Musings of a Feral Sorcerer

Musings of…

2011-07-13T21:38:00.003+01:00

Date: 13 July 2011

Location: Ye WinterPalace, Bow, London

As I sit here looking out the study window, a glass ofBushmills Black Bush in one hand and a glass of Guinness Original in the other,I am reminded, by my muse, that I haven’t created anything of late, that Ihaven’t ‘done any work’.

“Au Contraire.” I reply, “Why, only this morning did I decoratethe wild grasses, that are growing in my window box, with bronchial phlegm…dried in the sun they resemble the leapfrogging of a snail. No slimy trail isthis, rather more like a slimy hop-scotch.”

My muse is not impressed.

“Okay, how about the soft-boiled eggs I made for lunch?” Isay.

Muse gives me that sideways glance which speaks a thousandwords.

I tap tap fingers on the surface of my desk. Claws on blackrubber. Clickity clack clack clickity.

Growl!

Snarl!

Stare out the window.

I sculpt 3D tentacles that wind and wynd through and out thebuildings as spiders mechanoid scirtch scratch and eat the toes of the kids onthe next block. I spray paint - marking territory like a city fox or sorcererferal - “KILROY WOZ EAR!” across the houses/car-park/grass. Font size 2.333meters.

I take another slug of the Black Bush.

I turn my head to enquire of Muse as to Its commentary, Hercritique, His pat on back… Owl intercepts gaze and does the funky brass-feetshuffle I have come to know so well… gives me the sideways glance that eats athousand words.

An ellipsis, suspension point, replaces a thousand words…

…

Three thousand words later I find myself, at my desk, in mystudy… sans tentacles… plus flies.

Scirtch scratch… scirtch scratch…

The Blue Duck sighs…

“Wot?” I ask.

“Wot, wot?” Blue Duck asks, answering a question with aquestion.

“Why not wot?” I reply, ditto as to answering with…

“Why a duck?” Blue Duck asks.

“How else is one going to cross the abyss?” I reply,answering question with question.

--------------------------------------------

Interlude:

“DEATH TO ELLIPSES!” – gRAphFiji on an island.

---------------------------------------------

Take 2

“Make the skeleton dance one more time.” She says.

He stretches… growls… takes a slug of Bush… sighs!

He rubs his third eye with forefinger and thumb, can feelthe whiskey in the back of his throat, tears exploding in his fore-brain dartsthat feed the atavisms whom lurk… moments beneath.

“Why?”

He breathes out.

“To what end?”

He breathes out.

Growls!

He breathes in.

---------------------------------------------

Part the Third

Which part has nothing to do with Richard, and everything todo with toads.

----------------------------------------------

finis

Madness & Old Tat

2011-04-18T20:58:00.001+01:00

Sorting through the pile of stuff behind me, I come across two pages of a book… torn out and folded:

“… for having contracted the softness, the habits and women; there is lacking only a resemblance stitution. Excessive use of humectants imitates the metamorphosis and makes alike in the physical as in the moral human race, if this prejudice extends mon people; there will be no more diers, for they will soon be rob vigor necessary to their …”

Turning leave the next says: “…Showers, hitherto less used than baths become the favoured technique. And parade regains, beyond all physiological variations ceding epoch, its simple function of purification quality attributed to its violence, an irresistible away all the impurities that form madness, it reduces the individual to his sister merest and purest form it is matter…”

Fragments, fragmented menses… of Foucault

The ex-wife texts me and seeks solace through the familiar. I inform her that I am anything but familiar.

Sloughed skin of badger’s paws stinking in the dawn… pestles and porter whom carries your bags… feathers of Maat and suicides go splat… ink thinks and squids do the dinky dink dance on top of Mr. Stick… it matters ‘cos it's a harmony in my head… It's a harmony in my head…

----------------

18 Apri 2011

Sloughing towards...

2011-01-09T19:07:00.002Z

Nuzzling, I kiss the cheek of the Jew

The arse of the sodomite

Slithering and sliding, I rub butt cheeks with the Pope

And feast from the dead corpse of Mr. Calvin

Slipping and a purring, I drink wine with Bacchus

And eat the cock of Osiris

Growling and pawing, I wait at the X-roads

And stroke the hair of the dead

Bow, London. 9/1/11

David Blank

Riding the Dragon: Chapter V

2010-12-01T21:32:00.001Z

Chapter five: The final draught was bitter.

Riding the Dragon

Chapter V

The dog curled around the hoofs cloven in red shoes and forgot all about the scent, that incense, witch had called it… warm now ‘neath the cage crinoline enwrapped with linen… a shroud.

†

Riding the Dragon: Chapter II

2010-12-01T20:58:00.006Z

Second draught of the barrel

Riding the Dragon

Chapter II

Tasked by the demon to continue, what is the writer to do… does he permit his reason to intercede on his behalf and fabricate, or does he delve deeper beneath the skirts of his muse and let the demon get on with its job?

I tend towards the latter, always have done and always shall. It is simply my way, my tao.

As such, I shall let the demon get on with its job, whilst I do what I do best; explore the more intimate garments of a ladies apparel.

The Cage Crinoline…

The wolf nosed the trap, the cloven hoof concealed ‘neath drew it onwards… the scent of metal sweat dripped with fleshly confinements…

The wolf sniffed the air… growled… its head leaning, turning, ever so subtle… risen maw snarled…

Meanwhile, the demon flicked through the rolodex… flick… flick… flick…

†

Riding The Dragon: Chapter I

2010-12-01T13:44:00.004Z

Below is the first draught of chapter I of a book; that earlier today decided that it wanted to be written.

Riding the Dragon

Chapter I

When I was a young man, faced with a blank piece of paper, I would search for that first line. I would for hours, sometimes for days or weeks even, quest for that elusive sentence, or fragment, the key-note… for what followed did so, much as a centipede’s segmented body follows its head. Or, does the head of the centipede, perhaps, simply go where the body impels it?

Sometimes, often even and especial, when I was enwrapped in the skirts of my muse, it wasn’t necessary to search, for the line arrived unbidden… a demon manifest in the circle of arte that is a blank piece of paper. And, much as with demons, the line or fragment would task one and seek to enter into an agreement, or pact, with one. After all, is it not the writer whom conjured forth that demon and as such does not the writer have a responsibility towards it… to nurture it, feed it, even, in time, to send it out into the world that it might take up residence in the minds of others?

But surely, one may ask, it is not the demon whom tasks the conjurer, but rather the conjurer whom tasks the demon?

Ah, such innocence…

So, the young man finding the demon before him on the blank page, was impelled to trace a sigil with words, words that spelled out his fate. For is it not said that the true poet doth pen his own… but, and here’s the rub, is that spell he weaves truly his own, or is it the demon’s?

Indeed, did the young man in fact conjure the demon, or did it emerge when he wasn’t looking, when his head was up the skirts of his muse, counting her petticoats?

These questions, and more, we shall explore as the pages unfold… and much as with a lady’s petticoats, in time, we may find the whore beneath; underneath; nether the garments.

†

The Cellist

2010-10-21T00:11:00.001+01:00

The orange decadence of the spectacle assaulted his subtle stick which quivered and drew the bow to fire an arrow deep into her flesh which tore and peeled from bone and hip and back and spine and rib and stick slipped and shod the very flesh ‘till all that remained was muscle bound red ribbed.

Lick lips.

Paws clawed slide ‘neath the flesh and nail doth gather the fat which in time he sucks like marrow from the butchered lamb.

His groin doth stir rising upward to snake her spine and lick.

Meanwhile, her bow strung with the hair of bastard children bends the gut of her cello.

He slips his hand clawed ‘neath her spine and rips her soul. Kisses It.

She bows the gut of a thousand kids strung on the body of a Henry Ford.

00.03hrs 21 October 2010

Requiem

2010-05-28T16:48:00.003+01:00

Skinning the straw blonde cellist...
Slitting her flesh from nape of neck to
small of back... He peels her skin golden
white from sinew and muscle bound...
Teasing it open to caress her soul, all
Dressed in kitten heels.

Barbican, London. May22nd 2010

MORNING

2010-05-21T22:13:00.004+01:00

YOUNG MAN SHOOTER SECURICOR
BAG RUN
JUDGE see7s BLACK not SITUATION
COMEDY in WANDSWORTH

PENTONVILLE POOR CRACKED ACTORS
CRY IN ASPIRIN AS MELLARIL
STEEPS THEIR SLEEP.

WHERE MURDERERS CHILD ABUSERS
RAPISTS AUTOMOTIVE HOMICIDAL
MANIACS!

FUCK HIS ASS

AIDS.

Spring. '89-'81 ('84)

The Gradual and Progressive rise of Fallman, The Vicious

2010-05-21T20:45:00.013+01:00

1) Crank/Yank

Stop bleeding on the OBSERVER
Sitting on the floor of a flat roof
A paper spreadeagled before him
Tired junkie tries... ti hot... to hit
A VEIN -- Have a crank yank -- MISSED
You BASTARD SPEARING YOUR MERIDIAN NERVE
of it:
TEARS SCREAM as they fall... FROM
NEEDLE'S EYE a tear of junk kills the pain

ELAINE.

II) TIMID FLESH

Ulcerate
YOUR TIMID FLESH
Wyde boy. To get a rush
from RACE/HORSE cocktail
OATS to a lonely tired soul
living in man made hell... BLINKERS
TO SEE/ with out freaking out!
STAND UP + SHOUT
DON'T SELL OUT... YOUR ROOTS
GO ON + GROW DREADLOCKS

THE MACHINE SUCKS! LIFE

III) CAMDEN LOCK GATE (Saturn's Day)

SAD BOY - in rebellion you spit
PhlEGM as shrouds of sadness heal
YOUR CAT'S tired eyes as it sits
on your shoulder and cries.

SAD GIRL - in empathy you nurture
Sad Boy's lonely soul as Cerberus
EATS his heart and junk heals.

Without myxoma vision is pain
PHLEGM ME... HEAL ME/HORSE

IV) THE BUTTERFLY

Two butterflies in a black room
A boy, a girl + Charles the yoke
who has a bath in a syringe
the butterflies alight upon an arm
each and stick their probosci in viens

BOY/GIRL PLUNGE IN AT THE DEEP END
TOGETHER
as CHARLES STOPS HER HEART
PLEASE GIRL SPEAK TO ME!
THUMP HER BOSOM.
"WHAT IS TWO + TWO?"

She opens an eye and smiles, "FOUR."

April 14, 1981
(c) 1981 David Blank

Coyotes in Mexico, Polskies in Bow!

2010-05-19T23:36:00.022+01:00

I was reminded, a few moments ago, as I sat here pondering on the events of the day, as is our wont, that experience cycles... almost as though we are caught in a loop.
"What" you may ask, "occasioned such apparency of conclusion?"
"Simple. Polskies in a graveyard. innit" I reply.
And please, before ya start, dont expect no perfeks grammer tonight, we is well past spelling and such like... is down to rapping and chatting... wat else. Has just returned from the graveyard where spells and grammer are the tools of the kindy garden toy boy.
Coyotes in Mexico, Polskies in Bow.
Are you beginning to see the light yet?
Thirty years ago, I found myself, walking along a deserted road deep in the hills aback of Acapulco, Mexico. Either side of the road, forested and thick with vegetation. I look up to admire the moon full... like a fat man's gut hanging large on the horizon so close can all but stroke it, when suddenly, I notice before me, blocking the desolate road, and my path, are a coyote and a wild dog.
Ok! Here I am completely alone on a secluded mountain road with two doggies that are looking at me as though I am dinner.
Instinct cuts through all the bullshit.
I stand my ground, face to face, and howl.
The wild dog cuts to the right deep into the rainforest. Moments later I am aware it is behind me. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Or rather in between the jaws of a coyote and a wild dog.
I walk ON!
NO FEAR!
As I approach the coyote it steps aside to let me pass.
I pass it by.
Moments later the wild dog joins the coyote and they team to stalk me, as I walk that lonely road, down the hill, towards Acapulco.
I am acutely aware that if I start, turn or let the slightest sweatdrop of fear stain the path, they will pounce and tear me apart.

Now, thirty years later. I am in the churchyard of St. Mary's Bow. Chilling after a journey into the West End for a talk. Great talk. West End not so great. Am chatting with the spirits. No need for sign nor spell. We rap.
As I leave, the path is blocked by two Polski brew crew. The third of their number sits on a bench to my right, I pass the third one by.
Walk directly towards the two whom stand before me, challenging me!
I do not howl. It is not necessary.
My fetch trots ahead to clear the path.
They step aside.

I walk ON!

BOG OFF FLY!

2010-05-11T11:52:00.007+01:00

“I DO WISH THAT BLOODY FLY WOULD BOG OFF!!!!” Said the sorcerer, as he sat at his desk and began to scribble and scribe and engage in diatribe… to while and wail away, part of a less than, perfect day.

It is an whole week, seven days, off of the SSRIs, today. Haven’t experienced any discontinuity symptoms as such… though ye ol’ Canis Niger has moved back in. Then again, did she ever actually leave? Well, she’s back now for sure and has taken up residence on the pretty blue rug in my study. However, on the plus side of the equation, my creative juices have begun to flow again… I am salivating at the bit, so to speak. Mayhap, is simply a question of horse-trading. I can choose to subdue Canis Niger , well, to a certain extent. She never goes away. I can’t even remember when she moved in to be honest. Though, thinking about it, my earliest recollections of her presence is way back when, when I was apprentice to a poet and was learning the craft. Maybe, Canis Niger comes with the territory.

It appears, that the solution is a simple, question of, horse-trading. Nothing more.

The fly is, now perched on the top of the painting of Artemis, watching me… I am reminded of the ghost of Zen Fly. Another ghost. From another time.

Canis Niger stirs and looks lovingly upon me as I pass her on my way to the kitchen to refill my mug with coffee. Stopping, to have a few words with one of my house-guests en route.
“What has it come to when an Ooni is employed as a bouncer?” The question is rhetorical, in the sense, that the answer is apparent in the form.

The fly has settled down to take forty winks atop Artemis’ portrait.

Ghosts… echoes… that enwrap and caress…

We are never alone, ghosts from our past walk with us always. Ghosts of what we once were… echoes of what we have become… there is no separation in time, between and betwixt them, for time itself is an illusion. There is only that very seething chaos… and Canis Niger . She stirs.

finis

Stamford Hill (re-visited)

2010-03-07T18:41:00.001Z

When the bricks weep, the tarmac bleeds tears, and there is no longer any difference between flesh and flesh. Between the stone cold concrete and the warm flesh of others. Then the sadness in other's eyes is but one face of the Vision, and that Vision is Sorrow!

28th October 2008

Pegasus & Mnemosyne

2010-01-25T14:41:00.013Z

Such was the embrace of my lover, Tiamat, those many years now past, that it was as though I had become drunk from the river Lethe itself; and even though tears flowed and years past, still that fateful embrace, that sup deep of the forbidden fruit, didst tear me from the very memory of yesterday, until all that remains, is Now.

Then Now Itself fell from Us until all that remains is Nothing... Not Itself. The Point.

But I digress, I was going to talk about Pegasus and Mnemosyne...

From the point of Not Itself the sorcerer summoned that Titaness, lover of Zeus:

"Come Mnemosyne, Come... let me drink from thy pool, thy cup, thy maw; that We s'alt re-member."

The surface waters are disturbed by the sounds of Joy Division.

"We'll share a drink and step outside
... ...
I've walked on water, run through fire
Can't seem to feel it anymore."

[Joy Division -- New Dawn Fades]

The sorcerer shared a drink with that Titaness, Mnemosyne... supped from Her pool.

Dimly at first, then like unto a reflection in Her waters, the sorcerer glimpsed a horse wing'd... saw what once had been re-veiled to him by one of Mnemosyne's daughters nine; yet he had understood not.

Pegasus

Pegasus and I fly high,
Playing hopscotch in the sky.
We’re happy upon our throne of gold,
Diamonds, pearls and secrets untold.

A void opens below our hoofs,
Spiralling downwards, Devil’s door.
Our games are gone, so too aloofs,
Down to Earth, Pegasus is poor.

... ... ...

As the sorcerer lay beside that pool and embraced the Titaness, not only did the Memory of that wing'd horse, that is his own, return, but with it came Understanding.

Pink Sink!

2009-10-15T16:16:00.004+01:00

The sorcerer kisses the Dragon’s maw, breathes deep of Her and tongues Her… sees clearly the card trick that others call reality, sees behind the trick and embraces the chaos that stirs his groin and trickles blood, wet from his eyes… blood that weeps from every pore and throws up over the deep pile pink… sink… the sink… urban sink… pink sink…

He strokes Her maw, caressing his mother he mates with Her… feels Her deep inside him… She comes retching poison that brings madness and thus heals… suckling on Her sex he dances a tango with his daughter begat of that union…kisses his daughter’s feet… strokes Her thighs… runs his hand up Her abdomen, Her stomach, Her chest… piercings of ecstasy…
She holds Her head aloof and with a certain elegance slices open his abdomen… from left to right… wound glistens… pleasure!!

January 20th 2008

Commentary:
I tend not to comment on my work, especial as prose-poetry, like poetry, is an art that lends itself to interpretation each to their own progress and understanding. However, that said, I shall, being antinomian even as regards my own mores, comment briefly on this piece (Pink Sink) as was re-veiled to me recently during one's contemplations.
"... with a certain elegance slices open his abdomen… from left to right… wound glistens… pleasure!!"
One is initially reminded upon reading the above quoted of the Japanese ritual of seppuku (stomach-cutting), ritual disembowelment. However, it was re-veiled that the stanza, in question, can be said to not only represent seppuku, yet also a Caesarean section utilising a transverse cut. The significance of the Caesarean section as regards the male adept and childbirth are Mysteries as arcane and complex as those of the royal art of suppuku itself.

"Barking" aka "Dog Love!"

2009-10-15T13:43:00.014+01:00

Above is a photo-fascimile of the original artwork entitled Barking aka Dog Love. Said piece was created on a vintage typewriter sometime during the period 1989 - 1999 e.v.

Good Morning Beautiful

2009-09-21T13:38:00.012+01:00

Part 2

13.08 hrs GMT+1, 21.09.2009 e.v.

A growl stroking the tarmac heralds scooter boy’s return as The Human League’s “Almost Medieval” vibrates the blood molecules that hang man in the air.

The co-codamol tablet sits innocently on the round table; the poet’s gaze shifted from it now.

“The circus of death is approaching
Its pathway is painted in red
Before it the frightened and helpless
Behind it a trail of the dead”

Circus of Death, The Human League

The sorcerer breathed deep and let the data stream flow as it will.

His gaze took in the room… looking further than the round table, searching for the question.

His gaze rested upon the doberman he had kneecapped in wild fury months earlier during which frenzy Egyptian gods were strewn and sundered… Hermanubis’ right ear bitten off, Isis decapitated.

Mutadog consuming!

Feeding!

Atum devouring everything It had spewed forth!

“The eternal moment laying bare…”

The Word Before Last, The Human League

The sorcerer growled and smiled, stroking his stick with his gaze. The stick’s eye weeping… data streaming…

Good Morning Beautiful

2009-09-21T12:40:00.010+01:00

Part 1

11.20 hrs GMT+1, 21.09.2009 e.v.
Location: The Summer Palace, Clapton.

The scene is set. Strong black sweet coffee, which is a rarity these days as I no longer drink coffee habitually rather utilising its especial properties for the work; my inhalers, necessary, lay beside my laptop, their contents to be consumed by my lungs as the work proceeds; a single co-codamol; glass of homemade ginger beer; my wooden fife; numerous books, from Benjamin WOOLLEY’S “THE QUEEN’S CONJURER” – damn hit the ‘caps lock key’ instead of the ‘cap key’. Always doing that consequent no doubt from having long finger nails which by way of aside have over the years scratched the “a”, “s” and “e” from my Mac’s keyboard. Thankfully I know where they live. However, the “n” is on its way out as is the “c”. Won’t be long now before I am typing on a blank keyboard – through Corbin’s “Cyclical Time and Ismaili Gnosis” to Freya Aswynn’s “Leaves of Yggdrasil” amongst others while “Spinner” by Eno and Jah Wobble provide the sound track.

My walking stick resting against the table to my right winks at me as I relish a large mouthful of the sweet black coffee and the live Clapton re-mix of “Spinner” dubs a high revving scooter onto the funky Unusual Balance track.

The walking stick snarls reminding me that I am not here to witter on about coffee and the disappearing letters on my keyboard. I crack the butt end of liquorice stick I am gnawing between my teeth and return the snarl… walking stick smiles, teeth bared, diabolical glint in it’s left eye.

And breathe!

The poet paced the flat…. The sorcerer stalked his prey.

Preparing a second cup of coffee I hunt the image. Information streaming. I search the code… scanning….

The scooter revs up mixing low growls that are Left Where it Fell.

“Mind Bomb” by The The jumps of the shelf while the scooter boy drives by… and by… and bye, bye scooter boy!

The poet felt himself slipping backwards through memories by time confused… the co-codamol called him.

“So now ask yourself. What is human? & what is Truth? ……

The only path to heaven… is via Hell!”

Good Morning Beautiful, The The

The co-codamol an eternal now consumed the data flow.

Growling the sorcerer stretched and clawed the air thick like molasses. He glanced over to his right where the cup of coffee lags dimensionally; the books pulsing with data breathing in and out, in and out ... … his gaze fell upon his walking stick whom shied like a wild stallion before a lightning stricken oak.

The sorcerer held on to the sides of the round dining table as the rush consumed the poet… desire rampant ran around the table, dodging in and out of the legs wooden and bone, weaving a spell that wrapped itself around the sorcerer’s flesh.

“I just wanted somebody to caress, this damsel in distress.
…
I just wanted somebody to possess… this young girl…

Our bed is empty, The fire is out.
And all the love we’ve got to give has spurted out.
There’s no more blood. And no more pain.
In our kingdom of rain…”

Kingdom of Rain, The The

The data stream synchronous running backwards… naked young girl by her grave furtive, crying… waiting for the crow.

Waiting for the crow.

TIAMAT

2009-09-07T23:29:00.015+01:00

by David Blank 2008

Originally published in Devoted by Scarlet Imprint, 2008.

© 2008 David Blank

-----------------------------------

TIAMAT

Then The Lie is known.

There is no difference between any one thing and any other.

The eye, liken’d unto a multi-faceted diamond.

You look in one face(t) and see The Lie.

The Dragon’s eye moves, slight subtle.

Another face(t), similar, yet different, not.

You see The Lie.

Another, and another.

In All Eight Hundred face(t)s.

And that by Two.

Fractal unto Infinity.

And you see The Lie.

-------------------------------------------------

On Weorthscipe and Devotion

Definition of terms:

WITHOUT and NOT, THAT With, Stands, and as such do we deny our responsibility when we do not define terms.

Worship derives, indeed is derived, and subject to THAT!

Anglo-Saxon: Weorthscipe—To ascribe worth to THAT which ONE is dedicated.

This does not necessitate, nor indeed imply, We supplicate Self.

Indeed: TIAMAT, Mother, Lover, whomsoever would supplicate their Self to Thee is a Fool. Nay an infidel!

‘Mother! I supplicate Self Not!’

Devotion is Love. Dedication.

‘Therefore whatever you eat or drink or whatever you do, do everything to God’s glory.’ 1 Corinthians 10.31

We would not strain such to include that whatever one is devoted to, do thus.

Further on the err of supplication: Did not Marduk create Humans from the Blood of Quingu (Kingu), the Blood of Kings, to serve the gods as slaves.

Become godless!

Awaken the Blood of Quingu that flows… Blood, which shall destroy and liberate.

Embrace both the Blood of Kings and the Magick of Marduk!

Combine and entwine.

Work thy Magicks , thy Sorcery, with Gnosis of Both/And.

-----------------------------------------------

On Devotion and Her Due

TIAMAT is worshiped, Weorthsciped, Honoured - as Mother, as Lover - with rivers of blood.

The devotee’s own blood!

The devotee will weep tears of blood from every pore.

Each tear is begat of Love.

Love for Her. Her Sorrow! Her Loss!

Her rage a Typhoon will become thy own rage.

One takes Her rage unto thyself.

Therein the flesh, It Destroys!

This is the Blackest Black, the Nigredo. The Raven that has suckled at Her breast.

The Raven that has drank from Her Maw.

Drank deep of Her Blood!

-----------------------------------------

The Work

The sorcerer lay out and displayed for Her pleasure the objects ritual

Atop and Upon… a 1950’s Civil Service Utilitarian desk top…

Rubber, black.

Weekly and prepared, with oil of linseed.

Shining, glistening, as Her scales Octagonal.

From the left hand drawer he removes the Chinese puzzle box.

Placing it on the surface of the desk. Opening it to the refrains of ‘Joy Division’.

This is the room, the start of it all….

A deep, dark, low, growl. Murmured and soughed. Wailing! Whining! Grumbling as it keened. To Self.

The sorcerer removed the ritual tools from the box and placed them with precision obsessive on the table black.

A whinny of a thousand nightmares drawn and quartered exploded through the door.

The sorcerer took a needle and affixing it to the gun broke the vial… drew up the poisoned breathe of Her.

Her Poison, Eitr.

Placing his arm a-Cross his Breast Bare, gouged deep… tearing flesh; blood wept, onto his phallus.

Peripheries and borders indistinct were changing faster. Than could think. Alive!

Faster THAN could think!

IT is ALIVE, and IT is DEATH!

IT NEEDS TO FEED!

Flesh Scissioned!!

Allowed No Space to wed need to nurture and embrace ITS deed. Having no space to put the barrel of a gun to his gut and pull the trigger… having no space to grow and lither/slither across the tiled cold concrete floor.

‘TIAMAT, Glistening One, let me kiss Your scales Octagonal and suck deep of Thy Poison, That Wisdom; known by eight fold two. Let me kiss Thy Maw.’

The sorcerer pulled back on the plunger and smiled as the ruby red eye opened!

Pushing hard he injected Her pleasure, Her Love, into his flesh.

Nearby the Watcher records the Criature’s birth!

Bonded now through and inevitable! Born and begat! Of this time and unto this time! The pact has been made and the die cast. Blood has been paid and duty known to THAT which is WITHOUT.

‘Why?’ I ask, ‘Mother, did you take my flesh and eviscerate, that I might come to know The Lie.’

I do not deny IT. I do not turn back, nor side, to IT.

I embrace IT!

For, having taken Thee unto my own flesh and been consumed; that fleshly body putrefied, slain, hanging loose from bones skeletal; that mind also, torn and eviscerated, until all that remained was Thy rage; I have come in the end to that which is known, that witch is MUMMU!

MUMMU—One whom has awoken unto (their) Isolate Intelligence and Being.

That WITCH, which is MUMMU!

----------------------------------------

Endnote

I saw my Self as a Wing’d Angel, The Lie known.
The Lie liken’d unto a Diamond.
Behind me!

Above!
My head!
The tips of my wings, Beauty, Black.
Blackest, Black and that Light.
Touch’d.

Wings unfurled, did eclipse The Lie!

The Serpent Crown
The Corona!

---- ----- -----

The Lie is known and the troth of old. Ancient is Our troth to Her.
That troth is Our Heritage.
Thus, armed with Marduk’s Magick—for We have learn’d the ways that enslaved Our Blood Kin—armed also of old with the Dark Magicks taught us by Her, Our Mother,
TIAMAT, do We re-claim that which is Our Heritage.

Bound in Troth are We to NONE, To No One.
Not even, Not ever, to THAT.
Bound and thus NOT Bound.

The STREETS

2009-09-07T21:49:00.010+01:00

by David Blank circa 1979 e.v.

© 1980 David Blank

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THE STREETS (EDINBURGH : WINTER 1978/1979)

"Who are the Secret Chiefs?" He asked.
"First you must discover yourself," She replied, "Then you may find that you are one of them."

WALKING

Buildings hang from low silent sentinel he turned footprints he saw in the freshly fallen snow. These tracks his own immortalised but temporarily for a star is he, is she, are we… but wait what's this a robin does steal and with a greater ease does tread the path that was once his and now is for they are two.

A light relief he smiles, walking ON… trumpets herald aroma of loaves baked fresh, behind orange door outwith dog salivates hunger. He crosses the road hand reaching into pocket. Dog fears the hand closed which open reveals… the dog cowering in the shadows… chocolate he lays gently in the snow. He walks ON.
Passing now some shops he stops beside a window beyond which sits a saddle between mannequins two that erect stand clothed in plus fours, tweeds and boots of black leather, hand stitched. He stands to dream a gentle sigh clouded by boots black.

"Hello, and what do you think you are doing?" The policeman in the glass asked.
"Looking at those boots." He replied, pointing.
"Bit late for looking at boots, isn't it!" The policeman stated, puzzled.
"Not those boots its not. They're special, very…" He never finished the sentence.
"Look son don't give me any lip about boots. Now what are you up to? Where are you going?" The policeman asked firmly.
'Questions!" He mused. 'Why do these shadow men assume a position held in truth by She whose head is cradled by the King of Beasts?' He thought silently. 'Where was he going? Just out walking. He may have gone to the petrol station, or the cemetery….'
"The café." He blurted out, lying,
"Well, get along then, you can't be hanging around here now." Policeman ordered.
He walked ON… the policeman watching him until he turned the corner.
'Damn!' He thought. 'I would have liked to have gone to the petrol station, buy some chocolate. The man there is kind to me, we have a chat usually and then I go to the cemetery to enjoy the chocolate in quietude. But now I'm going to the café. The sad café.

THE SAD CAFÉ

Turning the corner he met it, it looked lonely amongst all the sleeping houses. This café never sleeps, it is a sad café. He stepped inside. Tables of aged Formica and grease hung walls. There is but one other customer… Lucy is her name. In her youth she had been a rocker, weekends of subtle bliss atop The Beast. In front greased hair adding to the throb between her legs. "Push bike harder." She screams the wind. Seventy, riding on the edge… "Faster greased hair…" Seventy-five… "faster greased hair… faster…fast.." Too fast. Greased hair hung limp, broken, crying, dead.

Now she sits a porcelain cup clasped fragile to her breasts, a tear in the eye of the Sad Café.

He seats himself by the window, lights a cigarette, aware that he has but one left. Outside the wind snows, covering his tracks.

"Yes! What will you have?" The waitress asks.
"Do you sell cigarettes?" He enquires.
"No!"
"I'll have a cup of coffee, please." He orders.
"I'm sorry sir, but you have to order something to eat, it's after midnight you know. Only meals after midnight." She informs him.
"But I'm not hungry." He protests.
"Sorry sir, house rules…" She says, obviously not sorry at all.
"Well, give me a hamburger then."
"Onion?"
"No." Absently.
"Anything to drink sir?" A statement.
"Coffee, no milk."
The waitress departs with his order.

The door opens, a young woman enters the café. Her phantomnesque sensuality an insular insolidarity. He notices her remove her coat and take a seat at the table behind his. The waitress arrives to take the young woman's order. This the young woman does without so much as a glance at the menu. 'She must frequent this place' He deduced as the coffee arrived. He drinks it greedily and asks for another as the waitress places the unwanted burger before him. His gaze takes in the snow swept streets as the young woman smokes silently… Time looks backward within…

LONDON/AUTUMN

He turned from the window to speak to the girl hidden in the room, the darkness.
"I saw an accident today. Heard it, the dull thud of metal upon bone… blood splintered, death, alone."
He crossed the room to the fire that in the hearth happily burned.
"It was an old man, his eyes turned inward wept. Spittle crept from his nose, his smashed nose. Blood trickled from his mouth searching for a new home. Found it on the street where it danced with his urine. It reminded him of an old cartoon.
I laughed silently. His strings cut this puppet came not to life, but to death. A death more still, more silent still, than the death we live yet in our importance call life.
He searched the shadows for a sign of the girl. Of his precious dancer. Failed,

"Afterwards I went for a steak… rare. I eyed the waitress's thighs as I ate. Called her over to ask… make a date.
“Yes?” She asked, expectantly. Faltering I asked instead for a cup of tea."
He paused awhile…. "You wouldn't have minded." He said looking for his dancer. "You would not have minded, would you?"
He crossed to the chair and sat down.
"I wish I could paint, put you on canvas. Then others could see you as I do. If I could paint, I'd paint that dead man. I would make just one alteration… I'd give him an erect penis."
That night the dancer never slept with him… in the morning she was gone.

"Excuse me." A voice penetrates. "Excuse me, do you have a light… please."
Startled from his reverie he turns to see the young woman, the sad café.
"Excuse me, do you have a light?" She requests, motioning to his lighter. "For my cigarette."
He lights the cigarette for her. She looks at him closely.
"I know you, don't I?" She asks.
Thoughts run wild through memories by time confused.
"A meeting, two years ago. I carried you home." He said. "You were drunk, or stoned… something anyway. You were a model, or was it a photographer's assistant?"
"That's right, a model." She laughs. A laugh that is yet a tear.
Now… she is drawn, ashen. Her notices her arm where she has been scratching it… blood coagulates an empty hunger.
"Have you a cigarette?" He asks. "They don't sell them here." He apologises.
She reaches for her handbag, slowly, dazed expression… her coat.
"They're on the table." She offers. Taking one he lights it.
They sit… silence.

"Will you come home with me… for coffee. I only live across the road. I've some more cigarettes as well… these are finished." She crumples up the empty packet.
"Alright." He agrees.

THE UNLOCKED DOOR

They leave the sad café behind… crossing the road… snow… slush… to a tenement block… nineteenth century stone piled anonymously.
He enters the main doorway to the building… the wooden door balancing on one hinge. The smell of tramp's piss stings his nostrils.
Following the young woman he ascends the spiral staircase, its granite steps by time's ageing tread worn.

At the top landing they arrive. The girl opens the door on the left of the landing. It being unlocked she requires no key.
Fear generates unease fuelled by the door unlocked.
He shuts the door. Greets the room.
"Hello room." He says.
The young woman bends low, thighs gesture petit bum as she switches the electric fire's solitary bar to ON.

He scans the room.
The aged sofa, its stuffing creeping out of the various wounds, blisters reveal where it has been tortured by cigarettes. A valve radio. A table lamp on the mantelpiece, tiled without taste. The lamp suffuses the room with insufficient glow.

He steps toward the young woman… hands clasped her round the waist.
She tense becomes.
"Shall we sit awhile?" Her voice soft.
They sit in silence.
Nervous… shivering… she stands… crosses the room to pass through a door, white.
He sits in silence.
On the mantelpiece a packet of papers and some tobacco.
He reaches for them… rolls a cigarette.
Lights it from the single bar of the electric fire… the tobacco spewing hot ash over the carpet.
He crosses the room to the window.
Below the streets are silent… The café, sad… its tear has left for the night… though she will be back tomorrow.

"I'm going to bed."
He turns to see the young woman… naked. She passes through a door to what he assumes must be the bedroom, leaving it open behind her.

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The Streets (Part 2)

He looks through the open door to see that which is within… sensual and luxurious the bedroom beckons him. Silks, a large bed and fur rugs. Incense burns, stings his nostrils. The smell of sex mingles with exotic perfumes.

Putting out his cigarette he enters what he can only assume, for little else remains, is the bathroom. Therein is his intent to wash and cleanse. Piss, and thus prepare for the inner sanctuary…

He opens the door to be greeted by a vision unexpected… his innocence forgivable.

Blood splattered across the mirror. A syringe lay… idle, on the shelf. A packet of fine white powder.

"You can have some if you want." The Young Woman's voice from behind. He sees her reflection in the mirror, scarred with blood splattered. He looks down at the syringe in his hand.

"Oh Succubi! Tempt me not at all." He says.

"Trust Her. TRUST HER!" The voice whispers in his ear,

Warmth….. the warmth creeps…. as kaleidoscopic impressions flood brain rushing outwith to throw up over the sink.

She takes the needle from his arm and helps him… leads him into the bedroom. The Inner Sanctuary of The Whore. The Harlot.

THE EMBRACE

Crow black flies south
Over silent mists
That embrace a tired earth.

Through cold stone he rises
To see…
A naked young girl by her grave
Furtive. Crying.

Together
As one we mate, motionless
Mate we one as.

Her orgasm retches blood
Into his hunger. Satiated he sinks
Once more beneath cold stone
Waiting… for the crow.

MORNING

Shafts of sunlight spear
His tired retina, lancing
His brain where a wound
Yawns wide.

Above him the ceiling, bare
Below him. Bed
Beside him, the young woman
Naked. His seed curdling in
Her sterile womb.

"I must get out of here!" Brain screams
"I need to get out of here."

Dressing in haste he leaves
Through the door, unlocked.

THE SAD CAFÉ (REVISITED)

He sits in silence, before him a cold hamburger… the fat dried in pools around the bun. His fourth cup of coffee. It has been two weeks since last he was here. The days long. The nights an infinity of moments… unexpressed.
He thinks back to earlier that evening. His visit to the cemetery…

"Phantoms! You play with a fear that is not mine. Lost souls all… searching for the key. Yet to what door? Surely that door requires no key. Its mirrored surface free of inscription, is it not open to all? Then again what of the Trigon Portal, the key to which is to be found in a triphthong, the answer to which has enflamed many a seekers reason… Basta!"

How moist the grass here rich grows and enwraps my groin with gentle caress. Looking down from high twin gargoyles drool moist lichens… oh with such elegance. Surely here is a place where we may for a time respite seek. For a time… until the day… Ever until the day that we may claim that which is Our heritage.

In the café sad…. He sits… staring at yet not seeing, his coffee… black.
The cold hamburger.
He is waiting… Waiting for the crow.

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Nasty Habits!

2009-08-05T16:40:00.000+01:00

To paraphrase Lazarus Long, "A poet who blogs their verse in public may have other nasty habits."

You will no doubt be relieved to hear that I shall certainly endevour to refrain from blogging any of my poetry, however, I can not make the same commitment concerning the blogging of some of my other nasty habits.

To date I have refrained from blogging per se, for mental health reasons, and as such this will be our first foray into the strange and at times incongruous world of blogging.

Being as this is our initial foray, paw dip in the bathtub of blogdom, we shall leave it there for the mo....