A Pentacle Of Purging
Dedicated to Zak Sabbath
and to my own personal angel
Too Much Too Fast
Bitterness is Tonic
The Woman Wholesome
It’s a place on pirate coast where deadbeats wash up and beat up heads wash up dead. I don’t do my washing up I have tubs of grime collecting bugs in the back yard where crockery cracks over time and all the best pans went so right now now I’m eating take-out salads like a sonofabitch which is quicker and cheaper did I mention healthier food course I didn’t we all ignore that need, generally far better than cooking over-spiced fried cheap meat or oven-baked chicken-oil soaked potatoes in a rosemary stuffed roast which is still less than a fancy restaurant and this way living off the streets get to meet cheap street meat take home and candy overnight. You scorn because you think it’s trash but I ain’t washed up on no sea-shore yet like perished plastic people, this town is famous for, canker rocks from a demolished power station and more sewerage outlets than the legal limits from all the flood-plane based housing estates built quickly to fill with them as they crawl their way fishlike up the cove, retro-evolution South Wales style.
I haven’t made it that far yet because I’m going the other way, born inland and escaping the mountain trolls who troll my life perpetually.
That other artist is leeching my mind, my colours draining into his canvas because I am the chill he bleeds while he paints my soul and glorified in recognition. He and I alone know the secret of his powers. It would scare others to believe in it. My dry husk wrapped in faded-amber of spider-silk bandages scrawled with runes shouting “help! help!” so eloquently nobody cares, assuming it’s someone else’s purpose to come rescue me from the devastation the thief has wrought upon my being. I complain to sundry but not to all and what happens is they rubber-stamp brand me as insanitary, these swamp-crawlers who oozed up from a rancid pool of stagnancy where the tide turns only one way, the only way they can see, their agreed and greedily reaffirmed imprisonment of a normality codex cohabited cohesively by their backwater blackwater oppressively exclusive security which I risk even by breathing close to them, exhaling an air which feeds the mossy vices of dehumanic monstrous mentalities ready to spike cruelly to defend their limited bandwidth of comprehensive control over the shoal, programmed to serve gods they cannot recognise by living sigilistic rituals concordat with the dominancies approved rigidity.
Here I pause to fulfil myself with air of another kind, in polluted by toxic vapours of consumable smoke machines designed to blow holes in the lungs of self-destructive haters, a momentary respite from this monologue of pathetic poverty which an artless society has deemed upon poor me.
Welcome to desperation bay. It calls out in pain for desperate measures and those are the yardstick by which we compare our petty freedoms to complain before even that gets taken away.
Next up: fuck this shit,
as our antagonistic protagonist encounters a shitty sewerage outlet he has feared falling for.
Too Famous Too Fast
(so the dykes have had him done)
Depersonalisation of experience.
Dehumanisation of target.
They do it out of spite.
Take out a guys life, destroy his reputation with lies and manipulations. The mainstream believe because nobody questions feminists or they are accused of sexism and misogyny.
Nobody questions lgbt or they are accused of racism ah I mean ageism ah I mean kink shaming, name and blame the victim, label it as a narcissist is how the narcissists function supported by 9/10 men and any women who have not suddenly gone silent because their bitch rap drama has a chance to trap some sap into their attack.
And the guy is destitute all because he’s supported a prostitute who used and abused him even after she’d outgrown the need for his support, finding more supply from the community by crying rape. The guy is alone, once upon a talent throne now done and blown it in the community which supported him, now shoots him down to give him the whole trip. He’s been though it all and maintained integrity because his honesty has shown him more of life than all their petty vengeful treachery.
This segue is to prepare you for the next step. Your development is to include awareness that fame is a game of shame not worth playing, regardless how much they’re paying.
It’s a fear-based control system. If they’re fabricating evidence at level one they’ll sure as hell up the game an fabricate worse at level two if you stand up for yourself enough to say no to injustice. Easier to pay the fine and shoulder the shame and let honest decent people intuitively decide for themselves that it is what it is, a rigged game, exploitation by toxic people feeding on the venom of other toxic people regardless of what you have actually done. They get away with it in their world because the cult mandate states ‘all men must die’ and preferably slowly and in agony, humiliated and exposed for crimes they didn’t do but have been pinned on you because supremacists gonna do what supremacists gonna do in the fog of war where infiltration of the system is forgiven and not recognised as domestic terrorism because the system works but not for you, no son not for you who through your hard efforts and arts crafted value to fund the system. It didn’t just take a slice, it sliced you up and seized your assets wholly.
Lamentation of the cenobytes.
Don’t worry kid, it’s initiation; you’ll get to become one too just as soon as you accept it and let go of the dreams to make the world a better place for all. Only the sundry matter and they draw the line on their side of the balance. Is how it is and how it’s always been, your only other option is to become like them but worse and that’s the lessons they teach by their being.
We don’t have to compromise. There is a higher way of seeing, seeing through them even while they hurt. They hurt and that’s why they do it. Vile, but you put your dick in it thinking it was sweet, that’s what you get for trying to feel complete.
Bitterness Is Tonic
Distilled elixir of putrid bile, in a vial for our filtration, changing us to become lighter when we finally shed the bulk of toxins fed us by false prophets we loved awhile mistaking it in our childish hope for infinity and stability, this others wiles who defiled our trope.
Lessons from the legend of blue mermaid. Keep your paint thin and work from a distance in.
Far, far away and known from lifetimes through the ages, the maiden. She found me and we clicked in perfect harmony.
Long ago I imagined how a perfect woman would be and she’d be all sleepy and cute, needing to be hugged and cuddled as I made her tea and simple breakfast or simply had her for breakfast on days of luxury. I told her and she offered both because her existence is poetry. Between us we have power to build a world made of love impenetrable to the dark forces and it is for her whom I am beating my heart instead of beating my heart with jagged shards of angry glass.
The reflection of time at the edge of a mirror of perfect stillness. Obsidian black, her eyes and reflected in them is eternity. At this moment my life folds in half and I return to the moment from dream. From here onward is love after anguish. She does this to me. She says I to her.
In the reflection of the past is the optimistic future. Purified by fire, purged of the driving ouch from which to escape constantly toward delusions, having faced the perfect truth and identities with it to become the profound balance at the centre of the universe, the stillness of the heart of balance. She is everything, the night sky, the ground forming for our feet to share a path together through infinite satisfaction.
This moment we step out of time, sanctified.
Our affluence was getting out of hand, and now we must struggle to conform to the ancient way of humanising hominids. But you have it the other way around, you had to struggle and now you deserve affluence afforded by the new way of things, it is all relative.
Slide projector come up against wall. The projection, to slide her up against a wall. She got me making heart again, my own night and instead of the power being drained, I put it on the canvas, me myself the actual person who exists now.
Existing because she’s made me real by giving me love and teaching me how to give myself that same love. Through this process the creativity flows again, as it had before I had become broken by you others. My heart on the canvas, made in the easy way.
A secret method, only outline traced with marker pen onto plastic sheet held against a computer screen where the freeze frame of any given movie, a collage of different assembled scenes into one line art image, then projected through an OHP pulled from a skip years ago like me, old and a symbol of my generation regenerating because the cherished life she breathes lovingly back into me with a positive energy and belief in what I may become.
She has the rare ability, like me, the only other one; to see not the world as it is but instead the world as it potentially could be, potentiality, the potency of being energised and set in the right direction for its higher evolution. She is this spirit.
The light shines the line onto a canvas no bigger than necessary to fit through a door, where it is painted with techniques studied for years before on cardboard, layers of thin skin washes filling gaps between outlined black with vibrant colour, raining down to wash all the pain away, until the image is complete and sells for £1000 apiece. Well, on a good day that’s £500 at least.
And as time goes on and on my style supersedes a generously degenerate past. In her bliss and a functional way of being I have forgotten it all but the most fleeting memories of those concrete limbo years so dense their dark powers have dropped away from the now, because her light so bright, it’s healing.
The Woman Wholesome
Deleting all the things she loved about him from her soul and from her memory, by actively doing the opposite. She loved him for taking control and holding her against the wall to kiss her on the neck her breasts her pubic bone. Now she has decided on divorce for half his profits of his income, she calls it sexual abuse these two years later after giving herself willingly so many times since because the judge needs to hear it in a certain language where passion and porn is converted to abuse for the sake of the means justifying the end. It is intimidating to men and frightening so many women behave this way, getting what they want at the time and twisting it to get what they want afterwards with no morality, unscrupulously screwing over the one who has supported them and given them every pleasure they desired and required.
What caused the change?
Boredom and manipulation from jealous friends, the domestic terrorism which is a cult, occulted within a more accepted social reform. So many of us have been through it we can see it for what it is and yet, the men who can’t because they have no experience, their lives spent growing rich in a room where they make decisions which affect the lives of others instead of going out and learning for themselves what the world is really like. Lacy and aggrieved female crying, the normal mail desire to protect becomes decision to suppress the source of her discomfort. That she is lying does not ever cross their minds because to their minds women are angels, incapable of harm or hate. To begin with that’s the way they are.
I watch reports of my admirable mate enslaved by fear based manifestations and outright manipulations. He did not rape her, nevertheless she and her girlfriend now owns half his estate while he rots in a cell to contemplate what happens to men who provide for women who can so easily be turned to hate. She deletes him from the world by a smear campaign believed by those who had supported them, unquestioning her simply because she is female and claims to be the injured party. Fake friends exposed, he knows his true allies and is stronger for it because the world of the wolves knows who the mindless sheep are. This is the benefit of experience she has given him by accelerating him into the next step of being a man, discredited and talented amidst a world supportive of her scam.
He no longer paints, and that same energy from which he drew is now there for me at last to work with and it is flowing through faster than I can get it down onto canvas cardboard paper walls and ground around me, flooding the world with a passion of art, because a woman I love has helped me start this thing to step into a role some unfortunate other has had taken away.
And I see his story, and I ponder my future should I be him some day.