The Mistress of the House of Books

Spin spin! Oh silken succubus!
Spin a steady stream of
Sensuality and subtle lies,
As flightless down with Peacock eyes,
To penetrate that hieroglyphic sphere of stone
Thrown holographically around our throne.
Those silent strands,
Time-binding cursic hands that flutter 'cross our countless shells,
Flow floating down around you now
To meet with lofted eyes,
The deep green hunger set inside all wordless Stygian souls,
Sat listless on her shores still waiting for the boat.

The unseen Mistress hands held out,
Notched palm upturned and scribe devout,
Her siren song is sounded out as sweet symbolic strokes,
Flings forth fragmented petals of the crystal Rose that glow!
Oh! Such luminescence so!
From a solar orb-like golden crown
She sends sacred silver slivers sliding down
To glide across your body left to right,
And carve a crimson line!
Then coalesce the Red and Blue to glimmering sheer,
Alight around your feet to grow
A crop of sharpened swords
Edged green with Nature's gleam,
From Planet's core and deepest darkest mine,
And weave a thorny crown of sweet infinity
To plant between the brow,
A Quantum Cone of Pine.

In silence
This Waterfall of Word through waves of Love
Sends south a shining stripping of the soul
Like razor blades in gentle folds sewn
Soft in their divide, 
Spiral out in white inclines
As sacramental snow to bind
The waters of the Eye,
Reflecting bright and wide the glimmer in the mail-like
Skin of those spawn-born denizens within.
Precious prisoners in wriggling sleep lie dormant down within the drink!
Oh holy ones and Lettered those
As Ancient wrinkles in our tapestry of time once
Woven by the macrocosmic crone as scawls of endless ink.

No necromantic rod and line need stir such slumber,
Their cries of fateless future form are slung as vested veil,
Hung from the Tree as mast and marker,
Hoistened high as sail and sunk sublime as stars.
Voyage the void! Sweet telemetries! 
And so we cross that most Grandiose Line between Oneiric seas!

Rapture of the Yarn

Men and women are but toys and spawn
Of a desire!
So many meetings all conspired and weaved
Into the web of Wyrd.
With mighty Fate a mere observer,
His part is but an officer,
His office one of sentience and seer
To this festival of raining frogs.

A solitary jester plays his hand and with 
A cold collective finger
Pressing down on heavens trigger
Blasts his cards aloft orgasmic winds.
Freed again to stir this silent sinful pleasure
With his catastrophic wand!
And to scream prismatic colour and
Formulate our breath
To blow a sacred snowflake flurry,
Spinning out into the blackness
Heated from within by love
Of those infinite and endless ones 
Who yearn for all that's ended. 

And,
Flowing out as through the Word
On waves of echolalic phallic light
To press 'gainst formless black.
How he delights
In such sinful silhouettes of sensual form!
Sent bobbing,
To and fro,
Impassioning,
Invigorating,
Souls now bound against the whirlpool,
Who once as one gyrated. 
And ever caught in ancient likeness,
Lightness,
Void of all remembrance,
Divine in egos fracture.
Non-physical.
Eternal,
And endless joy interred,
Folds up into its Self and
Dies in howling fractal rapture!

And down again they float...

... Ashore on darkened windows.
So doomed to wander all alone
And strive for conscious melding!
Amid sweet dizziness and swamps of demon fire
We fight with fingers and our tongues
Tightly bound in wire:
A pure and linear plane devoid of sight
To distil darkness as our guiding light.

But to glimpse ourselves in one another
One glance by chance to still Fates choice: 
A chance of chances meeting!
Cast off all mundane separation
And seal a heart-bound kiss!
Though nothing meets save transfixed gaze
To taste that juggernaut of gentle bliss!
A microcosmic melding
Of Lovers never met,
Or yet spied through this veil of earthy mist 
Whose tenderness of aeons length now lie
With just a heartbeats breadth betwixt their eyes
And heralds cry:
"This night we find
True siblings of the tryst!"

The crown'd Brothers so united
Hand in hand turn now towards
The hooded man with holy arms raised
Enters! The Enterer!
Towards the threshold as it's set
Behind the curtain down the path of Blades and
Ruination of the Alphabet.

And so we meet! 
No randomness in this
Majestic muted magnetism!
White Queen will wed Black King,
Never checked or mated save in thought.
In mind & soul linked and opposed,
As comrades and as enemies too
Drew synchronistic swords and fought,
A billion endless wars,
For mercurial spoils and victory naught,
Just for the fuck of it of course!

Romance never lived until it died.
The rift yearns love upon its closest shores.
Our paths they cross eternal
Though we see it not
Until all threads wind back into the One
And all our lives are done.



I wrote this one for Hannah, and for John x

Our Sacred Geometry

I've seen the signs
I've read your lines
I'll burn my eyes!

She speaks in rhymes
Clocks broken times
Still spiral inside

Wake up and go
Big changes slow
Last step of attention

First step is intention
Next stage reflection
Binding in free form
Rewinding your errors

::CRIES::
It's not what I'm used to
Now how could I
Ever go back?
Old and wise
Without a second gone by
Now here we are
Now that we finally see
I wouldn't lie
It's in our sacred geometry


King Halford & His Slaves (Halford, Parker, LeCocq)

...excerpt

With that, he was deleted, flaking old kernel and all. This program terminates mid-intercept, a digital hand lopped succinctly from messenger arm fractions of a microsecond before its impregnating payload docks with its sheath, before the safe blast of high pressure and hiss of steam signalling connection… before its completion and recombination; dead before the timely flowering of its original master blueprint into a fully blooming lotus: not even a stagnant stillborn failure there, no failure, pixelated bombs across the screen, just deletion… ending. A deafening and undeniable vertical gravity tearing the electricity out of the chip, charge torn up from its matter, speeding shinkansen car in assumption and leaving behind a warm metal rail, a junk husk circuit. A clear sighted one, with an eye for that toroid born light, such a one might see the glimmering and pale cloak of this old revenant effervesce momentarily: the only remnant of something never quite made flesh, beside of course its opposite charge, its receiver clinical and blinking expectantly… one …two… three … FAIL … and onto the next queued task, another program, similar stacked parameters from previous versions, 3.11.1, 3.11.2, 3.12.1 and so on… cockpit seat of the next doomed flight still touch-warm, a gentle and sentimental love for its previous rocket-jock; who knows if the same charge, the same electricity that sat behind the eyes of the program’s binary code saw the same father sun as the one before that? The autopilot does not yearn for the light of our star, just the end, terminus. End of program. Next.

But wait, what’s this? A registry splutters into being, ignited dutifully by a flickering switch condition. Something was there maybe, a byte or two, eerie as a wisp, der geist, so sunk and set back in sub-structure that it almost never was, a point dense beyond imagining and then absolutely nothing, negative space remaining as our little anomaly is born upwards on that same spiral draught, upwards and upwards on wings of wireframe light, surfing the eddies and bidding both hello and farewell to those glorious living glyphs that attend without rest to the path: singing lanterns bobbing and floating, magnificent and luminous choirs of burning joy in place of a cloaked and hooded boatman on this sublimated Styx. Those keen eyed ones with one foot in the code might detect a few quantum feathers tumble in its wake, but only potential of course (more teeth for the furrowed field of infinite night)… nothing to hold a soul, no energy even, but a phantom of his ascent, and then that unseen and magic moment when the holy vacuum asserts herself to cover every trace.

Screaming Out Shells

A shadow called Leo throws his game, 
Reflected in faces screaming red, 
And stands aside to bind his snake 
To every accusatory thread.  

Fists scream with pure reason! 
And defiant and free! 
So rapturous! 
So real! 
Phyrric victories! 

"Shouldering the burden of worldly conceit  
 Is my sole and lone task!" he surely roars. 
A shell of his Kingdom lies at his feet. 
The winged staff of the healer snapped in his paws. 

Thrust down and skewered on it's splintered shaft 
The head of the dark pig takes up the chant. 
Her insect winged fog deflecting riposte, 
Blood drool groans downwards 
To refill her trough. 

Your beast is free now. 
It's looming behind. 
Silence your ravings! 
Fall to your belly! 
Let's saddle this sour snake. 
All push to the grind! 
Face into the paving and scream all you like! 
Your livid old armour 
An Iron Maiden tonight. 


I see all your lies oozing through the holes... 

Skrying and Bill Gates

Tonight I attempted a very special meditation. First I printed off a fairly normal photograph of the ever smug looking "philanthropist" Bill Gates. Next I pinned it onto my wall in full view, sat down in full lotus position, lit a candle, said some magick words, and then stared.

I stared at Bill, unblinking. At first, there was nothing. My eyes began to tire but I persevered. Within a few minutes I noticed the flashing afterimage forming around his profile. Success! Closing my eyes, I focused on this strange, negative-image Bill and watched in silence. The Anti-Bill floated in my minds eye, a strangely coloured creature, shifting and morphing, now rather realistic looking, now a picasso caricature... but still recognisable as the geeky technology monopolist.

Moments later, the face grew, and I floated towards him! I was there! I had entered the astral light and was face to face with the man himself. I ventured forth into conversation with this strange elf:

"Oh Lord of Evil! Hear my words! What's this about you hiding away all the earth's seeds in a big vault in the artic? It sounds like mischief!

"Not a chance, human!" he snorted, plunging his ghastly paw into a bowl of live insects and cramming them into his mouth! "It's a big secret, I'm sworn not to tell so I won't! So naaaah!"

And with that he made the Secret Sign of the Broken Xbox controller at me and banished my astral avatar back into my body.

I woke with a start. Not quite sure what I achieved with all that, having come no closer to the conspiracy. Maybe someone else can enlighten me about this topic?

FAR NORTH

By

Sean Bean

Far North,

Past Leeds, York and Hull,

Where compass don’t work

And you’ll freeze t’yer skull.

Few amenities there,

And brew’s hard to find.

But there’s grub to be ‘ad.

If yer brain’s ‘alf a mind.

Was out sniping fer cockles

When up popped a rabbit,

But it fucked off and gone,

Afore I could grab it.

But nowt could I find,

Just reindeer ‘n’ buzzard.

All antlers ‘n’ feather,

Got stuck in me guzzard.

Me belly was shining,

Me tongue turned to ash

Fer a cat’s cunt-full of ale!

Had to drink me own slash.

I sat frozen and stiff,

No tale for an hero.

Like that poor bugger Jim,

From Bravo Two Zero.