the wilderness are the people who hold such , our birth right, what he have always held and created, always safe. We are foetal and held mystery within us. We have understood that we will crawl to forbidden masters and relent to its judgement at last. Will we understand? Somethings are just there to be appreciated and loved.

The process calls us to evolution of our love and to make it at last timeless and we can at last let the world fucking burn. Chained to everything we are and nothing explains better than the patterns of my bite marks on your breast. Most things we admire about Man is the divine and the edge of the abyss on which he dangles his toes. Everything is on track. Everything will get worse and this is no surprise for sure. I cant see it any differently, people have stopped thinking for themselves. There are no notions to understanding any more unless it is your equations and math. You must work it out as I have given myself to the tide of understanding. We arrive alone and we dance alone so we should learn to be the best of company and to make ourselves transformed. I am convinced this is a purgatory and things are getting tighter and faster.

Be open to it and drink it in. Take the information all in. Her flesh is information. The architecture of her has liberated me and inside her the Goddess and the light. She is a transmitter and it’s simply ‘what goes on’. She is visible and fifty million words is not enough and now the abstract is the only thing that makes sense and will be said, in the end. 

In the room air like tapioca the birds outside sing and perch and the stones are unturned baked by hot summer sun. We float on idle waters and seem to drift through temporal skins and girls laugh in the street and the hedge waves amplifies the sounds. Sudden scream of brakes and the sodden tears of men lost. Eyeglass blues the observational grace of seeing and listening. Dead in this town and alive dreaming of ways away with love and bitten skin.

Aspiring actors. Street theatre and chasing escaping dreams. blood on the knife. Blood red on the stones and stars are a distance away. The dried grass at your feet and gentle tones of home that get tangled in the branches. I would write a song, but it would be a cacophony. 

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.



To say I was fixed would be an understatement. I always fall in love as the snow falls and it’s always the same. The geometry of the falling fluff and the bitter cold that aches in you as you feel that sudden warmth and you love her hair in your hands and the way her hips feel when you grab her to kiss her. Everything and everything. The sum of the cosmos all condensed into a single point right there. In her. I never shone but she shines for me. It is this as the able and the distinct flow into one another and that was all it was but this time. It was cold and it was a case of looking through windows for those that would stutter and breathe new life into you and I have put her right at the center of things and safe in the geometry. Safe within the sigils of the magic and there is a new thing for Dillinger to look after and that is her for sure.

Able and apt she is and I was lost in the warmth of it and nothing came from without, it was all within and yet I still laid out the subtle sigils with my finger dipped in spilled beer and as I felt her hair in my hands I wrote the five major sigils of protection for her. As she was one touched and Eris wailed in the distance that she had lost me and I was gone. Even the Demiurge busily petitioning God as to the unworthiness of Mans existence stopped for a second and looked to see what this thing was on Earth and the realm he had made to show God our despicable existences. For are we not worthy of love too? Us who had been cut under knife and pricked with so many needles? Alas was that indeed a tear from the eye of the Demiurge or rage that he had lost both of us to love and was indeed himself lost. Who would know?

I do know her scars with such precision as my fingertips softly touched them and I knew I was damned for her and it was the damnation of Angels and the desolation and the barren void in me was filled again and that dark did recede and that void did fill with laughter and the blessed lips of a gentle kiss in the cold air that was lost on blonde cops who showed no real academic realisation that she did. Spread your blessed black wings baby and let the nights cry out all they wish for that sound of fear now is a quiet sound of a gentle sleeping beast as although it’s never killed here within us it is stilled and spent. Spread those black wings around me and I know that the cold floors of the blonde whore has gone and I see clearly now that the robbers of love and the digestion of the city is slowed. They have gone and I can no longer here the threats under doors and through the window bare but here and there, you. Protected and safe within me. For didn’t you eat of me and were filled?

Starshine and the way she laughs had me lost in her,  all was fantastic and safe, the abyss of it held no fear for me as what is the case for forgiveness and fear? When she becomes alive under your hands and she is a great black dragon and I hold onto her throat with something akin to delight and apprehension as she takes off into the vermillion skies of our place in the world. The chemical flight, the earths subtle delight the way she shook her hair and the descent through the frigid air, the way my hands clawed flesh and was burned by the abstract and colossal lust. The three hearted beast we trust of course and the geometry flashed loudly in concentric circles and she would never be alone again and this I write in my own blood on parchment blank and throw it at the feet of the demiurge for him to see and weep. Cloaked Wizard is what you are and no wall will keep me from her and no word will be powerful enough to keep her from me and this I swear.

This and indeed that was how we saw the world. Pleasured principles and the circus of syncophants wept and were lost. The gathering of all that was good was in us. All that was indeed heavenly and full of spirit and Father I implore and demand that you will not let the Demiurge lay his scattered hands on her again while I live and this too is written for I have scrawled these oaths too on my feeble strength and full heart. This I demand, that she be left to love and to see with me the gardens I have prepared for her and the laughter within it. This I demand for am I not also your son? Am I not your servant and am I not made of you? This love thickens the ether between us and dissolves the blackness into light and there as well we shall see as we traverse the halls of the stars that I will look to my right and she will be there. This love has no ends that even the majesty of your infinite wisdom cannot fathom and work upon the minds of your angels of judgement. You will know this in the end Father. This act is consecrated and is a new covenant will you agree?

Thus the ghost of the three thousand Eris is banished and I have been healed at last and the walls of this Prison although still high have cracks within it and I see through them the crystal sunlights and the promise of new days in the sun. The aromas of living things and the soft crackling tread of boots on the paths between the two trees and this I demand. That we be left alone and in peace.


The Ascension Filter


She was Memetic. Just a barely filled in thing, a rumour of a thing and perhaps as sensuous as she was she lacked being. Don’t they all. I mentioned that Josephs coat of many colours was just his filters quenching the useless torrents of blaring realities as he tried to make sense of his day to day life in the Eigensystem. Throwing around his platitudes to Gods because that was simply what he was expected to do rather than just stand there and say ‘I haven’t really got any stories at all for you…sorry’. But there is always another group of people to stand around and pick apart the rigorous days here.

Ascend or sit still and gaze at the world as it goes past. In 432 Hz waveforms. Pissing about in the great piss pot of a universe. I sat and drank the whisky prescribed and I was halfway down the bottle and felt sick at last. At least it was a filtered feeling, something concrete to hold on to, here in the darkness of the forest. I chugged another mouthful and another pill. Waveforms. Filtered and sick, and my my hands shook, and even the forest dared not to look too close at this unfiltered and raw thing within it. Take me into the soils and absorb my spectrum. Taste it and tell me you were right at last. To see an old man instead of this, a thing deprived and sensual but not giving. All it did was cut pieces off and I shuffle lighter now at least but my wings are broken and I do not fly at every call. I sit and sip. Sit and addle the day apart like threads. 

Always look at the enemy you have been given. The Villain of the piece but not too close of course, because you will see where they have stitched the parts together and it’s all a little computer generated, all a little too contrived. You see, you never look at the villain only the things behind it. The unseen things that slither between the words. We ascend and crash back to Earth biting each other and crashing through the branches of the trees, sticky with sap, absorbing the zeitgeist of the day like a Virus. Her broken wings and my efforts to superglue them back together as the chemistry shook my very beliefs.

In the Hotel room my hand felt like it belonged to somebody else and I wouldn’t touch her. Not a chance. This was betwixt and behind and treasured flesh should never be touched less you are yourself touched. Yet I felt a simple fingertip would be sensible. And I did touch her and she was lost, I was lost and yet laughed as I ran down the stairs with my nose leaking bloods, they splatted on the floor like red suns, a galaxy of them and even the girl at the reception  desk wept as she raced for paper towels and a mop. She was good.

Outside there was a buzz in the air and a blue flash. She asked what it was.

‘Electro magnetic burst, in a moment the world will come crashing to the earth’ I said and she laughed of course as the static in the air caused her hair to lift from her scalp and stand aloft. She closed her eyes and waited. A few seconds after the burst there was a flash of brilliant light and then the rumour of devastation to come. A slight rumble underfoot and then a blast wave that tore the trees from the soil and cast the houses around us down into bricks, concrete and entwined within each simple homestead were the family within it. Torn and burned flesh. The instigation of Shiva. The five hole portal and the nuclear death of the world. The heat and pressure tore off her clothes as I laughed and she was naked with her arms outstretched to the Shivatastic spectacle. The final love scene. The fires of love cast out at last, and I laughed loud as the detritus of this stinking place was cast down under our Nuclear judgement. Well theirs. I couldn’t give a shit about her or that.

Slot in the filters. A few for them and also those. Slotting them into place with a fever that was almost desperate until there were that many I couldn’t even see through them any more and all I saw was just vague shapes of personalities that drifted into and out of the circle. In my pocket was the small photo of Saint John Dillinger and I kissed it and set it back within the safe place I had. She laughed and thought it funny. She was dressed as a Cop again with her stab proof vest and her hair tied up under her cap. I laughed too, because I had anticipated handing her over to him for Judgement. 

We had stood around the book and we were all robed and Holy and the liturgy was ancient and rare. Even the candles never flickered as the Holy Father read the sacraments and chanted the platitudes again and again. But there was to be no forgiveness here. It was the final trick. You judge yourself. What loathing we have for ourselves is reflected on the Judgement we give. Death not punishment but existence, this constant existence a trap for those who throw their sins as confetti. So foolish and we never even knew it. It was the great filter and even I dreamed of leaving friends and loved ones behind as I traveled on, and I never wanted to meet them there. Not all of them just a few who I could trust and yet their existence within the Eigen was as fractured as mine but they saw too much. They opened their eyes far too wide and the flash of Human nature in all it’s sordid delicacy had made their hands shiver as they talked and another prescription was all it took.

and you found you looked at the limbs you could reach through the reflections in the car window as it sped on and you counted them and every 23rd tree was the one (you found) and you abandoned the car and walked across the muddy verge encrusted with salted grit to THAT tree

Alas for ascension. Thrice alas for typed magic and geometry and she sat on my lap and that was where she wanted to be but I looked always forwards. Always ahead and through the trees, because I was never fooled, never taken in. Stand back within your self and look. See the stitches and the cuts the maker has left for you to see. For all your fauts the only guilt you have ever had is the fact that you were never fooled by any of it. The pills and the alcohol. The emotions they all had. The cocaine nights and the hand that shook. All pixels of the greatest work you have ever done and now utterly worthless. It is just a map you used to get through it and now in these territories they are useless and cast onto the floor as we look.

Slot in the filters and play the part you were supposed to. Smile and make jokes about the days. Smile and laugh with them. Shake that hand and this with that smile too. Pull your hair out of your eyes and try to open them a little more so they can see those eyes are not blackened things but fresh and alive like them. Hidden knowledge held tight within you, coiled and fresh. Turn up for fucks sake. Just be there. Let them know you are not tortured and alone. Be the zeitgeist so that you may change it and be fell. Shake the offered hands and choke down the vomit that rises up. You are not them. You have no part of yourself in that game. We are defunct and I can’t even be bothered to ask if everything is good. I just sense the colour and the symphony you make and the sympathy you bleed and you are filtered. She is the shadow not me. All that Goddess propaganda laid bare in the nuclear flash of light. Sitting in the forest eating the pills and drinking the whisky. 

“Do you want to come in the office and discuss it, we could smoke a spliff out of the window” she said. It was tempting. We would end up fucking and that wasn’t good. Forest whisky Queens and short tempered facetious gasps. Sense of unease as she clasps her bra back on? The way she licked her fingers clean, the way she licked the Cocaine off the phone screen, the way she threw obscene words your way when you were lost. The way you collected ropes and learned all the knots and every tree was the one…until it wasn’t. Driven by it she was, by her own twisted stories that bored me to tears and I held my hands behind my back and twisted my pencil deep into my palm so she couldn’t see and I wouldn’t feel anything at all.

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. 

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.