THE OMANDAE CYCLE by Irving Paul Pereira

The Omandae cycle

VOLTERGEIST 2

Chapter 1 The small blue metal box that caught the eclipse of the sun was hot. The chief surgeon buried it in a box of black sand that stood on a table; like a funereal arrangement. The fumes of the sand were stifled by the gas mask of the dokteer. His hands, made into precise machines, opened up the blue box in its grave and extracted the malformed contents with automata pincer tips. Silver in the gleaming, the long, thin like metal hands carried the dead beetles from the box one by one. The doctor lined up the beetles upturned around the decaying vinyl-record. The fungus on the grooves of dead music parted away from the dead bugs. An assistant to the doctor arrived, false suns bleaming in threes from the overhead watch-light. She was naked and painted in white liquid skin. Her orifices sealed and faceless. She spoke with

her mind, nipples erect. ‘the station needs to tilt. Lockdown your lab and belt up.’ The doctor made his own head spin and the lab locked down. He inserted his lower torso into a shaft on the floor. The shaft filled up with concrete. Tubes descended from the false ceiling windows and snaked its way, organic eel, into his mouth and nostrils and ears. The assistant left after overseeing the lockdown. The VOLTERGEISTATION then tilted trajectories. Chapter 2 From the sound of blackness came the marching band. Youthful t eens in space suits and band leader hats. Red and gold and white decorata. They offered musiq and waking to the sleeping chiefs. The plastic-liquid-concrete in the shafts de- filled, the tubes dislodged from throats. Consciousness returned. The assistant returns.

‘thank you for the lock down doctor. Please commence rehabilitation programme.’ The doctor emerged from the cocoon like shaft and touched the sleeping machines in the room. Walls of slithering silicon, a heartbeat behind clear plastic skin. They came alive with his touch. Hair like veins of wires throbbed in softly glow’d. The lab adjusted itself, breathing easy, walls, reverberating with the updates. Lab sycrosanct has been rehabilitized. The naked professor moves to the table of sand and graves and boxes and bugs. Some of them have returned to life. He turns to the white mannequin assistant; “tell ‘mouth of mother’ some data remains.’ ‘yes, master.’ She bows and exits. The Doctor studies the first four beetles that began twitching thorned legs. Behind him, doors slid open and other caves appeared. Astronaut tribes came piling in, carrying body bags and other forms 5

of boxes and spheres. The cages came in on wheels. Within it, torn pages, hard covers with nothing between them, , despoiled technologies of old writ, black boxes of information, touch screen devices. The doctor understood the intention of mouth of mother. He watched as the spacemen & women set up the ‘aquarian systems.’ He watched as the genesis programs and intelligence coda are uploaded, the eyes on the wall opening and breathing up in light. The apocalipsis program is running. Lab sycrosanct begins channelling a new voice. Chapter 3 “temperature, drops.” The room tremors. A colder air resides. The spacesuits with no one inside are bustling. More apparatuses are connected to the breathing walls.(worm like tubes as big as boas, writhing in ghost hands) The cages are hung up on metal chains thick as arms (there is a sound of books, screaming) . More pale skin is surgically 6

wrapped upon the walls (to mask some sounds, to keep certain organs warm). Behind it, snake the organic veins that will carry blood and water to the lungs of the lab. The faceless model archetype assistant enters pushing an advanced exo-skeleton based wheel-chair (sleek, metallic, dexterous) with what appears as a box standing upright under black ceremonial cloth. Smoke is emanating from it, a sweet scent of burning wood, seed and fresh black flowers. The assistant began talking in an elder voice, that of a man. The black box on the wheel chair had possessed the android nurse and was now speaking through her. I AM /STATUS_UNKNOWN/I HAVE COME TO FIND SARROGHEITUS. CHAPTER FOUR

The box, speaking directly to the machines through white mannequin android, told lab sycrosanct to do another tilt. Then resurrect several deceased/diseased programs. 7

Idiola Omandae Odar Vault m 1000.100 Lab sycrosanct refuses to acknowledge the last program. “the heart will not survive the last chaos engine.” It explained. “our technologies are not yet apt for such an app.” /STATUS_UNKNOWN/contacts/TERMINAL CODA/ THE MACHINE WILL NOT COMPLY TO 1000.100. TELL ME WHO WILL? THERE ARE NO CODES TO BYPASS THIS PROGRAM. Already, the two editors are speaking in stars. For fear for the galaxies, they bypass the coda for 1000.100 8

WOMB ONE Inducted February 13, 2008 PRINCIPAL PLATFORM: ‘the first order of things.’ mother-father satellite planet. Chief Operating system: NATIVITY Editor in chief: TERMINAL CODA 9

THE box eats the first beetle. Material case 3:42 [[[EDITING /STATUS_UNKNOWN/ FACILITY: VOLTERGEISTATION C/O ALTERVOLTER PRESSS]]] DEATH RATE: CLIMBING.

ASSIGNED BY THE APPROVED ACTION OF: /WOMB ONE/ Case redesigned : ws-‐ section 345-‐11:21-‐O2-‐Y2K8 EXTTRATEMPORAL DE-‐ FIGURING. MALHOMEON PROGRAM COMMENCED 11/2/8

BREAKSEALTOACCESSCONTENTS

“You leave these things in the hands of monsters, don’t expect little kittens in return.” By the solidification of this work ahead, all inherent mistakes, defiler, blasphemy is to be kept to the heart, unbroken, un-‐appealed, ready and waiting like a slave.

-‐from a post-‐work 12

Movement 1 13

Redquiem A prelude 14

Written by

Pereira Irving Paul Saul Liera Du Fontaine Immanuel Balthazar Frictional Anon Ra EDITED BY : /STATUS_UNKNOWN/ 15

The powers of all the first things The ordered source, unconscious truth The word that began all The breath that ended it Nature, God, crucial love And What Saul felt was enough He was brought to tears that night in the alien desert. Of landscapes blue and horizons forever; Brought to his knees with the mind agape. And from intelligences of elsewhere The Symbols charged and supernatural and cosma, branded itself on his holographic memory, mapped into sequence and patterns and colors Deeply impressed upon his neural map, In Combinata, the opener of Gates distant in time And alternate in space Wisdom of old and untold

Uncreated and post-‐human Formed like lava blood in his eternal mind. The inner eye opening a glimpse into complete consciousness. The moment of all yet not enough. Never enough as the eye closes and all that is seen is gone.

“Yes: Man is sad and ugly; sad under the vast sky; he possesses clothes because he is no longer chaste, because he has defiled his proud, godlike head and because he has bent, like an idol in the furnace, his Olympian form toward base slaveness!” – Arthur Rimbaud. “he took too much druqs.” – unnamed. “ all the crazies fall in love with the crazies.” “god help us eh, we will emerge through the door transformed and I am believing that those around us will be hurt for they will not recognize us. “ “Take me down to the cities of the future.” – Infected mushroom. 17

‘’all this leads somewhere.”” – anon Invocation of the first mind. In The Name of The metaphor, Of schizophrenia and complete obfuscation I begin. IN vocation of the second minde

IT IS Not I who speaks. For in the red book of futuere i writ of intelligences beyond my mind and as lovecraft had seen and AOS drew and as Saint John revealed I too had heard and spake its mind, within and without. so listen! it is not I who speaks…. Invocation by the third hallucinated mind Mysterie et Du unlearn Mysterie et Du conceive Mysterie et Du forseen. 19

the little girl asks. “do we begin now daddy?” He says, “we begin.”

Book 1

THE RED MAN: Part equinox

The following is a work a dream. The dream is a work of reality, though hidden. Hidden from the sight and understanding by the girl who walks past you. The man who is coughing at the bus stop. His dream is a work of his thoughts.

His thoughts are not your thoughts. Your thoughts are not his. 20

It is two separate dreaming. But one and the same space.

I have met you in my dreams; as I meet you in life. It is life that separates us. Not our dreaming.

The following is a work of dream. She is standing in the sea, waves lapping against her knees. Her arms are outstretched to the heavens. I know her. She has been in my life many years and in many of my lives. I ask her, in voice only present in the skies, “what will you miss the most about this place when you leave.” She looks around her, to see which sight she would miss, which story or which unfolding. She looks at my tower and she begins to break down crying.

The sea is stirring with her sadness.

Her sadness brings her to my home. My sanctum and sanctuary. She is lying down on her front and I am lying down infront of her. I reach out to touch her face. I feel her tears, distinct , wet and cold on my fingers. Then I am unsure

are these her tears or mine?

She tells me about the way I spoke to her and of the words I spake.

“I love you.” She mimics my voice, “that was how you said it.” A low whisper, filled with a frightening and a power. A trembling at such sacred sentences. 21

I love you

I love her

“and what did you say/” ia sked her

she stroked my hair and said nothing.

Nothing at all.

Exit the tower. I am now below, at the roads. I walk away from the tower, through the neighbourhood where the apartment blocks rose to the skies. Beneath the block, at its entrances hung plastic sheets. A man’s voice answered me when I asked nothing

“They are for the suicides, so that the blood would not splash into the place below the block.”

I passed a funeral with no coffin. Only wreaths and flowers in the breeze. Death was about me. There was no body.

I crossed into the carpark, with its equidistant trees. And a tall dark skinned boy followed me. He turned to look at me and his face was a starved devil. A great evil was his aura, his eyes turning a purgatorial red. A black hound was barking ferociously beside him. More black dogs appeared with the ghastly red in their flaming eyes. Their growls and barks spoke of a foreboding terror. Its devil master pointed to me.

“I know who you are and what you are doing.”

The hellish beasts were released upon me.

I ran.

Part equinoxe. Dream is the work of thought in reality. Reality is a dream of work in thought. Thought is a reality in the work of dream. Run like hell. The hounds are on your heels. Breath, a hot arid air sears your skin. Their barks like the terrible call signs of hell dogs. They are after the shaman, breaking through his hidden path, gunning for the flesh of his soul. Run like hell. The hounds are on the heels of the shaman. Moon curvature off a tangent orbit. It is in no position for protection. The shaman looks elsewhere, running, leaping through the wormholes. The red hounds follow through. The wild pack in perverse pursuit. The shaman runs into the red alley; the red bricks have thin fair arms reaching out. Behind those walls are girls suffocating behind sand and concrete. Their arms reach out to grab him, to hold him, calling him to set them free.

He can hear muffled screams behind the walls. He keeps running. Hell like run. The shaman is running through the streets but he is asleep. First hints of morning light rising. Cars screech to miss him. Strides long and rhythmic Barefooted, caked with blood as soles impact gravel rode. A hard storming run. Possessed. Mind on fire. Running like hell. In the dream the girl is far gone. He does not hear her say ‘ I love you’ the way he had said it to her. The Eternal she, now nothing and far away. Blindly he runs into streets. Half panting and screaming behind eyes rolled up to his head. He hears people laughing at him. The running scared shaman having broke free from his home in a box beneath a block with no funerals. He runs blindly into the park. The wild things are closer behind him. The pack is growing, ascending from the lower realms, the other realms, driven by omnipotent RED and iidiola. Before him a wall of leaves, a border separating one park from the next. He is running faster.

The dogs are turning to fire. He can feel them searing his entire soul. An unholy heat burning in from behind. He leaps into the wall. The pack leaps with him. “Hell hath come. “

EQUINOX. Or the RED EXPLOSION

RED HORSES 25

There are red eyes in the darkness, many of them, and white steam, exhalation from flared nostrils. The gun goes off. Shot into the air like a starter. The fire and smoke explodes. Bang. The wrought iron gates burst open, grills on fire, hell-‐like and red with heat. In the darkness there are red eyes, many of them, and white angry smoke, from flaming nostrils. The gun goes off. The red horses burst forth, a family of stallions, muscular and netherworldly, the RED HORSES have broken free. The A&E doors burst open, paramedics rush in with the Indian boy on the wheeled stretcher. The nurses are shouting, calling out BP’S, reciting drug administrations. Bang The gun goes off. The boy flinches but isn’t breathing. Blood patch growing wider under gauze and pressure; the blood, RED does not stop. Rush The five horses rush, violent hooves bang out against the black gravel, a rage of horses like an angry train, loud and intense, streaking to its destination.

The medical team turns the corner left, straight down the white hall into surgery, barking commands at each other, B.P I.V, Pressure’s dropping/stop the bleeding/get doctor Lee/ a barrage of voices like the rumbling of many stallions Red horses running, grunting, flames leaping forth from its nostrils, eyes red in a raging glare. The red horses run The white lights shoot overhead, the boy is now a man is now a boy, he cannot tell but stares blank at the passing lights above, the voices drowned out, he sees the blur of surgical masks behind the faces, red crosses on white uniforms. They rush into emergency surgery He sees his dead father’s face looking down at him, following him at his side, running with the doctors. Everything is so quiet dad… The horses gallop like a storm visited upon the land, running wild towards the edge of the cliff. Through the emergency surgery doors they enter, he is carried onto the operating table; blood shooting from his multiple wounds, a rain of blood The red horses, side by side, leap off the cliff. An endless jump. …everything’s so free… The team move quickly around him, cutting off the shirt, mopping up the blood, applying pressure, shooting drugs into tubes into his arms …so effortless….

Tubes run into his throat, his eyes still wide and staring at the white lights above. And the lights above stare down at him …So beautiful…. The red horses crash through the hospital walls and into the room where the boy lay. A loud and terrible invasion amidst the screaming of nurses and the thick sounds of confusion. …just like they promised me… The horses surround the bed, the staff backing away from the huge red beasts, aggressive and protective over the boy …No one will harm me again… A police officer rushes in with his gun drawn to the moment where the lead horse rises upon its fiery hind legs. The gun drops. …No one will belittle me…. The officer is at a lost, holding in his breath at such a surreal sight in the emergency room. Then I shall be powerful… The officer signals everyone to step back even further. The nurses are frozen to their spots, jaw open, eyes wide.

…and feared…. Through the gaping hole in the broken wall, a thick black smoke pours forth and through it a figure emerges, adrift like a seven foot ghost, a towering, long haired warlock with eyes that burn red. …Tonight…they will come for me… The horses react to the presence, making way for it to drift down to the side of the boy. The horses with eyes aflame, grunt and stomp their heavy hooves into the white floors, cracking the grounds …To take me home The kingly figure in his long flowing cloak of black and royal red, look down at the boy; and the man stares back at him, face twisted in his last dying moments yet alive Oh M’Lord! my God… The figure reaches out with his gloved hand and gently wipes away the tears and blood stains from the drug dealer’s face Take me away… The warlock leans forward and plants a soft kiss on the dealer’s forehead. …from all of this…. 29

The entire hospital explodes with a great red flash of psychic energy; released from within the building, rushing out across the city night.

Book 2consumpt 30

ion of the second beetle

AXIS MUNDI or

The stance of death 31

Outher aether Outside space Outside time The convene had begun. More stars in this night, visible. More confusion upon the grounds of the observatory. Tonight the tide of mindspace is turning. The beings watch on. They begin to speak, one by one. Among them is a man. His tongue is Aramaic. There is blood on his hands and feet. 32

“have thou remember, the story of Damascus, and witness here, Saul, whom I have called to this night.” Listen, all ye who can hear, for It is The Lord who speaks.” Among them is a star. “Behold the forgotten planet Ai-‐Fi it this space that speaks. Of atmospheric mysterium, white oceans on snow-‐eternal shores. As our nature’s futures cycle out through this chylde We claim him as our primate ley-‐line.” Among them is a race of beings. An orange glow marks their presence They are the intelligences of indigo lights. “NBL’R “It is her council who speaks Of the future lord, Imannuel Balthazar Lore In his immediate future, looking at him from the mirrors of his immediate present “The one who was created, to uncreate. The one who is called the first scribe of nebulore. The one ghost, whom we take as our mediatré

We come to you N”BLR” Among them was a future entity It did not speak. Then among them came a serpent; Fiery red, sometimes a dragon But neither mythic beast or the fallen devil This serpent comes from a time before, of prima and cosmos archetype and magicka and in its slithers, it says “ sssssuccumb to me immaculate she feminine mystery bathed in black hidden beneath my cloak of night ssssuccumb to me immaculate she” and Among them came many more voices, too many to discern; each claiming this human as their vehicle/prophet/conduit/poet/shaman and other unnamable forms and functions. 34

Ne became a sign to some intelligences, a gemstone to others. Then great chaos pursued. 11:11pm, 11:11:2005 They each spake their lines of activata ‘the sentence that transforms’ often reverberating as death ending then beginning the being that is reborne. They each spake their truth And in all of the history , of the word that was beginning Of the word that was to end There was only one voice that got through But tonight In dire November It is not like any other night. The voices all came at once. And saul heard all of them though he was not supposed to. But his mind have been fractured beyond all original configurations. All t he doors were open and he heard all of them. There was only suppose dto be one. But he heard; the song of NBLR, the lords invitation, the spun of the black spyder web, the call of the aboriginies, and countless of other voices. Then through those voices he filetere dout one. The voice of the unknowable. The one that came among all other voices. For it was wirtten

Among them then came a voice. Omnisprent and multilingual Reverberating at thousands of frequencies, Each dissimilar in depth and field. The voice everlasting The first commanding Speaking to all that hears and understands. IIN THE GREAT JOURNEY OF THE MULTIVERSE THERE COMES, ONCE IN A SEQUENTIA, A DIFFERENTIAL AN ANOMALY IN THE FLOW OF ALL THINGS JUST AS THERE ARE ANOMALIES IN ALL MANNER OF SYSTEMS TERRESTRIAL OR OTHERWISE. AS SUCH ANOMALIES EXIST SO DOES ITS CONTERPART, NORMALCY FOR IT TAKES ONE STATE FOR THE OTHER TO INCUR Through all of you, I work Through all of you, I speak And all of you through him Will speak to the people. For soon, they shall be transformed And be known as people no more.

And they will join us And one of them will sit at our council And the one representing them would be this man. Such is the way it will be Listen, and you will already understand For it is the unknowable that speaks. And I have chosen Saul Liera Du fontaine As he has chosen me.

THE CHES ROOM

The red knights Lineage of purgatory red, the red knights come through the gates of retribution and karma, the steeds of offensive and defence, spiritual steeds from a fiery Jerusalem alongside the Christ of War, red and golden armour’d with scepter’d rule; broad and large the Godly warlock man of bible alternata The black knights Out of night comes the unseen jaunts of horses black.. space resembala, the starry eyed steeds of mysterium and abysmal; where from and hence to, cometh andg oeth the source of all life and light. In eternal black, the stallions come, heavy footed with their paradox king. . The black king Nameless void, open sunyata, unending soul of the doors of holes black, in space epic, vast ; this royal being heaves and a multiverse births or ends. Unlighted possibilities; the final secret in the sound of its breath. Wish not to hear the black kings name. The red king Herein this story arc; known as RED IDOL. The fervent destroyer, the magneta of life force taken away;replaced by the unquenchable fire. The red queen Mother most chaste, prostitute most pure; streetwalker of the red streets of the city. For in her eye she sees the families coming through, missing father, missing chylde, missing mother, missing time. Fruit of her womb, this coming day, in dire November, the child will pay. 38

The black queen Spider woman, black sands of future time; rings within rings, points of change; the black spider widow enters the codes onto screens black and LCD; sitting upon her centered throne, crosslegged unfaced. Ancient weaver of night and fate. GREY Angel, of. The coming wave, wing’d with the weight of the universe, feet untouching the dismal ground; head in lifeof present time; decided, her return to this swirling change; remembering, this earth and those passed before her; neither black nor forever white; angel of the greyscale sight. The RED castles Towerium rise upon the pregnant land; meridians run the blood flow of the river descending close from the northern lights, the bloodied song of ancestral fight; the towers rise in future state; o’er looking its blasphemous slate. The Black bishops Common black, the unicorn’d thing, pyramidal bone protruded in place of the fourth eye. Bone of resonance and cross multiverse communication; the bone of the deep space ascetics; starving bishops of the black. Chosen leader, current prophet, echoed voice of primal future. The RED bishops Disparate zones of the great machine, ravaging chiefs of red disorder; the present distraction behind the songs that narrate our march to our deaths. Cry!, O’humanity!, Weep for your blindness, the bishops RED have led us by hand to oasis loud and thirst un-‐quenching. The pawns.

On all sides. How upon our lands the stage, we expound on the roles our wants turned primate by the flicker and the sound that stops not for our thoughts and of our thoughts that stop in its unmistakable song. 1)Check 2)Check 3)Checkmate

Night of the Author There are four books in use. Four of different sizes and thickness. Two black books. The FIRST black book belongs to a much younger philosopher, writing out the preoccupations of his bright and nimble mind. From it, we see his obsessions with the spiritual realms, communication, theories about reality, Christ and his accompanying Church. This is an early book of thoughts., the pages are shaped after a life of early influences. The author is believed to be in teen hood at the time of the writings; and also believed to be some kind of intellectual.

The second black book details a complex landscape of psycho erotic literature including journal entries. Early investigations suggests it was written by a woman, although all written evidence suggests otherwise. Classified as The Offensive Volume, its contents are not allowed to be discussed here.

The large format, lime-green book begins with a dedication.

For stargazer

Early reports suggests the name belonging to an A.I program, now completely erased. Following the dedication were the words, “ I AM Immanuel Balthazar, The First Scribe of the House of Balthazar.” The book then details some kind of

incantation, written in an unrecognizable language. It ran for almost two pages, and ended, as it began with the letters NBLR.

Following the incantation, its pages were empty until almost the middle where then came the beginnings of a story.

Tale of the final father

Â On the night my father was consume'd by the fire in the mountain, he told me a story. I was only seven but he told me to listen to it carefully and said i would remember it at the hour of my need. He thus began "there was once a young ignorant boy, who felt no qualms about doing anything he wanted until the day the fire in the mountain came down to speak with him. It told him about the wrong things he had done, all through a random reading of the book of prophets. It was one line that transform'd him, and although that line is forgotten, his legacy shall never be. Upon the rise of the first morning sun, the boy became an adult, and vowed to change his ways. He went up to the temple in the mountains, and spoke with the wise fire-eating ascetics about becoming a priest. They gave him his blessings and thus the boy became an adult, and a priest for the fire in the mountains.

For the first year, he went about the villages, preaching and healing the sick. He took on his skill as a good listener to greater heights, by being a new age counsel in the city of night and lights. He followed the words and books of the fire in the mountain fervently, often quoting from it at length to make his point to the people, and although he did not preach to large crowds, and only in small groups, hundreds upon hundreds of villagers heard him, though only a handful understood him. He carried on his teachings for well over a year until the night he experienced his first brush with forces ill and dark, on the night he had those terrible visions, hallucinogen lights RED scorched all blindness with anger and he thus saw the RED MAN; the preternatural force that is feared and worshipped, standing before him

The story ends there and the pages following it till the end was blank.

The last book. The skin colored blank pages, 500 pages thick; a rectangular book it was and in it were half stories, scattered epics written in summary across dense and complex structures. Mind maps and charts, map sketches and key scenes were all mapped out in black ink, pages after pages but never completed. Many key character names were tabled with life histories following it but belonging to no particular narrative. The big pictures were there, but the meat and bones were missing

And Blood

Red and slightly blackish splashing across skin colored pages

The apocalypse of Saul. I AM King of Black. The common god of all that attracts. Worshipped as the elemnt ‘air’ in the orients, Gov’ning over the force of space Bothe of element and of metaphore In my heart are the stars In my environs, you see the colors I am psychedelic lore And the inner trip. I am king of black. and My name will make you infinite.

I AM Light and color I appear to you as nothing In silence, I am understood as sunyata I am the mystery of foundation The foundation of mystery Everything comes from me Everything returns to me I am your forever home I am Black The God of all space. I am mysterium eodinaire The mother/father ship Enjoined shifter of states Little is known about me. I Am Black matter The unknown space that unites the universe In my bosom are the stars I watch all planets evolve.

No nebulae escapes my knowledge No supernovae is gone unwitnessed I am space The sun is my left eye The moon is my right And though I am watchful Over both your nights and days I am forever black. Forever extending Forever recurring. I am space INT/EXT Look up at me And you shall see me Look into me and you shall feel me, I am above you And within you Ever present. I Am The angel of the black

Book 3 Frictional Frictional – 2003 A postmodern gathering.

Activity. Activate. Accentuate

Â I say what a day, raincoats with holes and the rain like acid, drop by drop burning through my skin. It reached my bones by the time i reached the shelter and the people in front of the posh pink hotel gasped and screamed as my flesh slid off my frame to bubble in a red-black mess on the floor. What carpeting destroyed! The guards came running out with their little guns when they heard the screaming because they figured "a terrorist attack!" They all apparently froze upon seeing me, half in flesh half in bones turning to white bubbling calcium. and they kept firing those puny guns! I say man, it was deafening, i told them to turn it down but they couldn't hear me. a bullet took off half my left face and i was terribly upset by the loss of my cheekbones so I started screaming instead. I wonder why the hotel collapsed. I didn't yell that loud. *shrugs

"After they start barking, then how?" ignore them. you know that bloke who kept mumbling about acid rain and guns blowing off the side of his face? he has more than one face. I know because i killed him. i ate him. i gave birth to him. i made him pregnant with my monstrosities. i create and destroy him anytime i want. and now he deserves to be a pool of wet flesh. So that is what he is. object me. and i will choke you with dark soot. I am the bringer of mortal/frictional death. Angel of the literary nightmare. The headless that stands behind your door as you come home alone.....

Then it moved.

i could hear the ground sizzle with its spit. i could feel its tortured psyche move in the air like electricity. Then it spoke: "You call this a meta-deal key book? where is the blood that i wanted? where are their cold dead hearts? DO you want to keep me hungry forever? Do you want me to stop giving you life?" I had no other choice but to tell him "Yes. It is death i want." "you're fucking insane old man. Death is a terrible place to be." "YOU are a terrible thing to deal with, so i'll take my chances. I think death can deal me a better deck of cards." i said. I lit a cigarette. "You have balls Book man. and what do you think you will gain from trying to run from me?" "I will gain a new state" i told him "then i'm coming back to kill you."

Â " I don't kill couples for fun." said the thing. i could smell it breathing in the corner of this dark and haunted alley in New Bronx. "EVERYONE vents their bloody anger in there." The deadclown said, pointing to the LCD monitor. ... so the stylized, oh you "sleepy driftwood covered in mud (but the mud sinks) deeper deeper to where the other bodies are (you sick bastard!) i've heard her scream enough. Now you are no more tongue." car horns explode. The sweltering heat. waves and waves of broiling heat rising from the hood of cars, into the metallic trees, the aluminium leaves turning hotter hotter till it falls off and scalds the faces of the make-up beauties. Unaware, their skin starts cooking, the smell of flesh stirring up my high-hunger. The backstreets are always there, always poorly lit. with white smoke gushing out of open manholes, the flickering orange light from mutilated streetlamps, there to give the place the look of a rundown warehouse. rubble on the sides, old bloodstains on the walls, the broken windows, spirits that refuse to acknowledge the death of their brutalized bodies. The terror of past still haunts these backstreets.

And it is in this place that i was reborn. when i became a meta-dealer. The House of Ihiir the mopium noom ascetics hijacks the story-arc Enter the 'errorists' CTRL_ALT+DEL bounty hunters set to dis-construct the meta-dealers. what terrible fancy they have. barefoot, skin, bones with a mind empowered by surrealisme. Star attractors in the world of Cirqu reading, watching, playing, HUNTING. "fearsome, fear them, come they be, the bringer of doom from the dimension of Mopium. Terrible monstroCITIES from the mind of noom-the=ascetic-king-of-thewarcraftian entities. behold the ghosts of anti-thesis. The streets in daylight. Less terror-filled. a sort of calm. a tall thin shadow moves by my side. I turn and it is gone. I think of them,, "the Ascetics" I think they are making themselves known to me. Telling me somehow, through my thoughts that "we are still here" Awake. Insomnia. I am thinking of how alien they are. They occupy so much of my thoughts at times. Those tall, skin and bones men. Grey skinned. Luminous light glowing from their empty eye sockets. why did they choose to come to this plane? "We are Tribe" i hear. Ah, a Tribe. It makes a bit more sense now. Always i have been close to the tribes of all times-spaces-continuums. and they know i know. "You know, we know." They say. Then they leave me be the soul lights a cigarette spark, a quick burst of light through the mist rising from the steel drainage gate in the ground puddles of oil and water floatilla, a distant star shining in the ground where even demons had feared to tread but but what could be more terrible than the entities that frighten themselves? I tell you, its those glowing eyes, the nightmare jingle of cold steel against

bone, the bones of voodoo kings hanging like a masterpiece from the necks of skeleton ascetics hear them moving through the moist walls behind buildings the houseless ones shift from their sleep in cardboard boxes they hear the clanking of bones on bones they see shadows move from the corner of their eyes. They feel a promise being fulfilled, they smile in their stupor'd sleep and good good inside they feel for justice, no matter how scant, comes. the houseless kind feel rested in these backstreets for the ghosts of antithesis watches them like lightning before a storm in the sky. all is dark This meta-space moves. This city, always alive. The atmosphere always changing frequencies, energies, radiowaves, and sonar, among so many other things that we have not yet perceived.

- The Coma Girl it has been 35 days since the meta-dealer was abandoned into the meta-city, with the life of the coma girl in his hands, and all other portals closed. It never rained over those days but the skies and winds were always chilling, in way of terror rather than atmospheric. now, Meta-city For a long while , it lay silent as the grave but it now stirs quietly. Moving slowly like a dawn into smoky skies, the darkness slowly receded and that rare rare light had begun to burn through the thickness and the confusion.

for years, the denizens of the meta-city had lived beneath a canopy of fear and twilight carnage but the prophesies of those who sleep upon the cold, desolate streets is beginning to realize itself. The hunger that once swept the dead city blocks began to shrink away before the dim but growing light. "The coma girl is awakening" some of the children would cry out, weakly but confidently. And the elders watched their children through shimmering tears for they shall soon taste the bliss of Hope Hope that there would soon be a home, a true, peaceful home for everyone. and Hope that

the veil of darkness and disturbance would soon be lifted.

In the skies, the frequencies began its shifting as parallel universes underwent their respective recalibrations. IN the distant galaxies, entities, once disregarded by men but now constantly called upon, had decided the next course of action for the meta-city.

At the council of Ihiir, The Great Elder of Balthazar said, " our need for intervention has come, for far too long has this meta-city endured the terrors and nightmares of the meta-dealers. The ghosts of anti-thesis shall receive our viral gifts and with those gifts, shall 'the ascetics' be empowered to engage and remove the thorn that haunts the heart of this city. all but one meta-dealer shall perish in this night of reckoning and by the sacred staff of Istarist, I, Immanuel Balthazar, call upon the entities of protection to descend onto the meta dealer called Saul, to protect him from the onslaughtering."

and with that invocation, the Lords of the House of Balthazar and Lore initiated the Viral Gifts, thus beginning the War that would be called "The Night of

The Ascetic Armagedda"

so far from the original intention, this postmodern gathering had evolved from a playground of hoaxes into a story arc of Epicus. For those who had vaguely followed The Frictional through its metamorphoses, understand that its storyverse was never rooted in linearity or sense as you and i understand

the term. Its creator is ill, dis-eased by his ownmind that had sabotaged his own spirit time and again.

Things are changing. A War has begun. One Meta-dealer shall escape THe NIght OF Ascetic Armagedda but with a price that is beyond comprehension.

soon, the Coma-Girl shall awaken and the full story shall be told.

Be patient.

for the sake of all denizens of The Meta-city.

Be patient. I know you will read this listen to me, please. my beloved. your understanding is the only thing that would save me. although you sleep your endless sleep and may not see inside my turmoil and my urgency to see you alive and before me, awake and with that light in your eyes; i pray that you would know how i feel as i stay here beside your sleeping form watching you sleep, watching your chest gently rise and fall in your peacefulness every breath of yours is a moment extended for me, taking me further away from my own sanity foryour absence in spirit leaves me dry, leaves me starving for life. i want to touch your face as it is flushed with heat i want to hold your heart as it beats alive in me I need you.

our world is ending my love, soon the ascetics will win for us the paradise we have so longed for but soon is still so far away as you are so far away and paradise is meaningless for me if i cannot be with you there.

don't leave me like this my love, please. Awake. the demons that i have dealt with will still not let me be, they will still haunt me and hunt me leaving me on the edge of death but never allowing me to die for they enjoy my pain,. The only way that i can survive them is to burn with a passion for you. your presence keeps me here, keeps meintact. awake soon my love i can hold on but not forever I love you.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve waited so long for you to come back, my coma-girl, you with no name; but you still lay asleep, in your state of silence, unaware that I am here hoping, waiting endlessly. Listen my love, the world that we know is ending, the metacity has entered its end stage where the darkness of the skies would soon be lifted. How I wish you would be awake with me when we see the final end to our exile. It has been countless of years, it seemed forever that we had been here and though all the while you have been deeply asleep, I lay awake with you and for you so I can tell you about the pains and the turbulence we had to go through this time of purgatory on earth. Not to recount to you the terror for the sake of reliving it, but more to compare it to the joy I know we will find once this is all over. But its finally ending, like I have said before and will continue to say until it truly ends, for I have to keep this hope alive, for us, for you for the entire race that have been left behind since the first ravaging mind wave. In our normal existence of time and space, it would only be a few days away till the new year comes and we wait with anticipation and prayers. Prayers that for so long have gone unheeded, prayers that have brought us here, to the now when soon we shall be liberated. Hang on my love, soon your eyes shall open to see the sun again, I know it inside me, inside all of us who have survived the meta city and its monstrosities, we know that there will be a dawn. Just wait with us, your prophecy will be real, will be true and you will return.

Only you can save us my love, only you can save me. The first signs arrived yesterday, when I had felt the world around me shift in its energies. The fear that we have so long been accustomed to, turned against itself and I heard the tribal drums of the ascetics in the distance, beating out its war cry, its call to arms and for once I smiled inside, a smile that goes beyond any real comprehension. To smile is an act that is truly too simple, too underestimated a word, too mundane a sound to express the freedom that hangs close to our hearts. We were in the bare structure of the church when we heard the sounds, the drums and we rushed to the windows, for the first time not fearing that a sharp shadows of the meta-dealers would grab us by our souls to strike us into eternal pain and loose us in the hell that they created. My heart was breaking up again for I first thought that we had finally lost our minds and was starting to hear the things we so desperately craved to hear. The sounds of freedom beating in the distance But it was real for the homeless ones, who had once dreamed of this moment stumbled into the broken church crying out â&#x20AC;&#x153;it is here., the end of our exile, The Ascetic Aramagedda has arrived!â&#x20AC;? and we banded together, in the cold and peered out into the haunted streets and saw the red energies of the light that had haunted us for so long turn dim and the shrieking of the meta-dealers began. The sound was terrible and at the same time beautiful for the nightmare spirits that had torn humanity apart since the mind wave was now being torn apart by the ghosts of anti-thesis. Red lighting flashed madly in the skies and the clouds of black smoke swirled and broke apart, exposing bits of true space, allowing the simple light of distant stars to shine through. The forms of those dead buildings rose in to the night sky, the concrete black with soot, charred and cold. They stood like markers, like tombstones in a city that was left for dead after earth and her children had died so many years ago. But now 53

these buildings stood as monuments of expectations, and of hope for it was within these buildings where the war really took place. Strange black blood seeped from the walls as meta-dealers perished one by one by the hands of the skeleton monks. One could hear the jangle of bones on bones rushing through the empty hallways and lobbies. One could hear the low growls of the ascetics as they hunted down the meta dealers, infecting them with the viral toxins that would turn their dark souls into pits of fire. and the sound of fire burning was like the sound of corpses screaming through rotting throats, a guttural song in disaster, a noise that only the dead can make for dead ears and dead minds and darkness. The sound of darkness falling I will leave this memory of this world behind. And take you with me. The world that we haunted ourselves in is falling away fast. I hold your hand now, you are still asleep but it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter Because the final blinding light will break through this dark world And when we are blinded we will see And we will awake with each other In an other time In another place Andâ&#x20AC;Ś "to save me" was a line of excuse. A queue down the lane of a molecular need. And the sleep of the coma girl was a caricature of the real creature that is breathing out its gaseous trauma. The beast raping the beauty shadowed in a bloodlust kill. A media event it seeked. killing for fame and not for catharsis or for the order in disorder, Or illness. the pathology fails. a criminalogical error.

Hold me now. before i kill again. i am trapped in an ocean of diseased confusion the war had ended, how long ago i cannot tell and there was supposed to be deliverance but no i am trapped between states between that demon and that angel tearing myself asunder God help me, i know you are real and you are here (Emmanuel) you are with us

but now there is dark confusion. i cannot tell where i am, physical>? psychic? in spiritual desolation?

i believed that i would awake with her, the coma girl but am i awake or am i dead in body but conscious in mind, trapped in another mind filled with these terrible noise and chaos

where am i? the war isover but the searing still haunts me God help me....... God Help me.... stripped from this logic inside there is a tearing apart a fading away. The coma girl is far away, further than we were when the war raged and she slept.

i am sucked into an alternative dimension. I saw a mirror image of myself and of a white flame being sucked into a window portal then they were gone. The 'they' that was 'we' and now I , alone. AM trapped in my own mind, in some space. Lost. Key had warned me. That damned creature of hellfire had told me of such things. The multi-verses. and so i must find myself, my way back to her , she whois somewhere. and i wonder how i would live without her. I wonder now too how would i survive all this.?

The tensioning gulf this haunting space the anti-love disrupting grace condemnation's claw piercing grip open jaws bloodied teeth fucking violence in this hole this is hell as hell foretold frictions realm abrasive tones dark. angular, forever

this is my graveyard home. black lizards scuttling across the surface of this mud/soot realm medication fails and brings no light/ the failure too of words and sentences informed by the falseness of life

the metadealer does not crash when he falls, he has stopped the sensation of falling and this realm he is in has stopped all of its voices

its a cliche to say only darkness is left with a stench its a cliche to say this is a nightmare but here, all cliche fails, all attempts to document fails. This place has no logic darkness is a logic, a conceptual logical 'thing' there is no

WRITINGS ON THE OUTHER SIDE. SAUL enters the market place. The subcultures are loose on the streets. He begins to speak. Hear ye november’s chylde. nicotania deprived in this sun and grim cloud day how intensive the streets are, afternoon blaze and discomfort the new lease of life comes out, filling the many inroads and paths with the young loud and forgetful and all the devils have come out; the mockers and the hollow ghosts drifting through the white club. staring at beautiful souls face to face without them ever knowing seeking the recesses of their heart, to fill them with hollow horrors and blind journeys. so intervened did I with historical source and in confrontatia, i lost my pewter cross traded, returned to the father in exchange for his defensive hand; Fronted by the imagerie of Mary and the father of Christ, and the saints of hopelessness and celestial war against the low frequency ghosts of Inferia The white club still haunted me through my sleep a remnant presence, structure'd and set-‐up where the eyes of provocateurs roam the sea of young where the many tall and disturbed come out to hunt. Pay attention you celebratory people for the thieves are coming for the serpents are loose Be watchful in the night for In dire november it is unlike any other night. 58

ELSEWHERE THE THIRD DAY OF RAIN IN DIRE NOVEMEBER> we all are freezing in our redemptions. we've lost our tickets to the fair From beyond the hill, i descended into the northern village. I had been walking for days and nights; and much needed a place to rest. I entered the village, head bowed, not wanting to firghten them. I look for the inn keeper. "what manner of creature art thou?"The doorman asks. The villagers do not know me. The inn keeper remarks. "art thou from the fair? from the hidden stages?" "no. i turned away from the carnival, i do not come from it." They all laugh at me, as i sling my brown hash bag down my second back. "you are a devil's creature!" The blacksmith offered "nay, a changeling!" another argued. "i am neither good sirs." I try to reason with them, "i mean you all no harm." "we should burn this beast!" others cried. "off with its head!" shouted a mother with babe in arms. "yes yes! snare and torture and brutalize its kind!" A din is raised around me. They all advance. I try to not let my horns and claws and teeth grow but sometimes even i have no control over me. They all advance. 59

and i feel a sadness wash over me. then something red wells up inside... much later only much later The rain puts out the fires in the village. I thank my goddess for it. Perhaps it is for the better that i had breathed fire following my rage. perhaps its much better to have the bodies burned rather than buried. I am cold. I didn't wish to do such things, especially to humans, a supposedly intelligent race. but they had left me with no choice.

TEMPLE OF MYSTERY black of night i recall the spirit colours. RED the inevitable. Black, the eternal Orange the NBLR. disco church 60

old stentorian chief beckoning "The day of reckoning is near." The gong is struck three times. Cosmic patterns. He sees. through all the music and pop literature. She sees. fervently writing with no stop a refraction of my loaded past. I see with sight new, duty weighted calling, loud. The cards. Though none spoke to me I had already spoken back. The Grace. how old we will grow together. The Temple of mystery till the end, the ever present. The moon, Diana. till i am with you again. To my people. I hold all of you in my heart. Post 11:11 Posted 11:12 Imagination is an altered state of consciousness entered at will The forces i know are primal perceived as futurist The only way i can truly use a deck as a tool is to create one of my own. great

great accident in brain stomach empty no see futuere bright big accident in brain only now bright big big light make I blind. I blind, hand move everywhere to walk great accident in brain. other I coming out in brain I feel other I Other I become I see the green smoking plant I am sit down make fire with stone green smoking plant in hand i make like moon find stick, i go, big stick, take out body leave skin use sharp stone sharp stone break wood make body come out leave hard skin green smoking thing put in hole i make fire make fire and burn green smoking thing i breath hard i braeth hard accident in brain.

SICKMATA The sadhu, fascinated with their pipes offer me more, of their mythic smoke and in my secretion and in my half-dazed pain of being in anotehr dimension, they tell me of more patterns "you have heard the voice of your eternal she, and saw her as a woman, and now, though oracular, 62

she still takes the beating so that on her verge of crying you feel terrible cold on your spine The same world you are beginning to reject has hurt her and now your vengeance have taken root in the posion you kept up for your sacred curse be warned when the Lord mighty has lost his patience so you, the dam shall break and gust forth will be your crumbling words sanctioned to detail the elaborate fall how filled with contempt you've been against the lights and disparate distractions where whole beings are submerged in the magic act of the senses transform;'d through wicked dreaming and of childs play in uptown offices How fast we've grown to resemble each other where the things we despise become the only act to follow how we mirror our monstrosities how others become like us and we like the others does that not prove then the inherent theorem? that the circles between two thoughts cannot be a whole? wherin our experience differ in minutae degrees sufficient enough the be gestalted into idolatory where we worship the figure before as our selves blespheming against our natural order for we are gods only unto ourselves and tobe like someone else starts gods against each other and whereelse would such challenges be encountered here then on our borrowed land do our first mother be consumed but the sound of battle cries and steel mentala how catastrophic, the exchange of temples where memory, traded become demons destructa and how in our schizophrenia borned of attempts to merge are doomed to tell us the fervent secret that we hath become our originators 63

you can't get there from here how the fever hits a terrible outspelling all..you..people...' How ironic the song sung on this sun, sank the heart the absent, the train ride farther in. 'i thirst.' our dying friend watcher of our little power games our failing lessons our mighty ressurections this phoenix have fled all roots in morality giv'n up upon the instance when the shamana descends chase the tail of the serpent sliding down the erect'd pile of mgick touching the ashen base of the world unknown of a destitute city bathed in eternal red light 64

O'how our purgatory had come. - Excerpts from "Our song to the red city." oral tradition. unpublished.

Book 4 The disjointed book of

R By Anon Ra

WARNING CONTAINS EXPLICIT SCENES.

RELEASE Red scent descending in the air, of night, of overcrowded skies. Travel past the iron gates, locked and consum’d in its own chains of satisfaction. A peering into the dark formless alleyways, with the distilled fog rising from subterranea I eye the red sky descend the harrowing cat calls of night, circumventing the whores who stand aligned by the road shores, selling swollen vaginal caves to their barbaric counterparts. This terrible city, I can smell its stench from this looming monster I’m in, riding the graven road to the Hangman;s Hall. Sleet the killer debris falls from a vengeful god, piercing the denizens of old who have been called upon and found wanting. There is no writ on the walls of this babylonia for its towering concrete watchers are in itself beastly and uncommon to the hiding folk. I smell blood in the air tonight and the monster beneath me writhes, its wheels stopping in its own tracks, fearing or disallowed to move forward, I cannot recall. I crawl out of the beast and onto the streets paved with the tears of surrendered debutantes. I follow the sense and that of her calling. Her voice. What sounds that come from a cave sealed shut in stone. Blacker the night becomes and the broken rays from the broken spheres above illumine the sea that curses the ground it drowns in. The drains clogged with rags and discarded clothes. Walk, pace down the ways of the streets, twisting and turning deeper into the suicidal state of a mind in complicata. I hear the angles of the deceased and I follow her trail, a sleek lady in black that once was a witch. Elongated hair twisted and thick and I followed her cries through the haunted streets of blacknoia. At the other end she turns the distance and I follow the other red call of her voice. The monsters by the roads grate their metal into wood and stone as they screech across the busy streets where the gangsters have come out to fornicate with the transvestite mafiasoma, The many caved creature of theater. He laughing orgasm screams against the chasm of the opening broils in the sky. The denizen runs under the inferno rain and we enter the caverns of this drenched and violated city. The tunnels are hot and the stations packed with the homeless crusaders and bums and street dwellers of the city. “The hanging halls are calling calling” they echo sometimes in unison but most of the time not. I need to be where the selected are, this noise here obscures me. I can feel their horrid resonance 68

in my bones. The place shifts the streets above become the streets below and I am by the road again, the black horses pull their carriages of callous young men with their leading ladies. The eve of all saints bring them out in to the city tonight and every other night for ceases not the celebrations of the witch craftian age. I ascend the subway womb and enter the streets above, a different clash of nanotechnology and organic street culture. The time seems too distanced and obfuscated. The wrong future the wrong age. Follow her call Follow her voice. The drizzle comes upon these streets, the chill feels correct in the full moon shining yellow sick above. The moon turns red with every passing vehicle. Transvestites run from across the streets and in the rain I feel the hcill in my bones. I follow them. For they too hear her voice. The road is long and the clubs and puring liquid light out with the music to suck in the neon-‐age in early new millennium. 2006. Red, The city of light ascends in the night, flashing her signs in the sky, awaiting her people. Young and adventurous in this sophisticated society they transverse different landscapes to find their soul dancing in intoxicate and the streak of electric druqs. I find this place similar to all the other levels of roads I travel. Tonight, the transvestites bring me to her. To the hanging halls where through her doors, your lives are changed. Your mind your language your state alters through the red doors where the transvestites had entered. The lull of the place is as archaic as the moon, for through those doors, she will be there. Waiting. Calling. I step through. I step through. Reeking of alcohol, smoke and exotic herbs, the elongated dingy room stank of too many battles fought, and wearisome clouds, more like a fog of dark nights in a soul less place. She was the only real soul here. She wasn’t on stage. But I can hear her breathing in this noise. The bar man is shouting the jukebox is screaming, the electric licks of a thousand guitars in a babble of noise. Midnight light twirls with the yellow moon, as littered stars fall in this lounge at the end of the world. red bulbs flare in the distance, photographers scurry across the room like insects their circular eyes light up like healdights. Heavy men with sheens of sweat sit in their too small chairs waiting for her to come out. A deep rooted voice takes hold speaking thus 69

How much these hatred feels, how much past these dark visions have. Drawn with their elongated snakes into the pit of the goddess. Verily like an omen I heard these words and the crowd in the room had thickened, and the density of these souls begin the weight me down. I find a seat, steady and intoxicated with the energies in the room. The slink of a waitress arrives, smelling of cheap sex and homeless mothers. “watcha drinkin stranger?” a perfect drawl, too much heroin. “lady A.” “oooooambitious boy aintcha.” She steals a wink but I search for the tobacco. She departs and my head forms mine thoughts closer knit across the mind of a many poets. Through the doors they say the ghost changes, and so in my skin, the wetness of the place crawls and I am transformed, first in thought then in senses. The fog, lifted, sinks its claws into gravity and humbles her. The weight of this world solidifies in my bones. A shiver runs through me and my thoughts become clearer, less abstracted, focused on her breathing. The babble of noise continues with the whispers of middle aged gangsters filling my ears like a terrible hiss of a dead channel. I hear the breaths of the whores as they are enticed by the low voices of such dangerous men. I sense the damned wetness between their thighs and I tune out, as I tune out of the talk, dirty and confusing. The music pierces me in an uncontrollable rage and I fight to manage the noise in my head. I dampen the noise and tune out the music. Follow her heartbeat. Follow her heartbeat. A thousand erotic vessels flood my hearing and the thumping overwhelms me. I shut my eyes against the glare of the stage and the noise of rampant heartbeats fade away till there is only one. I hear it quiver…for it had felt mine eyes upon it. She now knows I am here. For I have heard the rhythm of her blood between the silences. Strangely this place changes, a metamorph unseen. And through the door, it is said, he who enters also changes. A jazz club now, its final form. The sweat is dense in the air, the hot breath of the trumpet players, exhaled, filling this volume, this exotic place. Around me the people are swinging, like some 1940’s joint. But so modern we’ve been, half of these people are clones. mimes in a horrid dance of master and puppet. There are other obersevrs here, quick eyes for a quick target, 70

RED

ROOT How the dogs had barked on the night of my initiation In the black room where the gas masks lay upon the wall All around us the sound of innocence dying An echo of life stirring the serpent in the gut How awaked it’d become Coiled and ancient, the prime ular of graheg. In the mist of my gruesome nakedness I knelt before the mother-‐ugly Obese, black skinned Di’ahrrah Her shroud of tight, tangled black worms Rose from her deform’d head Bulging cheeks and bruised lips Her flesh eaten eyes stare out at me Her large downward hanging breast Leaked of an oxide most foul from her poisoned nipple Blackened teeth cancerous

Her limp tongue slithers Like a slime most vile Speaking in thick choked gurgles of phlegm She said thus: Birth’d be the snake Dark green sickly black Writhing in the belly of the disaffected Come unto him, your awaited froth Come forth through his skin Crawling to serve your majestic dread. And graheg, the worm, innervates Opening its distended jaws Like the bloated python consuming the lamb And the lamb was sent forth to me In public, chained, the terrified daughter Screaming without sound And I saw the nauseating vision Of mother-‐ugly crawling upon all innocence Black worms slithering against the leather faced bride Naked in terrorum And she called me b y my secret name The Igniter of sights inhuman Grosteque, monstrous, unnatural. And I came forth to the unholy matrimony of bodies On all fours, masked, and collar’d

And mother-‐matron unlocked my face The gas masked exposed my red and accursed eyes For having sighted this act of disturbing union And I mounted the three-‐breasted monster mother Now altered in her ghastly pleasure Crushing beneath her, the writhing fragility Of a flower trapped on hurting fields Eyes rolled up behind impossible blinds The threshing lamb, soundless, eaten alive By powers, ravaging and let loose’d on this earth. I the initiator, Witness and caller of the many names Called forth to be the father-‐diabolia The misaligner of family most foul. Card LUST. A fat , naked diseased skin man in a black leather head harness is hugging a bound and gagged girl from behind. His right arm is tucked up her tshirt, hand clamped on her left breast. His left hand is about to snake into the crotch of her white panties. She is screaming into her gag, her eyes wide with terror and tears.

and so in the third cycle of my online existance, the journal that architecture'd life among the electro-‐ muses was hijacked by the princes of skeleta. The rattling of their bones were heard when i arrived home at 4 in the morning some nights back. I was walking along the small roa dthat led to my watchtower when , from the trees, the inhuman calls of what sounded like prehistoric birds rang out across the echo of morning. The denizens of the village were all fast asleep in their cryptic dreaming; of unicorns and headless insects. The calls were not chilling but alternata. At the other side of the village, a car responded to the call, a gross impersonation of the inhuman cry for battle. I reached the watchtower where the golem on the platform above had dropped the red ropes ofR, a sign of welcome and happy return to the halls of R. I ascended, while feeling the presence of those otherworldly rattles. "sire" the golem greeted. "There are black bones waiting in in the room." i made my way across the main hall where mother-‐Afrioka had turned in the tide, the sea of salt crashing against the cabinets of my long-‐line of ancestral caligaris. The doors of the cabinets banged open and shut but i could not see the creatures hiding inside.... The mad priest of garheg, with his twisted hair of black pine trees emerged from the ravaging kitchen. "Do you want to eat the feet of the children?" He asked in his bubbling groan. 77

"No, keep them." He grins as i enter the sanctuary. The room was dark, and stank of dog piss and heat. Black oblivion crept from the bed where there was a bundle, a shivering creature beneath it. Around the bed the skeleta stood, in the black singing bones and chattering teeth, teaching and telling me of their ways before I execute mine. I brought out my culinary tools, the fork knife and the blade, the burning hand and the eye of dystopia. And the skeleta watched me as i unveiled the creature beneath the blanket....

RAPE. Reminisce her sweet young face, daughter earth. Goddess in skin, fresh with her flowers and birds. Light blue skies in the white clouds of yonder she reveals. Fertile grounds, untouched and new. Birdsong escapes the distant depths but the beauty we behold end with the disturbance. The river turned black, taut and unwinding around and around her; hard and impenetrable. Clumps of the river caught in the 78

channel, unmoving, coagulated, choked. There is a growl in the near distance and fear descends. Raindrops, sheens of rain slowly falling. A cold wind rises in the gut of the earth and in the beast, who standeth before her fair fields. Upon many thunders he doth make presence, riding the black fabric of the universe into the elongated spear of quakes and violation. The earth turns, bound in her orbit, grasped in the ten-‐fold storm of the senseless man. From subterranea he comes, from forces primal like that of fire. In ill mannerism he progressed upon his hairy feet and rude tongue. The early man chances upon the gold mine of the dirt. He proclaims the door to infinity. Progress. Forward. The light of reason comes on in the dark, and we witness the trembling creature. Innocent and without sin, till the towering beast from above descends with fruit of dis-‐pleasurable knowledge. For to know light is to know dark and to know serenity is to know terror. Terrors in the night. Her charming sun decreases in his light and plunged is she into worlds black, for the blackening clouds seals off the moon light sight and her grounds are left in blindness. Only a guttural noise escapes her quivering body, the atmosphere changing as her ocean awaits in a sunless land. The thunders had loosed the top of mountains, and upon the crumbling rocks of her world, her caves are sealed. Some only temporary. The first quake ends and the beast of the asteroid arrives. Forward, the smaller rocks streak through her air then slow fall onto her. The night is unveiled as the moon is known to rise. Minute by minute, unveiling all manner of creatures of the night time scared and the vulnerable and of the predators that prowl in fields dark, watchers in the trees, worms in the ground, snakes in the lairs. The rain continues to fall upon her nimble grounds as the second series of thunders came forth from the beast of man. Four times he thundered for In nakedness he strips the earth, layer by layer to clothe his absence from eternity. In the first thunder, He brought the winds that tore her flower beds asunder. From the lower north to the south, the petals were stripped from their stalks, one by one till her raw ground beneath exposed. The unsettled nests now in upheaval, lay bare before the beast. Sheet of snow, covers her lands and in the storm that came with gentle violence, did remov’d the ice. From her core, a burst of energy escapes and the lands shook, defying the thunders and the beast of man. But the man advanced, with his army of labourers, enslaved to their masters voice, through the square boxes that shine a kind of light, filled with life and its counterpart, lie. And she tried to stop him but bound only to herself, there was no one else to protect her, for her sun had gone and the stars only looked on from millions of light years away. 79

In the second thunder, came the sound of the swelling seas, her skirted islands shunned the spread of eagles flight across her blank sky. In the white heat of her light, it is removed and darkness falls across the land. Into her mnystery the tyrant mystic penetrates The soul defiler enters And in the world, all remains dark.

REVELATION ONE

RECOVERY

RED MAN In the lounge the prince of skeleta asks, “who is the RED MAN? He who intervened.”

“and he is coming.”

REVELATION TWO And so it was writ /Many the transgressors gathered To savour the sweat of R in the air The sweet succinct voice of retribution/

Tonight it shall come to pass.

“As with three of us, your monsters were created, so it shall be three of us when you all shall be destroyed.”

“I must betray and kill my own demon/mother.”

RECKONING

The RED MAN cometh People in the sanctuary. Finders of the transgressors The executioners of judgements red hand.

Then the red man came and in my world, there came a shrill like the slaughter haus of banshees.

REST

END LINES I’ve started everywhere in this booke; this enigma encyclopedia that surrounds theunfathomable RED IDOL. So much was spoken about it yet nothing had come to mean something in particular. The vagueries havetaken over completely; strange voicesof music tells us of suns and of afterlife, and of echoes across space and ime. And its ghosts still linger above us like a zeitgeist. A zeitgeist. In the end, it was a zeitgeistthat came t hrough our time, through our lives an dtook parts of us with it. Like a terrible descending predatory bird, larger than our universe yet always contained, within the multiverse, the many worlds, which in total number always growing, will always be that greater thing beyond our lives in this universe. This earth that all of you know and have come to love. But how terirbke a price we may for our misanderings, for forever our minds are transformed by the depth of this study. For only when you have studied these texts of experimata will you truly understand the difficulty in keeping all of it together. A zeitgeist had come and all we thought we knew will come to pass. All that we know will die, our ‘immortal’ ideas. Our progressive imagination. Who are you? Who are we? When we’ve accepted that we are everyone else in line. How can we ever understand this, if not for a moment we had bene thrust in that flash of vision and understanding when we’ve entere dour minds into someone else thorugh our own. The author of this book may have been crying writing this. He may have been desperate and alone and dying. He may have been an elaborate prankster. He may have been someone slover but in the 83

end we don’t know. We may know, soon enough, when the tears in our eyes have healed. How haveyou read it ? my beloev dreader? How will you ever understand me. A plea? No A zeitgeist had come and gone. And part of me has gone with it. 05 hours 34 minutes left to zero hour. WHITE SPACE Empty And there I saw Jesu. And he said, “I didn’t know you could do this.” And is aid, “do what?” The future consumes me and along with it its sister names, fuetere, fueter, faeteur, futuore arrives And I became the electric RED in their incantations Of acidic flood in hex 0000 84

The spirit that is yet to be The spirit that I have yet to become. The mysterium third mind. Backward glancing vision from the future And I traveled between it This time an dthat time In all our illusions of time And from the future I came And I have become the RED MAN. Opera of the sand king

Ungratefil were the hghooves Of the sand colored horse Unable to keep still Fear eating it like insects The stallion’s rider Looks north, graven His facem eyes locked In danger Watching the horizon Breath bated Waiting For what myths called “The bleeding of the sky”

the horse is disturbed grunting, exhalations deep the sand is eating into thebv ooves and legs The sand king cannot do a thing about it They sky begins to bleed Through the ashen sandy atmosphere Comes blood in fire RED, like an inferno Sprawling from a wound across the heaven

Book 5 Alternata DIEM

A rupture by the zeitgeistic departure

Saul against the tide. (a dream in progress)

dying stories

“It is said, that one man’s demon is, another man’s weakness. And in weakness occurs death, in-repetitia and cyclical. Then death shall wear out the mighty And the weary shall wear out the cities you’ve built for death and her consort.”

Across the planet, in a remote city, a killer waits by the bed side of his victim; waiting for her to be roused from the chemical sleep he put her through. He waits, also, for the voice to tell him what to do; how to handle her. his patience wears thin, for he had waited for the last three days for the voice. For the message. for the answer. He waits.

across the other side of the earth, in a high-rise suburban neighborhood, a much younger man tosses and turns in bed. it has been three days since he had visioned the toxic death of a nameless man. Three days since he had seen the killer waiting by the side of the bed where his victim lay unconscious. she is unconscious, chained, defenseless and the young man who visions this, is restless, and struggling not to think more about the woman, because it will only make him think those thoughts, do those actions, and fulfill his erotic desire for erotic death. He struggles not to play out his private fantasy but his flesh is weak. He touches himself then stops. does it again then holds back. The pain becomes worse every night. He thinks he will slip tonight, break the vow for a few seconds of bliss. he pleads with his other self, pleads for it to let him go and allow him rest and concentration but the desires won’t leave him. a heat rises in his body, his mind rushing with random methods of murder. He fights, as he had always fought but in the end, he slips.

a voice is heard across the planet. in the city. in the unlit apartment. a man is dead in his own bathtub, his body shriveled up like a dry prune and shrunken, open jawed, skin turning a paler blue. The killer hears the voice and is finally set free. 87

In a village, a girl is walking in the dense forest. She falls to her knees. crows suddenly flutter overhead like panicked birds. she begins vomiting. she calls her father between each surge of sickness. she calls her father, the village shaman, to come. “father…the land has stopped breathing…father…”

a wolf runs through the dense forest towards the sound of a vomiting girl.

the killer walks by the city light. soon the sun shall rise and he shall be in agony, but for now he stalks the streets. Looking for that next turn, that next alley way, the next victim.

the village girl is brought back to her hut. Her eyes are wide with being scared. Her father is allowing the grey smoke from the pipe to wash over her, to clear the way so that he can see what she had seen. He calls upon his ancestors, those powerful enough to transverse death, to come explain to him the plight of his daughter and the sickness that has gripped her.

Across the earth, in a semi-darkened room, a young man writes. He writes a story about a village girl and a victim, and a killer. He has no more use for the dead man in the bathtub. such toxic death makes him sick. He writes about all of them for he sees all of them in his heart and in his mind. tired and restless, he looks for living answers among the dead, the dying and the sick. He calls upon each of them, and they come to him in the form of pain, twisted and aching, subtle and overwhelming. his body feels cold. The stillness of the air discomforts him.

He hears the sound of a village girl crying. the sound of angry elders. the sound of a shaman coming like a storm over the horizon as the sun slowly moves toward morning. But the skies are silent and the silence scream back, her last drawn breath of free air.

50 years old. 88

PAUL 9/9/08 12:07 AM Comment: Little girl

Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s supposed to be retired but they needed him for the case. one of the life cycles had dropped dead in the desert, but its mind overshadowed that of the current cycle. for a quarter of a life, the body lived with a surrogate mind. a ramnant. broken pieces of many lives. just a shard, a confusion. a mass confusion. this man sits in a coffeeshop, a few dawns after the last earth had ended. everything of earth now as it is seen are suspended memories. we're reliving off the memory of the earth as it fades away allowing us time to adjust to our abrupt end. language breaks down even in safe structures. certain words have changed meaning. context appears non context. its difficult and compulsive. to argue to speak. focus. investigate. provide gestalt theorem. stop abstracting. the man is smoking a cigarette. only one, over and over again in looped time but his thoughts move foward, in the illusion of real time looking for answers. He waits at the coffee shop. writing in a little red book. drinking the always recurring iced tea with milk manipulating cigarettes, writing, watching the phone that pulses to life in a pale light. rock music in his ears. he thinks he builds he makes the connections. he waits. minus twenty four hours. it was easier yesterday. around the table with the other elders. reinventing histories instead of recovering them. the observed and influenced the tides of change over the game board over the grey smoke, lighthearted sinai & the holy ash bowl. speaking to each other with no words only thought. when telepathy had taken over television 89

PAUL 9/9/08 12:07 AM Comment: Shaman-mindspace

PAUL 9/9/08 12:07 AM Comment: Shaman-mindspaceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind

this was possible. only yesterday. now the days are traded. no more the easy yesteryears of the future. they've cut the lifeline to what was real abandoned us to this floatilla campaign of false thoughts. fast false fading thoughts. we shouldn't have opened fire.

PAUL 9/9/08 12:07 AM Comment: GUN

plus twenty four hours.

far removed from the subject of his enquiry the old man thinks of a methol cigarette and smokes it. he thinks of the abandonment of his own shores and now adrift in the landless sleep. the old woman behind him, standing next to her food stove is blind or appears blind. the white of her eyes like a pale glow of light, frightens those who watch her too long. she never sleeps. she stands there to keep herself warm in this winter. she sees and knows but she still wishes to sell her food. "even the dead, eat." she speaks to him. She sees that he is writing about her portraying her as a memory gone cold, knowing it is cold here. very cold.

in the end,i didn’t think it would be the little girl. Just me and her sitting on top of a car next to the world that is dead. she was trying to draw out the last breath of humanity on the little napkin that she found but the napkin was soggy and couldn’t take the ink from the pen she had pried from dead hands.I tried using the other pens that were around, to write out the last breath of the people on scrap paper that were lying around but everything was too damp. Too cold and wet. And quiet. The girl finally throws the pen to the floor and stares at the wet road. “none of these pens work.” i said to her, “here.” handing a few of them over, “throw them to the ground for me.” she shook her head, “you throw them, you’ll feel better that way and we’ll both feel better.” i 90

PAUL 9/9/08 12:07 AM Comment: Little girl

obliged her, tossing them far into many different directions. she seemed vaguely amused at first, then just another blank expression took over. “its stupid.” she said, she was listening to the soft ambient music coming from the black skies above. “what’s stupid?” “the music.” “its not stupid, its calm and nice.” “the world’s dead, of course everything is calm, maybe not so nice. but the music is just stupid. not right for this kind of time” i pushed myself off the car, and walked to the one opposite me. i checked to see if it was locked. she continued, “they should be playing some piano songs instead, you know the type that makes you think of summer gardens, and tea and big butterflies?” “i suppose” i told her, trying the other car handles. “you’re not listening to me.” she complains. “ i heard you i heard you.butterflies you said.” “tsk” she climbed off the car. “nothing good here,” i said, “come on, lets go find a cafe.” she tagged along as i walked off towards another road. “you hungry?” she asked me. “no,no,just wanted to see the cafe’s, ya know, with no one around, and no noise and action,i just wanted to see.” “they’re all the same.” “really?” “umm-hmm.” she skipped alongside me as i took my time, strolling along the abandoned cars, The bodies. She wasn’t scared of them, which surprised me, but then i thought, she’s older than me, she would’ve seen so much more and so much worse. “this whole place is stuipd.” she suddenly said. “now why you say something like that?” “it deserves to become like this.” “really? you think they brought all this on to themselves?” “its obvious that happened. look at all the faces of these dead people. they are terrified.” “i don’t know, some of them look sad.” “only a small few. i think they’re sad because they did what they could for all these others but they still died terrified. They were all terrified of the thing they neglected.” “and so the thing they neglected came back and... this happened?” “a whole lotta things happened at the same time but...yah...mostly, the thing they neglected came back.”

i wanted to be sure about what she was saying so i said, “the butterflies.” she looked up to me.

“you didnt forget the butterflies right? thats why we’re here. I never neglected them.” i nodded my head, we kept walking. “ i kept a few of them you know. i really loved them.” i didn’t quite know what to say to her. she then ran ahead of me, into one of the cafes. The music was still on. strange i thought, then remembered that the radio stations all ran on computers. i wondered when the last song would be played, or would it ever stop playing? was the systems caught in an eternal loop of music that never moved past the last music update? how long more till all the power ran out and the computers die alongside their makers? for a few moments those questions sounded like the most important ones in the world, then it just meant nothing at all, in contrast to the broader reality that was the present. she had vanished behind the counters, and i just settled into one of the window seats, playing with the teaspoon that stuck out of the sugar bottle. her voice came out loud from inside, “there’s some milk here,. and cakes. you want cakes?” “go ahead, i’m ok.” she came out with an unopened bottle of milk and a saucer with two 91

chocolate sponge cakes. “we don’t need to eat, i’m just greedy.” she said sheepishly. i just smiled a lilttle, and looked out of the frosting windows as she settled in to eat. i wished i could see more across the city in this blackness. what else more i wished to see, i didn’t know. there was everything for the naked eye then there was everything for the unseen eye; but we both had seen all, had seen it. The butterflies. i looked at the girl, not even 11 yet there was already so much heaviness in her eyes and at the same time, so much lightness because she was enjoying her chocolate cake and milk. i watched her eat. i couldn’t think of anything else to do. she licked chocolate sauce off her fingers. “is the sun really brighter at the other side?” she asked. i shrugged, “if the sun likes you. then maybe.” a rumble grew from the distance. she sounded a little more hurried, “they’re coming to take the place soon.” i peered out again to the blackness, “ yeah.” “i expected you to be older.” i looked at her. “i didn’t expect this at all.” “what did you expect?” “that i’d be dead. that someone else will take you and walk over.” “are you sad?” i couldn’t really answer her.”come on.” i said. “lets go the playground.” a deeper night had fallen. i tried to remember how long ago the last tick of the clock was but time becomes more elusive, harder to feel or believe.

everything's blurring out,my vision, sight, my breathing,my thinking. its becoming smaller, less important,more random. a ricochet of meaning in a deconstructed world. a slowly vanishing place. we couldn’t find the playground, and soon the roads started to lead no where and then the roads themselves stopped appearing. this place is colder, without the insects and the animals and the birds. didn’t matter that the humans were gone, what they left behind was already a testament to their apparent greatness. a chunk of wasted,reprocessed earth. a great amalgam that wouldnt speak now or make a sound. i cannot feel nature anymore.

she started sobbing quietly as we walked. i asked her as softly as i could without sounding like i was talking to a child. “why the tears?” “i’m starting forget.” “its ok you know. it all falls away faster and faster. hurts more to hold on, just let them pass alright?” 92

she stopped to hug my leg. i decided to treat her like a kid in the end, and carried her onto my back. she clung on to my neck and we walked. in no particular direction. for no real reason we walked. we weren’t even waiting. we just started to forget more and more. deeper the night came. the rumbling in the distance was softer, further. i walked, she slept a little, less thoughts came to my mind. we passed thegreat house by the lake. the one i always wanted to live in as a child. “hey,” i said softly to her, “you want to go in and sleep?” her reply was a soft“anything.” i knew she was already almost forgotten. without trouble, we got into the house and i carried her upstairs. the pictures, photos, and paintings on the walls were already forgotten, along with the furniture, bits of the ceiling, ornaments, showcases, glassware. largely forgotten, barren, sitting on empty tables and voiding drawers. emptying themselves of colors and forms.

i put her on a soft bed but she had woken up and wanted to sit up.”we staying here tonight? is this the long time place?” “as long as we can keep it here.”i assured her. “i want it colder.” she asked. i dug out whatever memory i had of this place around christmas and brought the temperature down. “can i have a nice bear to hold?” i had to break her heart but i knew she would understand. “i can’t honey, i’ve...forgotten.” “its ok.” she then looked at me, suddenly with a soft special feeling. “do you want to see her another”

“no” i cut her off. “not tonight anymore.” i needed a cigarette. “you gonna sleep?” “not yet. i want to...remember some people.” “ok.” i need to go find some cigarettes. you just sit tight alright?” she nodded her head and i left the room. I tried to remember. the foul distaste. the burnt offerings. skin on skin. Then the pack of menthol cigarettes turned up on the side table by the main door. a key or two was also there. the rumbling outside grew louder.

the girl started shouting, as if from a nightmare“come in! come in!”

i lit the cigarette and walked back to the room, locking the door behind me. i removed my shirt as my scars were moving, elongating like snakes along my body. there was no blood, for blood is forgotten. no more nakedness, for nakedness is forgotten. she had changed into a red dress and snuggled under the comforters. “they are coming. they are coming!’ she said excitedly. i wasn’t too sure. i was afraid. the rumbling got louder. i climbed into bed with her, held her in my arms. we closed our eyes then the crowds broke through the house, i could hear them knocking over whatever was left remembered outside. The first wave of the stampedes, the house was shaking under all that running. people running outside and through the house, hundreds dashing past like trains on many tracks, all moving in one direction, rapidly like wild waters, rushing rushing to remember the east and its sun. the girl hid under the covers. the people ran and never stopped to take us. but we knew that. no one would take us now. no one would wish to see us. the running eventually stopped. the sound of thundering feet on wood drew closer then farther then close then gone. the lamps in the house was still swaying. “didthey take everything?” the girl asked, like a timid mouse form under the covers. i needed to find that out too so i got out of the bed, to the window and i drew the curtains aside. it was true. it had happened. “the buildings are gone” i told her, after peering out into the ever darkness to realize there were no more tall dark figures in the distance. less stars too.”

“they won’t take all the stars.” “they were supposed to.” i said. “some are ours, they can’t take them, we take them. “ i considered what she said. it would be more difficult to travel but she was right. we had to take them. “how many can you carry?” “i wanna sleep, can we carry them after our sleep?” it was risky, she could be forgotten if she slept now but i didn’t want to push her. “i’ll keep an eye on you, so you wont be forgotten. sleep, sleep. i’ll help you take the stars tommorrow, whatever we can, then we forget this place.” “ok!” she was excited and she changed back into her blue pajamas while i was outside, remembering more cigarettes, a torchlight, three more keys and a bottle of old wine for the night. and a gun. we needed a gun in case.

Most of the windows were gone, together with the second storey of the house. it wouldnt be raining so it was ok for the ceiling to be gone like that. by the time i returned to the room she was fast asleep, a sweet angel, too old to be going through all of this. i sat in an old wooden chair beneath the window, next to the bed. she had stopped breathing so that i could smoke and she could sleep deeper. it was harder to treat time when it had stopped, and no way to catch 94

the movement of hours or days when the sun was brighter on the other side, and winter pale over here. no use trying to keep a tab on things too much. i just clocked the gun, and smoked, mindlessly. thinking.keeping the images alive. a little at a time, we remember, don’t have to overcrowd the head with memories and foresight. we remember what we must, we protect who we must. i just sat there, sleep gone from emotion and heartbeat. a narrative unfolds within, reports of the static returning in an almost dead head. broadcasts lost but finding its way back through the many routes and it looks for gateways like me, who had long held night dear, to things of paradise and of dream. the waveforms move through the deeper of night when children like her sleep. while it lulls her to not yet places, it stretches me, the points of flash moment and of eras, bringing me across to those doomsday times of the wars, beeping noises, air raid sirens. its a frightening stomp, the running soldiers, the war machine churning. a break in transmission. the girl is dreaming, a saviour like dream and it cuts away the home i find amidst the warring cities, the age old tanks, metallic death. i latch on to her dreaming, getting a feel but not intervening or even watching. this dream is for her alone, ushering her to safer places. i hear the static returning, a broadcast flickering only in the direction of up. see only when you look to the skies, above, the screens come on alive in black and white light static. transmission of older films and lives, largely lives, forgotten lives. she stirs in her sleep and i hold my breath. my thoughts alone swim too fast with her tide; i ease off, let the child sleep. i still hold the gun in my hand, day is no where now. day will not come. a few more hours, let her sleep. ;et her sleep. i try not to think, moving out of the room for a while, out of the door to the main step of the house. I look outward, more spaces have gone since i last looked. the satellites will come soon. to interpret what it recalls. i didn’t think it would be her. i had seen her before in the books, mostly sketches, rarely a detailed encounter or descriptor. no one could place her name or any age. hours before my professor had died, he said he could almost see the nature of her parents, their blood histories and alternate futures but never their names or faces. i was never obsessed with her, the way others were and that was why she had come with me. when you’re too close to it, you don’t see it for what it is. that was how she explained it to me, hours after the world had forgotten. but what she was, was never revealed, i was to be with her, the last two. that was all. several hours had passed i think, the night never changing anymore but the space around the house turning faster into the black. ocasisonally a building would be remembered, and its remnants would return. an arch of pillar, hallway or room, or chimney and windows. the bell tower of the old church had remained while everything else was forgotten. an hour or so before the girl woke, i saw through the window the first flash in the skies, followed by the rumble. it was colder butthere was more movement in the air, as if in replacement of what was forgotten, an aura of discovery had fashioned itself in the places of void. not an exciting newness, nor alien, but like a flashback, the rising sensations of a terminal time drug. she started humming in her sleep, just as the flashes got more regular, slowly she was returning, drawing her first breath, the first twitch of her finger. i leaned over her, “hey...you up?” she groaned a little then turned to her side; speaking into the pillow, “its always never far enough.” i thought she was talking in her sleep, “what’s never far?” i asked. keeping an eye on the window. “sleeping. its sleeping is never far enough. it carries so much with it. so much.” i didnt want to wake her but i had to. “i have to bring you to an end. get up, come on, you can tell me about sleeping never far enough later.” 95

“not sleeping never far enough Jester, its sleeping is never far enough. we can’t cross if its sleeping is always so near.” she pushes herself up and off the bed. “i want some milk.” she had lost me. i just sat there looking at her half awake eyes. the sudden crack of thunder made her scream a little while i ducked for no real reason. then i heard the sirens.

she panicked, jumped into bed, under the covers and starting telling herself to sleep. i clocked my gun. “honey stay awake! we can’t stay here!”

“sleep!, they will forget us when we sleep!” “no.,no, they know we’re here. lets go.”

that terrible sense of dread fills me, the burden of life, keeping alive, weighs down on me like deadweight. i become slower, my mind reels into absurdity. i lose control. i crave for the drugs to get me through but i know all that is over. its raw now, the mind, the body the spirit. no more alleviation, no more elevation. we had to live. i took the girl by her hand and we moved quickly to the back exit, through the house with no other floor, no ceiling and absent walls. the sirens were getting louder. a shrill screaming like banshees out for a kill. she sees the red lights flashing from far away at the hills. she realizes the buildings are forgotten. sleep. drugs.escape. blankness. all the things that we want chases us, lures us into its desperate corner. my body feels tense, like it will burst, or implode. pictures of broiling blood fill my mind. we are running through the open fields of black floor and black above. the air thins, we thin with it but slowly, translucent skin showing through our forgetting clothes. we dash to the side, eyes scrambling at least for a rocky road. i stop running, breath leaving me in heaves. i aim the gun toward the general direction of the sirens and fire. three maybe four shots streak across night, red tracers hunting red lights. a silver red bullet takes out one of the sirens. shatter spin. red shards of light. the other few bullets stray endlessly into oblivions.

they fire back.

PAUL 9/9/08 12:07 AM Comment: GUN

“here here!” she shouts at me pointing to the dirt road. a small relief floods me as my feet hits bare gravel. we run, i pick up a couple of rocks as we pass them. she runs ahead of me, following

the soil and the lightning in the distance. everything appears to happening in great distances, away from us, yet the thing that chases us seem closer, and the thing we seek seem further. more gun shots. i swerve left and right and keep going; my eye on the little girl in front of me. gun shots. i could feel them whir past. remember the words! i force myself, think! between bursts of breath, THINK! The words hit me like a train, i throw the rock foward, ahead of the girl i mutter the words.

the rock shatters the black space beyond. she abruptly stops running, long enough for me to reach her, just before she screams, to take her and cross over

to the other side. __

the satellite watches. it follows, it observes. a great distance below, the people watch the skies. they have waited. they now see and read the signs. they stare at me, and do not recognize a thing. i am uncomfortable lying down on this patch of space but the moon sets low tonight. if i turn, they shall be no light. they never really knew what had happened during the conference. it seems so long ago now. so distant. they crowd around the body in the sand. a storm wind is blowing in from the north. a red sprawling atmosphere recedes into the black of the western skies. there is blood in the blue sands but it does not come form the body of this dead shaman. it comes from the root of this entire space.

mindspace is wounded. bleeding. purging. its prince has stopped traveling. cold, half buried, no staff. unexpected perhaps. 97

PAUL 9/9/08 12:07 AM Comment: Shaman-mindspace

there were many things he had intended to do but in the end it is like this. no one would think that it would be her.

PAUL 9/9/08 12:07 AM Comment: Little girl

her last stop was AIRA, the healing oceans. the little girl had listened to the stories from AIRA herself, she too a little girl but she had not seen her man come her way. no.

he didnt come looking for healing. she understood that now standing over him, then kneeling. she did not shed a tear for it was murder somewhere else to cry.

years ago as she held his bloodied hand in that bloodied desert, she told him she was sorry that she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t there, near the sun to watch him coming. by then, his mind had been lost with the hundred or so followers who were massacred along him. they died with his words on their lips and this little girl was sorry. he shifted his dying visions from them to her and to them, especially the young mothers and babes in arms who were now one, with sand and blood. overhanging skies. her hand was in his and she long had forgiven him. they, who follow the blind, also do not see.

his death here was the first conviction. the lapse of truthfulness in words of believe. the heart in it, also lies. and the law returns, dearly, those who have to pay. the people had received back their witch doctors and medicine men, by the time the other night had come. with their healers came the news of one doctor who had not returned and shall not. He who is half buried in the sand of blood and mud.

there were whispers about the girl, and candles had come to be, lighted at windowsills of night sleep, an open window and invitation to her wandering spirit.

no one knew it was for her, the winter those nights. the shivering, has fallen, torrential,outrunning. the city hides behind the shelters as the storm passes through, torrential, testifying. all the first ones, marked again in history by the shapes of doors on their skin. doors opening. transcending those of the satellites. it is said that the blue desert know those who travel her. she listens but does not speak. the sands shift from under the feet of those who stand above the body of the dead crosser, and they are taken back to their places. it is said that this blue desert protects the people who walk through her, and she watches over their dead. the people read the signs and hold no thought of returning. the sands will keep him there and also take him where he needs to be. in the sand the small footprints also fade. swathes of pink glimmer through the alien landscapes. the eastern wind brings the shape of footprints elsewhere/ to the doorstep of others. __ 98

the train man shall listen to the voice that cometh unto him.

there is a first born who lives in the blue-light valley of the trains. from a young age he knew that when the fog comes, so do the trains; and from a young age, he had watched his father talk to the trainman. In camouflage overalls he spoke over cigarettes with microphones turned off. “There is no middle ground,” he says, “you either self-destruct or attain enlightenment.” Such an extreme memory of such a day in the white room. In the other colored rooms, different eras talk at once. The green room sits the elders with the young venturers. The blue room sees those who rest in front of screens from screens that eat their eyes; and the other room is where the dream makers are. Enter that room and find the many windows, blinking open and close, shuttered and tinted. We look out and see that The city is being rebuilt, as the mass people relay under the ground, bound in the spells of turning sleep and passing images from the lives they last had or, for some, lives they shall eventually lead. Here the superheroes turn in their costumes before they had seen its flash of colors. They trade their gifts of power for more hours of sleep, as the city is being rebuilt. The churches torn down, the feet of the walkers turn cold and fuzzy, lke a wave of electro sensation runing up and down the spines of those who sleep. A resonant voice waves through the chambers of the unmoving; reciting scripture and confessions from vast politico minds and pseudo christs. The buddha sits. as the voice waves through the terranean scapes and tunnles of obscene light. a resonant bassline creeps from the magma and the hollow cities in the earth but all who are here sleep the long sleep, preserving the memory and charm of the life now in metamorphose. Above, the city scales its own walls, the blue prints like a codex of myths, reforming into zones and levels and alleys. The cycles of many lives spiral upward into cinematic future sky, a screening of possible storms and auroras splashing color and form and light across vast empty space. Empty of life through the faulty lens we peer through, seeing nothing because the eye does not fit nor comprehend the forms that are already there, from another plane of reality. The constructing people move through the endless night. Beyond this dark facade, the sun cools like a dead ball suspended in a shifting universe. a different population roam the surfaces of the exhausted star, allowing their memories of the bright to sink into the heart of cold mother, wishing to wake this mammoth, for all things die in her sleep. the names of her many children are recited, almost invoked and the swim of memoriam fills her void of great father who has left. the walking grounds of the city in building is like throb of winter under a silent skin. boots crunch of ice formations, the soil turning darker with memory of blood. Like a pack of wild dogs, the watch doctors trail across the wastelands, scouring and scavenging the ramnants of memory from earths dead disciples. Halfburied in the mud and ashes are the lost books from libraries torn and discarded. plastic toys melt into the road and the trees are long dead in winter save the ornaments that glitter hang from festive strands of past. Nachtman von arzt is consumed by the force of nostalgia, vaguelt recalling the etheral face of his mother as she merged with the sun in her dying light. his father witnessed her ascension with bursts of anger and fire; his ponds and valleys quaking with his unreasoned song. in all of abandonment, Von arzt severed the current cycle and was reinvented in the wake of the sun going cold. at his own funeral, the 99

nocturnalis gathered about his casket to write the opening and end chapters on his pale blue skin. deep black inscriptions to bind and release the night-time voices. the whispering rose with the light of his breathing mind and the casket was abolished. He awoke again , with heart in pine and his father, a holocaust for the histories he so discerned and disdained. Dejecting the offer to trail his father to the apocalypt camp, N.V.A scarred his abdomen and temple with the oculus of deepening shadow, to watch the night as the city he adorns is reinvented.

__ “The people had heard their ghost-counsels speak of ‘he who traveled and never returned’ and the people called for a shrine to rise, and to mark the girl who had followed him.” The secretary paused. Scanned the scripture. “They want to invoke him to the next returning, Back into the objects, the fetish form. Return him to the cult her birth’d and ate.” She paused again. Stared into the grey bricked skies & generals flags. Condoning the military supreme; unsure of her surroundings. “He has other temples, thought to have burned in the last earth. Also, surrogate lives, one of which seem to have inspired parts and streaks in ours.” She puts out a deck of cards, foreign symbolism on each face in this state but nonetheless, always striking out. A red and black card. Overlay another, across, in spatial freedom. “two calling cards. “ continued the secretary to the generals tower, “ have never heard of the other one before. A chemical creature of key and time it feels. Both have numbers. We can call him. Call them both. Bring him back into his shrine.”

“The ancestrals,.” The generals echoed, from bricks of old, towerium bold and grey, “ The bell tolls for the congregation. Our blood has a muse for him. He will grow old and to be fifty. He will remember the chapel where he was slained before, when he ate of the flesh and blood.of kings .He knows us Miss D, and the smell of your wounds. You are but a sweet little girl.” And the towers enclosed her, mid-scream. And the bells, tolled for the congregation. __

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PAUL 9/9/08 12:07 AM Comment: Little girl

The field hands had stacked up the cars to burn them Sending heat to the upper buildings for its breathing and copulation. The memory of forests expands between the city streets. The canopy throws the slums in shadow, neon entrances to black locked doors. Faint smells of vomit and sweat and whiskey thumping faintly through the walls with t he sound and the rock. The lamp posts utter in orange night, a blur myopia, a stigma, an volition sight. Fighting with the vines for precious light The world cannot decide what is night and day The universe contracts in recollecting the coma-girl who had wept astray. wide asleep in one of the houses In that block of flats; The human-cage of surrealisme and goliath. During the time when the giants had walked Seen and awed among the skies. Unlike now in this silent era, when the humans had been too blind for their buildings and not those of the shadows in the sky, towering from our fertile land in our likeness but not being. Rising above, blockâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d, pigeon holed, inside the broiling room, not understood by the computing grounds. The coma-girl unmoves upon her bed and by the bed of infinite D. Timeless eternal she; Stroking the face of the girl who dreams of a white block of flats in star lighted canvas white Orion, all points of blur, thrice as seen by the human eye and she looks up for maps and directions home But like the static falsity of the twisted streets that twist and turn into each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dead end offers her no remorse or mercy for those who are lost and bear her name.

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She walks, barefoot, into wet concrete and rain on gravel - blood on sand. She stops to cry for her master and father. She stops to cry and does not wake. Asleep by the bed of most divined D Lost in chemical sleep; beneath the ravens wing of intrusion. Chains.

A boy writhes in sleep; an old man writhes with the worm in his gut Eld the sorcerer returns to his shivering daughter, who carries, faintly, the heads of his glorious messiahs. The forest is thinning out

Ai-FI crash. Fertility. Blue sand dunes. Mindspace recovers from a window burned in her scalp. The satellite crashes, broken left wing, stigmatized right eye, a bleeding cross in its side; exo-skeleton half-buried, bleeding. A hum, natural, surrounding, comes from a blue child, a salty wind in her hair, oceans frictions in her eyes, and vastness, vastness her small hands hold. Sun rising, turning the blue a darker hue, like evening crossing into an overcast morning. She lullabies the birdlings, pricked and hungry in their nests As the flight of the birds call across an echoed state. Reverberations in chamber city, hollowed out, vacant. A smell mixture of food, cooking wafts through the air The air excused of haze and smoke; through the smoke where scripture is sought And shamans are found dying.

Ai-Fi crash. Abortion. Severed constituency. A people parted but in awe of the fracture between states. Oh most holy ground of the mountainous chapter; recall us, our children and our dire home; offer us respite in our renovated stations in life, within this blue earth and her outside darkness. Six eyed ORION, look down upon us with your scepterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d sight and bring us thy retina for our heavenly food. 102

Ai-Fi clearance team report.

Crash site.

7:26am. The Templic mind has forgotten. Organic theft or abandonment un-certain’d. Requesting historical analysis. Preferred investigator, Arzt. Neumaan. Von. Second Half-light of Nachtman. Awaiting next emotive action.

End song “How long before i get in? before it starts before I begin?” – coldplay. The satellite watches.

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Fallen grain. A strange phenomena occurring. At this endline that never ends. Where are we ? The beginning or end? This song of vacant space, seeds of all our offspring, imaginations will bring forth with the multitudes. 104

And we begin again

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VIRILIiUM Movement 2

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Abortion of The book of saul

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strange nights on this monday morning as i slowly swim back into reality when my virus is over my disease at rest. i bind the monsters and greet the foreign lands i scream in music in my mind silent throughout this temple room i contemplate fredrick the indoors musician. i contemplate past takings the changing of hands and seasons cults and high priests. i have contemplated the inshores of heall where the fallen kings roam. i have contemplated satellites and the non-‐becoming. i have thought of you and you arrived. i have dreamt of you and you had called i have longed for you but you almost forgotten... always there

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but you... painkillers salbutamol pet medicine things to distract the anger of the body the open shore the empty ship this isolated art life. where is the writ? where is the prophecy? when does the building of the tome begin? how many pasts and how many futures how many names and how how many failures? how much numbness how much shivers where art thy worm that eatheth you within? where art thou lord red who sails the nazereth? where art your voice among these many voicings? but to whom am i speaking to

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when there's nothing there in the end? what then? when i'm nothing but a myth?

St, the cruxifei 1 October 31st. 2006. Jacob lore. In my visions, i was before the bloodied face of Christ, the crucified lord. I spat at him with tears in my eyes, and walked away. “saint, the crucifei” came the voice after me. I didn’t heed its call And now, with my mind lost in this train cabin, heading for alien soil, 50,000 miles away, I feel the pain coming back to my dampened spirit. The opiates had to come next. Straight into the blood stream, through the needles eye; masking the mind from the anger of the body. A desperate poison to calm the dire storm inside. I light up another cigarette, cool menthol swirling to ease the burning lung. I shoot up the crystal clear liquide. I lie down again. The fever had finally left me, the sweating have stopped, the visions, now just vague memories, flash now and then, like the ghost accuser of my irresponsible fate. Hours after my last vision of Christ, I took a cold shower to turn down the heat and under the spell of the iced water, I wanted to kill myself. How did it end up like this? How long have I been lying here, on the spoiled bed, drifting in and out of barbiturate sleep, dreaming opium dreams? How long have I been waiting, like a wounded steed, for deep night and calm psychedelics to take over this mind and body? I grope in the dark, reaching out for my glass of whiskey. I drain the glass, the alcohol burning my insides. I reach beyond the syringes and nuts to pick two more pills off the table. Nightmare blue and shut down white. A 112

second glass of whiskey washes them down. Just what I needed. A stronger concoction, to keep the wolves at bay. There is a space where the deep orange lights keep the winter from our safe havens. “there is space between the yellow lines.” I find myself lost on the train in my voice, or was it another’s? Gathering strength for the hail storms ahead. I see a woman in the distance. A distance. A distance. I’m shivering. Naked and sacrificed to memory and prophecy. Shivering in dire November, waiting for this train to end. I see her like a frozen image. “who?” “the girl. Barren. Eternal. Iconic. She holds a glass of absinth in her left hand.” I get lost in the eye of her storm, where all was calm, suspended, dreamed of. “you live in a tarot deck.” “no.” I said. “it’s the deck of saul.” My spine shivers with that name. magic passes through. Then dread, panic, oblivion. I struggle, because it isn’t I who speaks. The voice is alien. My voice is alien. She stands before me. black dress, thick and long dreadlocked hair that is greyed andb lack, streaked electric blue and red and purple. a dark, rich blend of witchcraft and fantasy, erotica and innocence. Virgin and witch. The child, the goddess.

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In her other hand she beheld a deck of cards. The universe beckons my moves. She calls to me Mother of idols. The gypsy queen, burning wood. Her beauty changes with the frequencies of the mind I snap out of it. The sea of barbiturate sleep. I’m sweating out the chemicals, the intoxicants. I’m in a heady mixture of dream and malformed thoughts. I see images and cards. The deck of saul…what kind of voice would speak such names? Why at this hour? Why in this month? On this train? My soul shudders, not in any evil sense, but it shudders with the knowledge that change is coming. Strange vibrations creep up my spine. Trembling with this train speeding to the glass city. 2 November 1st, 2006. Detective ‘mad’ Monroe. The mother is beautiful. Lying there naked. slashed up. but beautiful. I could see the soft folds of her hair, the parts not soiled with her blood. I could see she was young. Maybe mid thirties. But Where is the child? Where is the child? I hear her crying, but she’s not here… “detective.” We all know where the father is. Shriveled and “detective!” I return to the room from my thoughts. The nervous uniformed officer calling me seems startled. 114

“somethings happening… to the water..in the bathtub.” I think he;s about to puke. I rush in to the toilet in this small 2 room apartment. In the bathtub, in an upright fetal position, the dead husband is naked and shriveled. Skin blue, internal organs turned to slush and pouring out of his anus. Head twisted, Mouth agape, His tounge hangs out purple, his eyes half rolled up into his head. The bloodied water around him appears to be boiling slightly, with white mists rising. But it smells funny. Not the smell of blood and damp decay . it’s the chemical. The poison it seems, that killed this man. “everybody out.” I needed to be alone. I dug my pocket for the bottle of sand. The officers stumbled out one by one. I shut and lock the door. I open my bottle of black sand then around me and the body in the bathtub, I pour out and form a circle. “what dark beast would use such potions?” I queried. “la starf ba, nosh bish nu.” I invoked. The air around me crackled with disturbance. My spirit gimp appears. “Smell the sourness of this murder…” I call out to it. It forms , a small 14 year old figure trapped in black leather and pvc, climbing the wall like an insect. She’s wearing a full head harness with tubes running out of her nose. The tubes move like snakes, taking in the air. “find me the maker of this madness…” I tell it. I think of the girl. Where is the girl? I look around the toilet. I see a laundry basket. I dig through the used clothes as the gimp on the wall watches me through blindfolded eyes. I fish out a pair of the girls cotton panties. I dangle it closer to the gimp. The tubes snake towards the garment.

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“find me this girl.” I command it. “then kill the bastard that’s got her. va nosh lu bri har yeh.” I release it. I need to vomit. i break the circle, rush out of the room filled with waiting cops, dash across the street and to a metal dustbin. I puke up all the blood, sacrificed for this hunting. My stomach empties out, but I still purge. The muscles in my gut twists and pulls. After all these years, the sickness still hits me hard after invoking the gimp. After all these years, my soul still turns into a wild disturbance when she’s present. More mundane cops run out to me. are you all right all you all right they make so much god damn noise. “don’t touch me~!” I warn them. My head still spins. “Monroe! You sonofabitch, what the fuck are you doing here?” fucking f.b.i prick. He jabbers on. “arkash is OUR suspect and the last time I checked, we didn’t need a mumbo jumbo bastard psychic for our case.” In the house, the phone rings. The Agent babbles on, shouting at me like maniac. Its all a show for the boys in blue around us. Inside, he;s terrified of me. he knows who I am. he knows what I do. An officer calls out to me from the house. “thegirl! She’s alive and on the phone. We’re tapping the line right now to find her.” I suddenly vomit again. This time, making sure I caught some bile on the agent’s shoe. He curses. I do not hear him. I feel the gimp manifesting itself to the killer. She’s going for my kill. Officers run out the house. Urgency, panic. “we’ve got an address.” Against the hurt in my bones, I rush to the cruiser, sirens already blaring for the go. I try to steady my pain as we rush 116

to the scene. I try to find a safe haven inside. I sense the girl, terrified. I sense the killer and his ghastly suffering. Then the gimp makes its kill. 3 November 5th. 2006. Doctor Immanuel Grant. The skeleton of the intellectual is still intact. Spread out on the floor before the burnt out cupboards. This room, this sanctuary, trembles under the weight of the ruptures. The broken walls shiver with the knowledge of open gate ways while the face of the world cracks in the presence of that which has come through. Almost a year since the black hole had consumed itself and it gets harder and harder watching these gates. The many books, straining the old wounded bookcase under their weight, is losing more and more words to the forgetting. Without their master, the books forget themselves, the power they contain, lessens and eventually the texts will be gone forever, sacrificed under the blade of blank pages. Even if I could bring Saul back, his source of power will gone. Stolen from him by the dying of memory. How then, would he bind what he hath loosed upon this earth? Scattered around the room, there are different species of the praying mantis. This sacred family of insects is my source of power. They allow me to discern the future, the present, the past. They allow me access to worlds other than my own, they allow me communication with the dead and future shamans, the once and ever elders, nameless races and planet minds. They are 117

war like at the gates, on guard and watchful. Forming an infrastructure, to protect and hold this place of portals up. This abandoned temple and pathways to the other places

4 The drugsmith. For I am the sign of the snake, I peel the dead skin from the soles of my feet. The incense in the room smokes and burns as the living books upon the altar watches me. It watches me remember the life of other peoples, other beings, other sages.

I am not a monster, for I did not desecrate the prostitute. But I have seen other dreadful things inside. Among the many masters lay the dire states, the ghastly families, the abominable Book of R. I have seen, I have conquered, but only the battles have been won. I am not a monster but I have kissed the wound of the whore.

I am not an addict. For I have seen the anger of the body with naked minds. I return, knowing that my eyes have changed and the mind is raw but the flesh remains a prison. My body can only go so far but my addiction will take me further. Remember this. I am not an addict but the drug itself.

I am not a whore. I take the weight of the world into me and give birth to new life. I touch you as the hand of God would touch you. I change so that you can be the 118

master but you change as you become a slave. I make the snakes in your spine shiver but I am not a whore, for I hold the tongue of other ecstasies and have healed the soul of a sage.

I am not a poet. Though I bring to light the other places, allow your inner sight unto realms fantastic, you realize only a fracture of my mind.. I am not a poet but the voice of another god.

5 November 7th 2006 The wandering man. She was a prostitute in the glass city for three days when I met her. She didn’t like the work but the money was good. She had the sign of the sun on her stomach, rays waving out from a black hole. She didn’t know much English, for she was from the eastern cities, but she knew the words sex and music. She was clean and smelled of cheap soap. She was gentle with her touch. I had her bathe me in the waters. A cleansing, a blessing. She let me lay with her. She let me kiss her thighs. she let me look at her. she let me touch her. time melted beneath a yellow weight. “why do you come here?” she asks. I couldn’t answer. When the time was up, I left the grotto, walking in the rain, the strange orange glow from the streetlamps washing out the colors from the faces of the pimps as they gather and wait for business. I keep walking, past the neon altars alight on the hotel buildings, where on the road, strange old men come up to me, offering more glimpses into the other side. I politely decline. I keep walking, trying to find a certain darkness inside. Blank safety from the failure of my reality. She was a prostitute for 3 days in the glass city before I destroyed it by forgetting. Another memory, another re-‐run in this dead world that hasn’t forgetten itself because part of itself was in me. and I wasn’t dead. 119

I look upon the tangled mess of the city and find no more meaning because there is no one left. They have erased everything from me and i’ve taken everything I can from them. I have brought her to the other side, and now, whatever land is left beneath my feet will be their last memory as they come rushing from their forgotten highways to take me away with them. They forget that I will forget. The slip of the monster’s mind will mean their death. 11/11/12 contact. Satellite ai-‐fi. Off planetary consciousness. When commander ‘danger’ john Hawke was a man , the nebuloreans had taken him and turned him into a shaman-‐god-‐king by the surname lore. When the temple-‐satellite ai-‐fi took Lore from the brink of his own death , wilderness and isolation, it turned him into a saul Liera du fontaine. Nearly a year ago, saul liera became too powerful, too fast, when he discovered his ability to manifest familiars. He first created the RED Christ, then the RED man, then recalled ai-‐fi under his control then turned himself into a black hole to avert the inevitable RED IDOL from returning to its place of rest; the glass city. Saul’s form of magic did avert the idol from taking over the country’s psysche and collective consciousness but his actions also did cause ruptures in time space. His sanctuary turned into a portal that had five ruptured doors in them. The five doors opened our reality to GR’HG, NEP’TU, D’, OUTH’R ,100.100. THE FIVE NAMES. THE FIVE PASSAGES. Saul, the shaman is lost. He who hath loosed things upon this earth is in a coma. His mind is nowhere to be found. He has entered the duaa states. 120

Disconttec. 7 this night, she had come to watch me from across the road she knows I am bleeding. The grass by the edge of the white wall that is my border Is wet from blood and she knows it by taste. She can hear the girls Sobbing Cackling. Cooing. But She is not afraid of me. I lie in a comastate inside the abandoned school And she waits, outside, across, on This dark night, for me to wake 8 doctor immanuel grant Night has fallen upon the neighborhood by the sea, set in the east, a 20 minute highway drive to the glass city. Here, away from the glare of the holiday lights, the bustle of the city, I overlook a troubled sea 121

on this cold dire November night. A terror has passed outside this island and in another city, a traveler passes through, a pilgrim who has lost his private god. They have both seen the sign of the star rising and have both sought the path to the glass city. It has taken them, among several others, almost a year to reach this point of their journeys and this November, like the last, will be like no other. beyond this dire November, the star will appear again, as portent, as omen, as sign. Its inevitable rising from nowhere has set two magis into pilgrimage motion. The once intercessionist Christian mystic but now lost prophet Jacob Lore and the deranged and darkly divine police psychic, detective mad Monroe. The white fox and Immanuel grant visits the house of wu. Junkie boy meets delucia outside the tomb of saul. The old school.

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Grant an dmonroe discusses the drop into the death duaa state of john hawke. Immanuel and Jacob lore go in search of the red Christ. Junkie boy and delucia brings back drashad and marian. Marian prepares hotel resurrection crisis. Delucia looks after the coma girl with the white fox. Immanuel grant, Jacob lore, mad monroe, drashad, and the junkie boy enters 1000.100 to bring saul back through the sanctuary. November 14th 2006. Jacob Lore Like a sober animal, I crawl towards reality. This train stopped dead cold hours ago, the kindly trainmaster allowing me to gather myself and my things in the time that I needed, as long as I did it before the next sunrise. All the drink, all the pills, all the drugs were gone. Consumed or stolen, I now longer cared. There was ground to be stood on, and it was time that I found my way into the glass city. Two weeks had been too long a time for my arrival, even my heavy broken mind knew that, but something inside this mess took comfort that that was the time needed for me to be ready to set afoot on this mythic place. I cannot keep my mind from the girl. That opiate driven fantasy where she showed me the cards. I have forgotten most about the icons and images I had seen but I cannot forget her. I stumble off the train and find the silence of night amid sprawling shelters and empty benches. Dead trains, having arrived home to rest till the next sun comes again. My mind feels lucid but weary, the cold is comforting. I sense the weight of my backpack with me. I sense the dull throb of the red candle in its velvet box. I sense the picture frame of my family, alongside my mother’s final letter to me. I sense all 123

these things of my past buti cannot sense the lord. The Christ. On whom in dreams and in dim recollections, I spit on and throw insults with a weight in m y heart. I roam the empty quarters of this train station trying to find some sense of space and time. Its nearing the middle of dire November, around me I see nothing but fields and hills. In the distance, there are tiny lights moving like insects, the wind blows a chill through my worn clothes. I try to find some sign of life. I keep walking, an aimless soldier, a wandering ronin….how have my thoughts recollected into this pool? Why refer myself to such shapes and forms and roles? Whose war do I fight now that the last one has been abandoned? Like a nomad, I walk to the end of the line and begin to hear the whir and click of a camera. I have walked along the rail lines, ahead of me instead of back and find myself in the growing wilderness of tall grass and sudden rocks. It is here among this dry night time lands that I see him. A tall and dark Indian man with silver’d hair, dressed in a white beatles t shirt taking photographs in the dark. He speaks in a slurred drugged voice…” sometimes you can capture the light off the cobras eyes…those that stand guard by the borders of these stations…” he keeps cliking the SLR. “the serpent is depicted as the devil in biblical mythology does it not?” he asked me. it may have been a rhetorical question. “the snake is also wisdom, she is also the universe, the ouroboros, the damned and curled gut of graheg…” my spine shivers with that name. a blasphemy sinks in me, nauseates me,. he stops taking photographs. “come on…I may have spoken too much.” I follow him in silence. Treading further and further into the wild then suddenly turning onto a dirt path. In the dark grass on the left and the right, I thought I could hear the sound of snakes, slithering in the distance and following this man before me. he casually lights up a joint. “ignore the snakes…” he said as he offered me the roll up, “they’re just seeing me out…” I took a few drags and thanked him, passing it back. In the distance, I see a black car. He finishes his joint before we get in. he starts the car and said, “the glass city is about 20 minutes away by the highway but we’re taking a different route.: he drives onto a dirt road. “ We’re dropping by the neighbourhood by the sea. You’re outside your Christian lore in this city jacob, not that it doesn’t exist here, but this place holds more than one mythology, some taking reference from the other, while others making or remaking itself into something else altogether. Here, there are more than just voices and revelations and the only man who can manage all of this is gone. .

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November 3rd. 2006. Detective Monroe. In a tight interrogation room, a series of pictures is layed out before me on a blank table. The first row is of the hanged serial killer. Body slashed to shreds by his own hand clutching the broken mirror. His face distorted and purple and white with fear. He had cut off his own genitals, gutted his tongue, gorged out his eyes balls and broke his own neck as he leapt of the table gurgling in fear and excrement. All in front of a hysterical 11 year old girl. The second row of pictures depicted the husband’s body, the girl’s father, shriveled and poisoned by a still unknown venom and the last few pictures showed the body of his young wife, raped, mutilated, slashed, burnt, sacrificed, ended; leaving her daughter in the curse of being the only surviving witness to her own family’s slaughter. In the room with me is the captain. Shaken by the events but nevertheless relieved that the killer is dead. A relief I wish I could grant him for a longer time. “its not getting easier chief…” I try to explain to him. “more and more killers are being awakened by this malevolent consciousness and its turning distraught and disturbed human beings into monsters, to act out its extreme primal desires. Something is wrong chief and its been happening for almost a year, since last December. The crimes are getting more grosteque, more unexplainable. All the crimes that’s been happening away from the public eye is building into some kind of head an dits happening outside this jurisdiction. I have to leave captain. If this means turning in my nadge and my gun but I have to leave this city for another.” Where?” “the glass city.” The junkie boy diaries. 125

71 is the Tower of Afrioca. Where the halls on the 21st floor, are awashed with a distant shore, an ocean of worlds and cosmologies. The sanctuary is the sacred room. The unidoor to multiplace. It is here where I continue my search for him. For the lost saul. The lost star. I spent years under the tutelage of Sir Victor Wagner, the first and foremost authority on the historical geography of this island city but I am still unprepared to chart the underwaters of those histories or the psyche of this place. . ____ “the great ancestors opened up a door in the sky, and I came unto this place, the glass city. Every day at noon and again at seven, a man in shades would come to give me a packet of red cigarettes and some food. For the restof the time, I am left to mill about the place and speak to whomever would listen. I was asking a lot of questions, and many people chose not to hear me out. I was here. Alone in this place, searching for the one they call saul, but no one seems to appreciate my inquiries. Then one evening, after it had rained considerably, I was left with no cigarettes and the man in shades was no where to be found. Something else had taken over my mind, a kindo f panic, a disequilibrium. It was then, that I met the music man. He kept watching me ashe smoked, this man in black, an intellectual by the styleo f glasses he wore, a little off tangent with the mainstream with the way his strange balding head of hair. The mad scholar, the dazed and fantastic author. I gazed at him leisurely smoking his cigarette, staring right back at me but with indifferent eyes. I could not bear the sight of the curling smoke so I approached him and asked if he minded sparing me a stick. My old spirit recognized his when he said “sure” and offered me his third last stick. He lit it with a green lighter. In my heard, I heard the old drums of my ancestral lands. Here is the music magician man my elders had spoken about for I had heard the songs of my home in his presence. He spoke to me saying, “ so what’s your story? Where do you come from?” something compelled me to tell him, so I spoke my mind about finding saul, the great but now lost shaman of the glass city. He almost paused his smoking when I had mentioned the name. then he continued, in silent thought, contemplating an answer. “saul cannot be found, “ he finally said, “only he can find his way back but the road returning is broken. Our only hope is to help fix it. “ “then this is what I must help do here, in the glass city.” I told him. He agreed. Vision quest into 71 to determine scope of upture and of omens and warnings. The paths to be mended.

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1000/100. Parts

1 - 10. ONE “This is the hand that bit the untitled epic.” – anon

From which lunar sphere did the half-dream / half-delirium narrative of 1000/100 arrive, I do not know. From astral geographic, I returned, I came running home (Bring me home to the dancehall of the Gods) with the replica of a multi-angled book stored in my head. Sentences flooding the channels of cognita, paragraphs like the poltergeist lifted my eyes, opened my ears to the sounds and sight exploding from the subliminal streets of sleep. The Zebra in the night sky spoke to me, told me this: “The 100th chapter, is my life as a living document.” This was three years ago.100. The number appears again, adding another layer of meaning to the dream of 1000/100. The dream was recent, and slowly as the number appeared according to the rhythm of its own exposition, I come to learn of its existential weight. The 1000 was a mother-voice. A hall/book/house/sign. In dream vision I saw the four walls, the ceiling, the floor, all a grey-white tone. Of dullness, blankness, windowless, and without door, the hall formed a box for my existence, a holding cell for my wandering night-soul. The dimensions of the room varied with each breath (in dream I breathed, and in dream the hall breathed with me.) The 100 is the other hour, other room, other chapter relative to the 1000. The movement of the nucleus (1000) altered the 100 and the altered 100 gave pregnancy to the 1000. the 1000 was eternal as the 100 is fragmentary. The presence of 1000/100 affects time, distorting it through its own lenses, causing variety and spaciousness and the meter-gauge of events and happenings to collapse. 1000/100 is a psychic/psyche puzzle, present in the wholly unconscious, the gestalt inner-spaces of mind and humanity and life itself. It is the altar of the introvert; the temple of the neuronaut. 127

Days after that dream, I was in the bookstore, at the magazine rack, and the first physical manifestation of 1000/100 appeared (remember that 1000/100 is an imprint of thought on thought through thought). An established music magazine was reviewing 100 albums, and the top 1000 songs from the collective realm of music. To purchase it was a necessary vindication. I brought the magazine back with me and began searching for all those songs online. It was my suspicion that each song had a hidden narration that would add to the meta-narrative of 1000/100. The records, and CD’s, cassette tapes and mp3’s began piling up over the months that followed. I started from the bottom of the list, working my way up. The songs didn’t reach my ears in order. I listened to whatever I got hold of first.

Music has always been a curious force to me. When I was a teenager, I remember feeling faint and sickened, because there was only the street sounds, the vehicles going by, the chatter on the street and no music. My blood was curdling up as I mounted the overhead bridge in a state of semi-panic. My life was slipping from me as the cars slipped past with its electric whirr. I needed the reverberations of music, any kind of music. Not the sounds of machines. I burst through the sliding glass doors of the shopping centre, sweating and breathless, to capture the first waves of music that came from the in-house system. My nerves calmed and pounding heart slowed as I entered deeper into the mall, to the music console on the second level. The DJ was my dealer. My messiah.

He thought I was crazy. I had told him to turn up the music or I’d die. Many people think I’m crazy that way. “It doesn’t matter much what people think as long as you know what you’re thinking.” My third voice taught me that, when I was 13. My third voice told me to pay attention to the music. Through the music, I learned to hear the intended messages. I heard the stories embedded between the notes, and then through the 1000th song, I heard the incurable dictation lurking beneath that final frequency. My fourth voice had spoken (for the third voice begat the fourth). It taught me things, about the devil. “The devil happens” It said, “It happens as a discordant sound, as a distraction first and never appearing. A sudden screech out in the streets when you make the sign of the cross. A sudden rapping on the window by a salesman when you’re about to curse with truth. A cackle of birds in the morning when you’re about to enter a meditative state. A climatic fever, a small sudden cramp in your belly when you’re thinking of someone you love. The devil is also sometimes a smell.

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“The smell of piss follows me everywhere. It’s not stained on me; it’s a presence, a sense of smell being the manifestation of a piss devil. It the waste. The wasting. The wasted that accompanies me. It’s the smell of piss in the rain. It makes you feel dirty.”

The devil is in the details. When you’re aware of this, you lose your innocence but you win your power and it can be a terrible thing. But to be unaware of it, you win through ignorance though your glory is with price, like everything else. It’s better to know. But wary of what you know save you let it command you.” That was the most the fourth voice had said and it doesn’t speak much anymore these days. With age, some voices vanish. With age, some speak less but mean more when they eventually do. With age, more voices appear and you spend the future time discerning them, separating them from your familial ones to the ones who just come and go. Most of the time, they never truly leave. They just submerge. They just lay waiting beneath those frequencies, like a behemoth in sleep in the heart of the abyss, till the right song or scale or tone becomes a signal that stirs them.

The 1000 songs, in its disordered presentation, became a metaphysical sonar-graphickum of an ancient archetype (for music was the first sound that created the lands) & (In music the pleasures of paradise are orchestrated through the swamps of the infernal) and a triune-language of unlearnt cosmogenesis.

1) It is the sicum (alt-sigil of hidden representation) of other forces. 2) The mucis (plasma of an uncomfortable heavenly vibration) of a banished creature.; and 3)The scimu (magickal artifact like a staff or pendant, of mystical digression) of a sorcerer or witch in exile and always yearning. In completion of the musical studies of the first satellite sign (1 of 1000/100) it was certain that it wasn’t sufficient to understand the genesis, exodus and revelation of this mystery. A re-listening of the 1000 songs only introduced greater chaos and entropy to the comprehension. Months had already been lost to this venture (or was it mere weeks?). From what I could understand, (and at the urgings of the second voice, the shaman), the musical form of this exercise was only one part in a part of 100 that I must complete in order to grasp the full psychic pictogram.

Duo.

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Full moon rose in a cloudless sky. The moon is the child that I never had. The moon is my lover, abstracted and far away. The full moon turns the tide and the tide turns the soul in its wanderings. Its rays are the echoes. Shadowy light 100. The full moon is the full exposure of 1000. Mother moon rising. In my death, there is the eclipse. It is what the mother promises me. The 1000/100 is most portent at 4am when the neighborhood is deep asleep. When it’s completely sill and silent, when the creatures and insects of night do not stir, there seem to be nothing alive. Just the blocks of flats, vacant and ghostly, flickering her language of on and off to her sister across her. All the people are gone. Uninterrupted, the voice of 1000 becomes the richest in that hour. Even my voices are subdued and in her whispering, the obsessions become the obsessed.

The mother moon speaks. “She is the half-devil. The one warned about in the cards.” I understand. But this girl loves me, this bisexual and manly woman wants me and in a way, I, her. The whole night we spoke of sex as the people paraded around us. My eyes wandered to full bodied women as this other-human, whom I love dearly, whisper the ways she would make love to me. I speak of her and around my house I hear the distractions begin. The noises, the creak of metal, and the tumble of rocks at a nearby site make their presence known. I know no one’s there. “She is the half-devil.” The voice of the cold, grey moon repeats. Perhaps she fears us and for us, for when we consummate our twisted love, the cosmos would alter with each orgasm. As she and I would be altered in our psyches. We are cosmic. We are two zeitgeists orbiting an alien sun. Our language is that of fire and not words. A deep burning frenzy. She knows about the 1000/100 but can offer no insight to it. For even though she represents ‘envision de cascading pattern, invisible’ she can form no understanding of 1000/100. “She is the half-devil” I understand and I withdraw my thoughts of my future lover, she who is also declared eternal and unspoken of.

A parallel of me died in his sleep last night. A musician and friend to bands and studios. I bid him rest in peace as if he were me. We share the same name. The 1000 has taken him without violence (it is as I was told) and I bid myself goodbye In sanctuary number 2, I open the wooden door and half of dali’s prints are obscured. Below the other half is a black, empty leather chair. I keep it empty for Salvador. He knows of the 1000/100. The 100th painting he did, he did it differently. It showed itself to me on his 100th birthday.

Thirrdium

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A man stands on a box. Behind him, the sun is rising. The sun is setting. The sun is rising. His shadow lengthens and shortens. He stands on a box, holding up an open umbrella. There is a drone in the sky, the man is uncertain if he exists. He fears he will fade away into the light/night if the drone stops. The sun is rising and pauses to form day. All around there is like a green field, like a crossroad, like a place found only in paintings and in the imagination of children but the man is really there. We are not there. We cannot be because we exist DIFFERENTLY from him. We exist through a window through which he looks (he looks into the sky) at us (through the window) There is a drone in the ground and it is speaking. “The first voice rose from the blinking universe. She shuts her eye and there is singing…” From song, I find my lover, and she is a ghost. I had impregnated her in her dreams. She now bears a spiritual child and in that child is inscribed my secret and other name. I have lost my voice and i communicate only with thought, without sleep. Inside I feel my girl on a swing, in the sunshine. She is laughing but I am not. I am somewhere else. Four-‐death. I am on a ship. And no one else can see me. The eye of the red storm has risen above us. The sea is in a rage of hate, lost in the black night, wanton waves crashing and banging against brittle wood, the ocean is unforgiving, the word is lost. The crew of this ship teeters on the edge of madness and chaos. I am in an interruptus hibernata ‘the 100th voyage.’ Inside, an obese man is raping a dead girl. She’s spread-‐eagled on the splintered floorboards, limbs limp and shackled with rusty clamps and chains. He’s hitting her, slapping her, screaming at her to move. She doesn’t. Her tongue is folded back, torn and jammed in her throat, lodged behind a sodden rag locked in 131

with rounds of thick rope. Blood is pouring from her nose. “Get up and fuck me! Get up and FUCK ME!” screams the fat dirty man. She does not move. Her eyes stare wide and dead back at him. In another chamber on this twisted ship, a dying, frozen man is crying weakly for more opium. His eyes are pale and white, his breathing labored, his soul twisting in agony. He needs to be given more opium but there is none. He had consumed all and too much of it and now it is all gone. He is crying out weakly, “more….more…more…” but he cannot raise his voice against his screaming comrade fucking the corpse of a teenage girl. Down the galley, there is a tall, shapely young woman with long grey-‐white hair flowing down the head of a 90 year old crone. Two black-‐green snakes are poised and restless upon her shoulders. She is sitting at a table, staring at her degenerated son. He is wild eyes and waving a blade in his witch-‐mother’s face. There is a manacle clamped on his neck, secured with a chain attached to a wooden box which he holds up like a lantern. Inside it is the statue. He yells at her above the din of the storm, yells at her to stop it with sorcery. She hisses back, like the snakes, her thought forms, hisses at him to abandon the statue, to be rid of it, overboard, into the churning sea. He will not abandon his god. She will not succumb to the death that has come for them. Her magic is old but not primal, the storm, its eye and the beholder, is ancient and without name, is futuristic without definition, an archetypal image, a mask of many horrors. The ship is steered into the straits; a wild island offers them promise of shelter. The ship is already breaking apart and must dock. Waves upon waves crash and threaten destruction. By the unstable jetty, the embattled crew anchors and penetrates the jungles beyond. In the darkness there is fire moving. The snakes of the mother-‐witch recoil in a terror that is greater than their origins. The fires move to find them, the natives of the wild land make present their primal modes of apocalyptica. Final screaming ensues and echoes through the dense dark greens and in blackness, the crew vanishes one by one. The thunderstorm continues. The lands quake violently in the end burn of the statue. Tribal cries, screeching, growling, celebratory, ritualistic, primordial ENDTIME opens up and consumes the past and historical future of THE PRIMATA. From the PRIMATA comes the black, night, half-‐sleep dreaming. Thus my heart almost stopped, a quivering, a sudden weakness in a body of bricks. Mortality came, graced the shores of thought. Death visited and in the cinematic mind, I saw the parade of people who knew me. Weeping by my coffin. GREEN light of hidden worlds, eerie and otherworldly, swam in the mid-‐dark of the room; a layer of moving light across the film of my eyes. In half dark I lay, quiet streams of cognition, A vague echo of 1000/100 as the funereal procession faded. Time lost (the distortions of time irreverent) the light of morning rose. I was dying and had died. Song is reconsidered “night of the shaman, the conqueror the ship in the red storm

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of madness and chaos violent sex and hard drugs GONE.ENDED The twin idols of addiction and obsession In a statue, in a wooden box (coffin) chained to the neck (dominance) of the witch that fears the primal (mother of sin) old crone head and body of a young virgin woman (beyond sexual attraction; Sabbath) of the rapist and the opium addict the ship hides from the storm (escape condition) an older, primal force consumes them (cosmomega, ENDTIME) in green luminance of magick (hidden psychological realm of the unconscious) BLACK (formal element) “I have known mortality” The signal returns to raise me “In the morning blaze of the fiery red sky

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you know that the tempest is over and death has fled. Into the mirror you look, and know You have become mythical” Translation from the archaic. Above mentioned is the entitled sequence Shamaan, the conquering and of the conquered. Revelation of the 100th voyage. Post FIVE morte In every generation there is a killer on the loose. By the roadside, MANSON, by history’s melodic pulse, THE DOORS, by the city waves, morose television et crime scene investigation, by the airwaves, the night caller, by the radio station, the fifth opus murders, by the art circles, watercolor death and the muse. By the psychoanalysts, JUNG & Jungian mindspace; details the architecture of THE SHIP and its captain, witch-‐mother, dead girl, obese man, frozen opium eater; a FAMILY of figures, roamer of the unconscious by the seat of the mind. Eternal enemies. Meta-‐dealers. The 100th voyage is in part, the journey and the roving destination, the yellow brick road of thought. The ship is the metaphysical self, the pilgrim on his progress, Siddhartha crossing the river. The SHIP is the self. The elements protract. Raping the dead girl as fetishistic exposition. Opium consumption as overt addiction, the statue as the twin idols, the centaur as ‘slave to animal passions.” Wild, lawless, offspring of cloud and rain (dire November, rebmeced the red, darling January monsoon rains. Grayness, the space above, platform and canvas of interurptus hibernata. Across which the hand creates, a brush of strokes, cosmic calligraphy. I am returned to hyber-‐nation. The trains out of my reality. The station men are making sure all of me am on board. The station men all have the face of my father. My ears are blocking up, my lungs feel smaller. Its getting harder to breathe. 134

The trains out of my realities take me back. The station-‐father approaches me, in blue uniform, with the station manager’s hat. “A 100 dollars for your return…my son.” I remember holding my father’s little finger when i was a little boy. “a 100 dollars for memories.” He said. I gave him my hand. I felt his little finger in mine again. He takes the 100 dollars from me. In exchange I receive the CHRONO ticket. Instinctively I place the ticket on my tongue, like an acid explosion, a certain journey narrates itself chaotically to me. A companion for the progress, the train departs as it is with mind and I hear my fifth voice recite: The demon raver borne of this solitude, this moment in rain, in moment after the downfall of nature's dark calling to feed. A vampirism of sorts on the life of logic and choice faced the facade with an elohim with the chaos thing that resides beyond anticipation. Peering in to the mind of madness, discovering its soul through trajectory, dark drums in the night of the bohemian king. Choose your path, your shadowy pill, unleashed the things behind you, lurking beyond your receptive and your neurotransmitter cages. beat beat beat into the broken mind, unfettered soul, spirit borne of fire, Holy Ghost power, where did this vision come from, where , the war time crisis the end of the earth is upon us says the cosmic dust song and here anticipate anti-‐psychotic-‐thesis. Concept murderer, aloofness in the tower of your destiny past life remnants. Deteriorate at the rate of extortion, some junkie spirit sabotaged your lust for life and now you are in hunger, a wanting, a sudden clear-‐vision of where you are and you are alone here. faces stare out at all angles, faces devouring the notions, your love, the eternal she abandoning the force that you used to create her and she recreates herself as a part reconstructing the rules and the year passed and you turned into a fractal, an overpowering demeaning, a hallucination of sorts, dreamed up in the head of he mirror that everyone calls genius. Unbalanced lucidity, meaning no meaning nonsensical charming king of the con-‐fusion-‐jazz masterpiece. in DEDICATUM to the eyes that read and anguish over your over sedation. in coma lies the sheep queen, the placid innocent crux of the treasure box of surrealism. holidays in the desert, oasis thirst throwing sceneries at you on the wings of birds in the ghost penis of allen ginsberg. CELEBRATUM, the rectum bursts full of blood grotesque and you queue into the night time bliss of the disco dancer feather boa red balloon notion points destinations delusions recurring themes in the narrative of a fictional frictional life. abuse the myth abuse the muse rape the hordes of the underling, the photo eye the censored brain the purity of the mind unclouded and its far away now from the chest of your drawers the cabinet of monsters opening up lungs to show you a carnival of the abhorrent and the depraved sexual dysfunction of the generation that grew up on binary and expelled from university into the pits of the flaming streets of post post modern tokyo ultraman fantasy. Mutants. we are the mutants of the new order and THEY want to get us to kill us to be rid of us the mind masters the maestro of the magickal kingdom set in the heart of the neighborhood i grew up in. the warriors and sages and gleaming knights saving the princess and the beasts that marry into the lives of angels to seduction turns into destruction and the alarm bells run off into the direction of the flying dragon-‐spirit-‐ necromancer. burn out the fantastik unload the growth that poisons your mind into this new phase where you must shed the skin of your concurrent wave that throws you off the trajectory orbit of sanity. madness becomes the lover. shoot the romantic deejay, the canvas joint super heroes are paintings on a

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page. the novel of the absurd has taken life in reality and claimed us in its cast. SURREALISME has come home to the children of the forlorn. Launching a revolution. Six I am wakened by the static waitress. Hair falling in tussles. Her perfume is erotic “anything you need sire?” I want to fuck you. “no, thank you” I recline into my own recital She leaves me to the INCUBATION OF THE TEMPLE

there's a seething horrotica broiling within called, growth in the womb of repressed sexuality Self-contained to be powered. this privately occult ceremony is simmering waiting to rear its fathomable head i feel walls built around my mind I'm locked in, violent towards its external oppressors (whom i have named and sanctioned) its the eve of the DOG

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families in red and pink escape their daily homes the nuclear visits the unclear celebratory with food and mahjong then, I cannot face them

(isolate)

this is my isle (which shall be demonized upon me) this is my room of reclusion (which will bury me) i cannot break free (ejaculate) i am contained but there is no container (woman)

there is no sense in sexploitation. my gut is trembling (but masturbation is futile)

exit human error

I had feared the page of the mother book 1000. I have long since been gone from such dreams (and that dream which all was built) the mother-‐shaman visits me and asks, “what are you doing here?” you have so much potential, she says. But I never wanted to save the glass city from itself and this year, while there is a double seventh month, the ghosts have more time to roam while I remain lost in safety, safe in a lost world. The price I pay shall be small as the powers this simplicity builds, shall be mighty in the scheme of all things. The irreversible it conjures. The page is again written. The memory becomes a state of mind. I have in turn, become the black hole, and memory of being there is limited, it seemed like an instant that I was back, but the outsiders tell me its been eight months since but inside, I know it’s been much more than that.

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Seven. Holy sacred numerical.

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SIDE BAR 8/7/07 12:06 am - 'exiteans' : an oratory by Victorious the leper who says i am to disturb people?! when they all walk past with transient thought? who says i am a nuisance?! when i am here to warn the shoppers and prideful men! this here is sacred ground you desecrate! this old hill raped apart by your machines!? do you know this glass behemoth you build shall be the glittering tombstone of your future?!! heed not the words of Victorian the leper and you shall end in a state worst than mine! be finished all of you if you proceed! do you not know the men who died on this hill? do you not know of the child who had leapt into the river behind the trees?! you do not! you know nothing! for to know is become like the homeless man! who would dwell with gladness in the slumps of this city than to dwell by this gate at the threshold of your hell! stupidity the consultants! 139

your cranes and dig sand machines! what do you build here do you know?! it is babel once again but reaching for greater heights of suffering! be cast off all of your shadows! hallucinogens will be the devourer of your mass hysteria! the barons who shall occupy the summits of this glass totem will ruin your lives! run! run from this ION you call progress! RUN from this madness of destinations! this spirit soil will be your haunting! the memory of your markets, perished will be the nightmare of your own doing! the world has not ended my people! it is ENDING! slowly, with definite, the crawling cancer on the soul of your home! this ground has been blasphemed, and for your ignorance of the blot of this myth the existence fed by this extravagance will be your downfall! be warned! heed the words of victorious the leper! for his peace will come when he is no more and his sufferings be cast down upon you!

spill of the purple box in the 21st movement the purple box spilled dirty tobacco cold reaped from the previous fields nails cut from the creature hardened dead skin scratch blood stains old on leaves feeding torturous body o let me sleep, pharmaceutica allow me crying for a dead pan heart tasting sand in the mouth crushed between teeth grains of burial grounds follow the master. launch of funeral suites careful clothes for display the walking dead perfect for a perfect wake 140

half-‐medicine for a sour wound half-‐eaten catatonia i've forgotten the name of the sickness the wraith that stealeth the memory the great plastic machines emptieth the figures without amounts, the reptile goes hungry a finished fire in the groin o'follow the river Ga mind alienated, weeping for conversion the soul in dislocation, of cold dubious prisons walking through the halls, of gray shared corridors horror and melancholic are the masks on the walls the great migration, undertake scorched under sun, the walk of burnt feet buy out the sanctuaries finding haven here from the hells o' safety from the stars delirium o'shelter from the witching storm deliver us, voldin the strange from this stark nemesis of night -‐excerpts from "a fevered prayer": journal of incantations to voldin the strange. author deceased.

8/24/07 12:08 am - transmigrations to the mountain of steel of the earlier parts of our trip, we could not remember. we had to abandon the car in the burning lots, moving far away as possible from the other infernos of metal. children and families watched their vehicles crackle and melt in the heat black bonfires chocked the blackened night. slaps of ice and sludge spattered in the faces against the cold was toxic heat, a poisoned spit of rain. the families filed through the gates one by one, backs turned to the burning lot. 141

where was worse they could not tell the city that took its own life robbed them of prophecies. to the stations, they had to march along blistering feet in soil suffocation. the fires threw hellish light against the hung of burdened smog a thick, obscured heaven about to collide with the sufferers like on hard moon ground we tread the weight of our books, murky jars and ritual sticks kept us straining keeping us, guarding us from that nightmare of sleep. exhausted, fidelities low, a wall of distorted sounds possesses us an age long groan from the cracked crying voice of the elders our stations was far as the crowds parted past the gates to the mountain of steel.

8/26/07 01:03 am - otherbreed i had to draw out the map of 1000.100 with my blood. my victim had all of her blood drawn out so i could not use it. she was cold and shriveled and in repose in the praying room. her blood was a heady mixture with mine. pumping through my system becoming one. the cuts i made on my arms were already hardening. our blood on the floor, which marked out only the borders of 1000.100, was already turning gray. I was already half-‐way sick and prayed to the dead girl in the praying room. too much of our blood was lost to the map. too much waste of the volatile essence. the smell of this sacrilege had already attracted the monsters. i could hear them howling and breathing at the gates and at the sealed windows. they wanted to defile the corpse'd child in my name. they wanted to consume my flesh and be saved.

i've given out drugs for people to kill themselves i choose no other way for their ways are also true i allow them expressions for their beliefs for it is their beliefs that set them free they die altered, unafraid they die, worthy of things greater than the life they leave behind i deal death to the different and make all the difference. 142

the virus attacks again and my skin crawls like a sharp animal, like a fevered grip the pipe of opia rests on its glass side the smog in the room suffocates and enlightens and in the grim dirty air, i read the future for the worst of us.

8/31/07 12:22 am - erratic observances and difficult witnessing thereof post-‐script* : thus being an excerpt from the observante du niumber ot 1000.100 de la fringe kaamp as written by do-‐no-‐go williams, the blind the raw and red horses would be the first creatures you see as you near the city of Ga some may be in their death throes, screeching into craters they've dug with bloodied hoofs others may be turning blind,m turning rampage against the lepers that look after them. the younger ones would still be running furiously out into the plains, then returning, with equal fervor to the lengths of ropes they call home. what they experience out there where no ill or brave human dwell, no one truly understands they are often seen almost still in the shimmering wave heat rising for some minutes before they turn and run back, as if some force in the distance had told them to return to us or after they seem to have absorbed certain faculties and behaviors. upon their returns, do they begin to turn blind, to begin neighing at unseen forms, restless in the company of absent things. their blood runs thicker and harder as they age. the process of running out then back appears to be the catalyst of their deaths.

9/5/07 12:12 am - red voices we've sent machines unto the holy grounds the red dust rises with an alien wind soil, trampled by cold, clueless forces will bring us a greater apocalypse. -‐fractura, the estranged. -‐

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9/5/07 11:36 pm - the breakdown of Ercondus the traveler, in the glass city the mass of wires become bigger, more complex entangled on the floor of the sanctuary untouched books mount pages turning yellow with age and history half-‐written dementia of half forgotten people semi buried, barely alive other broken sticks lay burnt or tarred offered and penetrated as we forget the shapes of temples counting down the seconds in the house on the hill leaving as the bell tolls another requiem required another downfall of night twice traveled to the city the restless and psychotic heart searches in vain wasted and depraved in the bowel of the monster for a realized shore adrifted the second time the insect boards the changing ship and altered routes bring harvest of nests spoiled in the heart of the city o'fortuna... yours to be the great of debris...

9/8/07 02:25 am - a recollection by Justice Thorn, the deviant smart art girl was sprawled on the bed in her black lacy garments but i had no mood to bang her i had paid well enough for her though but was content to watch her unravel from the pills i fed her. i may be an animal this way but she wanted it more than sex. those little blue shut down pills. she probably missed her family back home, in that other country. she probably knew she could take the night off from the fucking when she was with me. she probably knew that i knew what she needed but i didn't quite. 144

i was just finishing off my debts, giving out the last seven of the pills to meet my quota. salvation was near. another wasted girl weeping over a crazed career will sleep like a baby and purge those nightmares out of her system another burnt out dealer shall hold her close when she shudders from those dreams. and the sun would rise again on us the next morning then our work would begin again when we part and though nothing outside would signal a change something else within will.

10/1/07 02:09 pm - I love you to death I asked her nicely in the beginning when we sat in my little house for tea "would you like to act in my snuff film?" she could not take me seriously she was laughing and said i was silly. I tried again "you're in your prime. its a good age to die a celebrity." she told me to stop it. still in her playful little way i felt the dejection coming on. "how am i going to enjoy my success?" she asked. almost playing along. I told her, "i will build a shrine from your torn clothes. your soiled undergarments would be holy." i could see she was starting to be uncomfortable. my face was serious enough. "you need to find a girlfriend." how did it add up to this i didn't see. "blood is more sacred than kisses and blood ages like wine." "are you calling me old mister?" her eyebrows went up, ready for a playful fight. i wasn't in the mood to be playful. The comrades took her from behind creeping from the hidden rooms what had been an empty little apartment with just the two of us turned into the perfect night set. she trashed when the crew prepared her the tripod stands came out. mobile HDD recording. no noise from that cheap mouth of hers stuffed with rags soaked in gasoline. i heard her clothes ripping as the flood lights erected her eyes were wild and no longer playful. 145

"we can only do this once." i told the crew. she was quite a fighter. small razor blades are perfect for petite feisty goddesses. "roll tape."

10/1/07 11:48 pm - the bitter bowl of ercondus sorry is the sight of the weeping man vulnerable and weak and on his knees unable to swallow disturbance he who trembles like a child wetting himself how sorrowful his little heart mutilated like a sparrow of meat and bone crushed together the mishap of his destiny how frail and tearful the man whose spine no longer keeps the rightful man standing fallen, worse than first father fallen, worse than morningstar an insignificant drop in the great violence of the sea praise be the men who saw monsters who kept monsters in their guts who tread grounds horrid and painful who dwelt in the shadows not meant for mankind praise be the tortured, the maniacal for theirs were the minds of gods whose fearlessness brought shame and suffering whose dejection diverts the demons praise be the frightening 146

for in their hearts they harbor hell of its generals and of its kings keeping them from the doors praise be the cross bearers for the weight on their shoulders takes the weight off from worlds torn asunder,little life. rejoice and be glad! turn your backs from this jungle return to your daily sun for such nights shall forget thy name benevolence shall be bought for i have seen so you need not. -‐ -‐ from the orations of ashcrow the blind

10/2/07 12:19 am - tongue of the demon ORO I found the man weeping in the corner. Frail and alone Skin and bones He shook with such sorrow Such despairing There were pieces of torn clothes before him He was naked and wetting himself. He sobbed hard into the rusted wall The name written on it was long gone (He began defecating) He started to shiver. He could not see me but he knew my smell It was worse than the mess pooled around his failing body He looked up into my direction Eyes milky and dim He stopped sobbing. He stopped shivering. With his wet bowels I drew the symbols on the wall I wrote the language with the blood in his urine With the words on the toilet floor I released him And with the death in my hand I gave him rest. 147

10/5/07 03:36 am - "All monsters are borne of depression." - Tomas, Ixtaeon the room was triangular without windows or doors. the square dark wood table was out of place taking up too much space in claustrophobia. the light came from the burning cards the smoke causing the sky of a storm to descend the man stood there nameless, naked fondling a black lace glove. the cards offered images of broken cars prostitutes, lightheaded wanderings of wise men variances of disturbance perversities, soiled undergarments. "they've made the film." came a voice among the babel of voices, jungle fever, dementia "the tooth is broken and set in crimson drink." the ground shakes, bombs unearthing tombs 'the sting of a scorpion is a suture in reality. "imagination and trickery are far more powerful than truth." "there is no vantage point from which to view this madness correctly." i forget the name of this illness i forget its protégés, its predecessors. i forget the thing it desires i forget the way it gave me life. and so i killed it. the black bug. its blood remains on my finger its damaged carcass, twisted by the sound system its thorned leg still moving. & thus was beheadedth the monste

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10/6/07 02:29 am - the matrimonies and funerals of koto the immortal the whiskey and the black flowers are gone. like the crazy clean up after a funeral people sit around at tables and eat food from paper plates.the flowers are strewn on the floor. the red plastic chairs are stacked up and instead of table cloths, white plastic sheets are thrown over the round tables and tied off at the ends. the chicken bones are littered on the tables. drops of curry spreading slowly down the sides of the table legs. people talk about the weather, about what it would be like at the crematorium. they would'nt know. they are the ones left behind to watch over empty tents, the casket being long gone with the other crowd. the leftover people remain to make sure no one steals the telephone wires and the packets of drinks left in the mobile refrigerator. the whiskey was done with the night before, when the gambling was most notorious and the body was still around. i sat around an empty table, refusing food, thinking of another cigarette. the black flowers were gone and so was my wife. i did not wish to see her go into the fire. I opted out. "you should've gone with" my stare shut her up. the other woman left here to tend the plastic chairs. she offered me cigarettes, perhaps to atone, apologize. i slipped one out of the pack. she helped me light it up. I flinched at the fire a little. i checked my watch. they would've burned my dead wife right about now. was i left here now to be obligated to her bereaved family? was she looking down at me from wherever she is, shaking her head at my lack of faith? was she upset that i didn't send her off? i would'nt know such things. to guess at it would be to bring grief and guilt upon myself. i had loved her well in life and now she was gone. it was simple. it would be simpler without her. i finished the cigarette, heaved that last sigh, picked up my jacket and left. i told the boy watching the tables that the mineral water must be guarded too. in truth, i was letting him do my dirty work. if someone wanted to steal the water from my wife's funeral, i shouldn't be the one to stop them. it would not be fair to the heart nor the thief. it would show a loophole in the misery.i had no heart to turn down a thirsty man just because my wife was dead. i trampled on the colored flowers on the way out, into the sun. tomorrow would be another day. it would be easier to buy the whiskey then. the clean up would've been done. everything would return to normal. i would find myself a new wife. then drink until she died because i could not.

10/7/07 02:01 am - memoirs of Weed Django was Lucious Avo the only one left to save me? though fictional, he had to be. the stone of black, that pathetic pebble from shore's eternity was to be relegated. taken by the king's men and not by force but for emotional luxury, transformation and swiftness. how swift then the time would come how dramatic this ending when suddenly 149

the vast and forever shore would lose a pebble. "ludicrous." Lucious would say. "you should now find yourself a big fucking rock!" he'll continue. Lucious the lunatic would go on to cancel his encore at the concert then come to the bombed out office to visit me in the elevator shaft. Avo's voice would be the sustenance in such a world and he will comfort me with his cool behemoth rage. "laughing men will mend the loss." he would advise "requiems require more thought than heartbreaks. yours, is of the miles davis kind." kind he'll be in those hours. he will pour whiskey for me, stolen from funerals. he would tell me of how he sang for a snuff film soundtrack then paid a price heavier than his person for Luscious Avo is a big man. without the tux and the fedora and the goggles he'll be mistaken for some primate warlord. all brute and brawn and skulls about a thick tree like neck. and perhaps, he is one. with his voice that had once, according to myth, reset the locks of hell gate, not allowing some kings to return to their infernal home. many are still angry with him but "Big devils can also weep, for i know the names of their dead lovers." and he did. i believed him then and still do now as he stands at the foot of the shaft looking down at me. his hand behind his back, grasping the guitar that hangs in a black bag. "the fucking stone will be gone!" he yelled. i could smell liquor. oh god... he continued to banter prophetically, "the only remedy is necromancy! we shall raise from the grave the geist of Neon!" I lit up the pipe. i shook my head. not to reject, but to resign. only dead kings can save me now .

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10/8/07 12:26 am - the confession of Weed Django-outher publicist. The insufferable Neon King would anal rape the spirits that chose to die from heartache. "they must be made examples of" he explained during the last ghost festival. the mad ghost had satisfied his lust mightily in that month "for those who killed themselves were making up for the love not loved by the others, whom were busy loving other things." so they loved too much more and when it was time for the loss, only death could deliver them properly. "foolish games" he quoted Jewel the singer. "my hunger for the heartbroken will be bottomless." he prophesied to himself and here he was now, fresh from the necromancy of Luscious Avo. in a succession of sixteen sad sodomized love songs, he cast the call to bring the Lord ghoul of burnt love letters back. immediately he began to smell my pain. "ahhhhhhhhh" he relished. "another one after another one after another one. you never ever made it did you? all your life..." the salt in the wound was slow and mechanical like the slaughterhouses. the blood stirred the shark in the king. its phantom stomach growled. "you are not to penetrate this man." Luscious commanded, being the beast who called upon this greater terror. "you are but to aide him out of the woods." he did not answer. I feared for my heart. He took a long time to contemplate as his tongue lashed out to taste the air about me. he could tell my heart was already bleeding the black blood. slowly and surely it would die. a raw, wet mess. The Neon King tilted his head to me, white yellow llight glowing fiercely from his empty eye sockets and black hole mouth. "explain to me the terrain of your heart for her." he said, hypnotic. and so i did. "her name did not belong to loss nor did it belong to any gain. her love is satellite. there, but far away. when she came near, she was like the moon, affecting this earth so strongly that in her absence in the morning sun, the lands would feel rich and potent but ultimately empty for there was no seed from which the flower could grow. having the potential did not bring forth real life. the love imagined, though strong and powerful did not mean i could hold her close. i am too badly blemished to be called lover by a heart so pure. i have hidden my face in shame from the goddess for the impure cannot touch the face of god." "ludicrous." Luscious Avo said. 151

The insufferable lord was silent.

10/8/07 11:57 pm - the wake up off Weed DJango the last thing i recall was the sound being stolen from my hearing the silence of the NEON KING hit me like bad vertigo when i came to, he was gone. a midget was tending to my bandaged arms. "the color wouldn't run if you let the blood mix with it." the midget spoke. going about his duties. "my name is tom-‐tom. i am count Avo's assistant." he stuck out a tiny hand. i shook it with a few fingers. i was usually used to this but not when my head is in this state. i patted about my person for cigarettes and found that i was naked and blasphemous. i suddenly felt sick. "no no" tom tom said. "do not vomit here." he gave me a bucket. the nausea stopped.. "you can use them for weeping too." he offered after seeing me not puke. but i had no more intentions for weeping. "the hour of the weeping man is past." i told the midget. now was the time of freezing up. grit like a coiled spring. a taut wire set to burst in slow motion tension. i felt grotesque, being naked upon the ivory bed. there was the head of a mammoth on the wall. "the Count has gone to fetch his brothers," the midget said, looking up at me with small beady eyes,then softer, "the neon king is still burning pictures of her." it was then that i realized i could not remember her face anymore. something had happened during my black out. i felt frigid but free. my arms throbbed with a certain sting. then i realized i had gotten tattoos.

10/11/07 03:58 pm - pub de la blues this was an old drinking place, from the time before the red a time before the nuclear winters. the night i came in, i found a new picture on the wall 152

she was attractive, a woman, some would even consider a goddess but it was still just a picture, an equivalent of the black stone, they were the same thing, a thing of power, of memories and burning polaroids. the neon king was risen again. i could sense his glowing yellow eyes, the ray of sunlight beaming from his mouth i half expected him here in the pub, drinking heavily after his operation but only the regular miseries were here, the Lord no where in sight. i found Requiem in the corner, he was much older than he was in the books the maker of the wooden watchtower was slumped over the piano. the P.A couldn't get more than a drone out of its black baby coffin like speakers. ganja smoke wafted from nearby, the drinks were near solid and heavy with tears. the harvest was always rich after the hour of the weeping man, the drinks most potent. i had expected more souls in here, i expected evolution to take its proper path but things were'nt right. the piano man was no where around. the bartender looked sleepy. there was a sad and psychotic air to the place this time. i could feel the wild wet eyes scanning the horizons, a twisted severity in the breaths of the patrons. an elderly woman was weeping in the phone booth. a child had buried a toy truck in the soil, after breaking open a small portion of the wooden floorboard. there was a shivering man at the bar. i went up to him. i offered him a drink. "there is no more point," he replied, "the coming of dire november is neither too long nor too close away." his choice of words were strange. not entirely fitting for prophesying. he seemed like a man who had loved and lost and loved and lost too many times to care. he lit up a pipe filled with poisoned flowers. sucking in smoke, he asked me with exhalation, "why do you stop in such a place?" he gestured around, i pondered. ""the best place to regroup is with broken beings." he agreed with a slight nod then said, "i hope you are not expecting a crowd, ercondus. people dont break the way you and i break anymore. they break over pointless transient things." "how do you know my name?" "i am too a traveling man and all traveling men would have heard your existence.he sucked hard again on thepipe and leaned to me, "have you lost your way my friend? or do you know which end of the world you belong to?" i'i know" i told him. he let out a bellow agreeable laugh then said, "time does not stop for a travelling man but it does so for an immortal." i could suddenly smell the forever of his blood. my heart hungered. "my name is koto the immortal" the shivering man said, "and i am dying." i bought him and myself the devil's salt and we drank to death. "ludicrous." came a voice from behind. the traveller had just arrived, dropping his black guitar bag into the seat next to me and koto. "one white russian." he told the bar keep. "and two black russians for my brothers." two more more travelers settled next to the first. i stared into the magic mirror across us. five black birds on a fence looked back. one had a red rose in its beak. another, a tarot card. the fool. koto remarked, "what has not end, has begun again." we all drank to that.

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10/12/07 01:16 am - the journals of Ercondus, the traveler Rest. regroup. the black stone on the wall face had changed position. there was no day or night outside. time can be irrelevant or destructive in this place, depending on who is watching. tonight, there is only ten of us in the pub de la blues. i had chosen a different corner to settle in, away from the bar, from the stop over crowds; to watch them. to see where their paths shall take them and with them, mine. as far as i could tell, the three late visitors would not stay for long. they were moving on elsewhere, a place, a house. the eldest of the three brothers is Luscious Avo, a big man in a suit, a fedora and black goggles. trained as a classical vocalist, he also played progressive jazz and rock guitar. he had gone in search of his two brothers, Oqulus and Cirqu. I like Cirqu the best. his top hat and tux makes him look like a skinny stage magician, but his salvador dali mustache and freddy mercury on acid presence made him to be the nature of the magic itself. there was a surrealism about him, a strange and twisted power that hallucinates your reality. i pictured him to be the most appropriate person that could link with the neon king. yet, i sense it is not him who raised the dead lord. oqulus appears to be the mystery temple of the three. perhaps it is him whom had provided necromancy. i sense him to be a shadowy zeitgeist, droning at the edge of an unsuspecting era. there is nothing more i can tell from the third. the maker of the watchtower is still passed out. i thought i saw him move but it could've been involuntary. this pub is the only place known to have survived the nuclear winters. the other standing monument is the watchtower where a power once resided, watching over the wasted lands. its maker too is an immortal, like koto, who was now alone at the bar, drinking. Koto's wife is dead. part of his life deemed over and he was here waiting for something to happen outside pub de la blues. what was his power or potential i do not know. a sad man has his rights to secrets. at some stage (time is immemorable) the stones on the face on the walls shifted again and i found a death occurring in my heart. The weeping woman had stopped weeping. the phonebooth was silent but i could see that she had shriveled and was now a corpse with the small face of a bat. her row of yellowing teeth stood out like a rats and her frame was tinier and more fragile. her skin, wrinkled and grey and cold hung on her body like dried towels on sticks. but the power of her weeping had given her soul a certain depth. she would now climb unto the black baby grand piano and lay down like a royal corpse. she would stop breathing and would rest with her hands clasped in each other on her chest. many will pay her homage. the sleeping dead bat hag of the blues. the child who had buried his toy wept at her feet. "no more dig 154

sand. no more dig sand" he would repeat. i saw him holding the toy model of an excavator. the hag woman had her power brought through to the child for he soon stopped repeating childish words and became grave and silent as if listening to some unheard of voice. he remained silent all the while. it was requiem, however, who chose to come to me. "i've been an old enough force in the worlds made manifest to understand." he began as he sat down with his gin. up close he appeared even older still. "you have the Book of Lore don;t you?" he asked, politely, taking down another mouthful. "do you see that after the apocalypse, there was no revelation?" "it was not meant to be." i told him. "no," he leaned forward a little, "the revelation is at rest and will rise again like that of Neon. they are merely asleep but will awake like that of Django. they have been evolving beneath the waves of consciousness. they have been changing unto that of the counts, three, like that of you, like that of me." he leaned back again to drain his glass. i lit up a cigarette. "the time of the weeping man is no more!" a drunk Luscious avo explained to his brothers. i looked at the dead sleeping woman and the silent child. The doors of the pub de la blues opened up. a tall dark man walked in, smoking a joint. "so this is where you come to when life loses the meaning." he announced. took a drag, "a perfect place to begin a new lore."

10/14/07 12:45 am - the request of J in pub de la blues. at first, i thought it was a baby that clung to the back of the dark man but it was a small golem. a clay monster, grey and bald and grotesque. the tall man shook off the dust from his long coat, he stubbed out his joint in an empty cup and walked to the dead sleeping woman. he let the golem crawl off his back and the creature went on to pat the child on his head. "somebody give this boy a drink" the man said, "and get me a beer." the energies in the pub de la blue altered with his arrival. he checked his watch and i sensed his heart beating fast but he stayed cool. "somebody tell me there's a space port nearby..." no one answered. the bartender delivered the drinks then said, "if there was one, its off-‐function. closed. dead." "well, open it up." the man said. requiem responded, "and who are you to say such things?" "i am J." he replied, "i sell drugs to the gods." Count Avo interceded, "my Lord requires LSD95." J looked at him, fumbling his coat and fishing out a pipe. "you get me a working space port and i get you your locotraine." 155

i had to ask,, "why do you need a space port?" He turned grave. as if he was angry that no one knew. "AZA is coming. where else would AZA dock?" "drugs are no reason for us to open up the port again." the bartender said. "ah," J turned to him, "then you really don't know the power and mercy of AZA " "No god has ever delievered the pub and its patrons" the bartender explained, "we're a given cosmic cog." " "who says you are to be delivered from your miseries?" J replied, "when dire November comes, and the red after that, there would be worse things to deal with than petty miseries,eternal they may be." my heart skipped a beat. a sure sign that what he said was true. my spine ignited. this man was serious and suddenly i was afraid. J then turned to me, as if knowing what i felt, then he asked, "so what about that space port?"

10/18/07 01:23 am - loophole de la blues. "you find something else to do, traveling man." the voice came near overhead, realizing then i was slumped on the bar. vaguely, i recalled the watchtower maker doing the same. had i become him? too much fatigue after building the tower to watch nothing? was he drained as the tower fell with no one to hear or see it do so? did the tower exist then? "the stones are gone, man...the visitors are gone..." it was the barkeep. smoking whatever poison was left behind by the other travelers. "they took the dead sleeping lady too, and the child had to be sedated." wait..." i could not digest all of this, i raised my head off the table, the weight in my head, staggering. "slip you the pills they did. too scarde of 'cha, but i ain't." he was almost slurring. stumbling behind his bar. "i gotta keep you company till the new stones turn..." "leave every stone unturned" came the the whisper from my throat. not a good sign.every stone unturned and i still haven't reached the place of night. my travels. where did it bring me? memory seemed to be stolen from me. i know there was a woman in a picture...but i could not find it anymore. the wall was empty, part of it ripped badly but still standing. "they took her portrait too man....like an effigy...they said they'd burn it when the station lands." i recall talk of a space port. of a thing called AZA. i focused my eyes around the pub de la blues. no one else but me and a wasted bartender.. this isn't right. "you know what's not right, traveling man?" was he reading my mind? "they took your bags. and your books. 156

that woke me up good.. i tried stumbling out of my barstool but fell over into hot liquid squirming on the floor. i seemed to hear parrots, yelling unintelligible stuff. "fuck" "no swear word sin the blues, brother." everything was turning to slush. to shit. i suddenly recalled dreaming of the sea and it was turning to sludge. and the woman. the woman was there and her silence was greater than a death. it was gaping and ruthless and sharp at the edges like an open frozen dead mouth of a beast. disorientation hit me bad. i could not stand up.. i could not really move. the weight in my head greater. the voice hovered, "for safekeeping they said...your books i mean. too much respect for one of your books, maybe two. they kept whispering out the names toe ach other...didn't know you were a librarian. maybe you should start an own house, them shelves would do your books mighty good, maybe even "shut up. shut up, let me think." it wasnt easy the parrots were louder, and cranes turning with that mechanical hum. trees were falling. shadows moving overhead. "the door is gone traveling man. the windows are gone too. this is my den, i dont have to go anywhere, but you. my friend, you." he paused for effect. " are stuck here for a while." i could not battle the weight. my head hit the warm liquid on the floor. and then a horse neighed nearby, children were laughing. more warm liquid rained on me. gone.

10/18/07 01:39 am - journals pf manuel, the barkeeper. pub de la blues surfaced about two years into the infancy of ocean frictional. that famed, mythical club by the shores of afrioca. back then , the shores didn't have a name. its founder, a jester godd/DJ was too caught up in the pain of love lost to notice the need for naming things. it was long before the shore was named when the pub de la blues rose. this was and still is a place of great misery. the blues, ever so charmingly articulated by the blacks on some farmland or river bank, was in its purest essence here wife leaving for another cowboy horses dying, land drying up the great depression kicking in with the dust. this was the place the sufferers go to hanging up their crosses by the door for a shit at the bar and the computer to note down the losses. archived. like akashic. hundreds and thousands of travelers came here after something was gone. this was a resting, mournful place with the music to match. crooners from all forms of abysmal places 157

settled down to capture the mood of the clientèles that day massive, god like channeling moaning out cosmic tragedy when worlds ended they sang when castles fell they sang when women left they sang when men died, they sang and they never failed to not have an audience. not until tonight. when only one man is left. Ercondus, the traveler. passed out on the grainy floor covered in piss, deaf to the absent maiden and her soaring melancholic destroyer voice. the visitors are gone. to a greater place of failure it seems. the wall shows no black stones. something had ended. something had begun and only when there counts 31 stones on the blue wall would the name of this new found terror be revelation'd rest. regroup. red.

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Movement 3 159

Post 1000. 100

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“in filth be the meaning of purity.”

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ON THE PROLIFIC HALLUCINATION OF OMANDAE MANHATTER Transcribed by NINE My master’s name is Omandae, and I am his servant, Nine. I have been in his service for the last two years. By the time this tome is done, I will no longer be his servant and he will no longer be Omandae Manhatter. It is the morning of the twenty seventh of November and the time of fulfilling my master’s last will is close at hand. Twenty seven nights ago, my master slipped into one of his periodic comas. We had spent the prior eleven months preparing for this endeavor and I am required to spend the next seven pages explaining the events that have led up to this night. I met mister manhatter two years ago, in the winter of two thousand five, on an island south of the city of glass. I recall the night having no moon and the café I was writing at was deserted at that time of twilight. I had recently completed a four month ghostwriting contract for an avant garde radio producer and was already two months past my period of rest. No jobs were coming my way and a phase of desolation was about to set in. I decided I needed a break from the glass city and took a boat trip across to the island of ghnasu in search of isolation. I spent the next two nights there wandering the islands own districts. I spent the first night at The whorehouses that overlooked the northern side of the sea while the opium dens and morphine houses I visited the next day overlooked the eastern ocean. In between were long stretches of run down shacks, abandoned automobiles without wheels, vacant outdoor cinemas with the screens standing sentinel like flags of a deceased nation and empty gasoline stations which I had spent one night in. As I roamed up hill that black morning, I noticed the bonfire in an abandoned stable. High above it, in the still night like skies of that winter’s morning, I saw the orange star stand watch like a satellite. Something inside me bade me to walk towards the burning light and I did. By some cosmic force, the star had drawn me onwards to OMANDAE. I foundhim naked and sitting crosslegged in a circle. His stomach was bloated, like a starving African child, and he was bald. There were signs on his forehead and at the centre. He would later go on to show me the third sign at the nape of his neck. “and what the oracle hath said hath come true.” Were his first words to me. “the writing man will come by the first dark lights of winter, She had said. and now you are here.”

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His strange power still had me in his grip when he first named me. “you are now called NINE.” He said. “and you will prepare with me for a great task ahead. By your hand, I will bring back the lost future myth. By your hand, I will telll my tale. And that was how I began life with Omandae. Solitude and words were my only true companions. Everyone else I came in contact with were vessles, passing points along my isolated journeys. They provided the vista of words which kept me company through the longer nights of being alone. Intrinsically, omandae had known this and he explained that this was why he chose me. ‘the others are still too caught up in this world to write about the worlds outside their frame of reference.’ He told me. I spent a great deal of time during our first meeting just sitting with him although I sat outside the circle. I was fascinated by the spectre before me. sometimes I would feel like I was in a dream with him. Sometimes he would fade away as if he was an old photograph. The incense he burnt bore ahypnotic effect on me. reality and otherowrldliness kept intertwining. On our first night I vaguely remember him getting the basic things out of the way. He dug up a bundle of old money which could stillbe use din the glass city. ‘everything is yours.” He said, “but you are to last throughout our journey together, which will take no more than two and a half years. Maybe even less for I fear I may underestimate you.’ he went on to tell me of my duties. ‘listen.learn. document everything that I must say. Keep us alive and safe. Keep us isolated. Meet those only most critical to the tasks. Keep us alive.’ He would go on to remind me every now and then about ‘keeping us alive.’ And at first I thought it was about basic survival. Food and warmth and shelter. But it would go on to be survival in other worlds we shared, other worlds he would take me to whenever he chose to bring me. ‘there is much to learn,” he kept repeating in the earliest to days. ‘there is much to see and understand.” He began life here in a run down stable, with me bringing cans of food and used towels for warmth. He did not speak as much the first three weeks as he would in the moths that was to co me. He only said that he had died and was still dying at the same time. That he needed to slowly nourish himself back into the state. And that the sickness will evolve as he became more evolved with me. He was like a homeless man, lost for hundreds of years, and finally finding shelter at the end of his harrowing sleepless journey. But another journet had begun with me. I believe, looking back, that I trusted him because part of me was in him and part of him was in me. we s[ent a month together in that abandoned stable. All the while I had dined and worked and slept outside his circle and he would not leave it for long periods of time. He explained to me that it was his healing space and that when he was made more real, he would eventually leave it. I didn’t understand what he meant then but as we

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entered our second month of contract, I started to build knowledge of this man who has become much of a myth to me. On thelast night in the stable, he instructed me to burn my clothes and offered me a long wrap over robe, dug up from the ground within his circle. It was ana ct that reinformed the contract. I was now his high high priest and the month of just sitting with him, listening to his sporading talk about preparing the mind and spirit for the tasks ahead was past. ‘ we begin our next phase with movement.’ He donned his dug up rpbe, took his small bag with his towel, tin cup and three grey stones and walked out of his circle and the stable which was no longer his home. January second, 2007. We headed west, barefoot , like the ascetics of old. No hunger bothered us as we spent the first few hours in complete slice. I followed a little way behind him, walking in his footsteps as he had instructed me to do so. We were heading towards the generall direction of the shore and towards the city of glass. ‘the nexy place is where we will do most of our work. He told me as we untied the wooden boat slapping itself against a vacant pier. I believe that somekind of arrangement had been made long before I met him and the boat was where it was meant to be at that point in space and time. I rowed us out towards the city as Omandae told me its history. ‘a supermodern glass and electric tree that grows out of ancient life giving soil shaped by primal events. That is the nature of the glass city. The time will soon come when we will reap and eat of its fantastic fruits and bring ourselves to the forefront of its next rung of consciousness. The city is never a dead thing. He kept reminding me. it lives and breathes and grows with its denizens. Evolution is ever occurring. He taught me about how the wills and actions of the people gave the energies of the city its direction. How each and every dream and focused thought shapes the path which which the city will follow. Sometimes, the city will overwhelm the people and shape, in turn, the directions which they would take. An unending dance, a constant exchange of information , an ever moving entity. He went on to explain how different places hold different paths to different powers like that of ley lines and river arteries of the earth. 164

A fog would sweep in and out of our path and sometimes, the bright lights of the city ahead would vanish andi would find myself rowing us out in the middle of nowhere. He always assured our safety and kept repeating that oftentimes, beings lose sight of their shores. He then started talking about the responsibility of certain people andhow their hands would shape the future history of certain lives and destinies. I had often thought, in the beginning, that Omandae may be suffering from a severe kind of messiah complex and pondered the possibilitiy that he might just be suffering from delusions of grandeure but I had often too accused myself of such acts and being with someone that in a way mirrored myself, I used my bond with omandae as a means for reinforcing my bond with my role in this life. Out there upon the waters, rowing towards the city of glass, I I renewed my vows to this course I had chosen to follow. Thelast quarter of our journey across the calm black sea of night was spent in silence and contemplation of our lives, in secret and in memories. As we neared the shore, I saw that there was a taxi waiting for us by the harbor. There were no other boats around, which was unusual. I asked omandae about the transportation that seem to be there every time we need it. ‘we are now living in the ghost time of the city.’ He started, ‘ in the ghost time, only what we require is present and real. Everything else is asleep. the figure of other boats and people, the symbols of nocturnal life. They do not exist in our own private ghost time. That taxi driver there, smoking in his bright Acapulco shirt and safari hat, exists for our needs only. He will not be here if it was any other person. You will learn that not everyone will see us. Only those who are meant to see us in our phantom hours. ‘ the smoking taxi driver opened the door for us without a word. He then drove us to our residence for the next two years. The resurrection crisis motel is real to only those who believe it to be. It is for the workers and the dwellers and travelers of the other worlds that vibrates and exists sonically and mythically on another frequency to that of earth reality. What we experience here as humans is only one spectrum of thousands, possibly millions of other spectrums of existence. its an existential radar wave, a blip on the vast , unending screen of the multiverse. It was strange to return to the city after a little more than a month away from it. As if the soul had returned to a body that had changed, albeit a little. Adjusting to fit into the new is a regularly occurring act in the city for the city always changes. The loudness of the new year was still ringing but getting 165

fainter by the days. There were new campaigns on the street screens, there were a couple new shops along the districts. The theatre districts screened new art films and documentaries. The nightclubs played new music. There were new faces on the streets. ‘this time, two years from now, we may no longer be here. Or the place will no longer be here. It is in our acts that will determine which it will be.’ We turned into what ir ecognzied as the ATON district of the glass city. The fringe district of the socuiial consciousness that was the glass city. This is where the shadow of the great monument of progress was cast. This was the gut and bowels of the beast. I’ve had occasional dealings in this part of the city. Three years ago, I ghostwrit the life of a prostitute named marian who would disappear close to a year after our contract had ended. She let me sleep with her on several occasions during the 15 days I was with her. There was also an occasion once wheni was contracted by the districts soothsayer, ghos~haus, to document a séance in which a spirit wanted to narrate its war time life to his still living wife. I believe, five years ago, I was contracted bya drug dealer who wanted me to chronicle his addiction curve during a period he called the dark serpentine. My memories and feelings were mixed in this district that seems to have a deep twisted life of its own. I had often felt most at home here and was glad to be spending 24 months of my life in it. We reached the ressurection crisis motel at a time when the street walkers were less and most of the denizens were asleep or working in the privacy of their own homes. It felt like it had been here for centuries, with an architecture far removed from the supermodernism of the citythat lay outside this satellite town. The main doors were still made of dark wood and opened on rusted hinges that should’ve dropped of years ago. Inside. It was dim and dusty with an air thick with old memories and events. The motel keeper himself seemed aged beyond reason. His grey wrinkled faced was etched with numerous lines of histories. His eyes were grey and deep and timeless. He handed me a key with a yellow tag with the number11 on it. ‘top level.’ Was the only two words I heard from him that day and the months to come. His devotion to silence was monumental.

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There was an old power left behind in our room. I could feel it and it seemed to be coming from the great mirror that stood next to the window of the room. There were two beds, a shared dressingtable with another mirror, an empty bookshelf and a corner stand for the orange lamb. there was only one chair and one plain dark wood clothes cupboard. We took our sleep on the first day at the resurrection crisis mote and shared my first dream with omandae. The first dream I was an island. Omandae was an island. Between us a gulf, a large body of black water. The tides were strong, the undercurrent ruthless. I could see omandae’s shore from my own, as if I was part of the tree staring ahead. I saw creatures, like big cats and large anaconda like snakes and mammoths from the ice age, walking down the shore towardst he water. I understood they were aspects of omandae, his knowledge and his life, his thoughts and emotions and aspirations. The creatures swam first, out and away from the shore towards mine. Then they sank beneath the waves. I tried feeling for them in the water, as the sea was also connected to my shore.i knew there was an abyss between us, that we shared that abyss. I sensed the creatures moving towards me. I felt them surfacing and my knowledge of them became stronger as they closed in. they crept unto me like insects on a paralysed man. I felt them slither and crawl and stomp unto my shores. They made loud animalistic noises. They roared on arrival. The whole island of me was filled with these creatures and the din they made rose to the canopy of my fortress. Then the creatures spoke to me. the big cats to the trees, the mammoths to the rocks, the snakes to the holes in my ground. They each spoke a perculiar language and I understood it on various levels. They had come from omandae and was now at nine. The link has been made, shared by the abyss. Ants broke out of my skin and I my heart slowly stopped beating. A wind blew, the waves crashed, clouds of night and sun crowded overhead. Metallic spires and structures rose out of my island body. Like the earth having multiple erections. Rocks turned into computers, computing the data the ants brought forth from the waters. Dragonflys and beetles swarmed the island of me, settled in my bushes and valleys and gardens. Scorpions and rattles snakes dominated the deserts of my body. Each insect and animal and being having a power of its own, and they defecated into my grounds, sinking deep into my island, changing it, fertilizing it, transforming it. When I woke up the be di was on had been shifted so that the head was back to back with omandae’s bed. I stared up at the ceiling and the ceiling stared back like a mirror. I could see our shadows, our two

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heads almost conjoined, like two corpses in a row, hands folded on the chest. The sun was already rising quickly in the resurrection motel/

BOOK 1 GHOS`HAUS AND THE BOOK OF 1000.100

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The last customer left a little past 2 in the morning. Trouble with a transvestite lover. The cards did not end it well. There will be no sleep for the two of them tonight. I packed up the deck, the ceremonial cloths. Closed up the shop. I had been awake for days and could no longer rest well enough. I could feel the burden of a breakdown coming. In total. In brutal. In the dark I smoked a cigarette. In the dark, I considered moving again. This city was getting to me. the shop of psychic wonders; the ghos~haus as its known is losing all the charm. The crystal balls are getting foggy. There is too much science and commerce in this city. Mysticism is sick and I, with it. In the dark I poured the whiskey. An occasional vehicle would go by, lending light to the small shop through the windows. Then gone. I drank up straight. Room temperature intoxication. I poured another one just because. There was little money and life left here. No other reason to see sunlight upon the same streets. There would be a lot to pack if I move. The gifts I took from customers instead of money amounted to too many trunks full. Coins and bracelets and clocks. Boxes of childhood toys and mirrors and empty cabinets of memories. I took parts of a spiral stairwell, of a caravan. Bicycles and pieces of boat. Stacked against walls were old world records and compact discs and books. These were the items most abundant. I could change business for a while. Turn into a mini book cum music store. I could rent lp’s to bedroom deejays become a thrift store of personal items of power for other strangers. Change the web of power in this city. Let the consumer keep the shopkeepers coins. Let the man dream the small girls dream. Let the tyrant have the dress of a maid. Let the childless aged mother know a grandchild. Sell undergarments to perverts.I lit another cigarette in the dark and thought of these things. Scaring myself, amusing myself. Aimless wanderings of a mind too immortal to find something new and worthy to understand. The cigarette made me thirst. Another drink in the dark. A storm would come but it was hours away. The night always seemed too short. I thought about setting out again. In search for, perhaps another mystical child. But the thought of the entire initiation, of that protracted, tired searching convinced me not to. I thought of visiting the old places. To convene with old ghosts, but the world beyond was often tedious. Restless souls who clung too much to your care. I considered dream walking among the streetwalkers. To do some drugs with the whores but the road of onan was too near and the whores were too anxious to end their nights without burning out. Without thought, I found myself finishing a few more glasses of warm whiskey. I had run out of cigarettes. Only fifteen minutes have passed since I closed. My head was growing too heavy but Rest would not come for sure. so I turned on the lights again, unlocked the door and called the 24 hour grocers for a pack of reds and a fresh bottle of whiskey. I wrapped my ring’d arm with the loincloth of artus and sunk back into the chariot chair. My throat was burning, my eyes hot whenever I closed them. The bells at the door rang as it opened. The breeze made the windchimes dance softly. ALbu the storekeeper of the night passed me the liquor and the cigarettes. I paid him with blessings. Allowed his dreams to be happy and his driving days less stressful. He left quietly. Another nocturne paying respects to those who do not sleep. I dimmed the lights of ghos!haus a little and poured myself a drink. By 3 a.m the bottle was half gone and I was heavily intoxicated. It was getting hard to see and the items cluttering the store felt more restless, like power trapped, needing release. Ithought of a fire engulfing the place. How much will be lost, will be returned to the source of all things? The sound of the bells distracted me. the door was opening. I scarcely realized it had started to rain. A tall man with thick an dlong grey hair came in, hald drenched. “ I apologize if the rainwater shall wet your carpet’ he said. His accent seemed british but of the older world. “I hope you’re open? The rain is getting heavier and you were the only one with a light on.” I wasn’t sure if I should turn him away. “the storm will be greater in a while,” I 169

slurred slightly, “better to stay if you have no place to go.” “thank you.” he said, putting his rugged brown briefcase next to a glass gnome on the floor. “I can pay you for your shelter,” he said taking off his coat. I sensed some kind of power vibrating in his presence. “”no talk of payment if no servercise are rendered.” I told him. “oh? what are your services then?” perhaps I could use something, or purchase something from your host of items.” “the ghost~haus is of the tarot, and more rare the saula arts. Both are mirrors for the soul. One more conventional, the other quite not. Séances, magickal objects and spellcasting are also powered by my name . Perhaps something for your protection? All magic has a price.” “hmm.” He contemplated, walking around a little, looking at all t he random objects on shelves and tables. “what would a traveler need most?” he asked. “maybe a safe passage. Herbs perhaps to ease the weariness of the feet.” I dug around my drawer from the main table, looking for a bundle of poisoned flowers from the GA. “could I offer you a drink?” “ no thank you my friend, it is far too late for me to drink.” “and not too late for you to travel?” “the lad that brought me here was a slow driver. Too tired he explained but he would not rest. By the time he dropped me by the mains of this city, it was already two. An hours walk or so and it began to rain. Is there a motel about here?” “one. But its under renovation so no patrons for a few weeks. There is an inn two streets up. I can show you the way when the rain stops.” “thank you my friend.” I produced a small wrap of the black flowers. “perhaps I could interest you in these. Smoked in a leaf roll or a pipe. Takes away the fatigue of long walking. Makes time less of the essence, so it would seem not so long before you reach your destination. ” he took the packet from me, and held it close to his nose. “ah, the flowers by the river GA.” I was surprised. ‘you are well traveled I see.” “I have been to a few places. What is the cost of this?” “you pay whatever it is you wish. Even a memory you wish to leave behind.” I said. He looked at me , “you would not just take money?” “money is fine, for the everyday world, but memories are better, cast into object of a personal nature. Something you wish to forget, you can give it to me, and i will make you not recall it again. Everyone has something to forget.” I poured another glass of whiskey as he thought about it. He finally spoke again,” perhaps you can help me decide. I have come into possession of a book, given to me before I departed on my travels. I was to bring it to man two cities before this one but had found him long deceased with no apparent kin. The woman who gave it to me, insisted that I should not return with the book. No library or used book store would take it for the author is obscure and its contents even more so. Would you take it from me for these flowers?” “show me the book.” I sensed that this was the reason the man appeared here, for no one enters the haus of ghos for no reason. He unlocked his old bag and brought out the book wrapped in black cloth and tied with red strings. There was an uneasiness in the mans eyes as he passed it to me, I assured him that it was alright, that I would return it to him if I felt that he should not part with it. I took the book and immediately felt its power. A power somewhat half finished, half created. I saw images then. Of a tower rising in a broken landscape. Of deformed statues and a gathering society. I saw children in deathcamps. Beautiful women on stage taking off their leotards. I saw a sad lady playing the piano, singing about aborted babies. I saw a mountain. “I will take this book.” I told the visitor. ‘”and with it, I grant you a safe passage through three more cities after this. “the book must be of some value for such an offering” he said. I just nodded my head. “I shall find the true owner of this book, of not, its true author. I take it from your hands and life in exchange for what I offer. Will you accept t his?” “three cities worth of safety is more than a blessing in this time and age.” He said, “ I accept your offer.” An exchange was made in the ghos haus the night of the storm. Before long, the rains began to subside. As if it had come to witness the exchange and was 170

departing for the act has been finished. The traveler accepted a farewell drink. By then my intoxication had burned at another frequency. The early morning light began to show and hours had passed unusually quick. Sometimes, time became twisted in the haus of ghos. Sometimes, cosmic things begin and end here and as my traveler bid farewell and continued his journey, I sensed that a renewal had occurred, and that there was one more thing the haus of ghos had to do before its time in equate city was deemed over. At the back of GHOS HAUS TRADING were the chambers, hidden behind bamboo stilts and pearls hanging from the ceiling was the room of prayer and recovery. In the heat of early morning, I sank, naked into the cooling well. The waters of the deep that ran into earth, washed away the sweat and convulsion of the body overworking with alchol and tobacco and wild black flowers narcotia. I sank into the dark of the well, the waters deafening my ears and once again I feel as father felt. The deaf enchanter of A’TON street. Beneath the dusk waters, I held my breath as mother did. She who spoke with the dead, she who did not breathe to be one with those who breathe no more. Generals, kings, thieves and boys. In their ghastly state she spoke with them. She brought messages and sent longings. She was the shamaness in a world necro and funereal. Through them I am renewed. For this was the hause my parents built. This was the trade, formed in the blood of my kin. Consumed by the well, I feel the rush of the store above. The magnitude of memories and chasms, spells and symbols and signs. The life of the two decks, of tarot and saula. The place which the spiral starcase takes you, the weight of the books and the phonographic mysteries. The centuries of visitors, seers and madmen. The ebb an dtide of humanity moving through the stores in suspended time. It all rushed into me like the desperate need for air. A raging occurred in my ears and in my head. The heart ready to explode. Stomach twisting, a blackhole begins inside me. I break through the well of water like a rupture. In an instance I see the holographic map. A calendar filled with big red ants. I see the spiderwoman and the black sand circles she sits on. my naked hand claws the slime stones of the well. I stare up, almost as if shocked by the edged of death. I realize that the act is over. Above there is a circle of blurred light. Like a sun. like a floating sphere, a glowing eye. I am called to it. I feel cold in the heat. The body is well again.. exhausted but reinstated, I sprawl on the concrete floor out of the well. My naked form exposed in the orange light, I close my eyes and almost remember sleep. I struggle to the other side of the chamber. I sit cross legged and naked before the head of the mammoth. Through its dead eyes, I seek out the route. The way which I must take with the weight of the book on my shoulders. The first customers of late morning sought seeds and walking sticks. One sought amulets. For love and for health. I took coffee and hard cheese bread with a boy musician who traded ambient cassette tapes for a comic on music and magic. At lunch I did a reading for a cheerleader who wanted to turn her dancing into art. I turned down the request for a séance because I needed to conserve my energy for my travels later on in the night. By two, I locked up the shop and decided to read a little from the book I had acquired. As I untied the red strings that held the black cloth together, The mirror of ARA at the back of the store glimmered like someone had shot light into it. It was a sign that the book had more than one origin, that it belonged to more than one place. I could smell the dust of the past and the cold air of the future as I unwrapped it. The book had a hard black cover, made possibly from a hard organic substance, 171

like nails or bones. There was a sigil on the cover and nothing else. Two small ines and five circles arranged into a magickal sign. I did not recognize it even though I remembered hundreds of symbols from the years of studying signs. I touched it and immediately cold grey walls touched me back. I moved my hand away quickly, suddenly fearing what I may become if I held the sign for too long. I opened the book slowly after I had cast a protection spell upon the hause and myself. On the first page was an invokation. By the rise of the neu-‐hauses The orthodox of vault M is end By the stone of madame AVO Comes the hour of payment Where those shamanic shall channel ITA Speaking in tongues profound with dire Upholding the stage for rebmeced’s doom leading back home our lost son of AIFI I could not understand the references and the names, but knew them to be powerful. Neither my father or mother had spoken of such things and I recall none of my aquaintences in the societies having mentioned them. I turned the page again and found a half complete table of contents. Invocation -‐-‐-‐page 1 Introduction page .5 Reviw page 6 Book 1. – incidences. Chapters 1-‐ 5, chapters 1.1-‐1.2

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Book 2 Of the mysteries of Far 7 and the delieverences for FAR On the subject of appearances. An altered view of the shore on obedience to the voice of FAR being the first mention of the lost being part histories. The vault of M. book 3 1000.100 – chapters 100-‐96 witness of Immanuel grant end review. – page 10 I poured myself some English tea then found that theintroduction ha dnot yet been written yet five pages have been kept blank for it. On the sixth page it began. Review 1 The black stones on the wood wall had rearranged itself. Thirty-‐one stones in the sign of one thousand one hundred, Vault M and the RED pyramid. The doors and windows in pub de la blues did not reappear as it was promised. The time had come but the traveler still could not leave. He had already packed his 173

belongings. His dark boots and coat already on. He sat in the deep chair and dug his pockets for the pipe and flowers. He was growing anxious. The bar keeper spoke. “Be still, Ercondus. The stones may not be complete.” “There are 31 there Jacques, 31 was the number given. The three signs verifies the completion. Are you to tell me that the princes would lie?” “They would not. Not under my house.” “Then where is my door?” The bar keep could not answer. Ercondus, the traveler, lights his pipe and waits. Like he had done so for so many years. 2 The funeral procession had already started when J arrived, soaked in the storm. The violence of the winds and agonies of thunder, louder than the funeral band, the funeral chants, the funeral bells. The winds threatened to overthrow the great glass casket but the warrior men who carried it were strong and held against the gales. “ARRUKO is doing this to us” the leader of the warriors at the head of the casket said. “no.” his general replied, “it is the gods who are angered by this unjust loss.” The procession had its followers by the hundreds and J was lost in the crowd. He only knew they were heading west, to the sacred burial grounds beyond the city and he knew that if he did not reach the head of the Warriors to deliver the message, everyone would be killed. J, the drug dealer, was running out of time. 3 By the great river GA he followed. Burnt in the sun, bare foot and hardened against the bleeding rocks and soil. By his right, the poisoned flowers bloomed, its hypnotic aura dancing in waves in the heat. the hot winds sears his skin and he tries to blot out the pain by watching the bubbling black sludge creep by. The sun had not set in two weeks. The earth was dry and breaking. The world did not turn according to the laws of old. But the great river GA crawled on. from the gut of the monster ORDARK to the wasteful mother wound of TIANAK, it crept. The black serpentine river of GA. Great rock formations rose ahead, towering and jagged and black. Like towering signs, warning him off the path to the place of night. In the burning hell of the sun and by the great river GA, DECORUS the THIRD, followed.

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4 on the night Nicole was abducted, on the night her grandparents were killed, she had dreamt of the Bloated man. She had seen his naked, bloated, headless body drifting before her in space and as she turned her head away from the ghastly sight, his head slowly spun towards her. the bald, grotesque head marked by three signs. Of 1000.100 on his forehead, of the sigil of Vault M in the centre and the pyramid at the nape of his neck. White dead eyes stared at her as she screamed in silence. His mouth opened and worms and light and smoke came out. Then it said, “I will find you.” and it was then when the men had taken her in her room. Long after her grandparents for eighteen years were killed. 5 detective Elijah Monroe jerked out of narcoleptic nightmare and almost crashed headlong into a truck. Even with the trucks high beams white and hot in his face, he could not block out the vision he had before he was torn from it. The vision of a young, naked girl bleeding to death from her vagina. He was covered in sweat in the suddenly still car. A dark skinned man came out the truck and walked over to the drivers side. He looked in and said, “WING FAR assures your safety. Travel on carefully.” The driver then returned to his truck, the WING FAR company sign seemed to glow red in the dark against the white background. An upside down F running down from the centre of a W. the truck drove away but the near accident was still not as strong as the face of the young girl. Another one would be killed if he did not stop this killer. 1.1 pub de la blues is a waystatioon. A resting place between the worlds. Three twilights ago, ercondus the traveler had arrived to join tne other guests in the place of misery. It was a time of certain mourning, certain miseries. A great elder had been killed. A mystical child had been abducted. A great saint is lost on his journey and a broken man had failed to stop another murder. Ercondus had finished his seventh glass of whiskey and still the doors and windows of the place had not appeared. The pub seemed to have shrunk, its dark wooden walls appeared closer and more barstools and tables seeme dtio have vanished. The stones on the wall changed place several times, upsetting only the order of the three signs and not the signs themselves. Ercondus took it to be sequential. That it was telling a story. Each sign that appeared at the

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top was the sign in motion at that time. The conscious sign. The next sign in line was subconscious and the third was cosmic. Beneath the waves of all consciousness. 1.2 the men had bound and gagged Nicole with barbed wire. Hard sharp wires biting into soft skin. Her tongue is trapped and cut. Her naked form, cleanly shaven by the obese witches. Soon, they would penetrate her body with machines. Organic phallic things that breathes and moves. They wills earch her very being with their monstrocities. All to find the mythical black man. The sorcerer who is also named, ‘ascended, he who is prayed for.’ Into her virgin body, the men will probe. Digging into an innocent life, by the order of the general. Thus, the young mystic child suffers. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The white fourteen-‐foot truck lurched and groaned down street 71. deserted and barely lit, the street lead Albu, the driver, and Chung, his partner down to the river ERC. The truck was behaving abnormally, radio static was interfered with seconds of old Chinese opera then tuned itself into haunting drones before returning to a static with faint voices among the hiss. Chung kept hitting the roof, hoping to set the antennae working. The banging scared the black sparrow in the rust cage and it fluttered noisily. “its no use” albu said, suckingon his pipe of poisoned flowers, “its this road we take. It fucks up the transmissions. All sorts of signals converge here.” Chung tried to coax the bird into a calm and shot Albu a question. “what is Mister FAR doing this time?” Albu looked back at him, caught off guard. “you should know better than to talk about Mr Far.” He leaned in closer, “He hears us yes? No matter where we are…” Chung contemplated these words as the truck crept forward. “don’t you ever wonder?” he began. “wonder?” “about what we do. About that warehouse. About the boss we hear but never see.”

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“what is there to wonder about? We do what he says, money appears in our glove compartment when all goes well. And it has been well right?” “yeah, but. All the mystery. All the strange things we transport around for him. Aren’t you even curious about what its all about?” “its not our problem Chung. Even if we transport empty coffins. A hundred and eleven used monitors or pieces of wall from a haunted house, its not our problem.” “but..” “chung. You ask too much questions. It’ll burden your mind. Trust me. let it go. just do the job, go home and spend your money. Don’t ask.” There was a hint of irritation and command in albu’s voice. Chung took it to be an unwillingness to share what he knows. But also a sign that certain things shouldn’t be talked about. “alright, alright. I won’t bring this up again. Even if we find that the containers of sand we left at the warehouse vanishes like all the other othings we bring there, I won’t ask about it.” “good. Now smoke your flowers, we’ve got a long way to go.” they sat in silence, driving. A rock riff burst through the static. A quick and electrified lick. Then gone. Replaced by a baby’s voice, reciting gibberish. Twinkling bells. Then static again. The skies above swirled in the darkest hues of black, purple and red. Towards the south, blue light flickered. A storm was hectic over there but the air still and chilling along route 71. “across the ERC huh. Never been into that part of town.” “neither have I but there should be no problem with the way keepers.” “because Mister Far says so right?” Albu looked back at his younger companion. “yes. Because the boss says so.” Albu was getting concerned. It was always like this with the younger ones. They would not ask questions at first but after a while,. The mystery would get to them and, though warned against it, they would begin wondering. They’d begin getting curious and if they did not watch their step or quell their restless minds, they would often get into more trouble than they had ever imagined. That happened to Albu’s prior partner and that loss ensured that ALbu would never let a partner get too curious again. A dead tone shut the hiss out. An empty dead tone filled the truck and the black sparrow began its panic again. A smog consumed the street almost suddenly and Albu switched to high beams. “ok buckle up.” He ordered.

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The headlights cut through the smog. The tone heightened a notch. A vague sense of destination started to become clear as the truck of WING FAR broke through. Up ahead were the two storey-‐gates and the wall that stretched endlessly to the west and east. It was the end of the line for most travelers. ALbu slowed down as he noticed the armed military men. Three of them, approach the truck. The sign of WING FAR, a red upside down ;’F’ running down a ‘W’ began glowing with an eerie light. Chung flicked on the loudspeakers at the side of the truck and Albu spoke through the handheld. “BY THE LOGISTICS OF FAR, MAKE WAY FOR THE VESSLE. BY THE ORDINANCE OF FAR, WE JOURNEY THROUGH. FAR WATCHES. FAR WILL COUNT YOUR DEEDS.” Chung always shivered whenever Albu made the announcement. It was a feeling he could never get used to. That strange dread as if it was another being that spoke through the mouth of the Indian man. Whatever this beings said, had to be heeded. The bird appeared to have gone suddenly still from its flutterings, as if the command of ALbu had set it back into peace. The military men stepped aside, while one returned to the guard post to trigger open the gates. It had been years since the gates had been opened. Years since anyone had gone through to the other side of the river ERC. Albu eased the truck with its unknown cargo through the gates and into the place with no light. The druq dealer J and mother DELUCIA studied, the shores of the glass city from scout ship, SARAPHAGIA. A brutal wind was blowing against them and the ocean was restless. Through alien carema, J captured visuals of the landscape before him, hoping to catch the form of tower 71. “I don’t know if its still there.” He shouted to delucia over the din of the winds. “keep looking! The doctor told us he could still feel it standing. It should be there!” the scaly tentacles of the alien thing sucked harder at his eye sockets as his fingers clicked on bones that shifted about in the organic body. A single alien eye twisted and turned in its own grotesque form as it worked to shape forms that J could see. through such a sight, J made out great cliffs, broken and unstable rising out from the shores of the city. Dead trees floated upsidedown and naked close to the grounds. Thick gaseous clouds seemed to cling to the cliffs and the other odd shaped formations that stuck out of the land. There were shapes of buildings, half bombed out and others, reshaping themselves against the will and logic of the architects. As the SARAGRAPHIA moved closer, other forms appeared. Monstrous statues of beheaded figures, figures with more than a head. Serpentine necks and bulbous bodies all frozen in concrete, in tribute to the once mighty leaders of the city. These visions disturbed and fascinated J. the alien thing, half attached to his face with flesh like tubes, lurched forward and back in his consumed hands as it brought in sights to J. he struggled to see more than he could, he struggled to find the tower but there was none. “are you sure we’re on the right course?” Delucia checked the records on the computer screen on the ship. “the mother IMMACULUS gave us these points. We are right where we’re supposed to be. The tower is suppose dto be dead ahead!” 178

“I don’t see it Delucia. I see many other things but not the tower.” “has the place changed so much in two years? It should not be.” “we have no idea how much has changed..” “should we contact the doctor?” “wait! Wait!” J strained in one direction, leaning his body forward. The alien thing also sensed it had found something for it was not restless and busy in his hand. “what is it?” delucia shouted, moving closer to J who had gone silent. “there is a light. White. Two of them. Like headlights in the distance…its moving towards…towards something…” “a tower?” “no. it looks like a large building that is lying on its side…” “could the tower have fallen?” “I don’t know…but the light…its real and alive…something is happening there…theres a red light now…” “I’ll get us closer. Delucia punched some keys and the SARAGRAPHIA maneuvered closer still to the shores. J leaned forward, the alien thing consuming more of his face with tubes. “I see a sign.” “which one?” Delucia asked as she brought up a list of symbols on the screen. “red letters. A W and an upsiode down F running down from the centre of the W, you know what I mean?” delucia scrolled down the list of symbols with her finger until she reached on that matched. “WING FAR” she said. “they are ahead of us.” “wing what?” “we’ve got to reach the shore.” “but there’s no tower delucia, our orders are not to “I KNOW our orders J. but WING FAR has arrived which means tower or no, we have to begin setting it up.” “the tower is the conduit, how are we going to set up without it?”

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“we’re going in. I’ll contact the doctor once we hit the shore. Gear up dealer man. Our work must begin soon.” Delucia punched in more coordinates and the scout ship SARAGRAPHIA, ahead of its mother ship IMMACULUS, moved in towards the place of night. “this is it.” Albu said. The sigil of WING FAR, glowing and in contact with the voice of FAR had led ALbu and chung to the site. Through the maze of abandoned buildings and twisted, ripped streets. Past canals of vacant schools. Through temples torn apart and burnt down. The truck had arrived. It was dark andhard to see but the high beams and the sigil of WING FAR lighted up parts of what looked like a 25 storey building lying down on its side. As if uprooted, the building lay like a dead sentinel, almost unbroken save for some major cracks down its upper half. There was a huge crater left at the foot of the building as if some great hand had pulled it out of its foundations and lay it down, hoping not to break it like a fragile toy. It was such an unreal sight and Chung was speechless. Albu got out unfazed by this monstrous thing lying down by the edge of a cliff and went round to the back of the truck. Chung lit up a leaf roll of poisoned flowers and sucked deep. Head swimming in heady fumes and smoke. The winds had died down and scrpas of old newspapers circled in the air, slapping itself against twisted lampposts, getting caught in the jaws of dead trees. ALbu returned to his smoking partner. “we’ve got to find the top floor of this tower.” He looked at chung. “are you alright?” “what happened to the people here?” he asked, almost quietly. “thought I told you not to ask?” Chung glanced around again, taking in whatever sight the truck’s light could provide. In the distance, there were strange animal noises, like horses neighing with the sound of weeping dogs. Albu sensed that chung was feeling infinitesimal among the ruins of the city beyond ERC. He feared Chung;’s reaction. He cursed FAR at the back of his mind for convincing him that this partner was stronger than the last. He tried to pull Chung out of it. “hey… listen. Two years ago, when the red event occurred, this part of the city took the brunt of it. It may look like everyone died horribly but that isn’t entirely so. Our mission here is not about the people. Its about this thing on this truck, which we must deliver to the top of this building, in a unit called the two three zero. We must then wait for the things engineers to arrive by way of the sea and when they do, we hand it over to them and cross back where we will continue with our lives. Whatever happened here or will happen here, isn;’t our business. It isn’t for us to know or do anything about. We complete our work so that others can complete theirs. Just stay with what we must do alright? Do not think beyond this moment. Of what happens next or what had happened, is not for your mind to ask. alright?” chung looked uncertain and took the time to digest what he had heard.

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“come on,” albu said, “your survived SHAR-‐DAE prison. You were given another chance by Mister FAR. Don’t end up becoming a prisoner of your own curiosity.” Chung then sighed deeply, flicking off his leaf cigarette. “lets get to work.” He said, climbing onto the truck. Albu hoped that he had said enough although he sensed that it would not be this easy. J released the alien creature from his face and left it to hang about his torso by the two thick oraganic tubes that ran into the sides of his ribs. He pored over the maps, detailed by the doctor. He was barebodied and sweating profusely after the visioning of the landscape. Delucia could not help but stare at his back, tattooed with the letters I.N.R.I and junkie below that. Three signs of the sun ran down his spine. A tarantula tattoo finished off his lower back. “this cannot be.” J said, studying the maps, turning it around. “the statues that I saw should not be there at all, and the inverted trees, they were supposed to be much less.” “things can change quickly the doctor said. This should be expected.” She could sense the spirits that she commands, restless and churning behind her. she emotionally calmed them down. She pointed to the mark on the map that read 71. “if there is where we’re supposed to land, we will.” J was concerned. “what else did the doctor warn us about? I may have missed something. “there was the possibility of EQUATA CITY’s leaders taking the zone back, with a greater magic, but I doubyt that is truly possible. What was left in the wake of the RED IDOL is magic of another space and time. They are not equipped enough.” “and the only one powerful enough to take back the zone is He who devoured the IDOL.” J finished off her explanation. “I see you have studied your history.” “I want him back as much as everyone else. If knowing the history means I can get the job done right, then that’s what I’ll do.” She put her hand on his shoulder. He could fele the warmth of love running down his back. The love of a mother-‐ queen.priestess. “we’ll get him back.” She said. “I promise you, we will. “ the unknown cargo was heavier than expected but ALbu and Chung summoned more strength from the pool of FAR and heaved the huge block like thing off the back of the truck and onto the ground. A great black cloak covered the object beneath. On the cloak were sigils and unknown symbols, evenly spaced out and glowing red. Alby had driven the truck right to the endo f the fallen building, where the house of two three zero is meant to be. The object was placed right at the opening to the building itself, a kind of balcony. Everything was on its side now and Albu understood that it posed problems. But that was the problem for the engineers andnot him. So all they could do now was wait. They sat by the object an dlit 181

their flowers. The energy of FAR receding from t heir system. Their eyes now no longer red. After some silence, Chung spoke. “how did you start at WING FAR?” he asked, then quickly added, “we CAN talk about this right?” Albu laughed. “yes, yes, we can.” He took a deep breath of poisoned flowers and began. “I was a believer in the other worlds from a young age. my mother was a witch. My father was a prisoner. He was the black man of the coven my mother was in. from the start they loved each otherm but my father loved his power more. He became ambitious and one time summoned a power greater than himself. Obviously there were terrible consequences. The power he called upon killed 76 boundary watchers. You see, I came from a world where one dimension often crossed easily into the next. These watchers made sure that the wrong entities do not cross over for the wrong reasons. They were a race sanctioned by an even higher nameless authority and no other entity had the right to interefere with the work of the boundary watchers. You can imagine the chaos that ensued the killing of 76 of them. MR WU, a high priest set over the judgement and execution of rogue sorcerors sentenced my father to eternal imprisonment in a place called the TANIAK QUADRANT. The actions of my father was so severe that his entirely bloodline too had to be sentenced. My mon and I also had to pay for the error of his ways. ‘to remind’ us, was MR WU’s logic, ‘not to cross the line and to weild our powers correctly. My mother was sent to watch over a mystical child who had a great role to play in our time. I do not know her and I have not spoken to my mother since. As for me, I was sent to serve in the court of LORE, the line of shamans sent to undo the work of my father. A great shaman-‐king named DAEKEN banished the thing myfather called upon back to its origin and I was to serve in his kingdome for a millennia. I was placed under the tutelage of LORD BAPLOE of the BAPLOE DYNASTY. It was the dynasty that oversaw the restructuring and evolution of M. the dimension I was sent to. I helped shift great pieces of the cosmic form that was M. everytime that world evolved, the dynasty I slaved for reshaped it. I learnt a great deal from the dynasty. I understood how worlds were built and torn down for nearing the end of my sentence, the world I was sent to entered an apocalypse. Before the end of M, MR WU interceded and arranged an exclusion from the final wrath of M’s creator. It was then that MR FAR approached me to join his company. “to do exactly what you do, but on a smaller scale.’ He explained. I still had no family then and there was nothing else to lose, so I agreed. Have been working for him since.” Chung contemplate dthe story for a good while. Piecing together the facts and the histories. It seemed that he understood. “we’re also reshaping a world right now aren’t we? We’re just doing one part of a whole process.” “yes myfriend. Yes we are. For the time of dire November is at hand and the world always turns with such a tide.”

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The final journey to the place of night, of the dark side of EQUATA is haunted by a fever. The fever of transition as it is called in the histories of J and Delucia. They were first struck by blackouts and when they have struggled for their destined seclusions, a black sleep takes them and with it comes the fire of pre-‐equata. This is the fevered womb of equate, the journey through the birth canal of fire. The white heat of rebirth. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxx “we are but one thing in the face of many. We are but wanderers in a land already lost. We are the witnesses for things not yet seen. We are the authors of unrealized realities.” – DECORUS THE THIRD>

100 By which nocturne fever, did the dream of the hundred rooms arise, I do not know. Grey were the windowless walls, the canvas for our creation. Upon each were stones of black. Small stones forming signs, telling times, marking places. Each stone I touched trembled different. Another frequency, a variant consciousness. I was naked and had no genitals. I was bald and bloated and my feet did not touch the ground. The voices from childhood returned. They had come to name the stones. This is the first, this is the hundredth, they said. The rooms had no doors and windows. Only black stones, shimmering on the walls. Through the walls I drifted. Room into room into room. The stones were always there. Each stone always different. Each voice another tone. A hundred rooms for a hundred minds. They said. A hundred pages for the thousandth book. A hundred hours for the thousandth clock. a hundred children for mother thousand. There was no night and there was no day. No time nor reason. Not here or now or then. The eyes were that of dreaming. A blur distant memory pregnant with present thought. What I think, I dream. What I dream, I live. This is home, the thousand womb. This is heaven, the hundred temples. To forsake the world is to transit in numbers. To err with humbers is to damage life. Through the walls I slept and walked. Through the labyrinth I search. The next room, the nest room and the next. One through to hundred, for the mercy of great one thousand. 183

I wake and the earth is cold. A concrete corpse, a windowless place. This room is dark though in sleep not see. the eyes ignores the black. The grey returns with the stones on the wall. My hand reaches for the stone. The voice of the minds converse. They tell me its secret name. the red hand that bleeds the writ of myth. The arrival of the lord most thought. A sea change in the abyss. The path of the vagrant wind. Star light cast the shadowed dome. The great hub of the hundred beds. A whore for every scar. A storm for each endeavor. Blest not the crimson tide. Sing not our bloodied graces. The tide of the universe turns. The stones on the wall, apocalypse. I drift like the ghost forsaken. I roam like a spirit lost. I journey to the heart of the monster. The fall of the bridge behind. Naked, I forsake starvation. For the hour of the ship has come. The invocation of father satellite. Descend, its favored powers. A conduit for hundred powers. Naked, I am the radar, the tower of signal alpha, the heartbeat of omega. A hundred nights for the thousand mornings. The hundred stars of the sun one thousand. The thousand myth and the hundred stories. A hundred rooms for the hall of thousand.

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99 the stick machine was mostly dead, black tar blood stuck and dried in its throat, bloodstream slowing and drying up. smoke poured out thinly like ink underwater. Snaking in a colorless air. My arms were bleeding, trying to revive the machine. Its small creaks and groans were devoid of most life. In my arms, the machine would die. I had taken most of it apart. Screws and plates, and gears and bolts covered in the black dried blood was everywhere. Marks sprayed across the floor and walls. The heat, having escaped the machine, terrified the room with its fever. The loss of the machine was greater than my own pain. I sat before it, in dejection, watching it tremble its last moments. The wires lay by its side in a tangled mess. Arteries and veins knotted and impossible to save. Some parts of the floor were still slick with the black liquid. The light from the machine is no more. The voices had promised the demise. No stone upon this wall could bring it back. No amount of cracks or names written in succession could offer reprieve. I clawed what was left of the paint from the machine. White paint stuck under fingernails. Nails broken from the disrepair. I tried organizing the pieces scattered on the ground. I grouped the heart of the machine together. The spine and the skull another side. The hour in the room was soon to pass and the organs of the dead thing gave no answers. I stripped off the factory clothes and stood naked before the machine. I could not recognize the parts that would fit into my body. Whatever was small and sharp, I managed to bury it under my skin. The wires were too thick to use for sewing up the wounds. I offered the dried blood my own, hoping it would mix and bring what was dead to life. Parts of the broken pieces glistened with new wet blood. Some parts responded but could not progress without the other parts in tact. Barefoot crunches into the broken glass. I will walk with what is dead. I left footprints of black and red liquid around the machine. I wiped my fingers around the small silent screens dislodged from the face of the thing. One by one I tried removing the sticks but only three came out, with one half broken. It wasn’t enough to build another machine form. The power source itself was cold and time had run out. The voices offered rites of burial but the concrete could not be broken, no hole could be dug, no fire could be struck. Empty and unmoving, I left the machine vacant in the circle of my steps. The stones in the wall had fallen off in tandem with the dying machine. Now, only two was left. It is the darker stone said the voices. Other voices argued. It is the stone in the shape of the eye. I would rather be darker than with sight. I turned and tore out the darker stone. Put it in my mouth and with difficulty, I swallowed it.

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Turning my back to the machine, I let the stone dissolve and feed my bloodstream. Euphoria creeps. And as I close my eyes, the silence of the stick machine intensifies as it is delivered unto the hands of absence.

98 the gypsy woman travels with a red storm within. Panic takes the shape of a raging spirit, holding her hostage, using her as weapon. The people around her suffered in her path. Their Hearts palpitating, regret eating the soul suddenly, it was hard to breathe. I found the gypsy woman cowering in the corner of my hall. Her cards spread out and burning with a red fire. The smoke filled the hall and the fire could not be put out. ‘ I killed someone.” She said. ‘ I killed someone with my anger.’ I could feel the red storm within her and would not approach. she was like a poisoned animal, contagion and venomous. To disarm her wild destroyer, I had to unbind my cards. Such an act was danger. After its last expedition, much of its power was lost. To fight another battle was folly but no choice had i. I could feel the sores on my feet returning. The rush of the tide in the hall was growing louder to my hearing. The wild ghost dog of afrioca howled. The shivering forced me to unearth the cards. With my mind the furniture moved. The ceiling trembled. The gypsy woman was crying. ‘ I killed the man/ I killed the man.’ ‘the shadow of WU hangs about you.’ I told her. her executioner would soon arrive. There was little time left. To the sanctuary, into haven I entered. The tide of the hall was screaming. Waves crashing against the wall of afrioca. Unearth I brought her the box. In exorcisa dae unmasking. I removed the entrails binding the box. The gypsy woman vomited into the fire. The fire grew fiercer. Thundering hooves drew nearer. Her executioner was coming. From the gaping mouth I carried out the cards. A slow disastrous monster stirring from sleep. Saddened was my heart and slowly I wept as I kissed the cards. ‘awake, my child love, awake to this hour. The gypsy woman has killed. The WU is now coming.’ Warmth grew from the deck of cold. From the abysmal coma, the named ones rose. Each card, each name, each place, each time. Rising like the smoke of the burning cards. Arriving like the judgment of WU. I beheld the pictures that wrote my soul. My voice, empowered by voices, emblazoned as sigils. The alphabet of my own omega. I drew the cards needed. The image of the gut of gr’Hg. The black shining card. The beheading of Red IDOL. An intricate map from the Vault of M.

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‘trapped be the noise of this death. A far cry be its master.’ I could then see how the man had died. I could sense her behemoth rage eating away the unawareness of his life . for he did not pay mind to things greater than he, it was such greatness that consumed him. And now, the potent scavenging beast that fed, is in turn starved by my brutal hand. A mark made that diverts the thundered cast of WU. the great thunder of Wu deafened the field of stars. The beast roll’d on, its fire diverging. Another seal has been set against its hand. The defiant sorcerer with greater potent, protects the child. In his head recalling jesters burnt at the statue. Of saddened monks leaving machina.

96 by the river GA, he had followed. Bare feet burnt and blistered in the heat. He had been walking for days in the sun. the furnace planet that did not set in months. Soon it would burn at its highest. It was then that he had to bury himself, in the poisoned ground, so that he could live. The hot wind tore at his skin. Razor like sand eating away at his body. He moved on against the wind because this was the way to the place of night. This was the way home. by the sludge of the GA he journeyed, looking out for the crane people, with their stabbing and sucking beaks. T hey who would kill any other living thing. They crept out of the broken ground like spiders, they sunk their poisoned beaks into the black GA. They drank from 187

the bile of the beast, the horrid river that ran from the gut of Gr’Hg to the motherwomb wound in the north. The sludge carried with it the excrement and vomit of GA, the thing that is sickness by the shore. Near the bank of the river were the flowers black. Ambient, lethal flora whose potent flavor brought on delirium and slow madness. But to live on upon this path, it had to be consumed at least once every two days of sun. in the slow death of the mind came salvation. By consuming the black flowers little at a time, one lives. Tis better to live with madness than die without the place of night. By the river GA, Ercondus the traveler followed. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz 95 By the unlit corridors of stone, the prince-‐doctor Immanuel Grant follows. Gone, are the old paintings, the faint air of her scent. Cold are the walls as he walks. A long sadness has transpired and the unlit way is the only way for the doctor. There is a burden in his heart as he trudges on, his sight accustomed to darkness. His will moving forward through the endless path. His mind is heavy with lost images. Of lives taken away from the wall. 188

Lost in the labyrinth he journeys on. walking for days, for months for years. His soul wearies greatlybut his body does not. There is no rest in the darkness. He feels the insects beyond the walls. The locusts of time and space. Beneath his feet he feels the maggots. Denizens of things underneath, sunk below the surface, hidden from lucid thoughts. End of review the rest of the book was still blank. I had found the contents authentic for some reason. That this was a kind of book of records, made by a witness who did not or could not finish it. What had become of this author I cannot say. Through my visions when I first handled the book, I had already seen the tower and other images not mentioned . I believed them to be events not recorded here and that such events in connection with everything that has transpired is still in motion. The dead eyes of the mammoth had given me two cities. The first is of the city wounded in war. The other is the place of night song and retribution. The place sought by the traveler ERCONDUS recorded in the book. It was nearly five in the evening. I closed the book and rewrapped it in the cloth and string. There were three more card readings to finish off tonight. A new shipment of stones was to arrive. The last hours of business had to be dealt with before I could pack up and leave for the first city. I spent a small time in the praying room asking for safe passage and that the haus of ghos would be protected in my absence. I heard the waters in the well splash around, accepting my words and intent. The red ants were still on the calendar, a sign that an un-‐ordinary time has arrived. BY THE ARRIVAL OF EVENING, ALL THREE APPOINTMENTS FOR THE READINGS WERE CANCELLED it was as if all three people had taken ill at the same time. They sounded nasal and weak on the phone and I bid theme ach a well recovery. The stones on the wall had shifted, telling me that certain area energies were changing. It wasn’t another storm but the conditions of exixtence themselves have altered. The streets now ran on by a different hand.a different force ligfhted the approaching night.time. the clientele of the evening too became stranger, as if the visitors that followed in the wake of last nights stranger was even more mysterios and affecting than he. An old man in a grey suit came in with a jar of frog skeletons. ‘ I am lookin for my grandchild’ he said, offering me the jar, “help me please.’ My spirit chose the saula act and with the deck of saul I found that the child had been long gone. Taken form this place of existence. To the old man;’s dismay I let him part with a blessing of favored dreaming. Of his grandchild leaping and playing in a sunlit field. ‘she is happy’ I told him as he left but I knew he was not convinced. Then a mother came in, also looking for a lost girl. I was uneasy with her distress. There were monsters in my gut that’s tirred. A certain fear followed her into the store. I had to m ake her wait as I consulted the head of the mammoth. Its dead eyes gave me no other way. I had to turn her down much to her pleading. “you are by far the best shaman, far greater than your father god rest his soul. Help me please.” I could not. It had something to do with the book but I did not know what it was. I believed it to be the girl Nicole, who was abducted. Butt he myth spoke only of her grandparents and made no mention of a mother. I prayed for the weeping woman as she left. What was becoming of this evening? What had changed over the course of the last tweleve hours? I thought these things as I locked up the store again, in preparation for my departure with the book. 189

I ahd chosen my place of ritual beneath the tenth cabinet where the oversized cat of oro sat, next to t he statue of the man who returned form the dead and the stone beige eagle looking upwards to the heavens. I stripepd my garments and sat naked and cross legged before the ceremonial table. Laye dout across it was the cloth of ephilis and upon it I would lay out my objects for the journey. I had shaved my head bald and most of my body for purity. The respects being paid to the virgin state. I consumed the yellow flowers accordingly, the flora that was of sister, of morning to the flowers of black night.. five I consumed and allowed itfreedominmy bloodstream. On my right wrist were the eyes of igre, strung by the fir cord, the gleaming brown beads of the protector igre. On my left wrist I strung the eyes of balak, the almost black spheres of destroying. Thebeads of engagement of war. By my necki hung the wood of ihist, part of a sacred tree in the forest of arzeth the head of the wooly mammoth lay on its side and from its dead mouth it was issued the artifacts required fort he journey. The cards of decorus. Tarot of the other place. The deck of saula, archetype deck of the myth of saula The crystal of iande & nyl ;Heart spheres of the cycles of UL The book of the unknown sigil Sands of the first garden I layed them out one by one. The deck of decorus, having aquired it through the trade of an elder card reader Tzuar Raanan, who chose tovanish a year after the red idol event.. The deck of saula, a gift received hours into a death state that occurred after consuming the famed druq locotraine offered by the now missing dealer-‐magician Drashad. In handling the deck he is affronted with the horizons of the blue desert where a figure greater than I had fallen to his knees, his mind agape with the secret mysteries of an order unknown to the occultism of this history. The crystal spehere was an offering by Decorus the third, who chose to trade his love for the two moon goddesses of another galaxy for initiation into the order of mysteries. . In handling it I felt his loss, his sacrifice made for his queens whom he loved, the removal of the stones in the heart of Nyl by the heat of his martyrd death The sands o the first garden were remnants after my initiatory burial by he first drafters of the human pantheon of mythos. And finally the book. The object of my next evolution. 190

The rital had stolen time again from the haus of ghos. I am a quarter past the third hour of night. The mix of the yellow flowers was coming on strong I lit the incence of lavender and allowed the smoke to envelop me in its other worldly wisps. The scar on my face throbbed,mysoul reached different heights as I packed the items into the bag of apalach, tradede to m e by a nomad warrior for the erasure of the faces of his enemies as they died by his sword. The bag was black and had the symbols of the four elements, chaos and the sign of cosmic balance. The seventh sign of the astrological charts. Indulgence is the food of the soul that has given itself to the people. I brought out the half bottle of whiskey from last night and unwrapped a fresh bundle f black flowers. The journey, the mammoth head told me, would demand much from your strength. Be content with the gifts of the Greatest one. I poured myself a full glass and contemplated the the actions that I am to take. What drives me outward from this place? For months I had not stepped out from the ghos hause. For months I contemplated and journeyed the universe from inside a cluttered magickal store. Why the decision to leave now, with a book, in search of an author and an origin that may not exist? “it is an aspect of the eternal wanderer’ the mmaoth head said. I recall the words of a film score compose Jay chattaway “we are a race of wanderes. But only recently have we managed to travelbeyond our own world. the results have been surprising.” Iti s in our nature to search and to journey outward after spending so long journeying in. I closed up the bag and began to dress. Terrain black boots and Indian garments. I bundled my age long hair into a tight turban and set the seal of Alvador and jadeshia, the magickal names ofmy parents, n the front of the turvan. I put on the tworings of X-‐ftarc ste in the silver from the ores of the ines mines. Outside, the rain begins to fall at 4 am as I overcoat myself in the fur of the dead mammoth. In the final ritual, I cut my palms with the blade of erd and draw lines of my blood along the walls of the store. T his was to protect it, to contain the countless consciousness trapped in hundreds of artifacts collected since my fathers time. It was time to leave the ghos~haus,with a world beyond that awaits me. By the midnight sun,I departed. The world had g otten colder, the streets of aton fringe much noiser than before . ,. At 4a.m. those who did not sleep wandered and mediated drunk in the alleys. Those who had just woken, performed their nocturne ballets under dim street lights and the rain. It is the promise of purer movement when blessed by the acid rain of the outskirts. On both sides o fthe streets were shop houses of obscurity and most of them were closed at this hour. There were stores selling Lost and future furniture, astral photography studios, foreign food places that sold things still alive, exotic midnight black aquariums of creatures form the abyss, for the collectors who lived in perpetual darkness. stores of plastic life and mannequin sex slaves, a hard cheese bread bakery and a grocery store for trash periphinilia, alcohol and cigarettes. It was alien tobe out again from the house. The ground felt different , as if the tanks that rumbled through every week had made it stoic and strong. The procession of thousands of feet on the wayto the funeral home at the end of streets had given the road a kind of 191

dignified mourning, indifference to death and its weeping followers. But not all was dark. By the candy stores that opened all night, children who were sleepless sought sweetness in the bright colored candy covens, playing lullabies that soothed their young souls instead of puttingto rest their bodies. The whore houses farther down east of the street was still the same, although the girls looked younger and some, even a little afraid of the fresh fringe dwellers. ,my first stop had to be the bookstore. The owner of the store called the Fic’kata Writ would hopefully know something about the book I ad and know where I could find the editor of a publishing house that could help me more.. I crossed the road unto the stretch that led me to the bookstore. Then I came across the stranger who had traded the book. He was sitting at a small bus terminal setbetween two horses stables. He was waiting for a public transport that would not arrive till the morning sun. “ah, mr ghos.” He greeted me. “out on a trip?” he asked. “whya re you still here?” was the only questioned that came to my mind. “the street would not let me leave.” He said “buti gave you safe passage.” “yes you did. But the street believes I am to be of aid and consequence with you a;though I don’t quite know or what that be.” His strange energy remained sincere. Something in me whispered a need for his company. No one meets the ghos hause for no reason. “alright” I told him. “ I have a bookstore to go to. To see if a friend knows more about this book. “then let us proceed” he said, getting up, takinghis brief case with him, and tightening his coat around himself, a refuge from the late night wind and rain. Thelight of ic’kata writ was on amd Monsuier Enreed, the owner should be present. we enetered at once into a rich, dense, complex world. all the books in Fic’kata Writ were huge epics, with some volumes as vast as future encyclopedias. I could see that the layout was occult in nature. Rows upon rows of books in tall black shelves built into a maze like structure. Many great candles suspended upside down from the roof and was fully lit but heat was absent in this place. The smell of old books and the cold air of future ranges gave me mized emotions. The plave was brimming with powers. Wills set in words, worlds set in millions of pages. I felt a kind of electrified resonance coming from my bag with ahigh probability that the unfinished book with the strange symbol on the front was reacting in the presence of the other great library of epics. A woman in a flowing brown dress appeared from behindone of the sheleves. It st artled my vistor-‐friend and she noticed it. “I apologize good sir. I did not mean to scare you. if you could excuse the way my face would gaze into yours.” Half her face was like a snake. Scaly and curves like apython, and yet, her eyes and forehead was like that of an owl. “ I am in searcg of the book of owl lords, to find my patron deity. What are uo here for?” she asked. Most customers along the streets of aton-‐ fringe were conversational this way. They always had a genuine interest in others who s hared a similar passion. “oh, “ the vistor explained, “ I am here with my friend. We’re looking for something…related to abook we have.” “whastis the book about?” she enquired. I had to intercede. “ it is something of a private nature, pardon my intrusion. I am looking for the monsuier. “my apologies for being alittle too inquisitive” thelady said, “ the monseuir should be out soon, he is helping m find my book.” “now if you’d excuse me, good day good sirs.” She bowed alittlel then vanished behind another shelf of thick heavy books. Theb ooks here would often speak to me, if I brought myself into their proper frequencies. They’d filled me with a language that passes t houghts and forms and words. they would provide me with the emotions of places, of times and and of people, fictitious or no. I have oftene dloved the way 192

their spirits wove into mine. It was a feeling I always treasured whever my father ha dbrought me to this place. It is a place that is even older thatn the hause of ghos. Of the older histories that date back further than the magical objects in the possession of my store/ from somewhere behind the bookstore, Enreed called out to the woman, “beloved lady of he birds” he said, “I believe I have found your book. He emerged from the towering shelves and stopped in his tracks when he saw us. “og blessed proetics, I didn’t know youw ere her baron Ghos haus. My sincere sorryness for keeping you unserved.” “it is alright monsieur Enreed, please, “ ii gestured to the lady who had returned from her wanderings in the bookstore, “attend to her needs first and foremost.” “with you, I shall be with shortly,” he curtsied to me, then uncomfortably to the vistor and offered thebook to the owl woman. When he was done he came tro us and gestured us to the tea room. The man who was with me did not heed the call. He was staring out of the bookstore’s window. His face entranced. He poke in a drone like way, “the woman.” He said, “the woman who gaveth the book, watches us.” I moved to the window, searching the area for some sort of energy. There was none. I looked out. There was no one on the streets at this time. “are you sure it was her/” I asked. “it cannot be.” I sensed something wrong was going to come next. “she’s dead.” All the windows in the store cracked, an unknown pressure from within the glass. From within the heart of the glass black blood spread then covered the entire window, sealing it shut. The door handles of the store melted off. Power was drained from the ceiling lights. My soul suddenly screamed. Everything went black. I felt An old, wrinkled hand touch my face in the darkness. Full of echo, the crone cracked voice spoke, “you raped me child…you penetrated mother” in the black I felt an abortion. A terrible shredding escaped the bowels of darkness. Through the wall of noise I could hear Enreed. The voice of the visitor was breaking. //out….ire…hurt…..ire…gha.s…..ss…-‐ was shouting. Shouting. Insects in the soul. Mind lascerating. Opanic of insects loud. Crickets. Termites.centipieds. caklling laughing. Cakling laughing. The sick man possessed. The sick man possessed. Breaking voices. Out. Out Silemce. Symens.silence. Nothing. 193

Coming Absce

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Book 2 Kolchesco was vomiting unto the bed. Bent over naked, his spine like an eel, squirming under his skin. Vomiting loudly, green an dblack foam and sludge. Eyes rolled up into head exposing only blood red. Lye-‐dom the exorcist crashed his head repeatedly into the brick wall. In his head only a haunting piano motif, repeating sadness and erotic expulsion. He had a hard on. blood pouring out instead of sperm. The whole room was screaming on another frequency. Kolchesco was still retching terribly, back almost breaking. The banging of the door. The banging on the blackened windows. Lye-‐dom finally collapsed, broken skull and thick blood dragging down the wall with his corpse. The only last movement was a spasm. The only sound is vomiting. Then t he window broke open. Black bloated goldfishes swam in, hysterical. Attached themselves to the black and dark green sludge of vomit. To the crimson mess of fat bone and blood. They sucked at the slimy mess, tails wagging like happy dogs. 195

Kolchesco stopped vomiting. His eel spine stopped moving, a twisted crooked dead snake. His skin contorted and taut and wrinkled suddenly as of great age. His eyes remained open and red. Kolchesco, in a Fetal position stopped moving. The room fell silent. The fishes slowed down. Then one by one, they burst. Pregnant stomach breaking out into thousands of clear transparent eggs. A million bubble like eggs distorting and magnifying the horrors of the room. The rest of the vomit and bile and blood and shit crept and escaped into the eggs. The eggs squirmed against each other, completely filling the room by now. A sealed room filled with tiorn pieces of floating black skins of goldfishes, their eggs seeded by the grotesque remains of kolchesco, the prisoner and lye-‐dom the priest. The dead forms of the two and the sudden presence o the burning form of a book. This room hath become a nexus. The beating heart of a city deported into madness, into the shrieking illness of its own mind and soul. Across from the building, cursed with the womb-‐room of dead kolchesco and lye-‐dom , the first responders watched and waited. Their first orders were to contain the building and the twisted powers that resonated from it. Immediately , they felt the great drain of the act, for the power that had built itself there from the deaths was far greater than the imaginations of the first responders. In a building at the opposite end, an intercessional team, FIELD –X observed, to understand, to defuse the situation. Decorus , the third, was the field commander and he was unusually anxious. His generals, ORATIOUS, the disembodied and JUSTICE THORN, the deviant studied the uncertain behaviour of their Saent. He spoke, but it was hard to tell if it was to his generals or to himself. He spoke with calculation, as if each word would help understand the events that has transpired. “the man ghos-‐haus was not to be, taken so early. The book was not supposed to be lost at this stage.” He pointed to the blasphemed building, “This is what it reaps.” “what has happened here?” oratious asked. “Kolchesco’s alter-‐mage was ghos-‐haus. Ghos was not killed in his world. he was taken. Possessed by a malic zeitgeist. I t was bound by the book of one thousand one hundred and with the book lost, the rupture has helped this high-‐spirit escape. Using the already powerful ghos, it drew the priest lye-‐dom, one of the greatest living exorcist of our time, to the haus of kolchaesco and then killed him. . I am not sure what else has transpired. This has not happened before. It is my belied that this spirit has become like a god and its first creation is hibernating actively in that room.” “so we take it out.” JUSTICE THORN said, already armed with six war amulets. “we cannot,” Decorus explained. “this is the black arts of 1000.100. we cannot war with magic we don’t understand.” “then which team can?” “none of us. Not in this nexus.” Decorus paused, thinking through his final statement carefully. Then he said, “ We have to call upon the Hause of FATH for help.”

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Above the buildings, in the polluted and drunk sky, the death-‐ships arrived, one by one. Whale like creatures that circled the cursed neighbourhood below like sharks drawn by the smell of blood. Its hunger ammased restless lightning. Red churning crackles of energy, erratic electric prowling at the edge of apocalypse. The smell of burnt corpses rode in with a wind thick with dreadful weight. The gaze of Decorus was fixed onto the death-‐ships and the eerie lightning that lit its grotesque bodies. “I had dreamt of this.” He said, “a father and a child upon a mountain, watching the death ships fall slowly from the sky. And the father lied to his girl abother her mother. She was not in another rplace they couldn’t visit. She was to die upon one of those ships as they crashed, like slow drunk animals into the sea. It was a dream about a dire November that was to come. The dire novemeber that is already here. We must return to the mother field. We must seek the blessings of LOCUS for our journey next.“ as the three departed from the building, ORATIOUS incanted for two more responders to the scene and MR Thorn began a mental ritual, calling upon the make of five more amulets. THE MOTHER FIELD> OFFICE OF LOCUS THE FIRST> Eleven stones rose upon the wall in the hall of mysteris. Three fires set unto the north, south and eastern doorways. Soot covered the white marble finishing of the hall. In the centre, upon a white bed, wept a queen in funeral clothes. ‘she whose womb is gifted by the daemon oro’ her immaculate hands in her face, skin burning with tears. By the bedside, sat Saent LOCUS the first. in a posture, troubled, a weight upon his back. Standing before him was Decorus.

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“the Hause of FATH?” he said/ he was not ready to accept this. “do you realize what kind of coup is happening in the Hause of Fath?” “we have no choice.” Said Decorus. “their fourth brother has been resurrected. The hause hath brought forth FATALIS. An execution will soon be in order. Blood will be shed in the hause of FATH. And you are telling me to seek their help?” “What other solution is there my brother? I believe that FINNUS , THE MAD has enough power to deal with a madness such as one thousand one hundred through their haus, and if he were not so, his brother FACTIOUS< THE DIVINED will augment the hause with a longer lineage of power from their above.” “Decorus, There is an error in the hause of fath and you do not understand its nature. No help shall be asked of them. This is my final judgement.” Resigned, DECORUS asked for the next line of action. “seek the woman of ORDOM. She owes a debt to the MYSTERIS FIELDS and her time for payment has come. Find your other nomad and go forth. I shall grant you safe passage to the place of soil and gravel. Do not fail me decorus. The figure of saul is no longer at hand. The powers or ordom are our only hope left. Do not fail or else fails with your failure.” Decorus bowed to his elder brother and departed, leaving the weeping queen and Locus alone. The woman was still weeping as she slowly removed her clothes. Locus allowed his robe to fall and sought the fire of the east. The tongues leapt onto his outreached arms and move dup to his naked form. The fire inscribed his skin with various orders and maps. The woman took the burning body of decorus and began making love to it, set aflame. In ecstacy, decorus prophesied within and set a new ritual of understanding in motion. The tears of the woman turn to smoke in the flames. He inhaled it like a drug addict, consuming her sorrow, her imagination, her knowledge of life and death AND OTHER WORLDS. The fire of the east completed I ts task and faded away. The woman’s tongue cooled his skin. An innocence charged with sadness, birthing compassion. She kissed his seared wounds gingerly. She touched him gently, tracing the maps on his body with her fortuned fingers. In the room of occurrences, set behind the northern fire, the markers and totems began shifting. The paintings changed images and the mirrors reflected alien places. Another tide changes in dire November. Another reality unfolds. Locus the first DRIFTED IN THE ARMS OF THE WOMAN, great laybrinths forming in his head. He was moving back to his source, to see things from a greater height. The table was before him as the visions overtook. Made of a metal unknown to man, the writhing , castrated groin of the monster TIR was spilling glowing red semen. He became a channel in the visions, and with the writhing thing, he wrote

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and drew upon the canvas of seeing. No longer in control of his consciousness, he allowed the powers he worshipped to form meanings out of all accidents in all places and situations. The great houses were formed first. THE FIELDS OF MYSTERIS AND ITS ENGINE FIELD X, THE HOUSE OF FATH AND THE HOUSE OF FATH, THESE WERE THE KEY HOUSES IN THE UNIVERSE OF THE FIELD. UPON SOIL AND SAND WERE THE HOUSES OF GHOS, THE RESSURECTION CRISIS MOTEL AND OF ORDOM. THERE WAS THEN A FIGURE DRAWN. SURROUNDED BY THREE SYMBOLS. OF 1000.100, VAULT M AND THE RED PYRAMID (PYRAMIND) THE FIGURE SPOKE THUS SOWN SEEDS OF THRICE YEARS PAST RISE THE CONSEQUENCE OF SALVATION A RUPTURE FED THROUGH THE RED DIVERTED A SOLEMN MOON DECLINES AND THE DEAD RETURN AND OTHER MEN TAKEN THE DESTRYOER COMES, AS DO TERROR AND STRIFE THE DEVIL SUN RISES SCORCHING MEMORY AND FATE THE STONES ON THE WALL, ABOLISHED SATELLITE SCREAMING THE CHILD CRIES IN THE ARM OF A WIDOW ASCENDED, HE WHO IS PRAYED FOR MSUT RETURN OF THE TEXT STOLEN, FOUND THEY BE OR A TERROR GREATER THAN AN END SHALL BORNE A PANIC CREATION AND SHEOL SHALL SHY FROM THIS OTHER NIGHTTIME THE GREAT WORDS OF THE FIGURE WERE CHARGED AND CHARMED EACH EXISTENTIAL LINE ALTERED THE THIRD. IN AN OETIC RUPTURE A BLACK CIRCLE IS DRAWN AROUND THE RESSURECTION CRISIS. THE SIGN OF THE DESTRYOER IS DRAWN BELOW IT. A PROFOUND BLASPHEMA, ABOVE. THEN, IN BLINDING LIGHT, A LIST WAS MADE BUT THE NAMES COULD NOT BE 199

READ. EACH NAME FORMED INTO ITS SIGIL. THE SIGILS RAND DOWN LIKE A LONG LINE OF FORMULAE. THE SIGIILS SURROUNDED THE MAP OF THE HOUSES. THESE WERE THE NAMES THAT CONTAINED IT. THESE ARE THE NAMES THAT PROTECT IT. THESE ARE THE NAMES THAT WILL BRING IT ALL TO LIFE. A RIFT IS DRAWN RIGHT DOWN THE MIDDLE. A CURSE LIKE THREAT. A PROMISE OF APOCALYPSE. THE ENTIRE OUTCOME WRIT BY THE HAND OF THE THIRD POSESSED, FORMED A META-‐SYMBOL AND IT BEGAN SPINNING, SLOWLY THEN SPEEDING UP. ITS INTENSITY BUILT, THE WRITHING THING IN THE HAD OF THE FIRST WITHERED AND WAS EATEN AWAY BY THE VORTEX MADE MANIFEST BEFORE IT. LIGHT, CONSCIOUSNESS AND THE VISION ENDED AT THE APEX OF THE SPINNING WHEEL. LOCUS CLIMAXED REPEATEDLY INTO THE WOMAN WHO WAS NOW WAILING LIKE A BANSHEE AND A GODDESS. THE YEAR OF WRITING OMANDAÉ As narrated into the Phone Journal of Mara le boro Two eves before the end of equara 200

I woke up with a start to my own orgasm. A sudden rush up my spine. Dizziness. Euphoria. I sucked in air as if I had not breathed for centuries. Life rushed to my head. Disoriented, I looked around and foundmyself alone in a cabin on a train. I was wet. Strangely exhausted and collected myself. Trying not to freak out. The orgasm was amazing but I do not recall what or how it had come about. There was no dream, or at least I had completely forgotten it but I felt the presence of a man holding me in bed. I thought about him again. I thought about him in the bathroom. Dead in his vomit and feaces and blood and pills. I struggled to block it out again.. I touched myself, stealing one last shivering high. I took a deep breath. In the dark of the train I changed my panties and sank backinto the bed. I thought about what was ahead. I’m traveling to the village of ATON to find a myth. A myth to reshape me anew after leaving everything else behind. I thought about those things on the train as i dropped the yellow pills into the whiskey. i thought of my guitarist-‐husband’s death from the needle. I thought about the band falling apart. About my writing life at ANTA books and the drastic selling of my posessions and house in the last days. Everything then had become a ball of burning memory and it ate away a part of my heart and soul as I ritualized it. There is a void within me now, a void I hope t he city of ATON will fill. I had long heard about this city, being set in the last quadrant of the Quaa’ rant zone, in the north of the island-‐city EQUATA. It is the quadrant closest to the sea of ARghe and the sacred tower of 71. I promised myself a visit to the tower, because it belongs to part of the myth, but to visit such a place, I had to be initiated completely into the autobiographical mysteries and it was still too early in my life of writ to make such a movement. I had a life then and in the place where I am to go, another life is to be rebuilt. My emotions were mixed as the train traveled west, with a conquistador’s heart and a discoverer’s present but subdued fear of the unknown. I drank up the flowers in the whiskey for it gave me strength of will and the ghost of determination an dthought about the city of ANTON. Part of my expectation of the place was built by the books I’ve read about the place and the stories told to me by a long lost friend. I knew her as Jaqie Daniella back in days when I still read poetry in the bars of my hometown. This was years before she was exiled to ANTON adter apparently being accused of killing her tycoon husband for his money. To him, she was the actress-‐sex-‐slave-‐poet he paid for handsomely. To her, he was a brutal man who financed the shift in her revolutionary soul with the money he gave her for high grade chemicals. She was both an extreme addict and prolific stage actress. A starling French-‐beauty with the intellectual veracity of a controversial philosopher. She had once claimed immortalality and, on some level, I completely believe her. she was both a lost sister and a shining inspiration and she wanted to meet me in the city of ATON. I had not seen her in sixteen years. She is not entirely part of my past because she is only influenced in spirit and from a remote place. She exists in memory and soon to be in the flesh. I need not erase her from history gfor she belongs in a history yet to be written. She belongs in the myth of OMANDAE

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Phone journal entry eleven. Final night of equara. I had finished the pills before the midnight hour had come. Six pages of the introduction to omadae was done before I realized that there was no point starting on the book when my place of power had not been built yet. In my correspondences with Jaqie, she toold me of a moving company, whose chief, a Mister FAR, had connections with objects of power that suited a variety of people including my kind. She offered me to bring me to him and knew then that things would eventually come into being and into place. I had the map of ATON and studied it again after opening my last bottle of whiskey an dpouring out my first drink to the last hours of equara. As I drank, I recalled the writing coven I was with the years before, of the lesbian sex we had together beneath the full moon when one time ended and another began. I pay tributes to those memories. Those words created out of orgy and ecstacy. Of the thrill of bringing those words into manifestation on the make shift stage. Of the candle lights and the searchilights on full as the last and first hour passed. I thought about Jaqie and her naked form and wondered if we could sleep with each other like we did on that night, in the secred writ room of the coven, long after our other sisters had passed out from the chemicals and long ardous world-‐love-‐myth making. I run through two more glasses before I’m compelled by philosophical musings. I penned down my thoughts close to the hour of the end of an era. ‘what lulls a woman to her pregnancy grounds? What call would take to make a poet into a mother into a child living life in writ?’ the questions and answers were unraveling in a complex un-‐uniform speed. Parallel timelines emerged in what I felt an dthought of. I suddenly craved the arms of a woman such as jaqie. Eveyrthing seems possible now that everything else is no more. Day one. Post-‐equara. I only had one duffle bag with me and it was heavy with a change of clothes, key books of my life, writing instruments, semi-‐used leather bound write-‐books and assorted candles and bottles of blackened pencil shavings for my rituals. I had tins of food and plastic-‐bottled water for the long traveling and not all of them were used up. I figured I had about a weke or so of food left, not that it was a lot but because I ate less and less each day. A tin of beans would last me two and a half days now, and hardened cheese bread could go for four days if I kept it right. The station at the edge of ATON city was the most notorious. Immediately upon alighting the train, I could smell the visceral guts of the city and no amount of words or imaginings I ha dprior to arrival could 202

match the sheer reality here before me. there was sex, drugs and miracles in the air. Poetry, music, massacre and food. Even at four in the morning, the station was busy. More people no longer sleep here, Jaqi had written. Most people are most powerful at night. It’s a kind of nocturne sickness. Like glamorous vampires from times end. A cancerous fever that kiiled life of the sun and made the night of moons into glorified existence. she is always a poet. In the words she chose and expressed. Her pen and paper life was the blood through which her animalistic body moved with the grace on stage. And because she was as real as the halogen lights that lit the platform, her magic was also as real as her flesh. The people worshipped her like a drug and they died, fictionally and metaphorically, like junkies when she had to vanish in exile. I loved the tragedy of her departure. I loved that such a woman could do such things. I loved the culture she killed and the culture she brings with her in her heart. To me she is mystery and psychosis. A bridge into all of my tomorrows. I roamed the station, reading all the torn colorful ads pasted onto the station walls. They sold sex and guns, magical furniture, , pets and exotic foods. Some flashed vehicles and rooms for rent, theater places and cinema-‐like shooting grounds. “pleasure your lover withblades” “bring home a wild emu thatguards you” “own part of the statue of izette” “celebrity wall posters for sale” “tarot/saula readings, spellcasting, magickal objects, seances. @ the GHOS~HAUS. “induce selective amnesia.” The ads went on and on throughout the station. Each ad opening up strangevistas in me. this was not a common city. This was fringe and taboo and otherworldly. Jaqi had told me all this before but living it here an dnow was starkly different. Baskers crowded certain entrances to certaonit tunnels that led to other parts of the city. Beggars waitied limbless by the escalators that brought people to the upper grounds. I found my way around to the safeboxes in the bowels of the station and dug my raincoat jacket for the key. Jaqi , in our last correspondence before I left for this city, told me she’d leave a package to help me settle in until she was done with her engagement and could look me up here. She sent me the letter with the key. I found the safebox and opened it. In it, a leerge white envelope pregnant with what felt like papers There was also a shoe box and it was heavy when I removed it. Open all tnhese in the motel. A note said under my name on the front of the envelope. Much has changed since we’ve written.

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I stuffed everything into the bag, threw the keys in and shut the safebox, sealing in nothingness and bringing the new everything with me. The station sat at the edge of the city ATON. To reach the motel, I had to walk, away from the first main road, through the transvestites streets. I could already catch sight of the first few who ventured outside their streets trying to capture business from the firstmain road. A tall slender one sashayed to me. “you there luv!, do you want to be a man who is a woman or be with a woman who is a man?” Ijust smiled at him, georgeous, womanly him. “The right price gets you what you want luv.” “I’m just passing through, thank you. you are really beautiful.” “many blessings upon you then. Be you man or woman, it is your embryo that excites the streets!” she sashayed away. I could not know what he may have meant. It is your embryo that excites the streets. It stuck with me as I entered the mouth of the path that would lead me to the whorestreets running parallel to the host of motels along the second main road. To the motel wherei would stay. They all came out of their flambouyant houses as I passed through. Past houses of stone and feather boas fused into the walls, of glitter balls and stagefronts, fairytale castles and rainbow bright porches. Love seats built into swings, large spa pools with pink bubbling water. “sweet chylde of death, you need a woman who is a man.” Some called, it seems like their main call line. “holy be your skin and the words from your mouth, licking the wounds of my heart.” ‘they were getting expressive, excessive. Did they behave this way because I am a woman? Some seemed sad, some seemed joyful. Others watched me silently which in a way scared me a little. The way they were looking at me, as if they were reading me more than observing. What did they see? do they see me a griefless widow who does not mourn her husband’s tragic death? Do they recognize me in soul because they have read my work in backdated magazines strewn across the beds they make love in? I saw a hooker vomiting by the side of a drain, her pinp, a big bald man comforting her with words, “its ok, everyone gets sick the first time they do it. Yoou’ll get used to it..” someo f the girls just had to look at me and I would grow wet with need. Some were more vocal, “come. Come with me. my tongue is magic, my tonguge is eden.” Some even held me hands, pulled my raincoat to their way. I declined them all nicely as I could, telling them I was just passing through. Was there a whore-‐poet among these girls? Scribbling furiously between sessions of sex with strange men? “the mother would be pleased 204

with you” one said, her smile made my heart warm. A group of girls were eating a white cream cake, licking their lips. I wondered if it was part of their act. Groups sof dark skinned men stood around watching the girls pose an dmodel themselves. I walked on past them, the weight of my bag made my heart pump harder, the walking suddenly seemed endless but meditative. I could feel myself being lulled into some kind of somnambulism. A mix of emotions fed these streets. Satisfaction and desperation, the exchange of currency for joy but it was more than just sex these girls were offering. It was moments of creating, the training of the magical male will, directing the power of the wand into the receptacle of the universe. And they say that all magic has a price. I shook myself out of these thoughts and was immediately alarmed. Those thoughts were not mine. It seemed like I was walking for hours but the end of the street was not near. It is good you have arrived This city cannot evolve rightly without you Your room is already awaiting The top room at resurrection crisis Next to where the man I loved hath returned You shall rebirth You shall hold the hand of lady avo Speak for the other things in crisis Lead the war from home to home Bring salvation to derangements Be the bridge between written rivers 205

Be fevered, no longer yourself And find another name in another life so secret Note # At the end of the whorestreets, there is a club called ORDOM. Have dirnks there at 10pm and I will come to you. speak to as many denizens of the place as you like, for it is a haven for our kind. Phone journal fourteen. Past the year of Equara’s end, I found a room in the neighbourhood of ATON, in a boarding motel called the resurrection crisis. It was a brown nine storey building, built with the sand-‐llike ashes of behemoth creatures slain by the hand of JVHN the resurrected. Its occnstruction and design was conceived by extraterrestrial intelligences, operating from a temple-‐ satellite known as Ai-‐Fi. Each floor had three rooms with a t otal of 27 whose root number is nine. Set in a block shaped building, rectangular windows looked out to the four streets that ran out to he northerm, southers, eastern and western lands. . Only one entrance. Hidden behind a wall of makeshift 4X8 panels, whitewashed and inscribed with various sigils, spellbinds and occult symbols. My room was on the top floor, next to the unoccupied room fabled to have brought back the lost shaman, Saul. The motel keeper mentioned that an occurrence was present two nights before my arrival, and that, although abandoned for several years and left completely empty, it was as if its vanished occupant had return and had taken something. Thgis had aletered the psychic nature of the building and the motel keeper had warned me about its impact on the consciousness of his occupants. I still took the room because there was no other suited place to write the book of ORMANDÉ It took three nights to transport certain books from the store Fic’ kata because, according to its owner Monseiur Enreed, a complication had occurred a week previous and had disrupted the energies of the mythical store. When I was there, I noticed the windows were boarded up, and Enreed was not in his natural state. He was visibly shaken from whatever had occurred and he kept the company of an even stranger man. A lanky elderly man, tall as an ere tree, a grave and stately. Though his presence seemed commandeering, there was a lost beacon in his eyes. A diverted sense of life, a confused realism 206

seething within. I asked Enreed what had transpired and he told me that the ATON’S foremost authority on the psychic arts, a reader of thetarot and the saula had gone missing, having disappeared, or taken abruptly by some other force that had left several books in the house of fic’kata, burnt beyond salvaging. It was a terrible minute of black madness the lanky man said. He did not wish to give me his name, and called himself the visitor. I politely declined an offer of tea, purchased the books I required for my writing and bade the monsieur and the visitor god speed. The current artifact transporters for the city of Equata was not present and I had to compromise by the using the service of another provider. Having to wait three nights, I spent the first discovering the neighborhood of ATON, discovering , for the first time, its twisted, otherworldly environs. I spent the first night wandering the vast aisles and floors of USTA CENTRE, a multi-‐level, multi-‐persona shopping complex just opposite the resurrection crisis. I had purchased pills from the voices [in] pharmaceutica and a box of nicotine patches. Going down a level, I found the alcohol section (after walking through the leather boots and shoes section) and bought aged whiskey for the nights ahead in the motel. “don’t go drinking out alone young lady” the old man behind the counter told me, “there are violent things happening in the city,unlike the usual violence. Take care of your life.” “I will, thank you.” “there are drinking tables a floor down. A section for smoking. You’ll be safer there.” It was almost as if he was sending me a strong message notto wander tonight. “I don’t smoke anymore but yes, I may drink downstairs or back at the motel. Thank you again kind sir,.” He smiled as I went. I decided to explore the drinking section of the mall. It was there where I met the drunk homeless man who told me of the violence warned by the drinks seller. He dirty, shabby drunk called himself Monroe, after a man of twisted myth, he explained. I thought about marilyn instead. The drunk called out to me with a desperate kind of need in his eyes. A need to talk, to share his troubles and stories of life. There was nothing much else I could do on the first night so I decided to let the old man entertain me. anything would be interesting coming from someone who looked like him I thought. I respected the bums, not for their circumstances but for their experience unshared by spoilt society. I opened up my box of pills and poured out the whiskey into a glass I rented from the bar for fifty cents. I paid a dollar more for ice. The drunk old man started to ramble. “so ole’ billy bob from up there keeps you safe down here with bob billy eh? “ he laughed. “you two haver the same names reversed?” “of course me lady, of course, aren’t we brothers then yea? Aha ha ha!” he was an adorable jolly and dirty drunk. I could see soil cake don his already brown jacket. “bet he told ye of violence now did e ?” “a little bit yes.” “a haw haw haw! A little bit isn’t enough now is it young lady eh? You got a curious mind o sweet? A mind that hungers for truth? Perhaps perchance you are a writer? Toiling at your words to arrive at the crux of the matter aye? Huah hah hah!” he took a long swig from cheap champagne. He suddenly leane dclose to me, as if to tell me a secret. And he did. “three murders in a week yes? Two are not from down here. Here I mean. The WORLD! not from this world! wah ha ha ha ha!“ 207

“that’s enough bob billy” it was his brother. “my apologies m’lady. My brother enjoys scaring the tourists with urban tales. Could I offer you an escort back to the motel?” the hour is getting much late and I believe you must be resting. I was a little confused at first. It was still early I thought. Then I had become sudden;y very tired and I checked the time. Five hours had gone…the sun was about to rise. I looked across at bob billy and he was grinning his durnk grin. “had the TIME of your life?” he asked. “enough. brother. “ then to me, “come.” He held out his hand and I took it without thinking. Iti felt safe. I could see a faded USMC tattoo on his arm. We walked out into a light drizzle coming down from a grey morning sky. Strangely, I had apparently finished one bottle and half a box of pills. Billy bob was helping me carry back the bag with the remainder of goods bought. We crossed over to the motel surrounded by those whitewashed façade. The symbols on them seemed to have changed but I could not exactly point out what. My head was cloudy. I feel like I had taken a great toll that the night had sucked out most of my energies without me realizing how much time and energy had been spent. A strange morning and even stranger night. I vaguely recalled seeing the motel keeper. It was harder to see when we reached my floor. Last thing I knew was watching billybob leave the room, the lights out curtains drawn and blackness. A deep dark sleep. Before the dreams began.

j The destroyer is coming. This thunderstorm is only her sign. This funeral procession, her symbol. Mara, the destroyer is coming and If i don’t reach the head of this procession fast enough. Everyone here will die. Its hard to breathe in this saddening crowd. All the fans in desperate mourning, unsure of what to make of the star’s unexpected death. The media has already formed the truth. Killed by cardiac arrest from overworking the central Equata tours. The circles know the other truth. Eleven stab wounds to a body devoid of blood, save the mess that soaked his old white beard turned red. On a head erected upon an altar in his own hall, sitting on a pile of his granddaughters underwear. That was how she found grandpa, his body no where else to be seen (headless, solemn on the bed in the master bedroom, dressed in his dead wife’s petticoat. His hands were bound clasped together in praying position. Bound with the steel guitar strings cut from his stage guitar.

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I think these things, squeezing my way through the crowds. The thoughts of the way my elder died distracts me from the weeping and the congestion and the claustrophobia trying to consume me all around. I think of brutal death to avoid blinding panic. I fight to keep my energies up (un asleep for the third day) and I struggle to keep it together (for a part of me is in another dimension.) I am not whole. I could fall apart but must not. Or everyone else here will die. The nuclear procession is still miles ahead. I’m still trapped in the throng of thousands. I feel like vomiting. The rain makes me cold and sick but I’m more concerned about the red sand packed in my pocket. The elders are going to need it to stop whatever it is that’s threatening to kill us all. I must reach them fast but the glass coffin of the first killed is no where near. I see his face on the wall screens on each side of the streets. Clips of unplugged sessions, the seventy year old singer-‐songwriter moaning the death of humanity, celebrating the joys of love and children. That was his outward life. The life he offered to the world. no one else would know the spiritual and occult sacrifices he made with his hidden life. A life driven for the salvation of as many souls as he could touch. His role included warring for these souls and in spiritual warfare, he was the elder most feared. Imagine then the horror that descended upon the circles after having seen how such a great elder mage warlord has been beheaded and blasphemied against upon his own matrimonial bed. A terror of great order has come and now, in my panicked visions of the night before, I believe that the destroyer is also coming. DECORUS, THETHIRD, AND THE JOURNEY TO ORDOM The men in black on the stage had hair like women and their faces were all glowing a dirty white, like a sick yellow light in a dark hospital. The music they made was the march into black disturbed places. The industrial drumming, suicide inspired lyrics, a creeping hypnotic bassline. Songs for ghost radios and crammed dance floors of the fetishists. In the gothic-‐BDSM CLUB of ORDOM, the night of bodyencasement is building up. men and women mummified by big grotesque, naked figures in leather masks and iron maidens. The menin black on stage play on. It is hot and sweaty and orgiastic in the hall of ordom. The monstrous speakers screaming out tortured guitars and high strung violins. There is little space to move as masked half naked orgre like humans cart around men bound in pvc straightjackets, diving suits, hentai rope while the women are crammed naked into cages suspended far above the raving crowd. The Goths and warlocks raise their arms beneath the dark moon, suspended like an ancient propr high above. A black and red light glows from it as if it was a rock from a black volcano. In ritual the masters dance, stamping feet like the shamans of the old world to the pregnant beat of a tribal drum. Everything appears slow motion to decorus. To Justice Thorn, he 209

senses the presence of the red dust, of high hallucinations and amphetamine nightmares unfurling in the energies like black kali in Indian fumes. Wild things hang from the chains , howling into the crowds. There is ecstacy in this terror, bleeding bliss in this chaos. Women in furs whip men in animal tights in jail cells built into the walls of the club. Swirling manic beats flood the cells, the hall, every inch of space, in the head. Building into a climactic explosion, of a thousand horses running on dry broken lands straight at you. the powers here are overwhelming, even for a man with a stature like decorus, but this was how the people of soil and sand released themselves. This was what renewed sanity in a world long gone mad. “madness matures like wiiine, madness matures like wine:” wailed the the man in black on stage. Like a cat crying in the dark, the man sings about girls in windows and blood on t he stairs. Decorus recognizes this ill spirit called despair and fights against it. The mass around him simply soaks it up, fighting poison with poison, neutralizing the pain with a pleasure. Through this twilight crowd, decorus seeks the lady of this twilight place where hours and daylights melt and is lost outside. Like being buried beneath, this atrocity atlantis is rich with abysmal life and through the crowd decorus sees its dark majestic queen. Her headdress is of black stones rising like ona thai goddesse’s head. A tower of crown to mark her as the grand crone of this coven. Her long silky black hair is unnaturally alive, breathing down the long of her back. Her black dress clings to her pale and slender corpse like body animating her as she slowly moves through her dominion. Her black laced gloved hand rises and falls gracefully like the falling of angels. Decorus already understands that his charge is enchanted and they are merely following her into her lair. The men in black on stage play their most despairing song, a haunting tribute to their figurehead as she leads the men from the field like a black widow to her womb. The atmosphere is thick, like muddy opiates and everything slows down as if the vastly saddened music had slowed the heart of ordom itself. The great beast was turning into sleep as its mistress disappears behind a red velvet curtain. Like dead men floating, field x follows her and are altogether lost behind the veil of ordom./ She stood before them almost naked, except for her tiny red g-‐string panties and string bra. Her body was immaculate. Nubile, slender, shapely, erotic. It was her head that disturbed them most. The head of a teenage girl, dead too long in the swamps. It sat on a broken neck with hair a dirty brown, sodden with soil and tiny dead yellow leaves and crushed flowers. A piece of grey duct tape sealed her mouth shut. It looked like a part of her skin and not taped over. Her eyes were glued shut, thick translucent hardened gel, like worms buried her eyelashes. Her skin on her face almost blue and black and there were wounds like she had been hit with rocks. Dried black blood stained from her nose and ears. Her lifeless head lolled about gently as her perfect lower body moved slowly towards the, She spoke to them in their heads. A sweet sad voice, half girl half woman. It was her voice that made the entire scene perfectly wrong. “the thing…”she said slowly, “the thing in the building… part of it is here, in this world is it?” “I am sorry my lady, I do not understand your question.” “no matter.. no matter. By whose word do you arrive here?” “it is by the word of Locus that I seek you, lady of ordom.” 210

“for what purpose?” “we seek an act of repayment, an act related to the thing that you speak of.” She took a step back. She made a sound like she did when she was first taken by her killers hand. “ I fear , I cannot help you.” she said. “you should leave.” She turned and disappeared behind the Japanese screen where her black dress was draped over. “we have come far, my lady. I pray thee, at least hear what has happened. Aprisoner and a priest has been killed…” She spoke from behind the screen. Cutting him off. “too m much has already happened here Decorus. An aspect of the thing had already arrived. Your presence here confirms it. The killings here, and the killings that is to come, and the missing girl, the missing magician…. It is all happening here. The deaths in your realm are merely the beginning. More pain and torture and….rape….and…murder is coming… something has been set into motion and can no longer be stopped. My powers here are fully engaged. I cannot leave my realm. I cannot make repayment to the house of mysteris.” “then let us help you war with this thing” Justice thorn said. “since this thing is an aspect of the greater thing we battle in our field.” “this, we cannot do, younger brother. We have no command over full powers in the place of soil and sand. We are here as messengers and escorts.” Decorus turned to the lady of Ordom, “come back with us and we war with this thing at the source.” The lady laughed. The dead gagged and blind head of the girl rolled upon the moving shoulders. “the house of mysteries is almost as far from the truth as it can get. The source is not in the field, decorus the third. The source is from a place outside both our continuums.” “how do you know this my lady? ?my sorcerer, Elijah Monroe has journeyed with his ghost gimp far into the dark recesses of the multiverse, and the perversity that seethes there hath given him partial knowledge. This knowledge is a part of it. The tide of dire novemeber complicates all matters decorus. The histories and the texts have told us this time and again. We war in a far more complex Warfield than it is expected. Return to your house, soldiers of mysteries. Tell your elder saents that neither the field nor ordom is enough to stop this thing. A destroyer must be called upon and to call it an even greater magic must be achieved.” “what magic is that?” “the magic of 1000.100 itself, and its only key. Saul. ‘ascended, he who is prayed for. Absence, he who was to guard this crossroad, guilty, he who hath loosed this darkness upon us.” 211

MARA’S DREAM As orated into phonejournal. Entry sixteen. Introduction. This is the dream that changed everything. The dream that only happens in the city, as one of the books had explained. it is the city that dreams you it had said. The city awakes within you as you sleep and this is what it can say. There is a voice that narrates in the darkness. A question asked of me. “were you screaming in your mother’s womb? Did you see the face of thy father in the safest place in the world?” “I was borne of cesarian section. I knew my birth was complicated. But I do not recall my father’s face.” It was not my voice speaking. She was an older woman. I did not recognize her mind as my own but I knew my own emotions. Emotions more intimate than thought. Emotions that are true only to myself. This was me with another consciousness that somehow shared mine. The voice continued, “did you not scare all the other children once? Did you not make the teachers scream?” I remembered that day. It was a class excursion to the aquarium. I had put my hand to the glass and made all the fishes float up to die. A teacher who touched me became sick. My mother told me that day that I never had to go to school again. That she would teach me. “and this art you learn is of your own accord?”’ I did not understand the question. There was no more voice after that. A Still darkness. Then I felt a hand running up my legs. Then more hands. Then many fingers started touching me, rubbing me, entering me. I knew they loved me, worshiped me. I was proud and wet and ecstatic. My own gasping echoed in my ears, blind to blind passion. Then came the beams of light, piercing from above. Cutting its way this way and that like concert spotlights, like a searchlight trance club. Some far off drum machine began echoing, in time with my gasping, taking over the noise of sex in my head. The amphetamine rush came next. Reminiscent of my gig days. A twisted guitar came on shrieking, wailing, discordant. The searchbeams came on stronger and faster. Above me, I then saw the deathships. Formed by my own vision of it but based upon the myths. The fabled deathships, like whales in an empty sea/sky above, moving slowly, searching the abyss for the dying. A spotlight found me and the 212

rest of the blindness faded away, black space fogging into a harder more three dimensional space. I found myself on a wooden floor, my face in vomit, my eyes blurred. Hundreds of legs moving around me, hard goth music exploding from the moen like black box speakers above, the floodlights blared then went away then blared again in a crescendo of sight and blindness. Someone was shouting my name “mara! Mara you ok? Mara!” “wha?” “come on get up. its not even your turn to play and your’e already smashed!” I tried to focus. There was a young girl helping me up. the club was crowded but I did not recognize it. At first it seemed that it was an orange lit bar, with wooden floros and walls, like a country style var and grill. Then it became cold and black like a space station hall. Lights like stars on the walls moving. Like eyes watching and darting about. The crowd was a sea of black shining PVC. Two men walked past. In a kind of grey, brown monks robes. Only they didn’t have any kind of face bondage. Everyone else had hoods, gunny sacks , ball gags, headharnesses, gasmasks, faceless masks on. some had reptilian skin encasing their heads with tubes running out like organic snakes. The pretty girl who helped up me was very young. Too young to be in a club but she was dressed for it. A white short flared skirt that showed off her tender legs. A tight mini pink-‐t with a caricature of my face done popart style on it. Immortalized with a wink, the wink I always gave my husband when I wanted to have sex. The girl dragged me by my arms and was leading me through the crowd of freaks. “you know my name I don’t knowyours!” I shouted over the deranged rock and roll. “Nicole! Or nikki!:” she yelled back. “come on!” she was exited. Her face high on innocent drugs. She dragged me towards the stage, then past it. I did not recognize the band onstage. The lead singer looked like he was having an epileptic fit. I was then pulled back stage, behind velvet curtains that hung like a loose black canvas. “damn it!” she said, “we missed the part where she changes places!” I look to where she was pointing. In a funeral room with white light. The music had stopped abruptly. Silence greeted. I saw An empty coffin before me. In a chair next to it sat a dead woman. Head bowed, hand clasped together in prayer. She was bent over a little. Motionless. Next to the coffin on the floor was an elaborate model of a neighbourhood. Colorful shop houses and buildings made from the finest material for minature work. The shop houses rose to just below my knee. The streets looked like they were real concrete. The lampposts looked like they worked. Nicole was not with me anymore. I was alone. With the dead woman in the chair. The empty coffin. The smell of plastic burning rose in my nostrils. I could taste the terrible fumes. The dead woman began speaking. “destroy the model like a monster and its parent made manifest will also be doomed.” A horrible dread filled me, I stared at the corpse expecting it to suddenly move. Trapped in that moment again and again. In that terrible expectation of watching her head slowly look up to me. the wall opposite me burst. I saw myself stomping through the neighbourhood like a temperamental child. I saw my own face and screamed. It was a hellbent face. Eyes rolled up in the head but obviously moving around desperately. Longue bigger and longer and sharp like a snake. Hair a terrible wild as my possessed doppelganger crushed the shophouses like sandcastles. A skin crawling screeching started from the dead womans lips. Centipieds crawled out of her dead mouth. Something grabbed my head, forced me to look. from behind me, two men carrying a trashing body walked past. It was Nicole. Naked and bound and gagged with black industrial tape. Face and hands and limbs wrapped up. she was struggling in the arms of the two huge men. I tried to stop them but was head was cramped so badly , blood roared in my ears. I could not scream as the men took the muffled screaming girl away through the hole in the wall. My stomach knotted and then something inside me burst. 213

Like waking from a bad dream, I was on a hospital bed, legs spreadeagled, having a miscarriage. Pieces of baby was cut up and sucked from me. not by some abortion machine but by my own will. I was miscarrying my baby by my own volition and I was having an orgasm. I was filled with a great liberating joy. The surgeons were laughing loudly with me. the operating theatre lights above was swirling gladly. Alien figures crowded around me observing. They took pieces of my dead baby. Some bits they put in metallic jars. Others they ate, experimentally. Their oval black eyes gleamed with a virgins experience. Other beings studied the little organs in their hands. I saw some divining it. Reading the future in the entrails of the fetus. They looked at me then agreed. They came to me, a dead heart in their bloodied hands and above my face they squeezed it. Blodied meat and squashed veins fell thickly into my eyes. It burnt terribly but burnt new sight into me. As the old glaring surgical lights was eaten away by black blood, a new sky broke through the blood eating my cornea. Serenity. Blue skies. I could see the sun shining just off my vision. Grass below me, flowers tickling my ears/ I sat up. before me a red and white colored terrace house rising larger than life above me. through a window, with yellow curtains sailing ina gentle breeze, I saw an even younger Nicole. Big beautiful eyes transfixed on her handheld computer game. She was so beautiful, angelic, innocent. I tried getting her attention by getting up and waving at her but she was not to be diverted from her game. Just watching her filled me with so much simple joy. My gladness filled her room, she was glowing with my happiness. I fed the sun and the fields and the trees and the clouds. Just watching her, I gave life back to life. I gave paradise her name, I gave the skies her song. I outstretched my arms to the heaven and this caught nikki’s attention. She stopped playing, came up to the window. She smiled at mne, that young child lovers smile. Then , ever so slowly, her smile faded. And as it did, the joys faded. The life faded. I could feel all of it slipping away. No. no. nikki’s face turned from sweet innocence to a phantom despair. She put her hands on the window sill. I started moving to the house she was in all the while looking up at her. by then I was already empty inside. No. She began to climb the window. No. Raising her legs to get a footing, I saw straight up her skirt. I saw her blue panties. Then it was red panties. Then 214

She leapt. Two days before the funeral of the elder, and a day before a part of himself was sent to another continuum, J was collecting money for the drugs. The November storms had come early. It was raining torrentially where j was at. The Chinatown shophouses early afternoon was still jam packed with tourists and natives. He was waiting Across the House of Wu, at a coffeeshop filled with a lunch time crowd. A nervousness was growing within him, not because of the magickal substances with him that the authorities of the city considered illegal, but because there was a looming desperation in the air. A conference was called for the night before. While meditating in the throes of the red dust, J had a vision. In it, the Chinese midget man appeared to him in his white suit and red rectangles that ran down the centre of the shuit. The small man was bald and he spoke fluent hebrew which J could understand only in dreams. “MR WU REQUIRES THE PRESENCE OF THE DEALER PRINCE. A CONFERENCE IS IN ACTIVATION.” Was all he said. just an hour after that vision, his cell phone began ringing and messengers from the various magickal houses and families started their orders for the red dust. When the requests for the red dust hit from more than one house, J knew something was up. the doctor had also called up, requesting an audience. “did you hear?” the doctor asked. “hear what? There are a lot of things I hear.” “ the murder of an elder.” “what?! Who?!” “the musician DYS.” “oh my god…that explains it…I kept listeningto his records…how? What happened?” “I believe MR WU will inform us at the conference.” “damn it Doc, how come I didn’t feel it coming?” “no one did J, if not it would’ve been stopped.” “his family must be distraught…” “apparently his granddaughter found his body…headless body…” “oh lord…” “something bad is already happening J, we must be prepared. Time to pull out of your shadow world. time to get back into the great work.” J took a deep breath to calm himself and stirred his coffee. He let his mind drift with the crowds passingby, sitting down for lunch. Hewatched them laughing and gossiping, showing each other presents they had bought for their loved ones. He watched the couples feed each other noodles and fried wanton. He looked at all t hese heartlanders and wondered if any of them had an inkling of what was going on really under the wires of the world they live in. no news had been released yet about the death of the musician and when it eventually came out, J wondered what the slant would be, wondered if the media would tell the truth or fabricate a story. DYS was a great musician, revered by millions of fans around the world. he sang about hope, love, loss and salvation and now he was dead. Killed. J shivered at the thought. Something told him that this was just the beginning. Something was stirring again in dire November and a regrouping was soon at hand. 215

“that time of the year again eh?” came the doctors voice. J was smoking a cigarette “whats up doc?” J chuckled. He always tried to relieve the tensions by joking. Some people in the circles considers him the jester. The doctor is an elder man who dressed like a dandy. He walked seven feet tall in the city with a white tail coat tuxedo and matching fedora and cane. His hair was immaculately kept, white and long. His face aged and chiseled like fine wine. “the storms are getting worse by the years eh?” he said. “which storm you talking ‘bout doc?” J sucked on his cigarette. “all of them.” J shook his head as the doctor came to stand next to him, removing an expensive cigar from his inner coat pocket. He snipped off the end with a gold cutter and lit it up. “who else will be at the conference? Delucia coming?” J asked. “not her in person but her alter-‐form. “ooh, Jaqi, the actress.” “yes.” “she’s hot.” “she’s powerful.” “yeah…anyone else I might know?” “a cop.” J’s eyes widened. “don’t worry, he’s obviously on our side, may have heard of him. Elijah Monroe,.” “Mad Monroe? The psychic and horribly disturbed detective?” “that’s the one.” “how come he’s involved in the conference?” “rumor has it that several occult killings have occurred. DYS was just one of them.” “its bad huh?” “quite so.” “if only Saul was around…” “I got a feeling this meeting is also about him.” “I think he’s long gone doc…” “I do not think so.” “yeah? Why’s that?” “someone as powerful as him doesn’t just up and leave.” “but that’’s his nature. He has done it manytimes before.” “but I think the events at the end of this cycle would require him to return.” “ I don’t know if he will.” “he has to….you still counting?” he asked J. he gave himself a small laugh, a small sigh. “in twelve days it would be two years exactly.” “and all the best tricks in the arts can’t even say where he is. “ “apparently, “ J said, “there’s been reports of certain dreamings. Coming in from asia. The European islands. The Americas. Even the antartics. Some figure, never to have surfaced before in any kind of tdition or myth has been appearing in the astral lands. Some schools of thought thinks it might be him. Trying to make contact in one way or another.” “the bloated man.” The elder said. “I have heard the stories.” “you think its true?” “hard to say. We’ll see what come out of this conference.” they both sat there in the silence for a while. The door of WU opening across the street caught their attention immediately, as if the motion had an unseen force capturing their attention. A woman in a green dragon print cheong sam stepped out. She was too thin, too otherworldly ofr this place, but this place had its otherworldly secrets. She looked across the street and nodded her head. They got up and crossed in the rain. “Mister WU is expecting you two.” She said. “follow me.” she disappeared into the house of WU and they followed her in.

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the fan on theceiling swirled in an opiate manner. Languorous and dream like. The first hall was the opium den of WU. On both sides of the hall were straw mattresses. On it, skin and bone men of great age lay down with their legs crossed on each other and smoked opium through elaborate pipes and tubes. Some were smoking the red dust and J recognized its scent. The air was thick with the burning flowers. The energies were low and stealth, slow but deep and ancient. There were more customers than usual. Several courtesans from the next room were in this one, helping the elderly men with their recreation. J studied them with interest, for they were skimpily clad in only their underwear. These women had power. They could just look at a man and make him feel things he thought long dead. The smoke in the room was grey and hung like an ominous fog. J and the doctor was already getting lightheaded when the woman in the cheongsam ushered them through red curtains, into another hall. The hall of courtesans was a different animal. It was barely lit even though large red lanterns hung from the ceiling. The whole hall was painted black and the little red light gave the beds in the corners an eerie and intense glow. Some beds had curtains drawn around it. Soft moaning and gasping came from them. Other beds had half naked women sprawled, waiting for the guests to arrive. Some of the beds were empty. The energies here sank into the gut. It was a place of ritual sex and lustful magic. A place of desires fulfilled and emotions unbounded. It was a place of sex and salvation. Temptation and tantra. The courtesans however never asked for the hand of the two men, as if they knew that they were here for other things. The woman led them into a third place. Here, behind the black curtains, the path forked into three different corridors. The woman paused at the entryways. Up ahead through the centre corridor, an old woman was sitting with her left leg up on the chair she was in. She was slowly fanning herself with a rattan fan. Her dressing was reminiscent of old china. She called out to the woman and her guests. “there is burning oil down this way, for a black magician pays his price. His screaming death may haunt you long. Choose wisely if this be the path you follow.” “we do not pass.” The woman said. down the corridor to the left, the sound of dogs fighting erupted. A big white dog came out from the darkness of the corridors and its eyes alone gave the warning not to pass. But the woman said, “expected are the visitors. One of the house of immacula, the other of the Drashad factory. Allow them passage safely, guarding thing.” The dogs red eyes glowed less then it turned and trotted back into the darkness. The woman turned to us an dpointed the way, after the dog. “Mr WU is expecting you both.” She stepped aside for them to pass. J took a deep breath and they proceeded. The way to the office of WU is a way of renewal. To walk down this path is to renew the vows taken. Each person had a human history and a mythical history. For most people, the histories do not cross but for a select few, chosen by powers greater than themselves, the histories would entangle, forming a future wholly different from that of convention. This is the path of the mythical, The path the magician takes. MR Wu oversees those who walk it. He is both judge and executioner of those who transgress. He is authority and commandant of the selected arcs and hauses. This night, the hause of J and the hause of immacula is at hand. To be worthy of the hause, the path to Wu is taken not as a test but an

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affirmation of that which hath come to pass. As they both walk into the darkness, their histories unfurl again, like cinematic recollection, a revision of their origins and duties. The hause of J. As the darkness engulfs, his memory is reignited. J is in a life long before this. In that life, he is a hunter. A tribal warrior from a land occasionally mentioned in obscured myths. In those myths, he made the way through the gates. Gates that led one world to the next. In that life, J kills. He kills the gatekeepers with an occult weapon of his own devising. A spear, fabled to be the pre-‐form of the same spear that killed Christ. The spear that went on to become an occult mystery to Hitler and the successors after him. The spear was fashioned with the bone of a mythic creature called the griffin. A guarder of gateways. The first mythical creature the warrior J had killed by sheer willpower and dark magic. He had become a greater monster that night, when thehordes of the KARA invaded the world of ITA. Recorded as ‘the invasion of ITA’ millions of beings were massacred by the invading army of dark warriors. Terbanacles that rose as towers fell by the hand of KARA. Great sources of power were stolen and maligned by the power hungry KARA. J’s first kill only fed his desire for more. The armies of KARA revered him for his necessary power. With the occult weapon, he led the kingdom of KARA into more dominions, taking over the alternate multiverse one burning kingdom at a time. For two full cycles of time, the kingdom KARA dominated with terror until nearing the end of the third cycle, where J had encountered the gatekeeper that put an end to the brutal invasions. The space to be invaded was a space of memories. A cemetery ground where sacred queens from various levels of reality were laid to rest. The chief sorcerer of KARA deemed it a worthy and necessary invasion, for to own the resting souls of such queens was to have dominion over the kings they influenced. The arrogance of the chief warrior J was his downfall. He saw the old, bent man in the cloak covered with strange symbols as another vulnerable gate keeper. Even weaker than the monsters that guarded the gates to other dominions. He is just an old man was his fatal judgement for the Keeper was not simply that. It was recorded in The downfall of KARA that J’s death was like a supernova that didn’t end him but allowed him transcendemce. It was a death that gifted J with immortality by a hand that saw his potentiality and not his threat. It was a judgement and execution by a hand that sought to transform J into an ally instead of destroying him as an enemy. It was a hand that gave him salvation instead of damnation. Many lives later, the same hand would become a hand that guided J and it was only in his current life cycle would he learn of the name that saved him so many lives before. Saul Liera. J’s journey to the office of WU reminded him of his immortal function. That although his life now as a drug dealer and his life then as a killer of gatekeepers was far apart in similarity, his basic function remained. As the one who leads the others from one dimension to the next. By the end of this journey 218

down the path to WU, J reaffirmed his duty. He would help bring about the next stage of transcendence, by crossing over and bringing his eternal ally back. To bring saul back would be his duty. To lead the circle to the next level of existence would be his destiny. The hause of immaculus. Hallucination takes him in the tunnel. He was just a man before he became the doctor. He lived in the concrete world before he had become an immaculus. His life then was insignificant and alienated. His life then was erased by the insects. Memory plays along the time line of his immortality. He revisits a uncertain range of darkness and wasteland. In the middle of nowhere, his car has broken down. J is with him as he is with him now through the corrdioors. It seems that their lives are intertwined. Smoke is pouring out of the open bonnet where the engine fries. Immanuel allows it to cool and is checking his laptop for updates from the satellite. J is smoking a joint by the dirt path they’re on, lost in thoughts. Images of a semi-‐complete complex is downloading into the laptop. Like a dream, the images on the screen changes. Imaes of his family. Who killed themselves in their rooms in their country side house, not because of madness but because they couldn’t deal with being chosen for consciousness metamophia. By the writ of the scribes of outhers, it was mentioned that the immaculus family had been marked by entities that appeared as locusts and praying mantis around the house. The number of these insects intensified over the months during the period of rebmeceds doom and by the finall twilight of the family’s line, the insects had all scattered leaving, By guilt, Immanuel the only one left. Their deaths are his burdens. He must not allow others to die in vain and fear of the unknown. It is his duty to bring new consciousness to light to those hwo cannot understand it. The insects had chosen his family. The insects have chosen him. In the wake of his family’s suicide, he has bene driven to build the haus of imamcuilus right here in the place of soil and sand. Jagged, fragmentary memory and emotions. Funerals he was too distraught to attent. Absent from the wake of his family. Discharged from reality. He hose the hill of the insects for retreat. The self-‐exhile had been instilled upon him by a grief too great for his oqn humanity. Fragments. Broken recollections. It was the surgical room of the insects he remembers most. The theatre of green insectoid processes. He had entered a ball room where all the guest were in formal dinner wear,. Tuxedos and expensive dresses and diamonds and bow ties. They all had the heads of praying mantises. They took him like a guest. They leaned over him as he stared at the skies above. Just before you die they said, you will see billions of stars. His transformation of life was not an alchemy of events but an invasion from an outside force. The insectoid humans took him through a large metal elevator. It opened on a floor where, behind blue translucent curtains, other humans were being fed upon by what seemed lije vampires. Blood splashed against the screens that surrounded a room. The surgeries were performed in the sacrificial room. The insects ate through him and birthed in him blindness and charm and immortality. Fragementary. Shattered jigsaw pieces. In the dark, by a ghost pathway of time, he held the hand of a goddess and led her through the roadway where serpents lay on the sides, daring not to cross the path of the two. He knew not her name even though he led her to

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safety. The strangeness of his life after his family’s death beset him. The insects thought him about the ways of root consciousness and the variant forms it took. The insects spoke to him and he was learned. Phonejournal entry of MARA LE ORO. It is already night. I had been awake for thirteen hours and I still cannot shake the feelings from the nightmare dream. I could not leave the motel. I turned down the blinds all day and stayed in the darkness. A part of is already afraid of this city and the dreams it inspires. A part of me understands thati am no longer the same person that had passed out the night before. I vaguely recalled the drinks keeper that had brought me back and left. It is the dream that I remember most vividly. I cannot forget Nicole. That young innocent girl who had led me then was taken away from me then returned , only to kill herself. A part of me believes that she is me. the thing I am most afraid of is the thing that had happened to her. taken by those men. Slowly, I am beginning to feel that something like that had happened to me, but not physically, but psychically. I’ve spent hours trying to figure it out but I am no where close. In half a day, Jaqi would finally arrive. Maybe only she can help me. something in me knows this to be true. Jaqi feels like my only link left. I’ve been feeling tired all day and could not move much. It feels like the dream had made a rupture in my psyche and all sorts of memories and revelations are rising from the abyss within me. all t hose fast and high years of being in the band, of being in the music, seemed to have congealed into a ball of twisted energy that was releasing itself,, buibt by b it from my subconscious. I tried, many times not to think of how I found my dead lover. To distract myself, I thought about the myth I was searching for in this city and it feels like the myth had begun to find me, ythrough the dream. How it is all connected I cannot say for sure. But the year of writing omandae is already on the way. I’ve already begun writing it in my head. The book has taken on the status of the great work. I have started to believe that I must give myself up to the great work, because, even though it shall steal away sleep and sanity, it is life that it ultimately offers. A strange faith is building up inside me. even though the disturbing sequences of the nightmare remains a mystery, I believe that the process of writing omandae would bring everything together into the light, or visible darkness as my mind has begun calling such revelations. What is to surface from my life that will fuse with the life of this myth I now do not know, but the strange faith assures me, that by the end of this endeavour, I will be enlightened. 220

I can feel this place changing but I sense, even stronger, that it is the place that is changing me. it is true that a famed shaman was brought back to this earth by entities that resided in the room next to mine. It is true that he returned but had been taken away again two years ago, right about this same time now. He is central to the myth I am searching for. He is central to the book of omandae. Is it my life’s journey that leads me to this place? Is it my life’s journey that compels me to author this complex text? My heart and soul appears to know the answer bbut my mind does not.. the ind doubts, as much as the logical human mind doubts magic. I had been warned by Jaqi , in one of our correspondences, not to allow the logical mind to interfere with the work. It is the same as creating music. You allow the impulse of creativity to take over and such impyulses are not based in the order of things but by the chaos and its irrational heart. Though they say there is order in chaos, the order , I believe, may only be grasped through periods of retrospection after the madness has path. So I believe that I must offer myself up to the madness, to allow it to take me by the hand and to lead me to places of the apocalypse. It is only then when I can truly make manifest the secrets hidden in the blood of the myth. I have not eaten the entire day. It is as if the dream had impregnated me and the thing growing in my gut has erased all need for food. My source of energy is shifting, my alternative mind tries to tell me. evolution is throbbing in my veins. For the entire duration of the sun, I had spent my energies thinking in the comfort of silence. I cannot tell if I no longer need the music but it is unlikely. Music takes me to other places but I believe that silence takes you to places music cannot. Music is terrestrial, a tool suited for terrestrial senses. From silence, if silence be thelanguage of god, a new creative order may be reached. Such is my hope. Such is my dream. For it is the duty of an artist to bring to light an existence never before experienced by humankind, so that it can glimpse the potential of a higher realm of consciousness, a marker, a destination that would drive us forward along the trajectory of evolution. It is in man’s nature to evolve and man is no more it is that beings nature to evolve into something higher and greater than what it has become.

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DEATH OF THE FAMILY PART 1 When the video equipment was set up and four clown masks were laid out on the bed, the obese sadist went to the hall. “so, who should we fuck first?” he asked the husband. The husband was naked and bound with barbed wire. His mouth glued shut, his eyes glued open. Before him, terrified and tightly bound and gagged were his 35 year old dancer wife and 16 year old daughter. There were three other men in the room. 222

They were all fat and grotesque and dark skinned. Some had boils on their faces and arms. They were holding onto his wife and daughter. They were both crying noisily into their gags. “come on choose! Or we shall toss a coin.” The husband remained strong and did not shed a tear. He stared at his child and lover. His wife had on a small pink sundress. His daughter in a short denim skirt and a white t-‐shirt. “alright then.” The obese man said. he dug his pockets. He brought out a coin and showed it to the wife. “you’re heads.” He turned the coin around and showed theotehr side t o the girl. “you’re tails. “ he turned to the husband, who was in a kneeling position with the third man holding him from behind. The fat man motioned to the ground and the man behind the father shoved him face down. The fat man tossed the coin. It landed in front of thefather. “now… look up slowly to the one we’re going to fuck first.” He said slowly. The father started to sob. Tears filling up his glue dopen eyes. The fat man stomped on his head once and drove it into the carpet. “I SAID LOOK UP THE ONE WE’RE GOING TO RAPE FIRST!” without any choice, he slowly looked up. His daughter met his sorry eyes. The girl screamed into her gag and trashed in the arms of her captor who was now excited. He kept sniffing the girls hair. The wife started a muffled wailing. The man dragged her into the child’s room while the other carried the trashing sixteen year old girl into the master bedroom. “ come!” the fat man said, “you will watch us as we slowly peel your daughters clothes off…” he laughed like a maniac as the husband was dragged to his feet and shoved into the room following the man with his daughter. ERCONDUS AND THE PUB DE LA BLUES by disturbance and fire fall, the worlds outside the pub de la blues altered. A greater misery fills the now shrunken room. The bar was crammed against the wall, against the glass shelves of liquor almost finished. The wine of the gods had been consumed almost in totality. The flowers of ercondus is all gone, no more distortions of time. There was only three tall round tables left, set side by side touching. The stones on the wall are in disarray. Present and past collided like crashing trains in slow motion. The barkeeper is overweight with the burden of his charge. A breakdown for him is imminent. Ercondus has slipped into a meditative state. A desperate diatribe against the rapidly changing multiverse. 20 twilights had passed since the promise of windows and doors but none had appeared. His hair has grown long and unrily, his nails extended like a wild animal. His eyes, trying to hide behind closed lids have become like a wilder thing but chaos has surpassed its own peak and now a different order was at hand. In meditation he had seen theguitar man and his troupe. The counts and their companions now too far for ercondus to connect with. The black grand piano in the corner was half crushed against the closing walls. The barkeep was curled up upon it, fever dreams eating his royal soul. He was mumbling vaguely, articulating with a period séance. “I return to the doll with plastic eyes 223

Big, blue, hypnotized Staring ahead in a dead blankness Dressed and suited for Sunday school Her chrome heart beats, like a wooden door unopened Sunlight rising Steals away the night Tigers roam in the veins with chemicals voices (in) phamaceutica invocate wasted and complete in the cosmic scheme I collapse into death bed, then rise again driven against the hours, battling day break sunken deep into abysmal houses finding passage in cluttered psyches giving life to lost horizons father RA sees through the crying hot tears streaming from bleeding memory shaping the name of lovers distraught, enlightened, prayed for, ascended past time.” The magic of ercondus is impotent against the looming weather of doom. He deeply fears not recognizing the world when departure is nigh. in meditation, he extends his psyche unto the eastern wall. The stones, having shifted again, marks the declining of the sigils, an expression of a world erasing the memory of its own savior and the map of an elaborate end is formed in the wake of time running out. “Blood is the last vista of ritual” the murmuring barkeeper spoke in dreams of hallucinations. “ The final attempt for transcending this place of burdens rests in the opening of wounds.” 224

Something beyond was reaching Ercondus through the fevered keeper. In the meditative state, Ercondus converses with the spirit channeling through the keeper, searching for an exit, an answer from beneath the black waves. “the pain of glass on skin diverts the pain of abortive reality.” Ercondus shivers at this thought. His spine set mildly aflame by the suggestions of brutality. Teethering on the edge of understanding, he asks the unforgiving spirit. “be not mine own blood the only doorway?” And the spirit says, “archway be the blood on the walls.” The bones in the body of ercondus hurt but his muscles were relaxed. Slowly he returned to consciousness, a consciousness not yet touched by the howling outside the walls of the pub de la blues. He opened his eyes. The ceiling had descended alarmingly. The barkeeper was shivering. Shadows, like things lfying overhead, moved around the smaller place. The hall was now transforming into a room. The pictures on the wall, of the martyrs and suicide artsist were lopsided. Some, from an older generation had already fallen off and shattered on the floor. There was then, t he one picture frame. The painting of a woman Ercondus had not seen before. In a kind of fuge state, he recalled her statue erect in a courtyard long abandoned by the royals. Like a memory returning but not of his own mind, he saw the burning figure of a court jester, embracing this statue as he burned. There was a painter in the periphery, heightened, inspired, painting the scene of the magician on fire. Ercondus carfeylly removed the ancient future portrait of this nameless queen then chose the biggest of thebroken glass from the frame. The broken edge gleaming, Ercondus stripped off his coat, baring his arms and stood before the wall of changing stones. THE FIELD OF MYSTERIS When Field X returned to the mother house of mysteries, they had learnt that several of the first responders had entered the death state. The blasphemied building had grown far more terrible in the time they were away. More deathships had arrived and the madness of the zeitgeist had spread farther 225

into the field. Shores set in the islands surrounding the field had inversed, taken by the sea like atlantis. The memories of the other houses had begun eroding. Spirits, long ago laid to rest were returning with a deeper disturbance. “The oracle of ordom has spoken older brother. It is only saul who can help us.” “saul?” Locus queried, “the lost sorcerer?” “yes. He hold the key. His magic is also of the same origin as the magic that blasphemies the room with the dead prisoner and priest. It is in my opinion that whatever has transpired here has its repercussions in the world of soil and sand.” Locus the first was concerned. “then the barriers has already been broken. This crisis is farther reaching that I divined it so.” “what shall we do brother?” Locus the first contemplated the next moves. Then decided. “I must seek the house of Wu. He convenes with the fringe magicians of this time in the place of soil and sand. I fear we must cross more boundaries than I deem it appropriate.” He paused again thikning. “leave us..” he told field-‐x. he retired to his chambers that is lit by a furnace. A holocaust, scrying fire. The naked widow crawled out from the dark corner. A chain fastened to her legs. Her lips are cracked and blleding. Her eyes swollen from crying. She speaks like a battered child.“ the panic of the city will come, locus the one… Then they will know of us. Of the other circles that weave through their time and place. “ some of them already know of us” he tells her “The times are running out.” She says. He goes up to the crawling woman and touches her soft hair. He unsheathes a dagger from his robe, cuts off part of her hair then feeds it to the furnace in his chambers. The fire grows. Soon he will see into it and see the fates unfurling. Its gotten colder in the room. She moves his robe aside, kisses the gem rings on his feet and tells him, “it will not hurt as much.”

The house of wu

There were others waiting in the office of WU and J could not recognize most of them. The doctor knew some of the faces but not others. He led J around and introduced him to those he knew. “Elijah,” he said, 226

“meet J.” “ah yes.” Mad Monroe extended his shaking hand, “the drug baron.” J was uneasy. Monroe looked like a hundred years old and extremely disturbed. His face had thelook of years without sleep and years of chemical abuse. There was a wildness sundued behind tired wasted eyes. His hair and suit was grey and unkempt, the way detectives look when they’ve been working too long on unsolved cases. His breath stank of alcohol and cigarettes. J had heard stories of the detective. It seems he kept for himself a pet ghost of some kind. A girl-‐child in a pvc suit and full head harness. A sick child pornographers fetish. It was the ghost child that aided the detective in solving homicide. mysteries related to the occult. He heard that Monroe himself is cursed and that he was perpetually dying from internal bleeding. A sufficient amount of alcohol had to be kept churning in his system or the bleeding would get out of hand and he would die an ebola virus like death. The doctor asked him if he knew anything about the murder of the elder. “be patient doctor Grant, I will address the conference when the time comes. They left it at that. A short fat man with a cigar came up to J and the doctor, “hey Immanuel! Long time no see!” they hugged as J watched on in amusement. “J, meet Weed Django.” “greetings good fella.” “Mr Django is an editor and publisher,” Immanuel Grant explained, “ you heard of the outher books?” “vaguely, poets from another dimension being channeled by deranged poets of our time…” “they’re known as proets.” Weed corrected him, “prose writer and poets eh? Proets. Or outhers if they do long form works. Anthologeists if they painstakingly compile lexicons.” The doctor asked, “how come you’re here?” “I’m not too sure myself. There I was lying down in my bombed out building when this short Chinese man arrives and says MR WU wants to see me. obviously I shat myself. What did I do? I sked the small man. “it is what you can do for us” he replied, the way all these mysterious types talk. Bah! So here I am, a cog in the machine. I thought my life was over you know? After the red event two years back, when all the outhers and proets were gone, vanished, kaput. I thought there was no more books to manage but apparently, something had happened r ecently and there’s talk about two books getting lost or something I’m not too sure.” “I guess we’ll find out soon enough yes?” j said. a womans voice interrupted their conversations with the outher editor, “Doctor Immanuel Grant, Doctor J.” tjhey looked up to Jaqi Danielle. The alter-‐form of Delucia. “hey…” J said, his heart skipping a beat. The actress was beautiful. A modern day Audrey hapburn. “been a while J, “ she said, “you still wasted on locotraine?” “no no my dear, “ he kissed her outstretched gloved hand, “I only do the red dust and cigarettes now.” “those things will kill you.” she joked. “and how are you Doctor Grant?” “very well lady D, very well.” “can’t say that for poor DYS huh?” “yeah. A pity” I hope we get some answers.” “I think we’re here to help find those answers.” Another voice said. Immanuel recognized The count of cirqu but was not expecting him at this conference. “good count.” Immanuel bowed. J followed although he did not know him. “I take it you are the dealer of the dust.” He said to J. “I am he.” “good. My brothers believe your items will be of use to us in our world. to deal with whatever it is that is happening.” “which house to you belong?” Immanuel asked. “the house of ihiir.” The name triggered off J’s memory. Saul, when he was still present, had spoken about the house of ihiir. It existed during the time of the satellite. The time of Ai-‐Fi that ended with the red event. The house of ihiir is of electric surrealism. Of strange psychedelic entities and events. It was a driving engine for new creation. Of neon gods and hallucinatory goddesses. How all this had a part to play in this conference, 227

he did not know. There was a sense of urgency in the room. An urgency brought on by the storms. There was an elder woman there too and he felt that he knew her but could not place it. With her was a blindman and a man who was 7 feet tall. The third man who stood behind them had several birds of various classes perched upon his shoulders. A catholic priest was also present and he carried with him a blue umbrella. The houses represented in the house of WU had in one way or another a connection with the events that had been transpiring. The cycle of dire November hath already arrived. Things have been set into motion. the energies in the room stirred strongly. The conversations between the circles hushed down almost immediately. MR WU was in the room. J lit another cigarette. “here we go” he whispered under his breath. There was a dread that hung above him and he knew the dread was of his own making. The doctor seemed calm, but a small anxiety caused him to tap his cane incessantly on the floor. They waited before a large black marble table that appeared chiseled out of a mountainous block made hollow to form the room they were in. two large gargoyles of an unknown mythical creature sat on either side of the table; their wings folded back, their grotesque heads like deformed lions were turned backwards from their body. The limbs, like that of an ape had claws and rings on them. The rings they bore had stones and gems of an unknown origin. The room smelt of sex and opium and death and power. The 900 year old judge sat stately behind the altar like table. He did not waste time with pleasantries. “ A GRAVE TIME HAS COME.” He began, his voice resonated with ancient power, “IT IS UNDERSTOOD THAT THE RED EVENT HAD DIVERTED THE MALICE OF THE RED IDOL TWO CYCLES AGO. BUT THAT DIVERSION DID NOT COME WITHOUT A PRICE. IT IS UNDERSTOOD THAT SAUL LIERA DU FONTAIN WAS THE SORCEROR RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DIVERSION AND THAT EARTH, THE PLACE OF SOIL AND SAND HAD BEEN SAVED BY HIS HAND. BUT HIS ACTIONS HAD OTHER CONSEQUENCES FOR THE MAGIC HE HAD USED WAS A MAGIC NOT MEANT FOR THAT TIME. THE ACT PERFORMED HAD CAUSED A RUPTURE IN THE MULTIVERSE AND THE MULTIVERSES THAT MIRRORS IT. THE SEED WAS SOWN WHEN THE BLACK HAD DEVOURED THE RED AND NOW THE TIME HATH COME WHEN THAT SEED HAS REACHED FULL TERM.” He paused, letting it sink in. “THERE IS AN EMERGENCE OF A TRANSITIONAL WORLD. A WORLD THAT BRIDGES THE TIME BEFORE THE RED EVENT AND THE TIME THAT IS TO COME. WE ARE NOW IN ITS HEART. THE EYE OF THIS TRANSITIONAL STORM. THE NAME OF THIS PERIOD IS KNOWN AS 1000.100. IT IS A PROCESS OF COSMIC PSYCHOSIS. IT IS A CITY THAT LIVES AND BREATHS AND MOVES THROUGH MANY CONTINUUMS. IT IS THE NIGHT TIME SOUL OF EXISTENCE, THE DARK UNDERBELLY OF DIVINITY. THE SORCEROR RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SEEDING OF THIS OCCURRENCE IS TRAPPED IN ITS OWN MAKING BUT IT IS ANOTHER WARLOCK THAT HAS NURTURED IT. THE PREGNANCY OF THIS EXISTENTIAL MOSTROCITY HAS COME FULL TERM AND THE WARLOCK HAS EXITED THIS LYBRINTH WOMB OF CORROSION AND WITH IT IS BORNE A TRIUNE TERROR. IT BLASPHEMIES THE SACREDNESS OF THE 228

THREE. THERE IS THE FATHER, THE BLACK HEART OF 1000.100. THERE IS THE SON, KNOWN AS THE GENERAL AND THERE IS THE UNHOLY ZEITGEIST, A CONSCIOUS FORCE OF INTENTION, ITS INTENTION IS THAT OF CRUELTY AND MURDER AND RAPE AND DEATH. IT IS A FORCE AKIN TO THE POWERS OF MOTIVATION. ITS MOTIVE IS COSMICALLY CANCEROUS. AN IL AND UNFORGIVING POWER HAS BEEN UNLEASHED AND THE WORLDS ARE ENCOUNTERING ITS MANIFESTATION. THE HAUNTING OF THIS ENTITY HAS ALREADY BEGUN AS OUR SERVANT ELIJAH MONROE SHALL PRESENT. Monroe stepped up to the table and faced the gathered circles. His hand shaking more than usual. “on the morning of November 11th, a seven year old Caucasian boy was abducted just after the ten o clock Christian service at 11 a.m. you can notice the numerical blasphemies. The date being 11:11 the number of awareness. The time being eleven and the age of the boy being seven, a divine number. Already we can tell the intelligence of this...killer. The child had gone missing. No witnesses. No commotion. At eleven that night, the child’s oparents was called on the phone, and a man;s voice had instructed the parents to return to the church and that they would find their boy safe in the Sunday class hall. At eleven eleven p.m I was called, I believe by the same man and I was told that I had an early ‘christmas gift.’ He laughed as he hung up the phone. The parents called father Michael, who is present here today.” The priest with the blue umbrella nodded sadly, “ and told him to go look for the child. When the parents rushed to the church, they found the priest hrowing up outside the compound. He did not want to let the parents into the hall but the father managed to struggle free and rushed in to…to find his s on. The child’s body was nailed to the large crucifix hanging at the end of the hall. His…organs had been removed and placed on eleven tables. Kidneys, intestines, stomach, heart, gentials, eyes, ears, teeth. . All laid out, each on one table. By the time I arrived the with other officers, the parents were already hysterical. The mother had ran out into the traffic screaming. She was severly injured when a car ran straight into her. they’re in the hospital now , severe trauma. At the scene of the killing, thre was a symbol. Five circles and two lines. We believe that it is The symbol of 1000.100. ” Copies of the symbol was passed around. “I know this.” A voice from the circle said. it was the count. “I had dreamt of the bloated man and this symbol was on his forehead. but right side up. “we will come to the dreaming of the bloated man after Monroe has finished sopeaking” Mr Wu said. Monroe lit a cigarette and took a long swig from his bottle of whiskey. On the thirteenth of November, a second murder occurred. An indiannational who was working in a construction company responsible for the building of the ION shopping complex in the city did not come to work that morning. He appeared fine and well just he night before so no one suspected he was sick. By evening time, an excavation crew had their excavation interrupted by what appeared to be a block of concrete bubried deep in the heart of the entire site. It should not have been there for the ground had not been dug up before the project. Confused, the foreman in charge of the zone requested the block to the broken apart and removed. Inside the concrete block, they found the missing worker. Such a death could not have happened. It was if the block had appeared there in the ground overnight and the security did not find anything amiss throughout their watch. Autopsy reports that the dead man was 229

filled with cement, apparently forced down his throat. His mouth was open and filled with hardened cement. Inscribed on it again, was the sign of 1000.100.” he paused and took another long swig. “ the FBI was called it after the second death. The whole department was already gearing up for a possible occult serial killer. They put me in charge of the investigation. I invoked my spirit aide and sent it out with hopes of finding this killer. It returned, terrified and unable to communicate to me its findings. She kept muttering ‘the wraith hungers, the wraith hungers’ I was in the midst of trying to stabilize my haunted ghost child when the third, most disturbing case occurred. This time, not foreigners but a local Chinese family of three. A dvd was couriered to me with a return address of the family. On the cover of the dvd box was the family portrait. A pretty 36 year old wife. Her handsome husband and…a sixteen year old daughter who inherited her parents good looks. I called an emergency meeting to view the disc while sending out other detectives immediately to the house. … we viewed the disc. “ he stopped. Took a long swig an dlit another cigarette. The room was already heavy with dread and disturbance. “ I have to warn you all of the graphic detail, just so you know what kind of killer we’re dealing with. I still have no solid profile but its definitely occult. Meticulous. Psychotic. Very disturbed. Possibly possessed by a high demon. My ghost child still cannot offer me much answers. Try not to be too sick people.” He took another swig. He was already very intoxicated but very aware of the story he was about to tell. “ the video started out with a shot of the husband. Bound naked in a chair with barbed wire. A big man was standing behind him holding a hunting knife to the husbands neck. It appeared that the husbands eyes were glued open and his mouth glued shut. He looked extremely terrified. The killer was introducing the man. His full name. Brandon ong. his job. Investment banker. The killer Said that he had two lovely ladies in his life. His wife Rachel and his daughter judy. In the background we could hear muffled sobbing. The camera was turned unto them. Both bound and gagged and held by two more men who were obese and wearing frightening clown masks. They were sniffing the necks of the woman and the girl. The killer went on to say that they were going to have some fun with them and that everything would be filmed and distributed on the net. Dvd’s was to be sent to the family’s family. “this is theg lorry of 1000.100’ the killer said before the scene ended. In the next scene, the shot began with the husband again but this time they had moved him into the masterbedroom. The camera panned to show the daughter thrashing and screaming into her gag on the bed. The other three men were taking off their clothes and not their masks. The scene ran for almost 45 minutes. Beginning with the men crawling onto the be dtowards the girl, retying her limbs to the ends of the bed and slowly and playfully removing her clothes. They proceeded to rape her one by one. Occasionally it will show the father’s reaction as he daughter was defiled. The same happened with his wife. The scene cut to the girls bedroom and it showed his wife being raped by all four men. After the rape scene of his wife, the disc showed the men consuming cocaine off the glass dinner table. They were all chatting about how pleasurable their activities were. The second part of the film showed the husband, still bound to the chair but in the bathroom. The two men were stringently tying up the wife in a bathtub. They bound in her in a strict hogtie. They sealed up the drainage in the tub. Hot scalding water was turned and the video showed the boiling water slowly fill the tub along side her muffled screaming. They let the husband watch as his wife eventually passed out from the pain as the water flooded the tub drowning 230

her. “and now for the little girl” the killer said. Her death took much longer time and the video showed every gogry thing they did to her. the scene was shot in the master bed room where they had left her naked, spreadeagled and still gagged. The camera panned the bedside table filled with tools. Needles. Pliers. Soldering iron. Tubes of superglue. candles.a hammer, syringers and vials later identified as adrenaline. The video continued to run showing what they did to her. when I arrived at the house, most of the officers sent there were already sick and vomiting outside the garden. I was the only one who went in and stayed long enough to see what they had done to the father and duaghter. All of the girl’s nails, from her hands and feet were broken off and superglued to the chest of her father, forming a picture of a smiley face. Her fingers and toes were all broken brutally. Her vagina was sewn shut. Her nipples were sliced off and glued below her fathers nipples. Between the acts, whenever she stopped screaming into her gag and passing out, they woke her with small shots of adrenaline and smellings alts. Then they continued their depraved act. Her eyes were sewn open and white wax from the candle was dripped onto her forced open eyes blinding her as it burned then hardened. The skin on her berasts were sliced off neatly and glue donto the fathers shaved head.. Symbols of 1000.100 was burned onto her body with the soldering iron. Cigarette marks covered most of her thighs and stomach and neck. Tubes of glue were emptied into her ears. Her knee caps were shattered. The coroner noted that her heart finally gave way, probably towards the endo f her torture. The last scene was of the killer slowly cutting off the man’s genitals. They let him bleed to death. Calls started coming in an hour after we proceeded to the house. The videos were already uploaded and the terrified public was already reacting. The newsrooms called us, saying that they too had received the dvd’s. of course nothing was broadcasted and all the sites identified havingt he film had it immediately removed. Of course, copies are still circulating on the outside. We can’t stop everything.” He sucked on his cigarette. “Then, thirty hours ago, the body of DYS was found by his grand daughter.” He stopped. He could no longer go on. Mr wu continued, “that makes it six occult murders in under a week. Eight, not counting the murders in the field.” “the field?” Immanuel grant asked, puzzled. “they have nothing to do with this reality.” “an emissary from the dimension called The Field had come for an audience with me. he has claimed that a prisoner and a priest in his dimension has been killed by some kind of force and that force is incubating, growing in the room where the two dead are. This emissary believes that an even greater yterror is being nurtured and seeks my aide. It is my belief that this killing is also related.” “an interdimensional serial killer.” Delucia said. “I am hoping that this is not true but my seers say otherwise.” “the killer seems to be targeting social symbols of this society.” Monroe began again, “The expatriates, whom contributes to the economy, the cheap asian labor hired to build our monumental buildings and 231

the symbol of the family which is the basic unit of society. A full moon rises tonight, and with it I have to call upon my spirit guide again, And the killings are not our only concern which I think Delucia has greater knowledge of J lit a cigarette, Immanuel lit a cigar. This was getting too much to handle.. “.” there has been abduction, there is a mystical child, aged seventeen and she has been missing for three days. Doctor Delucia will explain.” Delucia stepped up and began, “the nine ascetics from mopium noom, whom are under my charge, had been watching the child since her birth. Her name is Nicole ore, whose other aspect is connected to the Lore lineage. The sources of mopium noom identified her a year ago as the child who had seen saul, who is in someway connected to him. It is believed that he had brought her to the other side, from a world that had experienced an end, an apocalypse. It was the first an donly sign of saul since his disappearance after diverting the red idol. No other information can be gleamed from it, onlythat the child seemst o be important in the cosmic scheme of things. Now she is missing and its somehow connected with the killings and of 1000.100. the sources have mentioned that the myth of the child is documented in abook called the redquiem. Written by five authors that details the events of the red idol.” “and that is why, “Mr Wu explained, “we had called upon an outher publisher, Mr weed Django. We have to retrieve that book to learn more of the child and to hopefull make the picture a little more complete.” Delucia continued, “the other book is that of 1000.100, believe dto be a witness account of certain fragmentary events in 1000.100 which could shed light on this seething mystery. That book too must be retrieved.” “and with the books at hand, only then can we decide on a directive on how to bring saul back. For as spoken to me by the emissary from the field, saul appears to be the only key that could alter the course of the events that is opccuring now.” Delucia said, “we need everybody’s help to achieve this. The threat of the occult killer is very real and is intensifying as the days pass.” Monroe agreed, “the oracle of ordom, whom I serve has had visions and nightmares of a possible event that would occur. A mass slaying of some sort. A mass murder.” “and with DYS killed, at some stage, the people will learn about this. A funeral , no matter how well hidden will certainly cause an influx of mass followers to this city of his birth.” 232

“it is our belief that the killings will happen then, during the gathering of fans who will m ourn the loss of their idol.” “the killing of DYS could possibly be only the bait.” “thousands will die, if something is not done…” a gross laughter broke the silence a

hahahahahaha

echoing from all the walls. Everyone stopped dead in their speaking. Their thoughts. J thought it had come from the group. Wu became deathly still. “something’s wrong…” Immanuel said. that was the last sane sentence produced. Was it an earthquake that hit the room? Was the violent tremors of a beast walking towards the house of wu? It was already hard to tell. The ground cracked and broke open with the laughter. Black bubbling tar oozed out of the cracks. The stench was of rotting corpses and sewers and decay. Everyone in the room became horribly sick. No time to draw up protection, no time to figure out how the rooms protection, under wu, was broken. The paintings on the wall started burning, huge gaping holes appeared on the ceiling. “kraaakaaararraa: to the field Assdddduu Send J and delucia out uaauaauaa 11!!! Arruutetytywww 1!

v Bring saul back

Bring saul back

Uioyttuioi’ blassftarrraeer’’!!

233

! Finding books redquiem (ercondus)

Bring saul back

1000. Bring saul back Evolution of the of the 100 stolen from ghos leads to albu & chung) destroyer (mara) Bring saul back Missions (find the mission!)

Funnie humanz/ funnae majiktianz! Fucking fools! Holy failurez~ ~!~ death is eat between dee and h (hell) death is d’heat! Death is EAH! WEAH IS DEATHE! Youall sp eakli kechi ldren youal lspea klik e chi ld renpl a ying litt l ega me sint h egar denn ot kno wi ng whatyo ubattl enotk nowi ngwha tyouw arwit hand your mi nd sto osm al ltoo we akto oim poten tt ooin valu able Build the receptacle at 71 trapped Images of brokendoors hanging. Screaming men from the whorerooms, peniseseaten off by m onster razor teethvaginas. Smoke pouringfrom opiumbreath non stop bpdy combusting, fragileoldmen running breaking legs, breaking torso. Doorknobs melted, half naked childrencrawling through the hoels in the waa;;;lll through the waaa trapped aaallll through the sskkkkyyyy through theee 234

Bring saul back !! Trapped BRING SAUL BACK WE WISH TO EAT HIM! THEMONSTER ROOSTER PECKS AT THE SMALL HUMANS, WEILD GREATPOWERS ARE NAUGHT, POWERED OF GREAT MINDS ARE NAUGHT, NOTHING DEFEATS THE ONE THOUSAND. NOTHING CONSUMES ITS NIGHT TIME NIGHT MARE GROIN. THE MONSTER ROOSTER STOMPS AND EATS THE FLESH AND BONES OF THE SOULS, OF THE CHEAP WOMEN TORN APART. GIVE US THE HEAD OF WU GIVE US THE HEAD OF WU GIVE US THE HEAD OF WU GIVE US THE SOUL OF SAUL GIVE US THE SOUL OF SAUL GIVE US THE SOUL OF SAUL THIS IS WHERE NINE AWAKES, TO FIND THE ROOM IN TURBULENCE AND OMANDAE IS GONE.

BOOK THREE 235

“GODDAMN IT WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT?!” Dar is pointing to the tv. A giant Christmas tree in front of a world class shopping centre is on fire. The camera shot is from a roving news helicopter. The blaze is infernal. A red and yellow type of fire lighting up the night. People are running and staying away from it. Half a dozen fire trucks are on the scene trying to put the blaze out. Reports are coming in that other shopping districts have their Christmas trees burning up as well. “the world is fucking crazy my friend.” I tell him, pouring myself another drink in the late night office. It is the last week of November. “December isn’t even here yet and the madness has begun. I suddenly feel a little sick, would you open the window wider? Please?” I comply.

P@ULP FRICTION PRESENTS 236

RACE & DAR-‐ OCCULT INVESTIGATORS /small press The stink from the littered beach rises up to the office in the heat We keep the window open because the fan no longer works We learn to deal with the smell. We humans learn to deal with many things quickly Ghosts and murders and global warming Sudden changes in narrative fiction, literature, pornography. Food becomes fusion. We become used to it and it becomes a part of our lives. We carry on from there. It was one of those hot November nights; The secret societies usually calls this period DIRE NOVEMBER A scary kind of name is it? Not for us. We’re used to these sorts of things. Like I said, We learn to deal very quickly. “switch the channel man, the after midnight monster show is coming on.” “I want to see if people died. Could be good business for us. We can provide séances.” “ghos haus does that. We don’t want to intrude upon his biz nezz.”

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“what theh ellhappened to him anyway? His shop’s been closed for a few days already. Not like him.” “I don’t know and I don’t care. Switch the channel already.” It was done. The black and white screen flickered to life after the colorful presentation on burning Christmas trees. “god damn it!” dar cursed. A bright white message was scrolling at the bottom of the screen warning people to avoid the city because of the burning trees. Other thanthat the old monster show ran as usual. “deal with it.” I told him and I settled back into my chair with a fine drink in hand. Then the call came. Just about nine minutes after midnight, into the show the bloody phone rings. “don’t answer it.” Dar said. “could be business.” “could be a whacko.” “I’m answering.” So I did. “race and dar occult investigators, small press. What can i “you darr?” he cut me off. I already heard a kind of panic in his voice. “no, I’m race. You need to speak with dar?” “it’s ok. Can you take a job?” Dar was looking at me in puzzlement. “what kind of job? who is this?” “my name is john pope and I’m looking for two people.” 238

“hang on hang on. I need a reference first.” “Ghos Haus.” “ghos eh? Something he couldn’t handle?” “thatst he problem. That’s why I’m calling you. he’s missing. Not around to handle it. He asked me to call you if he wasn’t around.” he sounded scared. “alright, alright. So I guess this is occult related work and not literature?” “ It’s both. I need you to help me find two people. Two lost books. This is very very important.” I sat up straight. This was getting interesting. I motioned dar to turn down the tv. “we’ll need to meet in person.” I told him. “can we do it now?” “yes we can, do you have our office “not at your office. In a public place. A café maybe. Is that alright?” “um, sure. There’s a 24 hour café near Aton street. You know which?” “yes. Yes near aton is good too. I’ll see you there. Two thirty?” “two thirty it is. How would we know its you?” “I’ll have a fedora and coat on. wont miss me.” “alright. We’ll come to you Mister Pope. And we’ll need an advance first.” “how much?” “opening fee of discussion. First three hours. Five hundred.” “not a problem. Two thirty. Please don’t be late I hate waiting. See you there.” “”yeah.” he hung up first. I could feel his panic seeping into my bones. “what was that?” Dar asked.

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“work. Wants us to find two people connected to both the occult and literature circles. Something about two lost books.” “oooh, should be interesting, we leave now?” “nah, two hours. We can finish this show.” “right on.” Dar popped open a beer and I crunched on peanuts, watching the monster movie. ARTNAM TROPICS. SPACE TIME KELTA. ELEVENTH HUNDRED CYCLE IN THE SUNS OF OU. “THE ENTRAILS OF STAR AND SAND EXPIRES IN THE HEART OF THE TOMB “ – fal, the beloved

I CANNOT NOT READ THE LANGUAGE ON THE GOLD CAN OF DRINK. I HAVE CONSUMED IT, SIP BY SIP FOR ALMOST AN HOUR BEFORE IT IS ALL GONE. IT SWIMS IN MY BLOODSTREAM FEEDING ME ITS OWN LANGUAGE AND DESIRES. I HAVE SMOKED TEN CIGARETTES FROM THE OTHER ISLES. THE FIELDS WHERE POISON GREW INTO THE LEAVES THAT WERE HARVESTED FOR IT. I HAVE SUCKED ON THE ORANGE PILL (HALF OF IT) AND IT WAS ALREADY ACTING ON MY MIND. In the distance I can hear the bombs being dropped. It will be safer here in the rotting hut. The mass of jungles around me will keep me safe. I bury the half smoked cigarettes in the soil exposed by the broken floorboards on the ground. The soil is wet and I thought of the blood and rain it had soaked up the days before. I am in my final descent. The insects does not stay away from my bandaged leg. My feet have been amputated by the village medicine man. He had given me the herbs to consume. It takes away the 240

pain. I suspect a fever is coming upon me. I rock to and fro before this machine before me. I am writing to save my life. There is not much dgnity in the loss of mankind in a place like this (the bombs are still being dropped in the far distance of the tropics. The heat is slowly eating away my memories and the ebb and tide of my heart. I can only feel for the wilder things. I can only feel the abysee that creeps like vinbes around this rotting hut. The mind asks for no more breeze. The act of cooling down is false. There is only heat and rain and dementia setting in. the echoes of the raindrops on the makeshift roof vcauses a tribal rhythm to rise within me. tonight, the lands and I converge. I am naked, the clothes long burnt to provide warmth in the dreaded winter of the war. (gun fire erupts in the distance.) here it is always night. The canopy of the jungle keeps the rays away. The stale rising corpse of the earth is exhumed. I am in paralysis with its own rising. I am diseased in the mind of the hut that is my psyche. This room which is my heart , decomposes. I am writing here to save my life. Soon the machine dies. With it my secrets die. Where will be the expedition? How much more men will they lose in search of my dead body? I feel the hut closing in on me, slowly like a breathing animal. Hair has fallen off in clumps from my head. Pain is setting into my fingers. Theinsects crawl on the old bloodstains of my cut off feet. My arms ache from overdoing the rituals. The villagers no longer arrive here. The ghosts have long been departed. A certain memory is being fed to me. (more bombs go off and I hear the planes of terror scream past above. A shot of manic condors screaming across the skies. Blood is slowly coming out from under my nails. Each contact with the keyboard comes with a different set of pain and motive. I am writing to save my life in the jungles rapt with war and spoils and mad generals. I hear the whistling of a bomb. I t hits close to home, the earth shakes like a violent fit of an angry man. Dirt and oil rain upon the roof. Water is welling from the soil exposed in the floorboards. The half flowers are taking control of the stomach and the abdomen and the frontal lobe. The heart beats like a cold lifeless thing. I have surpassed hunger weeks before. (gunfire erupts) I play wit h the soil in my hands. A small dosage for this fever. A small gift from the factoris of abroad whom know not of our plight. I pick the bones off my ancestors . In a heap they lay broken. Skin falling off slowly. I consume it every two days to live. I am gaining the knowledge of my elders. The medicine takes charge and gives all pain meaning. Pain is a gift from g od. Depression an disolation and aloneness the gift of deities forgotten. How impulsive the error of our ways, praying theseburdens begone. Do not bite the hand that feeds you. you are not like a serpent. Where is sleep now all these months? (a bomb blast goes off in the distance. Where is our fevered sanity? The wilderness offer nor espite. There are dark doors in this monstrous nature. There are ways thaht lead to the dead and the living. The insects increase in numbers. I am accompanied by the wild beeetlles, come to watch me die. I pick them off to consume them. I crunch their black brittle bodies with my teeth. I devour the bugs to gain the knowledge of movement through fear and shadows. For it is fear and shadows that lay ahead of me, ahead of its time. I am an element caught in t he superstition of the surprised. The old picture of the white haired man stares back. His card from the other country cursed with the doings of my mankind. (machine gunfire erupts.) there is a noise unheard coming from the wild around the decomposed hut. The air turns schizophrenic. From heat to winter cold. From dryness to sogginess. Flowers to mud. With the already rusty blade on the makeshift broken table, I cut off another small piece of my flesh and I feed it to the head of the monster. The maghgots and flies and raventures pick at the dead monster’s head. The beheaded mammoth that sits on the floor beside me, prophesying. I stumble to the cabinet that would not remain shut. I rummage for the medications. Expired after thirty years.. from the rag that collects the rain water from the weeping trees, I squeeze 241

out enough into the skull cup. I crunch the bitter pills and wash it down with rain water. The fever escapes me and my blood is reptilian cold. A mortar goes off near and the ground shakes. The insects have come to the bed, I finish the rainwater, with invocations clouding my head. Between the jumble of spells and memories I struggle to understand the book unfurling before me. I twist in the glory of its dignified shape. I pay respects to its dead elders. Crushing the gold can of drink I light another cigarette roll. I see the centipied crawl from the hole in the ground. I crush its head with my fingers. The writhing body I consume, to gain knowledge of alien terrain. Of journeying through the underground. Quickly, the strain of the orange pill wanes. The nbitterness of the centipied enraptures my tongue, I speak liket he way the worms speak in graves. I speak for he desceaed before the monument of the mammoth head. Through its eyes I extract its primal memory. The blood around thehead dries up. I scrape it off the floor with my unkempt nails, long and bitten and jagged, u scrape the dried blood and it becomes like powder. Whatever is left there is then snorted. The bloodrug of the dead mammoth of UL. BETTER TO BE BLACK AND BLANK than to ignore the cries from the wilderness,. (another rbomb goes off,: the fighting will not end. This war will never end. The scars on my arms are opening up. a desperate thirsting lust to be be exposed in the heat of the air. It seeks freedom in another rbody. My hair falls off more in clumps. The radiation ravishes me in the rotting heart of the hut. I see the flowers close in my mind. A blooming in reverse. It sucks the air it from outside. Oxygen depletes with the mind. The feet is the most endangered of species. I will no longer walk this soil but walk elsewhere (gunfire) wher and when will the insectoid come next? I will study their classic routes. The wayfaring through tthis wildness outside. Through my pores the liquid of this body earth expires. Soaking the straw mattress, soaking the wooden floors. The soil is fed its nutrients. I urinate into the corners so that the mother trees would grow well with rich fruit. Of such fruits I will partake and I my soul will revel in the marvel in its explicit bitter formations of the universe. Half in state and coma I dream of the slugs as I rise to my knees to explore the ever changings walls of the hut. (bombs explode. Three hits. Air raids.” They are not coming for me. they have no depravity for such a judgement against me. what is the curse of not dying this way? What is the price commanded for this wild exposure. I see the lights of a thousand suns , I see the stars they inspire in night time jungle, the canopy f trees hiding the splendour of night. Andi wish a falling star a timely death. I wish for it man’s heartbreaking genius of gracefkl declines. A million writings in symbols. Archaic texts illuminates in the parchment of mind. I source for cigarettes. The cabinet rattles with my deranged hands. The sedation of a tempestuous engine. The sensation of dignified death and rest-‐state. No longer have I sought the hand of AZA. Burst door opening. I cannot be paid attention. I decipher not the barking of dogs. Of guts falling out of holes in the stomach. Touch the man TOUCH THE MAN! It is my ill hand that cures. I take on the afflictions of sleep and depravity, the cross of heir battlements. I touch the man. The storm doors open and shut. Stifling heat returns like a prodigal wind. The heat is no more intense than the fever. Recollecting is the trouble of the inquiring mind. The secrets stared back. The secrets stared back to know me. water of dirt spits in through the opened roof. Far beyond it the skyline fractures. The the terminal sun draws upon its bloated neighbor, in secret orgasm they nebulae. Bursts of worlds ending far above (an air raid sweep and the bombs disturb the resting remains of the earth. Tall motherless trees shedding bark and skin an dlife. The leaves fall off like rain an dlitteres the surrounding of the house. A gangerene eats the arm. Out of a blue can I feed its dark blood to the wound. Mother wound whose womb bis also defiled in the manners of this war (bombs shake the foundations. It is getting close. In my sickness I must then call out to the boy. Into his head I implant the 242

evidence of my existentialism. I see the tree of life with its branches swirling like spirals. I see the sigils in the naked bark, like cuttinginto the skin the symbols of healing. Something inside me is screaming and it witnesses the weeping angel. The language on the blue can offers no insight. My lungs are eaten away but to persist is to take the right point of execution the insectoids return and the surgery continues. Grafting sin from the chest. The inked flesh a place I used to go the mountain of the great triune stands on the alien horizon. Glorious desert life. I crush the golden can. (machine gun fire) I crush the medication and burn the box with fire called down by the gods. Time and guit and space is only in the mind. I’m the living dead thing in the coffin of my own devising. My powers extrapolate. Mt queens are weeping. Door burst open. More dead soldiers are carried in by sleepless comrades blood pumping heart marching to the tribal war drums. Touch the men! TOUCH THE MEN! This goes on for so long. Extinguish cigarette unto my naked flesh eating in. my mind screams and I touch the men. They rise. They rise. And take their weapons. No rest for the warring. I run the lotion of war upon my body. The blood of wounded soldiers. I wash myself clean with their bitter bleeding. At the fingertips of my madness I find the profound. The daves of the cut open and close like behemoth mouths. The vines hanging from above break into the roof like snakes of ill nature. The tentacle like things grope in the dark for their master. I feel the bandages around my legs loosen. More flesh and bone is taken from me by an unseen hand. Themachine before me whirrs and I write to save my life. The fingers, hurting, bang out the movement of the jungles outside. The heartbeats thump in the dark. (bombs hit the grounds again) machine gun fire. The room heats up like a sick child, bedridden. My head swims in the clarity of the golden liquids in the golder cans. Through the broken roofs I search the canopy of the trees. Through the burnt and rotting leaves I try to seek out the stars, reading it like the entrails of dead monsters. The head of the mammoth breaks near the skull. Termites escape, scattering like terrified things. They flood the room, an enedless procession, taking up their places, like markers on a floorboard that is the universe. They crawl up the bed to greet me like a lost king. Behold the derangement of UL behold the disease of ITA~ door burst open. The general’s unifrm is torn from his body, his ribs are exposed. Touch me TOUCH ME! I heal him. He takes my bloodied hands. We must go, we cannot hold them back! More men pour in, their faces distorted with fatigue but the blood they drink from my veins keep them burning like the undead. They place me into a makeshift stretcher, pile the machine unto my chets, the golden cans they carry withem into their sacks. The cabinets they empty. The mammoth head they ritualize and wrap in the skin and uniforms of their enemy. and they take me away under the cover of manic gunfire. Quickly strongly the pull me from the scene, leaving smoke and the rotting hut behind. Uinto the wilderness, into the wilderness. The soundo f gunfire and bombs recedes and it no longer masks the howling of the creatures. The men who carry me are terrified but vigilant. Through tired battle weary eyes they search the darkness and pull me through the wilderness. Master, master, which star do we follow. I try to see through the canopy of the jungle. The burning third. They dig out their archaic instruments, they tap the stones in the face of the palatte. They wake the worms in the vials hung about their necks. They consult stranger things then follow the instructions. The burning third the burning third. I sense only a handful of men left. Maybe two generals. Ten men. The tweleve following a bedridden Christ. The hungles become 243

thicker and the journey heads towards the burning third. The grounds descend and ascend and twists and turns. Vines hang down and block our paths. Blades and parangs cut through but they grow back quickly. The edad and dirty deities are carroed in makeshift boxes. The hair on our heads must be continually shaved off. Abrasions afflicts us. A hunger of the soul avails us. We journey forth without stopping, the howlings of the creatures follow us but none attack. We are a procession in their haunted habitat. They accompany the passage we tread. TERRIBLE RAIN BEGINS TO FALL. A WHITE WASH OF HEAVEN’S PISS. We camp out between two behemoth trees. The men take turns to watch. No fire is set to avoid detection by the enemies. We regroup, recover in the darkness. “you must bring me to the dawn.” I tell the general. “after ashcrow’s grace, his way will lead you.” “be he gone, what then?” “ “we concern ourselves when such is true.” He checks his weapons. “when will this end?” he asks. “I do not know.” “when the jungle dies we die with it.” “we must keep on fighting.” He looks up the skies, “the rains come and go as they will. Heat returns. It is no wonder my men are so sick.” “the earth poisons our mind too. we must fight against our own terrors. Our own illnesses.” He distributes the last of the golden drink cans. “I tell them we must go. before the rains come again. This is the final leg. To the last house of ashcrow the crippled. We should not lose time. With much hope the last house will be the final stop. We can leave the fighting to the others then. No more shall our company be departed. No more loss shall we inherit. They pick me up and the machines. We move on following the burning third. The howling had receded and a silence too alive engulfs us. We crunch on the dead branches, move through the wilderness. No men talk but they all hold their weapons upright. I reflect upon the lost time here. I watch the weary generals march on. face caked in soil and blood. I feel the last remaining powers of the dirty deities in the boxes. What will happen when all meaning of this is lost by the time we reach the hut of ashcrow? Will the cripple bring it back to life? Will the tide turn then in his hand? I contemplate devastation. I contemplate the miseries of thehundred plus strong men now reduced to tweleve. The final disciples on this despicable path to the twisted gesthemane. The earth grows softer as we tread on, it is harder to walk. The men say that the boxes od the deities are getting heavier. The head of the mammoth getting lighter in its tomb carried by four men. It is finished when the prophesying stops. The generals say. We must move ahead faster but the men are too tired. The bleeding of my legs have begun again. Feveres and deliriums rise and fall with shorter intervals. There is not hut here to contain it. It escapes in the wild. Descent descent. The slope pulls us into the gut of the hungles. Into the heart of entanglement. The boxes must now be carried above the head. The weapons get stuck in the roots clawing the bodies of the men. The crammed proximity of the thin vines whisper delusional things. The sanity of the men are slowly whihspered away. One general kills himself. The gunshot a sudden break of the silence. A shock, a loss, a disorientation. We got no time to bury the dead I told the last general. We keep moving. No more speech is left. The slope takes us deeper down. A noise of disturbance begins ahead. Rustling, movement. The noise increases then brusting through are hundreds of black crows. The cawing a terrible shriek. The rapid flapping of black wings a rush of static. The men drop me, they drop to the floor terrified. A rush of noise anbove now then gone. Leaves fall like rain. Dead roots spitting and hitting the expedition. ‘ashcrow is near ‘ I tell the general. We are close. I hear the sound of eagles above. Then machine gun fire. Four men are taken out. Return fire explodes. Strobe lights of fire. A disco in the wilderness. The trees tore down around dus. The men shielded the deities and the mammoth head with their bodies. Branches stabbed and sliced. I rolled through the 244

sinking soils, touched whoever I could. Raised them up. fight back fight back. Twisted wounds in my body. The passion of saul the passion of saul. The genral grabbed my arm, carried me. under the cover of fire we escaped downward, farther into the gut of the wild. The gunfire followed us. Men dropped. The general stopped. I touched them. They rose and fought again. Hot shells burnt skin. We were close. I could see the nests of the ravens , of the crows. Aborted eggs in the carriage of organic clumps of hair. There are seven of us left. I can no longer raise the others. The howl of the creatures returned and ic ould see huge things leaping from tree to tree above raining down upon us the debris of the vast movements. Gunfire erupted upwards and a thing came crashing down next to us, bone and blood splattering against us. A panic of crows erupted and haphaszardly flew in blind panic. A diety’s box was dropped, its carrier taken by a howling thing and live rounds. Another soldier took up the box before it was stolen. Under cover fire he rejoined the descending group. Downward downward into the swamp place of Ashcrow the crippled. A great darkness followed us. We passed the hollowed out trees. Very close/ the makeshift temples were already seen. BE GONE DARKNESS! BE GONE THE LURK THAT PURSUES! BE GONE HORRORS OF HOWLING! The voice of ashcrow rushed through us, past us into the darkness behind. Like the slaughterhouses of old, like the shredding of gruesome skin, the enemies were taken by the word of the crippled. Trees fell with the howling things. Gunfire ceased. The sound of metal weapons falling apart trembled the grounds. In the final exhalation of ecstacy two more men died, writhing in oprgasm to the voice of ashcrow the warlock of the wilds. COME HOME TO ITA’S NEST! COME HOME TO THE PASSAGE OF ASH! The temple birds rose a gush of air. In delirium the general fell to his knees, hurting arms raising the mammoth head to its new master. “behold the thing of prophesy that calls your name, behold the boxed deities hungering for your touch. The remaining men offered the boxes before them and out of the wild came the crippled king. Ashcrow the divine. Ashcrow the l imbless. Ashcrow the blind. Carried by the naked ascetics he came forth. His garment made from torn soldiers unirms of dead enemies. Skulls of the defilers hung about his neck. The white of his eyes glowed in the darkness. I could not believe we had reached the final house. Most of my power are already gone but in the presence of ashcrow, the promise is returned. The final hour descends. The stench of death isleft behind and the tired men fall to the muddy ground, embracing journeys end. The ascetics carried us in. the general. Two others and i. a soft rain had begun to fall. Like a blessing for a parched land, a blanket for winters cold. I could no longer tell darkness from night but within the broken bones, the flayed skin, the thick creeping blood I sensed the compassion of night. Night that promised the rising of a sun, a sun I so long could not behold. “it has bene too long and too far for you’ ashcrow spoke to me. I could only mumur. “so many dead you have raised, so many gods you have saved, so many children you have led and now your cycle is coming to an end. Too far and too long you have gone and the promise made shall be fulfilled. Into this temple yous hall enter and upon your exit, you shall return for a tower rises for you. an invocation is being written. You have written to save your life and now your life is being return for the others to be saved. And with that, the limbless one touched my mind , my heart and my soul and I was delivered into the sun. The whale songs echoed. Carried adrift by the soft currents. In blue ocean, in the sea of AiRa i am carried. The waters fix me. the waters heal me. I am drifting in an ocean of sleep. The whale songs caress me. aira loves me.

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Even in my absence. The world outside changes. I do not fear that I would no longer recognize it. I fear that I do not recognize myself when the world reflects me, like a mirror of existence. I drift outside time. I do not let time touch me. I drift in the memory of satellites and suns. I drift as I had for years. I drift because I am guilty and because I am saved. I drift. I sleep and it feels like forever. Time disappears. Space reappears. I feel the presence of my own body. The floor I am on is freezing cold but it brings down my fever. To normal temperature. To normalcy. My eyesight adjusts to the gentle falling of what looked like snow. A slow soft swirl of light snow falling to the ground. A child is next to me. naked and pure though she does not seem human. Her skin is snow white. I t is her skin that is flaking off her arms. I see smallbreasts but no nipples. I see her crotch but its smooth and curved with no opening. I look up into her eyes and its crystal clear. Her hair is soft and white. She smiles at me but does not say a word. Aira. I know her name is aira and she’s cleaning my wounds with a gleaming silver tweezer with white cotton clamped by the end of the tweezers. She is cleaning the wounds on my feet. She dabs gently at the wounds, now slowly closing. Regenerating. Coming back to life. I am naked but unashamed. No one should ever fear a goddess-‐child healer. She looks me in the eyes again. I am at peace with her. the moon in libra. A deep inner peace. She looks at my wounds and I can see she seems a little saddened by it. She finally speaks. Softly, like a cat on velvet snow. “why do you walk so much, in such places?” I think about it for awhile. I know she is patient with me. “it’s a long story.” I tell her. “we’ve got a little time.” She says. I smile at her. “the short version then.” “ok.” A small light glows in her eyes. Such a lovely child. And I tell her my tale. The monster movie ended on a cheesy clichéd note. Killed by a falling tree. The stupid thing. But the heroine grunting and panting , hacking that tree down turned me on and then some. Maybe I could find a whore after our char with panicky mr pope. We left the house at 2.20a.m. the café was just seven mintutes away. Enough time to buy some coffee, settle in light a cigarette and commence collecting money for doing what we do.

You work in this business long enough and you come to appreciate all sorts of energies. I love the energies of my office in this area. Hell, I love the energies of this area. Three streets away from where we work there are whorehouses. Rows and rows of ‘em with fresh ones coming in 246

all the time. When the job gets you down or you’re a little spooked from your findings or whatever just head on over to one of these houses and your troubled aree gone after half and hour and thirty bucks. The better ones go for a hundred and with two, you can get the exotic ones. Two rounds mind you. ninety minutes. And when you’[re done, just cross over and have a beer. The bar never closes here, even in the shopping centre. The whole shopping mall is open twenty four seven. The place to be if your’e a hardcore nocturne. Thank goodness it started drizzling again because the heat was getting to be. Dar never really bothered with the heat or the cold. He just bothered about he food and the dirnks and the women and of course, the job. Dar’s one hell of an investigator. One hell of a poet. He cracks cases like some Sherlock holmes. Outside his dull drunk exterior lies a hidden gem of a mind. Been working with dar for nearly nine damn years and he still surprises me. we took the longer route to the café. Wanted to check out the goods standing outside tonight. The drizzle chased someo f them in but no matter. Plenty more would hang around still. All my regular favourites was still around. maybe it was too early for them to be picked up yet. One of them blew me a kiss. She was a good one… when we erached the café, the man in the fedora hat was already there. We saw him from the outside, playing with his coffee mug. He seemed a little nervous. The chimes hanging by the door tinkled as we came in. not many people around this Thursday night. The jukebox was playing an Eurhythmics song. Here comes the rain again. Apt magic as it started pouring heavier outside. We got out of it just in time. “Mr pop?” ia sked him as he looked up at us. “yes, yes “ he stood up. “I waved him down, “this is Dar, and I’m race. Good to meet you.” “yes, same here please, sit down. Can I get you coffe?” “I’ll have a beer” dar said. “I’ll take my coffee , black.” “good good let me order.” He seemed excited, almost relieved to see us. I could tell he was ready to explode with stories. He was anxious to start talking right away, as if he was rushing to get the menial drink orders out of the way. He got up, started walking to the café’s cashier then he stopped. We saw him shaking his head. He turned and came back, muttering to himself, or to us, we were not sure. “no no no no no” he kept staringa t the ground.. “are you ok mr pope?” dar asked. we have to go” he said. he awas already leading the way out of the café. Walking with his hands in his pockets. “ “ told you could be a whacko.” “shut up dar just follow him.” We left the café.

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In the distance, I could hear fire trucks. And we were heading that direction. “what’s going mr pope. You can talk to us.” Dar yelled after him. I wakled faster. “I thought I could stop it. I thought I could stop them.” John kept repeating. “they’re here.” There was fear in his voice. I caught up with him. Put my hand on his shoulder to stop him walking. He muttered as he kept walking “the general. And his father. And his ghost. they’re here“ “hey john, stop!” I gripped his shoulder a little harder, he broke away from and spun towards me, his eyes were red. Glowing red. “ I told you! they are here! Its already happening!” “what is!” we yelled at him. He froze. Exhaled slowly. Then whispered. we almost couldn’t hear him. “1000 100” he turned and walked again. Without noticing the growing sirens, two roaring firetrucks stormed by and that’s when john pope started running. Following the trucls. We ran afer him, trying to hear what he was saying. “the fire! The fire!” then a white 14 foot truck screeched by and jammed break next to us. “climb in! the Chinese man said through his wound down window. “WING FAR gtannts you and your friend running up there safe passage.” WING FAR. I thought to myself as we climbed unto the truck just as it started revving up to chase down john pope. WING FAR the occult items transportation service of ATON street. The sudden appearance of a large Indian man at the back of the truck with us starled me. “ I am albu, he said. “I recognize you two as Race and DAR. I know yu are investigators and not necessarily occultists. But I suggest you draw up some kind of war magic against the site we’re going to.” The truck jammed break again and we almost flew forward into Albu. He turned to John. “Mr Pope! WING FAR gtants you safe passage. Come in. The passenger side door flew open. John looked at the Chinese man behind the wheel, then at us. He was panting hard, his eyes glowing

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redder, he looked like some possessed shell of a man. He decided to getin and the truck sped off, chasing the fire trucks. “the House of WU is under attack. “Albu told us, “we are not sure if there are casualties. Mr FAR sent us on strict orders to pick you three up and deliver a containment chest of of spells to the site. He said one of you is a ghost listener, and if its not you two then it must be john. “nah uh, not us.” “defend your psyches and your souls, I do not know what has befallen the house of WU.” He disappeared into the truck again. I knew about the house of wu. I knew some kind of sorcerer judge ran his business there. Alongside an opium den and whore house. I heard rumors of a gathering there tonight and now, something bad has happened. Dar finally spoke again. “one minute youre watching monster movies and now we’re …fighting monsters?” “I don’t know. Meditate or do your invocations. This is probably very serious.” “no kidding. Albu and chung? I only know them as stories.” “the stories’ are real my friend. As real as this.

SECT By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our first victim. 16 year old marie chong, By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our second victim. Seventeen year old student Janice teo 249

By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our third victim. 16 year old natashine lee By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our fourth victim. 19 year old judy day By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our fifth victim. 18 year old Eileen sun By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our sixth victim. 17 Jessica leia Ee By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our seventh victim. 17 Joyce chan By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our eighth victim. 20 lana Tan By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our ninth victim. 19 year old Rachel Tay By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our tenth victim. 18 veronica ang 250

By the command of The general, for the act of the eleven in the hall, we watch our last victim. 16 melody Chin FROM STARLIGHT, I WATCH PIECES OF THE MACHINE BREAK DOWN. A TERRIBLE WASTE UPON THE HOUSE OF WU. By nightlight I watch the five trying to fight the fire. They have left the ghost listener in the truck, to his own madness. Like unsure children, race and dar run about the borders of the police line. Albu and chung, lugging an old war chest through the crowd. All of them believing they are working by magic. I have a melancholy for such passionate creatures. I admire their prudence, their innocence, their young and busy days. I admire the way they lead their lives. I admire their martyrdom. Though they too played their cricual parts, though they fight like brave soldiers to the end, the end is the only thing there for them. According to the manuscripts of future Ai-‐Fi. The five will also die. They will end in the gulf of madness. They will end, like an absurdist drama, by the pluck of a cosmic monster rooster. Somewhere, the universe is laughing. But end night, I close the oculus set upon the globe. The light of its nebula fading away. I return to the proper consciousness, to the place where I am awaiting. I return to the watchtower, set to the sign of the east. I wait for its dreamwriter t o wake. I return to him and he returns from rapid eye sleep.

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November 27, 2007 Monseuir Enreed, awoke from an operatic nightmare and was immediately disoriented. He was sure he was lying down but he was looking up at a row of shelves with books on them. Nothing was falling down towards him. When the initial dizziness subsided, he sat up and took in another hypnotic sight. There were billions and billion of words written on a white wall before him. To his left was a table set from the wall/ the top was facing him and there was a 12 card saula spread opened to him. To his right was another wall with an gold terbanacle box protruding from it. Its gold doors were flung open and inside in was a handgun. Before enreed came the book. Splintered.mind./monogram. He opened the book. On the first page it read. Table of continuation. And on the second.

John pope. Finding ercondus, finding ghos haus .finding REDquiem, finding 1000.100 252

Ghost child in the house of Race and dar jaqi’s fall & absence THE LOST QUARTER Finding mad Monroe The revival of ghost child in Monroe Finding ercondus 253

Finding mara Finding jaqi To the tower ALT.SAUL The revival of delucia in jaqi (necormagic of Elijah ) 254

THE WAR CYCLE WAR ROOM – GHOST (THE FIELD/BUILDING/ROOM) jaqi & mara WAR HALL –SON (OBESES) + 11 VIRGINS UNBUILT ION (MONROE, RACE & DAR, Albu & chung ) WAR HAUS -‐ FAETHER (THE GENERAL)_DOMINION 1000.100 saul Prologue 255

END. After reading the table of continuation. Enreed got up, walked to the terbanacle, removed the gun with a prayer and shot himself. There was blood on the tarot cards.

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Mara had just gotten back to the resurrection crisis motel and found a 12 card tarot spread on the dressing table covered in blood, meat and bone fragments. Next to it was a bloodstained piece of paper. There was a list of names on it. Albu Chung Ercondus Enreed J Immanuel Grant Delucia Monroe? Wu Race Dar Pope Jaqi Ghos haus? Mara Her blood froze. 257

Footnotes to ghostbook. Voltergeist 2 of 7 1. Mara le Oro – the destroyer. Surname gifted by the daemon oro 2. Jaqi Daniella – alter-‐mage is Delucia 3. Saul must bebrought back to exorcize and destroy the power that has possessed ghos. Ghos must then invoke the daemon Oro to oversee the birth of the destroyer which will kill the general. With the general gone, the commanding warlock can be warred with by Saul. 4. Dedication,

5. “My mythical aspect is in love with your mythical aspect. 6. In our current manifestations, we appear to have this enforced distance between us. Not a wall but a kind of social force field. 7. Our love is expressed only in the archetypal world. of dreaming and imaginations, of fictive scenarios and faux memory, in pictures and words, music and poetry. We play our love game on a cosmic chessboard. We are always together in a parallel-‐past life being read from the future. 8. We are in love in an aspect outside time, for it is time that divides us here. I am not talking about age for we are immortal and age plays no influence in matters that are eternal. We love and are in love with each other for all time, for the numbers and images in the cards are timeless. And we are there, in the archetypal universe, loving as only love can, a symbol burning for a sigil, a sun reflecting the moon with me turning into space in your arms. Silent and asleep in endless star and night. “

9. “even madness matures like wine.”

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10. UNSURE OF THE LOST MASTER, nine SITS On THE stairwell, aand waits. ‘there must be something happening us all.’ mara tells the waiting man as she leans against the frame of her motel room door, blood in her veins slowly thawing from the shock of the letter. ‘god help us,’ she said before she passed out. Nine could not catch her in time. She hit the floor hard. 11. 12. madness is eating nine like a lost sheep in a field of delirium. He rapes mara in her passé dout state. ‘shhhhh!’ he laughs into the bathroom mirror when its over. ‘ don’t tell her.’ he laughs and passes out finally when his body could no longer take the exhaustion and laughing. He smells slaughtered chickens in the heated room. He wept before blacking out, wiping mara’s body with his tears. She cannot seem to wake. Nine feels haunted. Terribly haunted. \

BOOK 4 obeses, the disturbing 259

I woke up at noon, to the sound of my mother knocking on the door. I woke up in time to see it open. Mother had a tied up girl carried over her huge shoulders. She lumbered in, hunchbacked, her lopsided face grinning at me. the girl was struggling and screaming uselessly into her gag. I immediately had an erection. “happy birthday baby boy!” mother said, “look what mama bought for you!” she turned to show me the profile of the young girl. Her arms were bound behind her with white plastic cable ties and so were her legs. She still had her sneakers on which mademe harder. She was wearing a small, short minis skirt and I could see her shapely thighs. Her top was a turtle neck, exposing her soft creamy neck and slender arms, strained andbound. She was Chinese, and real pretty from the looks of it. Mother always knew the type of girls I liked. And she always knew how to gag a poor girl. Thick black tape was 260

wrapped around her mouth and her cheeks were bulging under the tension. Mother always used her own unwashed panties as mouth stuffing. I wondered with excitement how long she had used the panties now stuffed and sealed in that poor girls mouth. I tossed my comforter aside and adjusted the small white g string panties I was wearing. I was already big and hard and my panties could not contain me. “her name’s Nicole Chia” mother said, as I clapped my hands like a child. “she just turned seventeen.” I reached out my hands to receive my gift. Mother put her into my arms, struggling like a stray kitten. She was so soft and light and petite. I mmediately I smelled her shampoo. Fruity and fresh. I pulled her struggling form unto me, her small rounded bum pressinhg down on my crotch. I buried my face into her neck and took a deep whiff. So young and clean and sweet. She screamed into her gag. Her eyes were wet from crying and wide with fear. “do yo like her?” mother asks. “she’s niiiice.” I tell her. Nicole is weeping and whimpering. I squeeze her with my fat arms. “I’m so happy you like her. you 261

can keep her for as long as you want and you can do anything you want with her. I’ll leave you with your new teen toy. You come out and eat when you’re hungry later ok? “ “yes mother.” I was so happy. Nicole was mewing when mother closed the door. But mother opened it again. “oh and one more thing. Be gentle with her ok? She’s still a virgin…” mother chuckled andi laughed with her. my tied up teen virgin girl struggled again frantically, desperately trying toe scape her own nightmare. I laid her out straight on the bed and adjustd her small skirt. I climbed ontop of her as she kept shaking her head. I rubbed my erection onto her stomach, against the soft fabric of her tight tank top. I leaned in and started licking her soft creamy neck. She kept wtistinga nd jerking her head away from me and I kept suckling and licking it harder each time she did that. I licked her ears, wriggling it inside, nibbling her earlobes. Her muffled squealing turning me on more. Slowly, my right hand slipped under her tank top and I tucked my left hand into the top of her top, scooping out her soft round breasts from her cotton bra cup. My right hand snuck up her right bra cup and began massaging her right breast. I ran my thumbs around her nipples

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Mad monroe broke out of the vision with a terrified gasp. Gobules of black water and oil and dark blood was retched out uncontrollably at the mouth of the open sewer. The mess flowed into the river Ga that ran next to the sewer. He felt unclean and bothered. He was visibly shaking from his hallucinations

He tried to orient himself. He felt his clothes thoroughly burnt, leather jacket melted into his own skin. His hair was all burnt but intact, covered in a kind of black mud as if the pipe was the sludge wombm giving birth to man that was supposed to be dead in a fire. He tried getting up but great pains seared through him. A great turbulence was in his soul. Instinctively, he seeked out his ghost child but she was no where near him. He stumbled away fromn the rotting opening of the sewer pipe and fell knees first along the concrete slope that ran along the banks of the river ga.

Echoes of people screaming haunted him and hehad terrible flashbacks of fire. He saw faces of young girls, ggagged and frightened. Some had their eyes sewn open, others had their eyes sewn shut. He felt thoghroughly sick but some writhing snake in his gut kept him struggling up the slopes to somewhere else. His mind recoiled repeatedly in terror and profane images. He wasn’t sure if his ribs were broken. He wasn’t sure if his heart was supposed to be beating with such irregular violence. His eye sightw as blurred and muddy in the dark. He could scarcely make out the figure at the top of the slope, trying to reach out to his blind hand. “Elijah! Elijah take my hand” thevoice was saying but Elijah was straining to see. instinctively, he reached out and a strong grip helped him up onto street level. He collapsed flat out onto the floor, gazing up, his mind far away in pain, staring at a red rising star. “Elijah can you hear me? I am called nine, are you here? can you focus?” “nine….nine…who are…” “your ghost child told me to save you from thisnight, to bring you back. Doyou understand me? I don’t quite know” “ghost…child…ghost…”

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“yes. Yes. She appeared in a guests room next door to mine at a motel. She called out to me. I know of you through my master….who is…who is gone.” ”speak.. your masters…name..” “omandae. Omandae manhatter.” “I ..do not…know him.” “nevermind. I nee dto get you back into the room…can you walk?” he helped Elijah up to his feet. Together, they limped to the phantom cab waiting by the road.

The energies in room 12 stirred when the door was unlocked and Elijah and nine stumbled in under the weight of a weakening Monroe. Mara stirred from her corner, knees still drawn up towards her chest, like she was scared or shivering cold. Monroe immediately sensed the spirit of his ghost c hild. His eyes became more alive as he s earched the room.

“where is she?” he asked.

Nine looked a little disturbed as pointed to the last drawer of the dressingtable.

“its in…there. The soiled…panties…” he looked at mara who looked a little dazed and drugged out. She was naked from the waist down. Mad Monroe got down to his knees and slowly opened the drawer. Mara’s white panties was stained yellow with urine and her own secretions. Mad Monroe picked up the pair of panties andheld it to his face. He took a deep breath and it bothered nine terribly at the sight of this gross act. The things in the room started shaking suddenlt as if a small earthquake had hit the room. “do not be afraid” Monroe said in a small girl’s voice. “I am returning.” Monroe prostrated himself towards the toilet. “do not be afraid of the dark. Do not be afraid of the voices.” She chanted through Monroe. Do not be afraid of us.”

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Monroe convulsed there andt hen upon the floor. He looked like he was having a fit. He flopped like a violently dying fish,. Mara screamed. Nine backed away wild eyed, shocked. Monroe stopped as suddenlya s he started. A few moments of unmoving ensued, then he started coughing loudly.

“whis..key” he said between coughs. Mara suddenly got out of her crouching position and grabbed her half bottle off the table and passed it to Elijah. Monroe sucked hungrily on it, lettingthe hard whiskey burn down his throat, drowning the pain and monsters in his stomach. He finishedo ff the entire bottle then let it drop from his hands as he stood up, an abosolute unstably intoxicated. “he drinks toe asset he pain ofhis curse.” Nine found himself explaining to mara. “he has become himself again. He and his ghost child are united.” Monroe struggled out of his soiled clothes with mara helping him.. she was scared of his scars and burnt off skin. He stumbled bloodied and naked into the shower and drowned out his own inner pain with a primal pain as he let scalding water wash off the mud and blood from his battered body.

The whole room was steaming and looked like a fog of heat had suffocated the room. Mara opened the windows she watched the naked Monroe breathe steadily and calmly, passed out with half his body sticking out of the bathroom. Nine was smoking whatever was left of mara’s cigarettes. “he will help us find Jaqi.” Nine said to mara. When we find her, we’ll be able to do something about everything that has happened.”

Both of them had not touched the table with the tarot cards covered in the blood of Enreed. Both of them were not really over the shocks of the countless deaths described by nine from his transcripts of the hallucinations of omandae.

Monroe’s cough broke the silence. He sputtered like an engine coming back to life. Nine went on to pass him the robe left behind by his now missing master. Monroe sat upon the bed. “can you remember what happened?” nine asked him.

He thought about it. “there was a fire.” 265

“yes. An attack on the house of wu.”

Elijah’s memory came back in fragmentary forms. A new series of panic rose as he remembered the terrified girls.

“many of your alliances were killed.” Nine said apologetically. “there’s a list.” Mara continued, handing it to Monroe. He read the names, alarmed at the realization of it all. somehow he felt their deaths one by one and it disturbed ihim more. They were very unnatural ways to die. He sensed towering things moving beneath the watery graves of the subconscious. He felt foreign things beneath the waves of existence.

“who are you nine, and why are you not dead?”

“I serve my master omandae. I am a ghostwriter. My task was to documentn the channeling of my master. I have transcribed every incident hat has transpired up till the moment of my masters disappearance. I learntof you, of mara, the ghost child and most of the people on that list through my master’s channeling. I have seen what had happened through my masters eyes and now, we are the ones that are left to bring about a resolution to all of this. We have to find mara’s friend jaqi. She holds one of the keys that wouldget us through towards the end of dire November. We need you to help us find her.”

PSALMS OF SAUL #693

there were too many voices in the head. To many personalities emerged. The team became a crowd. The core was lost in that crowd. In that loss came the rupture, giving birth to 1000.100.

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it is said that the transitioning period was manifested as the one thousand. It was the hall of madness. It was twilights walk, the dark night of the soul. They said that those who touched it became consumed by it. And over time, they became it and the one thousand would become bigger.

Key questions of dockter Elishias seigh on the epitome of the one thousand one hundred consciousness.

When did we discover the presence of this illness of the mind? Why is this fractured and senseless and scattered?

While the psychotic obeses raped Nicole, she was having terrifying images of The Bloated Man. It was written that she had to be haunted first. To be ravished and stripped of hope and life, before she could have it. It was her nightmare that fed the machine for its march towards its own death.

11 female teenagers missing in six days. Fates unknown. Serial rapist and murderer known as â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;obesesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; still at large.

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The angelic orders stood guard over the 29 graves set in the garden of the keeper. An avenging spirit conserves its powers in a watchtower overlooking the garden. The garden’s keeper is still inscribing symbols and sigils unto the sand, one over the other. He has been entranced in this manner for the last few hours. The sun is eternally setting here at the garden. There is always more space for graves at the garden.

As Aira nurtured the last of his wounds, Saul said to her, “this may be the last time you see me.” the naked girl with white skin nodded, flaked skin falling off her cheek like slow snow. She knew this time would come. Her waters had told her. She understood.

“I’ll have to snuff the rooster.”

She let his drift in the water, having done with his legs. She watched him drift, naked and soundless in her ocean. The tide of time would now bring saul back through the spaces of his own memory.

The continuum of Vault – m Bronze age of the jungles. /follow the irab flag/ locostation is a druq. /cocker spaniel seeds/ gaia. Illogicity was the nexus. The house od daeken, the first lore is at its surrealistic peak. 268

Daeken has beheaded himself.

Accomplished through a self-posessed jester. Saul is to drink from the open skull of daeken. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;to gain the knowledge of your ancestors.â&#x20AC;? Saul remembers.

He drinks form the head of his shamanic self. It takes him back to the origins. He takes him to another place for this place is no longer his.

The metro. Glass city circa 1989

There are helicopters above. Raining debris and blood. The blade of the choppers are slow. The captain is deaf (ear drums blown), about to die from multiple wounds. He cannot longer move his body, only his head to look at his lover.

She is screaming and crying behind the swat shields covering them from enemy gun fire. They are trying to reach the captain but cannot.

He knows it had come to this. That the hour of his death would be most critical for the situation in the city.

The authorities are outnumbered. Mass weapons are being stolen. Masses will die by the conquerors hand.

He knows it must come to this.

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He sees the old man and the lantern standing at the top of a building. Theold man raises his lantern to his direction. The third promise will now be fulfilled. The oldman said to the captain in his mind.

Theo ldman leaps from the building. Thelantern falls with him head first.

The captain closes his eyes in the moment of mercy.

The old man hits and the white explosion occurs.

The enemy has been vanquished.

Traded for the body and soul of the captain whose life ended there in that sector of time, and whose next life began, another place/ another time.

THE WESTERN LANDS. CIRCA 1817

The army of about 30 knights aurrounded the church and watched it burn. Inside, Nicholas de ponte kneels before his Lord’s altar, holding up himself with a battered sword covered in blood. “thehour is athand my lord.” He whispers under his breath. “be ourlight in this darkness.”

His men were only three. Shaken, weak, afraid in their last hours but still prepared to war. They held their swoards against the battering on the door. They use their broken shields to block falling bricks and fire from a roof now burning down. They still watched overt he body of their queen on the marble slab. Nicholas bows before the 270

body of his lover. “your form will not be descrated” he vowed to her in spirit. “I will become a monster to keep your divinity at peace.”

The doors were almost down. Those who declared the occupants of this church heretics would tear the door down.

“by the grace of your red right hand, my Lord.” Nicholas said concluding his prayer before the war. “show our enemy thine vengeance!”

the door broke down and the knights charged in.

the blade of de ponte found its targets. His howl of war rose hell in the church. The roof fell in but the body of the queen was still sheltered by scarce remains of shields. Great wings descended from above as the now prince nicholAs du ponte invoked the holy terrors.

The birds of prey took their feast.

Claws without mercy tore through armour, hordes of black screaming clouds sunk down to consume the enemy.

The red sun eclipsed as the last of the enemy was slain.

The great wings departed and night was at hand.

Nicholas touched the face of his dead over, unblemished by the horrors of the attack. He prayed overt he last three of his men as he buried them. And in the heart of the

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burnt down church, He entombed his wife below wheret he earth shall keep her and the angels of war guards her with their flaming swords/

He is required to move on, for this is not his resting place. The letters were the only things belonging to jaqi that Mara had owned. Monroe needed an object which jaqi had touched before or something she created so that he could try tracing her in the energy realms. Some of the letters were more than a year old but it had to do even though jaqi’s energies may have changed since then. Her more recent letters were fewer although much fresher in energy. He gathered the letters in a pile, running in chronologocial order. He meditated upon them, studying her handwriting, the strokeo f her letters, thefeelof the paper between his fingers. Mara gave him some pictures of her, some taken off photoshoots for her modeling job. Something writhed in Monroe when he studied her beauty and form. She was exotic yet simple. She held much power in hergaze. He felt out for the picture, tried to shape her psyche according to his instincts. He ke[t whisperingher name underhis breath, which scared mara a little. ‘jaqi Danielle….jaqi Danielle….jaqi Danielle…” he walked around slowly in a small circle, sti;l thumbing the letters with one hand as he dug his pocket for the bottle of black sand that was always with him. He continued walking in that circle and was marking it by pouring out the black sand little by little. 272

“la vooshna, al va.” He chanted “la vooshna, el mar” mara and nine both could feel a slight disturbance in the room. The figure of his ghost child started forming in the circle. Clinging to his legs like a child would. It had one the black pvc suit, the gas mask too big for a childs head. . organic snakelike tubes were extending from the mask and it snaked in the air. The ghost thing took hold of the letters like a child grabbing a toy she wanted. the tubes traced the ink on the newest letter. Then the child unzipped her suit and slipped the last letter down her crotch. Mara could not look. the thing looked like it was masturbating itself with the letter. Monroe put his hand on the gasmask, closed his eyes. It looked like the tubes struck his hands, bit him and began sucking blood from it. His mouth opened in secret ecstacy as the ghost child rubbed herself harder and more violently. Monroe’s arms were visibly shaking. “a miscarriage.” He said. his voice trembling. He saw blood in his mind on someone elses floor. Blood starting dripping down from the exposed flat chest of the ghost child, from where her nipples are supposed to be. The blood crept towards her crotch with a life of its own. It found itself back up inside her. the blood from her nipples returned to the body through her crotch. The conncetion was made. Monroe let go of the child’s head and fell backwards like being slained. He hitthe floor gently, convulsing slightly in ecstacy. He saw immediately the tasks ahead. The location of mara, the symbol of the war cycle. He crawled like a possessed creature towards mara and ine, grabbing both of them witih his arms. Mara screamed, nine tried to back away but they were both hit with the visions. Nine sawhis path and mara saw hers. The visions vanished from them, and Monroe let them go, falling again to the ground. The ghost child had disappeared. Another light was returning to room 12. ‘the tehatre district.’ Elijah said wearily. ‘that is where Jaqi is.” 273

94 it was a neon glow toy store with psychedelic toys. Lights rich and deep and dark, alive with glowin the dark blood. The owner wore a top hay outline in a green neon glow. His eyes glowed purple, the light from his mouth was pink. It spoek without sense or juudgement. “the flying fish, prehistoria, finds the rooster fattened for the slaughter. The toys dance around its master. 93 OLGERDON OF OHO LIVES! OLGERDON THE EPIC WORM BIRTHED IN THE BOWELS IT EATS THROUGH DEAD UNIVERSE FILLS ITS HIDEOS FORM WITH COLD EARTH OLGERDON LIVES IN THE AGE OF THE DEAD! THE SOIL IS SUBTLE WITH DEAD THINGS BURIED CITIES OF UNDEREARTH AWAITING THE RAISING OF THE DEAD! 92 P@UL_P FRICTION PRESENTS ECRA & ARD 274

SECOND RANGE ANTHOLOGEISTS. There is a new wave to borne by the end of dire novemeber. There is recorded, the death of the last age. Respects are being payed to the bombed out building of one weed django. The former publisher, being the last viable contact with the outher myths, has now severed ties with that body of knowledge following his untimely death. We, the second range antholgeist, is hereby given to task to bring forth the new wave. This begins with the first channeler, OMANDAE MANHATTER and his scribe-‐servant NINE. No current body of work is currently published but a first volume of five books is known to bein development. Further updates will be published in due course. The current whereabouts of omandae manhatter and his servant, nine are unknown at the time of this notice. Persons with information should contact ECRA & ARD via personal visit to 211 ATON DISTRICT STREET. All identities of forthcoming persons will be held in strictest confidence. ISH JADE THEATER Jaqi has lost herself in a stage character. She portrays a troubled youth poet, scarily reflecting the life of mara. In the end, Her character hangs herself in the library on her own birthday. She was studying her lines when Mara and nine came up to her. Monroe was waiting in the car for them. “jaqi?”

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she looked up but mara knew she was someone else. “do you not know the exhaustion oft his soul? Who had labored long andhard to come with those words Trhose few small meaningless words that try to enscribe the yearnings of my heart? Do you not know how tired I am of this life? How so little words canbring more value to it?” “jaqi. Its mara. Come on…” do you know not of the sadness that bequells me? do you not know I am hurting in deep forbidden places? “delucia!’ nine tried. She stopped talking and stared at him with lost eyes. “remember delucia.” He told Jaqi. “do you not know that she is dead?” she whispered back. “”she is immortal,” nine told her, “she cannot die.” “many have been wrong before” she zoned out, “about immortality.” She was cold and detatched. Mara held her hands. It was cold and clammy. “come with us,” mara told her, she wasn’t sure if she was getting through. It saddened hert o see jaqi like this. She was always so animated in her phone conversations and in her letters. Something inside her had died. She had to help bring delucia back. Nine had explained what he learnt from omandae about alter-‐mages. How one person living oon this earth existence could also have a parallel self living in another dimension, doing very different things from t he self here. Somehow the two selves would be linked for if something happened to one self theo tehr self would be affected be it emotionallym psychically or archetypically. If the other self was dead, the only way to bring that self back was through the performing of alter-‐mage necro magic. Something Monroe was cursed to do.

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Nine then decided the best way to bring Jaqi along without needing to convince her. He punched her out. With much apologies to mara about hitting women. Whenhe carried the unconscious jaqi across his shoulders, mara flashbacked to the image of Nicole, being carried by the men through the hole in the wall. Nine broke her thoughts when he said, “now, we head to the tower.” SATELLITE AI-‐FI LOG: 2801102007 STATUS:REACTIVATION. PRINCIPLE SOURCE: SAUL LIERA MISSION STATUS:RE-‐CONNECTION. FIRSTLINE REQUEST CODE: CYCLES 02 UPDATE: UPDATING IN PROGRESS….. …… …… LIST TIME LINE? Y

1. THE RED EVENT 2. THE APPEARANCE OF NINE AND OMANDAE 3. THE RECOVERY OF THE HOUSES.

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4. THE LOSS OF DRASHAD AND MARIAN. 5. LOST PERIOD. 6. END OF LIST. 7. AWAITING COMMAND CODES. ….

…

….. COMMAND LINE: /INITIATE INTERFACE. / INITIALIZING AI-‐FI INTERFACE. __ __ _-‐ -‐__ __ -‐-‐-‐ __ AI-‐FI INTERFACE INITIALIZED. INPUT DATA: COMMAND LINE: DEFINE /LOST PERIOD/ …PROCESSING…. 278

UNABLE TO COMPLY.

COMMAND LINE: /LOCATION INDICATORS <SUB> MARIAN , >SUB? DRASHAD

PROCESSING…..

UNABLE TO COMPLY

COOMMAND LINE: ,RUN/ / TIMELINE FRAGMENTATION SEARCH/ *LEVEL* OMEGA – ZANAR

PROCESSING

.. 1. THE ATTEMPTED ARRIVAL OF JACOB LORE 2. THE BURDEN OF MAD MONROE 3. THE FORMATION OF ORDOM 4. THE ARRIVAL OF THE WOMAN OF THE NEW MOON

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5. THE PREPERATORY YEAR OF NINE AND OMANDAE 6. THE CHANNELING OF OMANDAE 7. THE RUPTURE OF 1000.100 8. THE ARRIVAL OF THE GENERAL. 9. THE DEATHS IN THE FIELD 10. THE BIRTH OF THE ZEITGEIST. 11. THE ATTACK ON THE HOUSE OF WU 12. FEATURED DEATHS. END OF LIST

COMMAND LINE: MAP TRAJECTORIES > CYCLES 02 UPDATE< > / TIMELINE FRAGMENTATION SEARCH/ *LEVEL* OMEGA – ZANAR

PROCESSING

280

// MAPPING COMPLETE.

UPLOAD ? Y

UPLOADINGâ&#x20AC;Ś..

UPLOAD COMPLETE

COMMANDLINE: |EXIT|

AI-FI LOG END:

Like a star the satellite/plaent ai-fi ascends. For those who study both the sky and soul will witness it and shall understand. It had watched once. During the lost period it had watched. The next powers had granted it sight. But all magic has a price and at the end of its era, the satellite ai-fi ended and its memory taken back. It knows of everything after. It knows of everything before. But not of the lost period.

When Jaqi came to, she was naked.

Hot wax was being poured on her skin by a man in a gas mask. She woke up stimulated and erotic and highly sexual. A small girl in a full body harness crawled 281

on top of the naked jaqi. Rough belted leather against soft wet skin. Jaqi gasped as the manin the gas mask worked his death magick. Hands conducting unheard symphonies. Thegirl rubbed her faceless head into jaqi’s neck. Tubes snaked across her cheeks. Sucking softly on her skin, taking in the body heat of jaqi. “delucia come” the man said, “va la ushna vin oro Vara lushna von daeken Va ra ishna van saul Delucia, come.” Jaqi orgasmed in the blackened room.

Outside in thehall of the tower, nine and mara waited on black sofas. The energies in the t ower of 71 was changing. They could sense the returning tide of the shores of Afrioca.

This is saul’s tower. His place of power when he was still here. This place has the strongest memory of saul and through this place, nine hoped that Elijah would bring delucia back so she could bring saul home.

Without him, there was no other power great enough to war with the dark night of one thousand one hundred and the absurdist killer it had spawned.

They heard jaqi crying out in ecstacy. Mara looked at nine and wanted to make love to him. Their thoughts were mingled with the post-dread atmosphere of the door of death opening and closing, allowing delucia to return.

The noise in the room stopped.

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The door opened and the two of them looked up.

Jaqi emerged, fatgue consuming most of her strength. But she gathered anough of it to call out mara’s name.

Tears of joy came to their eyes as they embraced.

I could hear Monroe vomiting in the background.

A sociopathic wizard had escaped from the magickal halls of 1000.100. he calls himself the general. With his dark powers now escaped to earth, he forms The family. The hunch back mother and the deranged obeses. The general spends the powers feeding them, nurturing them for the horrors they would inflict in the name of graheg. In the dark under tunnels he dwells. Feeding upon the dog corpses and the sludge of human waste. His fever and madness grows as his powers grow beneath the city of compulsive sin and technology.

“by the ular of gr’hg I spawn flesh and blood Undead animated Picking off the chosen Eleven virgins For the hall of gr;hg For 11 turns of events The dark hand shall triumph 283

As it desecrates the flesh of the youngest By the altar of gr’hg The puppets will kill Partaking in the pleasures of ravaging Innocence borne to such a beautiful fate”

MONROE jerked out of his sofa from sleep, and vomited onto the glass table. Nine woke up at he sound of retching and was alarmed. “whoa, whoa brother…”

“DON”T TOUCH ME! DON”T TOUCH ME!” his eyes was like a man possessed

the door to the masterbed room flung opened and mari and jaqi came out, their naked bodies wrapped in the single black comforter. “what’s going..? oh god Monroe..” she stared at him vomiting. It was black and horrible and thick and spreading faster around the house than it should. Nine was panicking. “what should we do? What should we..” he became sick and wanted to vomit. The great energies of the house shifted so quickly, even mari and jaqi started feeling very sick.

Something bad was happening.

“EEEAARRRRCCCGHHH!!”” a terrible scream tore from SAUL’S room. The room empowered by the inscriptions of return written in the hand of delucia. The room charged with the ill and holy magic of eor/nom as cast by Monroe. The room designed with desperation and alt.learning to lead saul back.

There was a loud bang on saul’s door.

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Another bang.

Something large wanted to come out.

They heard growling coming from the room.

Jaqi stared out with wet delucia’s eyes, “saul?”

BOOK 5 285

Phase I Saul, the returned “my hand stinks!” said the little girl in the blue dress. Saul laughed at her. “there’s something wrong with your nose. Its chocolate.” “there’s a terrible punchline to this joke is there?” she retirted, shaking her hands violently away from her, hoping it would get rid of the muddy smelly things on her hands. She had picked up one of saul’s cards and it turned into turd. “there would be shit on your hands young one.” He had said to her before laughing at the child. “you’ll pay for this uncle saul!” he laughed some more. “I think I’ve paid quite a bit. You should allow me my horrible jokes.” “yu are crazy uncle saul!” “madder than those who tried to find me.” he told her. she finally got rid of all the mud and sighed. She was sitting on a blue glass tea-‐table set in the middle of a spring countryside, under a bog oak tree sheltering her from the youthful sun of yesteryear. “you’re going to leave me again aren’t you?” she finally said. a sadness in her voice. Saul tried not to let his smile fade away. “I will see yu again.” He reassured her. she started crying a little. “aw, come on honey.” He said. “ I won’t be gone for long…” 286

“you were gone for two years uncle! Then you came back a while and now you must go again.” “iit wont take so long this time. I promise. I’ll see you at least once every year, if not more.” “once a year?!” she was throwing a tantrum now. “ok. Twice.” Saul said hurriedly. Playfully. As if arguing over a little joke. He poked the cheek of her pouting face with his finger. “I’ll miss you.” she said. still pouting. “I’ll miss you too.” he said, kissing her on her forehead, then hugging her. she closed her eyes. Felt his great warmth of love fill her till she was so comfortable and at rest that she feel asleep, deeply, back into her own bed. The flowers and hills and sun went away in her mind. The big old tree and the hcina cups on the blue tea table vanished from her memory but in her heart, Saul remained. She went to sleep again soundly, telling herself she’ll save missing him for tomorrow. Now, she had the last memory of him in her little heart, bidding him a safe journey to wherever he was going and that was enough to give her sleep much peace. __ “she’s an awfully sweet girl isn’t she?” the keeper said to saul, as they watched her asleep in the big white bed out there next to the other graves. “ I think I’ll never forget her.” he said. “you never forget any of them.” The keeper replied, turning away to return to his hall. As he walked off he said, “whenever you are ready. First son.” He let Saul stand out there. Watching his little darling because he knew he always needed to savor that last look, that last kiss, that last handful of sand as he buried all the loves he had before. But this time, the keeper allowed him to linger even though she’ll always be there, unburied, alive and eternally childlike in her sleep of innocence, here in the garden, because even though the others meant more to him in death than in life, she was the one who was different.

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. when Sual had bid his last goodbyes to the girl he saved three years ago, the girl whom he helped cross over after final days of an earth from before, he began his walk towards the hall of the keeper. That hut of final station. The last house before he returned to the land of sand and soil. The place called the glass city. This, is the temple of resurrection/ Saul reached the great door and upon it was the sigil of the keeper. Below it an inscription. “enter ye, only the bearer of this name. below the inscription is the sigil of saul. Below that , another inscription. ‘only the master may return to the master’s house.” Saul pushed the doors open. The aisle leading up the altar was along. There were fourteen girls, aged 11 standing each on one side forming a line of seven. 288

The twelfth girl was at the head of the altar. She was the alter-‐mage of the keeper. She stood there in a cloak/robe shrunk down to her size. The same garment the keeper has on. inscribed by alien inscriptions from the word of before and the word of after. Each word held power of countless worlds and their respective magickal traditions ‘with memory, the history of the other circles are its seeds. It is only life immortal that nourishes it.’ The girl at the head of the altar spoke “nakedness is the primal state. The loss of all self-‐consciousness that births forth the conscious state of all, the everlasting. Lose your garments, master Saul.” He began stripping, realizing that of his current form. He was bald and bloated. Upon his head bore the symbols of the red pyramid, the symbol of vault-‐m and the mark of one thousand one hundred. He had no more groin, but he had t hick hair growing from it. “pubic hair being the sign of spiritual perception through the instrumental will of the magician in the undercurrent realms of consciousness.” The 11 year old flower girls in their white dresses came forth, passed soil and arranged themselves in a formation where three girls held up his trailing public hair frome ach side while the seventh girl held the end of it. “come forth, master Saul” said the twelth girl. He began walking towards the altar. 289

“this is your rite of passage, “ she continued. “the path where the past presents the powers for the future.” The seven girls before him had become naked. Their breasts not yet form, their pubic hair not grown. They all had painted geisha faces. Their skin, white as snow. Three stood on each side and the seventh stood ahead of them facing saul as he approached her. she pat sperm unto the floor saying, “…do not swallow.” The glob of sperm snaked towards saul then escaped under his big toe nail. The 12th girl exclaimed, “begin your profession of your arcane.” When the first volume of sperm crept entirely into his body, he began his profession. “Of the first draft in the garden be the birth of this myth by the river of writ the young hand begins the act of the first bourne myth of he keeper father ofmemories source of power drawn from eternal themes love and loss destruction and forgetting death and rebirth thus being the foundation the cycles that would inform the evolution of saul.” 290

The second naked geisha girl spat sperm unto his left leg. “…do not swallow” It ate into his skin. Entering bloodstream. “of the second life of messianic delusion and the leading of the devout into he fields ofmassacre the hand ofjudgement declares the first and foremost curse the blood on the hands of saul will poison his being into another form of flesh and bone and weakness and of a life with battle and pain and death.” The third naked child spat sperm unto his right feet. “…do not swallow.” And the sludge of the sperm ate into his life. “the child of adventure discovers the sight gifted by the hermit and his white l;antern gifted with the knowledge of the loss of others 291

of knowing of the lost. Thus saving royalty Thus forming the house of salvation And with all salvation Comes the violence and the blood (Crucifixtion/passion/thorns” and the war begins.of human bondage and vioelce of weapons destroying enemies flesh and bone torn with machines ofloving war and with it came the price of losing brothers and loves sacrificed unto the altar of annihilation amd one by one their graves are filled with flowers that wont bring them back and the pain of loss eats away the soul of saul forming vibes where revenge is the path to the garden of death and self sacrifice the only salvation prmosised by the man who lights the way up the watchtower where across the horizons the enemy is vanquished in a flash.the fourth naked girl spits unto his stomach through digestion, evolution is hastened and the dead man of girl three is resurrected by the hand of illogicity 292

and from it the first Lore is borne. And the magic of this lunatic place The seemingly seed of the future madness/arcana Bearing the universe one thousand one hundred Is knowledge passed on by its shaman-‐king The feared, golf umbrella sorcerer of vault-‐m. The fifth girl spits upon his left nipple. “…do not swallow.” The eating hurts him and he stalls his walk to t he altar (that seems to change in distance) but he struggles on as the conscious acidic sperm eats into his chest. “the vault of m is ended in the flashof resolute bomb runs apocalypse devours continuum M. reduced to a cluster of stars then fissioned and nebulae in into a power source constructing and womb like building of the planet/satellite ai-‐fi. Thus journeying forth this temple magickal tech Becoming transmission and receiver channles for the divinity of NB’LR Downloading the myths of the outher space. Thus seeded, the nuclears birth The ageof the hfirst houses 293

Of ihiir and cirqu Of theouthers and the satellite families Of the lost period set before the cosmic terror Of THE RED IDOL” The sixth girl spat unto his right nipple. “..do not swallow.” The sperm was blodied, crimson slime. It fried his nipple against his controlled urge to scream in pain It devoured him without mercy Acid on skin Razor tooth slugs on bare flesh. The pain turned yellow (preparation to STOP) then the pain turned red the trinity rising in the wild noise of torment in the red pool of red lava rose the alternative lord oh retributional hordes Of the red warlock Primal/future messiah The RED CHRIST. And his mark is of karma repaid The divine act of retribution(sowing the seeds of ill actions) 294

The, had arriv’d The electric future spirit of red retribution The unknown neon zeitgeist of intervention The being that is called THE RED MAN Then the last of the trinity rose Like the bubbling waste of black Ophelia SAUL hath thus become the black The u8nconsumed and all consuming.” The last girl spat right into his chest And the grey sperm burned into his heart And the heart, through its crimson rivers Led the blood of mad 1000 deep into the psyche of he Who bears the 100 fragments of the self of saul. “ia m the mother voice the hall 1000 the sign/book/house the hall that is of shifting doors the doors that open to a hundred gates gates that spread into a hundred rooms 295

a hundred hours a hundred pages a 100 voices. I am mother of the god 1000 The goddest vvoice of transitional madness The era that follows in the wake of ai-‐fi The cycle through which the next kingdom is made I am the mother voice Who crafted the thousandth magic Who housed the hundred adepts The womb that births the next.” And saul reaches the twelfth girl. The profession of states made whole She gentlytouches his face. “your returning is close at hand” she said. “the sacraments await.” The 12th child no longer bares her nakedness. She chooses, as he symbol of identity, a blue dress. Her eyes glow blue. No longert he girl who knows saul. No longer the saul she knew. They do not remember each other in this realm She is the 12th who stands before the altar of sacramental transformation. 296

The consumption act Systemized as ritual and transmutations. This is the medicines of metamorphosis. She steps aside. “to be what you consume is the first act of becoming.” There are three red circles on the black marble table. In each circle, an item of alien power. The first is The golden can. It is opened and running around the silver stop are baby black ants They are wild and fast and frantic But ordered and efficient and tireless. They rush into the can. Chaos with direction A hundred souls into the blackhole. Saul takes the can (like the blood of Christ in the holy grail) he consumes the golden fluid (the urine of the goddess herlucienda oath) the liquid floods his veins 297

with oaths and vows and promises never to be broken. The 12th girl speaks. “as the teacher teaches the student learns as the student teaches the teacher learns the power of the magic grows as the belief of its people shares” in the second circle, half an orange pill lies in its centre. The girl in the blue dress speaks: “place be the gift of voices [in] pharmaceutica unto the tongue of in-‐vocations of names chosen cast upon the wall of house one thousand where each named be designed in decorum followed according to laws governed by the hand of Nb’LR formed by the ever changing 298

sourced in the sun of LORE by guard and guid of lights glowing orange like a star of night be the key in the sea of cosma to open doors unto infinita” to the final circle laythe final seed where the sperm of surrealism meets the egg of evolution the black flowers of the four mooned wasteland sunyatian space the terbanacle of the elder ascetics. And Thus the last girl spake the third and last time. “be remembered your origin past of pyramids red and future ai-‐fi of the journey out of wasteland into post one thousand and beyond. Be this your final chapter The consuming of that which will die Whose funereal shall mark the start Of the life after orlific, the wake.” Saul consumes the final sacrament. 299

“it is completed.” Said the keeper, now returning to his final form. By the mythopoeic alchemy of saul, the three sacraments begin to merge. A h undred voices began to coagulate The thousandth memory became nucleus And all other memories of saul From all his multitudinal forms From his imortallic time lines and continuums Began to take shape like a gaian organism The continents and oceans and wastelands and deserts and jungles and forests Fusing in creation of a gestalt world. the world in turn design the orbits from which the universe would revolve And thus, the act of creation, recalling itself Comes into total awareness Into divinic formation of the god mind. The keeper pointed to the blackness beyond the empty table of sacraments and said to saul as his parting words, “through the curtain be your exit, the looking glass, the multi door whose unikey is named 



and the thing that is no longer saul, steps through. 300

Phase II -evolution express Monroe was the first to experience the possession. The growling at the door to saul’s room had ceased. The silence that followed was unnaturally deafening. He already knew, instinctively, that mara and nine was enchanted into statues. Only he was still alive in a sense. He knew in his cursed gut the experience of possession and he knew that this was no ordinary spirit. Not from the pantheons of the njor religions. Not from the pantheons of the ancient traditions. Not even the pantheon from a future tradition. No occult tradition could ever evolve into something like this which was possessing him. This power came from another continuum. One wholly alien to that of this limited existence. an unknown virus like fever g ripped him, disregarding completely the potent curse laid upon him, the curse that prevented the rooster of absurdia, the dystopian zeitgeist that had killed so many key figures in the circles of this existence from killing him but a curse that could not war with this mysterium power channeled back into saul’s private sanctuary and place of high power. Elijah mad Monroe did not fight the possession. He surrendered to it, trusting that it was somehow bound by the powers of saul. The power that 301

returned took him instantaneously and Monroe was brought somewhere else. The place was an elongation of the primal damp and dirty basement of the depraved. The place smelt of dank piss, sperm, sex and blood. Monroe foundhimself naked and bound unto an iron chair with barbed wires. The sharp twisted metal biting into his wrists and ankles and thighs bound apart. His stomach and chest too was bound to the back of the chair with the metal thorned wires. A metal ball gag forced his jaws open. The straps were of barbed wire, cutting deep into his head. His eyes were forced open with clamps. The torture chair was his throne. The throne was wielded unto a huge metal cage. Inside the cage were elevn virgin girls, limbs bound to each others randomly twisteing their bodies around each other. They all had huge black ball gags strapped to their heads. They were all, however gravely silent. Eyes wide and unblinking and cold. Their moaning were like low hums and chanting noises. Monroe had his groin fired up with stimulants injected into his testicles. He was rock hard and his erection filled the mouth of the oracle of ordom. Her dead broken necked head had her tape gag replaced with a ring gag, forcing her mouth open to take in the erection of Elijah. She thrusting her head to and fro, her eyes still glued shut. She was moaning into him, her slender slinky body arched like a cat. She wore no bra and was only clad in a light blue thong cotton panties. Her arms were bound to the back legs of the iron chair. Something grotesque and ape like and pregnant was pushing the cage forward. Before Monroe was a murkey pond of black and dark green water. By the logic of dementia and hallucination, the pond was set against a brick wall. Monroe felt himself about to come, the half dead goddess was sucking him harder. He felt his spine firing up, his head swimming with horror and power and filth and magic. 302

He exploded unto the pond on the wall, gushing violently. The pond rippled in disarray and a scene was formed. This is the divination of eornom. The scene became semi clear, It was a birds eye view of a male public toilet. Run down, abandoned, unused. Om was in the heart of an abandoned shopping complex slated for destruction. A wealthy organization had bought the land. It owners were about to engage in black occult business. The toilet had eleven cubicles. Five on one side and four on the other. In each cubicle sat a terrified abducted girl. Some were squatting over used and unflushed bowls. Monroe knew all of them as virgins. He could sense their purity, teethering on the edge of innocence b rutally lost by deranged perverted warlocks all the girls were all bound with plastic ties. They were tightly blindfolded and gagged in a variety of ways. Tape. Cloth. Rope. Leather gags and blindfolds. Those who sat on closed toilet seats were fully clothed. Some in miniskirts, some in shorts, some in jeans. Those who were squatting wore only their bras and small panties. The scene drifted out of the toilet and into the atrium in the heart of the empty shopping mall. There, there were tweleve men, semi naked and gross and sweating from the ritual drug taking and dancing, calling down the ular god of rapelust gr’hg. They wore clown masks and ladies g strings. They pranced around in dark possession chanting the joys of ravishing young virgins. The scene in the pool on the wall muddled again to show the various vacant stores of the complex turned into rooms of rappe and t orture. Rooms with countless instruments to inflict pain, large beds for long nights of rape and pleasure. Dressing tables piled with drugs and alcohol of all kinds. There was a section in the departmental store preserved on the second floor. The 303

lingerie department. A bra and panty shop for teenagers was also preserved on the fourth floor. Brightly lit shopping nexus for those who fancied the beauty of bras and panties. The act of choosing the right ones. Of dressing up their girls in the little garments that turned the maniacs on the most, and the almost spiritual experience of slowly removing them from weeping terrified virgins. The scene returned to that of the girls in the toilet. And there Monroe found his ghost child. Naked save for the gasmask, entering the cubicles one by one and removing the panties from all the girls. The girls squirmed and screamed but could not see the spirit performing its acts. The guards outside the toilet masturbated lustfully to the muffled screaming, believing that it was the rats and cockroaches that they let loose to crawl upon the girls and driving them into frantic screaming. The gimp g host collected all eleven pairs of panties. Crawled unto the wall like an insect and swap through up the pond into the hall where Monroe watched. the queen of ordom, now with her dead tape gagged face again detached the metal ball from monroes mouth, revealing a ring gag that forced his mouth open. He immediately understood the next act of eornom magic powered now by the strange force that returned to saul’s room. The ghost child crawled unto the bound body of Monroe then proceeded to stuff the girls panties, one by one into his mouth. One by one, he swallowed the panties. The white and blue and pink ones. The g strings and thongs. The flowery ones and lace ones. One by one he forced it down his own throat sometimes with tehg help of the queen and the ghost girl gimp. Asthe panties slid down his throat slowly and sank into his stomach, vile vistas of power rose within him. Streets and roads and buildings crept up in his mind like subconscious cities growing. He saw street names and geographical markers. He felt weaknesses and fear and rage and divine wrath. As the last pair of panties sank into his gut, he saw the faces of his enemies. He saw their souls, transformed into entities of undescribable shapes and horrors. The gimp tore off thet ape from the dead queens mouth. The 304

queen sat upon him again, pushing her panties aside and leading his still erect wand deep into her. her dead rotting lips kissed the hole where his mouth was forced open and willing and she began retching into him as she kissed him. The warm vile liquid from her metamorphosed body filled him washing down the elevn pair of panties in his stomach. A madness sickness took over him. A sheol like fire lit by divine embers gripped him and in that moment of severity, he learnt thet rue names of his enemies. The only key to destroying them And through the act of destruction The lives of elevn virgins would thus be saved.

MARA THE DESTROYER

Did her father touch her in the dark? Did her lover really kill himself?

Was he killed?

The judge before her, questioning mara was black. There were rope marks around her neck. She donned a full judge’s suit with plastic golden wigs. A blonde Negroid judge asking mara questions.

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“did you kill those fishes yourself or did God want to show the world, you? “

mara could not answer, some kind of strange pinkish glue was creeping out of her mouth and it had sealed her lips together. The goo was crawling all over her face and her limbs were hard and frozen as if her muscles were all turning to stone.

“why did you go into hiding?”

I did not I did not Was all in her mind but deep inside she knew she did. She had fled from the world.

“was your mother a witch?”

oh god…oh god…

“ Raped by a demon?”

no no no please.

“are you a demons daughter?”

she tried to recall her mother’s face. The pink sludge was filling her eyes, entering her nostrils, spreading all over her suddenly naked form.

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“bore, bore, that is the named you borrowed, that is not your name is it?”

she felt her whle body being encased. It weakened her at the knees. She fell, sideways, cocooned by the pink gum like substance that was alive.

“it’s not about facing your demons,” the judge laughed.

“its facing your father.”

It was hard for her to see. everything a blur an din pink and cloudy There was a deafening howl outside her malleable shell. A howling wind. The outside seemed redder more than pink. She felt herself rolling, like down a gentle hill. She hit stones and bricks. It hurt her. She could not weep or cry out She could only see the world tumbling outside her . She felt something move in her gut. A swirling, sick sensation. Then a voice came.

“why do you hate me?” a soft gentle man’s voice. “I returned death to so many who sought it. I saved so many others for you…”

Mara was terrified.

Everything she tried blocking away 307

Was breaking through the walls she built.

Idrinking. Gulping down rich beer. Pills. In digestion. Head full of smoke and white dust. Red dust soared through her veins. Circa ten years back.

Loud desperate rock music Howling vocals, as if possessed. Her lover holding on to her tightly, wasted, emotional. “one day,” he said. “you will be my destruction.” “shh..jon. don’t get all melodra “youa re destroyer. And I will love you and miss you when I’m gone.” “jon, shut up. don’t think so much. Listen to the howling “you will be the destroyer…” He cut her off before passing out.

She had taken his words then, as words of a wasted genius musician, and not as a prophecy, that was meant to be.

She heard violent coughing.

She was no more in the club. 308

She was in his house. Unmoving. Watching from the wall, as if she was a picture, a fly, a lizard on the ceiling.

She saw jon coughing. Choking.

She saw a man with his back to her gaze. He was in full military regalia.

“shoot yourself,” The man said. “ with everything.

White foam was pouring out of jons eyes. His arms strained and twisted, grabbing a syringe, grabbing the hwole bottle of white liquid.

Mara could see he was fighting it. The man in the military uniform was forcing jon to kill himself.

Jon tried to speak but only white foam came out. Mara then saw the other three empty vials.

Half would already kill a man, Jon had told her of the white bishop, as he called the drug.

Jon just shot up three vials with a fourth on the way.

He’s supposed to be dead.

The military man was raising his left hand over jon , likehe was blessing him.

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“come on jon… don’t die so quickly.” His voice was ice and blunt and dead toned.

The man turned his hand and raised his hand higher, jon arched BACKWARDS. She heard his spine snap in a few place.

She saw his mouth burst open But only more whote foam was thrown up, gurgling loudly instead of a scream of pain.

He shott he needle straight into his heart and plunged the full syringe deep into it. The military man was concentrating on keeping jon alive.

His body was so taut it looked like his veins and muscles might burst from the tension.

He strained and was trapped in that moment of drastic pain and severe toxic poisoning until suddenly Something gave way.

The noise from his throat stopped And he fell like a ragged doll face down into a pool of his own vomit.

The military man dropped his hand, then slumped his shoulders, as if sad again that his game was over.

“oh well..” he said to the dead twisted body, “thirty eight minutes isn’t so bad Jon boy.”

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The military man saluted the corpse then walked out of the bathroom as Mara, from the future, gazed , shocked, torn, void, at the body of her lover, killed, by the man in the military uniform.

The pink guck flooded her mouth an dthroat, not allowing her to scream throughtout her entire witnessing. A broiling, hysterical woman unable to express such emotions. Mummified, unable to breathe yet still living.

She felt herself roll up the rocky hill.

Rocks hit her head, her knees. A fetal like pink stone rolling up a grey/red mountain, against all manner of laws.

Laws that have been set in motion Laws that have been broken Laws that are unleashed.

Up themoutain , she ascended, in her cocoon womb. Propelled by the impact of the tragedy Moving upwards into a resurrection storm.

A red sun is setting into an ocean but it appears like it is rising in reflection of the sea. The wax and wane of retributive sun. The red temper and disturbance of RAI

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Mara was standing naked, athe the peak of the hill. Free form the cocoon Free to breathe, to stretch, to scream, to weep. But she didnone of those. She just stood there, naked, staring from thre mountain Staring down into the valley, unto the city being ravaged by a red sand storm. A great and angry power was storming through on a violent wind The buildings were being eaten alive by the razor like red sand searing through the streets.

Against the backdrop to the destruction of the city , a red sun was setting and another was rising.

From that sun arrivâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d the red man.

An electric red neon in the form of a man.

It spoke directly to mara who was quietly focusing on the red Man.

The glowing thing spake thus, â&#x20AC;&#x153;blessed be he, the red Christ, who hath come to show his hand of vengeance. Behold, he who is reaping what man hath sown.â&#x20AC;?

The red Christ formed like a mirage in the heat wave of the red sun, setting. He who bore the Red robe of suffering 312

Long, wet black hair Tongues of red fire for eyes.

The high priest approach mara, his red right hand extended to touch her face.

He grazed her cheek gently, the said,

“thus spoke the demon tongue of oro.. “I found the man weeping in the corner. Frail and alone Skin and bones He shook with such sorrow Such despairing There were pieces of torn clothes before him He was naked and wetting himself. He sobbed hard into the rusted wall The name written on it was long gone (He began defecating) He started to shiver. He could not see me but he knew my smell It was worse than the mess pooled around his failing body He looked up into my direction Eyes milky and dim He stopped sobbing. He stopped shivering. With his wet bowels I drew the symbols on the wall I wrote the language with the blood in his urine With the words on the toilet floor I released him And with the death in my hand I gave him rest.”’ There is a death in your hand, “the red Christ said to mara, “but no rest shallbe given unto thy enemies. It is the father who will deliver them in his realm. But it’s by his daughter’s hand that they are led there.”

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The Lord took Mara by the hand. “in the name of thy father and of the red man AND A SUICIDE CHYLDE, be thee, destroyer. “ “I drink the blood of the guilty to make them blameless.

And with my blood, I feed it as wine to the monsters.”

- the red vampire of christ

dressing tables swirl of smoke. Burn of lung.

A WRETCHED COUGH,

BROUGHT nine back.

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Concrete dust exploding from his lungs. His eyes were frozen open so long it was dry. Then he wept, his ision came back.

It was cold.

deCEMBer first two thousand seven.

There was a hole in the wall where the balcony used to be. Mara was standing silently at the edge of the hole. Before her a 21 storey drop. The wind was gentle, and her black dress danced about her like a ghost. she was holding herself against the chill.

Next to her was a dressing table against the left wall. Its drawers open as if ransacked. The mirror was cracked down the side. Nine saw she was wearing black laced gloves.

“mara?”

“I understand the dream.” She said slow. As if talking to the night before her. eyes staring into a melancholic space. “I know why she jumped.”

Nine walked closer to her as she continued speaking

“it is the end of innocence. The end of child ignorance,” she turned to face nine, her eyes softly glowing red. “I’ve seen the red man…I’ve been touched by the hand of the red lord….he who is retribution, the wrath that ruined Sodom. And his temple resides within.” 315

And without warning, she leapt through the hole to the terror of nine, her witness….

Mara felll gathering velocity but the fall did not end. It stripped her psyche downm sucked downwards into some kind of illogical oblivion. She was fallings trainght into concrete andinto the black hole of another univers. She fell like a star, a meteor, straight into THE FIELD, a red power growing with the speed, the angels of deaths accompanying her down, wing’d. dangerous, aroused.

Mara, the destroyer and her host of annihilations screamed like hells creatures into the field, screeching into the wormhole to the field, straight for the heart and gut of the terrible zeitgeist of the rooster.

War was at hand.

“Awake from ye slumber, it is the LORD who speaks.” – jesus

lulled from the rip van winkle state, the ornamental figure of Christmas john stirs, snow flakes swirling like ghost motes in the black night, star rising as a sign for the magi. A knife gleams in the darkness. A snoring ends.

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“awake from ye slumber, it is the LORDDdddddddd who

yah yah…”john yawns. Stretches. His bones crack and muscles unwind from rigid mortis sleep of almost a year….dreaming of rebmeced’s doom/

“god damn rooster…”

phase III BOOK 6 THE WAR CYCLE

“Here they come to snuff the rooster Yeah here come the rooster, yeah 317

You know he aint gonna die No, no, no, ya know he aint gonna die” – Alice in chains

“There goes a part of my life, “ Johnny Christmas said. He dropped a piece of his dead skin into the toilet seat and flushed. He scratched his arms and it bled from small holes. he winked into the mirror, “the return of Johnny Christmas eh?” He donned his santa hat,a cigar in his mouth. Shoved his gutting knife into its sheath,hidden in santa boots. He decided to get a phantom cab. “Good to have you back, sir” the bangla driver greeted him as he got into the cab. “With all this shit flying around the city from monster roosters? i’m not sure if i want to be back.” “But you love chicken sir.” “Eating them.” he sighed, “not going to war with them.” “You can eat it after its dead sir,” the driver said flat toned as they headed off. “I suppose so...they better have chilli.sambal belachan.” “I’m sure they will sir, the usual place?” “Oh yes. its time for the first meal of the year.” “Very well then sir.” Johnny Christmas yawned after being asleep for exactly twelve months. He was very hungry. “Lets see if the city’s been naughty or nice.”

“no rest for the lord’s bitch.” when the phantom cab pulled up to the road side eating house, faty joe was already there.

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“god damn it.” johnny christmas said, “no rest for the sorry bastards. sorry boys and girls.” his voices said no worries, that they needed conversation from mad obese informants to wake up. “i still don’t like it,” johnny slurred, “work before food. that ain’t right.” get on with it, were the voices advice. Johnny got out of the cab into the light rain. bright lit neon signs and a hellishly big kitchen yawned its open doorway. the chief cook rushed out to greet him. “mister christmas, very nice to see you again. see? i put up tree for you coming.” the chinese man pointed to short robust plastic trees by the road. “very lovely Ching CHing. now, i eat same same.” “same same coming!” was the excited reply. “Fatty joe wait for you there..he wait long time.” “yes, yes. can’t miss him.” “i go make same same for you eat.” “thanks ching.” johnny walked over to the fat drunk informant who was glazing at him with lopsided vision. seven bottles of TIGER empty on the table. “you fuckin late Christmas.” “better than never fatso.” Johnny slumped into the red plastic chair and lit up his cigar. “J is dead. no more flowers.” was fat joe’s first piece of info for John. “god damn it.no good news for the poor bastards huh?” “some good news. there’s a woman.” “oh god. isn’t there always one?” “she’s a destroyer John. you’ll need the woman.” “they’ve destroyed me enough.” “no, not you. the thing you’ve woken up to kill.” “i can kill that god damn rooster myself.” “no you can’t. a whole hall full of magicians couldn’t do it.don’t think you can.” “they were not johnny christmases.” his food came. a heap of sambal belachan fried rice and eight pieces of chicken fried in prawn paste. two bowls of wet sambal. two bows of tiny white shrimp chilli. two bottles of rich beer. chilli padi. “eat and be happy mister christmas!” Mr ching wished him. “big fuckin war ahead my good ching. belly must be armed.” “very good! then after war you come back eat celebrate?” “if time is not up yes. one last meal before bedtime.” haha HA! ching laughed and went away. Fat joe removed three folders full of information. slammed it on the orange table. it shook under the weight. like blocks of bricks crashing. “not now you lard bastard.” Johnny said. “at least let me eat first.”

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The first burp of Christmas Was loud, long and nasty. The plates empty, the bottles almost done. Stomach churning with fire. Johnny Christmas slumped back into his chair, exhausted from all that eating. Fatty joe was stoning out, almost falling asleep. the rain was still slowly falling. Christmas lit a cigar and stared at the thick folders on the table. He didn’t feel like opening them.

“can we get to biz ness now john boy?” fatty joe finally stirred. Jphnny burped again. “guess so.” He really didn’t want to get on with it but had no choice. There was no more food to delay the inevitable.

Joe pushed the first folder off the stack towards john.

“These here are the killed.”

Pushed the second one over.

“These here are those left to fix the mess.”

The third one went across.

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“This here are the related doctrines and histories.”

Johnny sighed.

The silver key was the last thing joe pushed over.

“you’re using seventy one this time.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow.

“you are certainly joking.” ”I am certainly not.” He stood up, almost falling over from intoxication.

“my job is over. Its in your hands now john boy.,” he began stumbling away t o the roadside for a phantom cab, ”I’m going home to sleep. Godspeed.”

“yeah yeah.”

With that fatty joe the informant was gone, swept up with a heavier rain and a ghost taxi trailing off into the dark. Johnny took his time to finish his cigar. Stacked up the folders and stared across the dark street to the locked up catholic church.

“time for work you sorry bitches and bastards,” he told his voices. They cheered, fully awake.

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Johnny Christmas steps into the terbanacle at the church, smoking his cigar. An elderly woman looks up at him in shock.

‘you cannot do that here!’ she yelled,” This is the temple of The Lord!”

“yep…” he sucked on his cigar, “and I’m the Lord’s bitch.”

THE MARCH OF MAD MONROE

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The ghostgimp of Monroe was loud and disturbed. A howling creature trapped in a full body pvc harness. It clung, unseen to mundane eyes to the back of Monroe as he struggled against exhhaunstion through the doors of ATON PD Her burst through the door in miud an doil and blood and madness in his eyes, driven to salvage the eleven victims. His hair and grown long over an unusually short time. His nails, beast like and brtal. He could feel blood tricklimng out of his anus. Heyes bloodshot to hell. The hwole departments tared on staring at the burnt ghost form although he was battered flesh and one. The captain came out of his office shocked and terrified at monroes stae.

“oh mygod…”was all the captain could muster.

“we move now.” Monroe said st ormingto the ammunitions and gun room. “or the elevn girls die…”

“we have noleads, “tehcaptain muttered.

“I will bring you to them. We move…NOW. “he stormed into the weapons room and his group followed, including thecaptain.

War was at hand.

THE RISE AND RISE OF GLOTHSCHTUCK glothschtuck struck the bus driver on the head with his staff. it was a long stick at the end of which was an axed head. it was the head of the bloody baron. since no one cares about him and he’s a moron, we’ll not go into detail. he was the definition of idiot. an idiot is a fool. the king whom he served, unknowingly bestowed the name on him. Sir Knight Idiot son of GLOTHSCHTUCK. WTF??????????? he claimed he was indian because at that time, only hindu indians had the “son of” title at the end of their names. Glothschtuck at some point decided that the entire title humiliated him and in the 323

end, he dropped the entire title/name from his name. Anyway, back to the story. Glothschtuck stood beaming at his deed/misdeed, whatever you see it as. he heaved a cannonball sigh and held the staff up. The blinding light was cast at everyone on the bus. seated in the front extreme left, was a burly looking feathered head. this was the muthafucka whom of course faced the back. Our feathered friend was a paranoid delussioned twit who couldn’t turn his head back the right way. this caused him to murder everyone out of sight. he killed with a bloody passion and the bloody baron was here to end it. “ ALL Hail Glothschtuck!!’ Boom.

Johnny Christmas and the remains of the rooster. “what a god damn mess.” johnny said. “do not insult my father, he did not do this.” said the Lord. “sorry boss. then who did.” “Glothschtuck,” “what in gods name is glotschtuck?” “i am warning you john. stop involving my father.” “sorry boss.” ‘and as for Glothschtuck, you are to address him as Baron if you cross path.” “one of yours?” The Lord Glared at Johnny, “now you insult ME. He is NOT one of mine. Not of this time and space. He intrudes but it is for our benefit.” “yeah? “johnny sucked in his cigar smoke and studied the mess. “his beneficence is known.” the bus was blown to bits across the streets. blood and bone and flesh and clothes stuck burning on the walls. the place smelt of dead fish. there were rooster feathers everywhere. johnny tried not to step on glass and severed fingers. he stopped to pick up a feather. “this ain’t big bastard.” “big bastard?” the lord queried. “the rooster. the core rooster. this is one of its personalities.” 324

“i sent you to fix this. why is it multiplying instead of dissapearing?” “sorry boss. i will hunt down the parent. kill the core.” “you better do it quick.” the Lord said, sipping the wine he manifested in a crystal glass in his stigmata hand. “there are people in my heart John, and they are dying. fix this problem. i am going to be born soon. father will not be pleased if a rooster ate the star that’s born.” “yes boss.” The lord annoited John’s head with blood. or wine. christmas didnt know which it was.

WAR COMMAND. Horatio Pavlov 325

Careful not to spill his absinth, Horatio calmly opens the laptop. The train he is on shakes a little and he considers the effects of pandora’s box. There is a thickness to his pipe, a deep burning of rich dark green leaves. He burns through the final remains until all is ash. He considers the rising of the phoenix, in flames, alive. He opens the book bag and removes the book of Thoth. He takes a deep drink from his crystal absinth glass. The great liquid refreshes him while the smoke swirls in the mind, a conduit for clear transmission. Horatio Pavlov, the hierophant, opens the book. Earth. Moon exalted. Horus, the child upon the union of man and woman within. Venus. Highest transformation. Spiritual father. Advisor. Master. He closes the book. He considers the orders given him. He returns to the laptop, taps its keys awake. Horatio opens the file marked STATUS-‐RED. A satatellite icon is blinking The Heirophant is logging on. He observes the date. 2)5 a.m. 22-‐12-‐2007 Rooted in the number 7. He makes the connection. Status-‐red goes live. 326

“don’t shoot me santa clause, no one else around believes me,” “put that fucking gun down santa!” “shut up john, just shut up!” his white gloved hand trembling with his finger on the trigger. “you’ve never killed. Don’t waste such virginities on me!” ‘shut up man, shut up man! “I can’t fucking die you stupid fat prick – BANG “GOD DAMN IT SANTA!” BANG…..BANG BANG BANG “will you fucking stop it you crazy old \ BOOOM!!! “oh for Gods sake, not grenades..

BoOOM.!!!!! Sigh…

Johnny Christmas proceeded to the bench made manifest while santa lost his mind. Running around blowing things up. Firing his endless gun into endless air. Screaming about his white beard. Johnny lit up a cigar, leaned back to rest his back. Sigh. When the explosions finally receded and santa was tired out, he fell unto his buttocks and slunk his shoulders in despair. “Finish” was his only word. “’bout fucking time fatso.” “you’re too rude to be Christmas.” 327

“I pity your raindeers fat boy.” “ I need meat.” “rudolph’s looking a little plump.” “my elves will kill you with their ice cold green magic!” “no magic can kill me Nicholas. Now come on. We need to find the hierophant.”

Down ONAN street, off ATON, comes the darkplace of perversion. An alt space resides within it unseen. The place of the darkness of doors. There is a darkened theatre there, abandoned saved for the restless spirits in peril. And it shows the films of the latest perversions. Done in real life. To real girls. The title of tonights film is The LUST of Gr’Hg And Monroe, intoxicated with pills and alcohol and chemicals and black flowers, enters the cinema to watch the updates. The film opens:

OUTSIDE SUN & THE CAFÉ 23-‐12-‐2007 Whasim, from Galilee sells me the tickets. I make the first purchase at outside sun & the café, and I return to the mother womb. With the magick of AVO, I enter a state of trance. With black flowers induced in the blood, I form the personalities. Horatio Pavlov, who has come to take the place of dead Immanuel. Johnny Christmas, who is the anti-‐hero who will kill the rooster. Two, of the last three figures of cyclical magi, come to witness the birth and saving of the star. The third arrives, at outside sun & the café and he is the first person I meet, in this place of new birth and incubations. Early nocturne trance signals his journey, only beginning, only just returning. He is thin and toned after years of raving. He has 328

seen and merged with machines of magic musical orders. Technologies alien and satellite with midnight dials and LED lights. He connects with Aldrin, the sun riser, and moves in the white light of the womb lub. The third man who arrives, in black and space, is Eli AvaR. He stands before my table. “you the hierophant?” “welcome back Eli.” He sits, orders a strong iced milk tea. ‘”only way to wake up.” “everyone’s waking up. Did you bring the mix discs?” “I’ve upgraded.” He passes me an 111 GB touch screen music player. Sleek black. I take the machine from him. I already sense its power. This here is 48 hours of WAR TRANCE. “good. Have your tea heartily. After this, we’re going to raise the dead.” Johnny Christmas hasn’t slept in twenty four hours. He visits the church for the first visit during sunrise. He meets the reverend Christopher. They speak in the dark and silent confessional. Chris begins, “The Lord provides, but you must answer.” “I must answer for every bloodything,” “mind your language in the house of the Lord.” “yeh..and I’m the Lord’s bitch.” “have you seen the LUST of Gr’Hg?” “I’m still getting nightmares from it. God damn monster.” “the Rooster is doing this says the Lord. He is reminding you that you only have two days left.” “yeh yeh I know.” “have you seen the third magi?” “no.” “he is already arrived. And he speaks with the hierophant.” “bout bloody time the war soundtrack came.” 329

“be on your way then good john. The world awaits your righteous actions.” “god help us all eh?” he lights up a cigar “do not smoke here john.” The tenth box arrived at ATON POLICE DEPARTMENT a little past six in the morning. Gloved and fatigued, the endlessly working team of detectives begins to open the box. A pair of shoes, socks neatly bundled up. A small denim skirt and a pink t-‐shirt, neatly folded up. The missing girl’s I dentity card was placed on the top of the pile. The dejected captain sunk lower upon learning another name. this was the tenth box of clothes sent from the mob of kidnappers who claimed proud responsibility for the eleven missing girls. They made the promise, t o thefamilies, the authorities, the politicians, the priests, the media, that they would ravish and kill all eleven teenage girls by Christmas. The tension was mounting like the sudden storms of December and each tick of the clock marked a greater approach to tragedy. The captain and his team were runninh out of options. Monroe is supposedly killed in the fire of the house of wu although no body has been recovered. None of the other psychics could trace the enemy with at least three psychics wounded and damaged when trying to find the lost girls. Days and nights merged in sleeplessness and desperation as the the authorities hit dead end after dead end in an impossible run against time. Time reloops. NINE is watching Mara stand next to the gaping hole in the balcony, the exit to a 21 storey drop. She is facing the dressing table, slipping into erotic skirts and stockings and underwear. She is putting on her make up. NINE watches her like an opiate witness, drifting in and out of a hazy dream like perception of a reformed darling of the destruction. “seduction will be the fall of Sodom,” she said to the mirror. “To dance is the tribal act of hypnotism, the entrance into other world. The man of the music had told me, the third magi naked and loving upon my bed of unreasonable sleep.” A retching noise came form the other end of the hall. The wet drastic sound of excretion followed. Monroe was naked and hairy and sickly in the corner. He was defecating and vomting u p the eleven pairs of panties in his stomach. With a trembling hand he separated the mess on the floor and drew 330

symbols in the bile and blood and slime of his waste. In the pile of steaming undigested guck, he read the gross spread and learnt the spells. His GIMP was masturbating in the prayer room. There was an open suitcase on the table between Monroe and mara. In it were stacks of money filled to the brim. These were the currencies of filth and the two are the merchants of war. The adoration room was filled with thick cigar smoke, blue and grey fog intermingling. From the piece of The Lords flesh, encased in the golden sun ray ornament came the voiceb that thus spaketh unto J.C. “thou shalt go shopping for the heads of my enemies.” The dagger of the Lord’s bitch charges upon the encasement holding the magickal ornament of the Lord’s flesh. It radiates instructions only Johnny can hear. The repeated motif of suicide haunts the skies of THE FIELD. The death ships swim sideways above, like a sickly fish. Slow and uncertain of life, the death ships float in disarray above the brown building. Finger nails of dead victims are growing upon its walls. The stench of dead fish is thick and oppressive in the square miles around the blasphemed buiding. From inside, the terrible noise of the screaming rooster bursts and bleeds the ears of the saints that stand watch around it. Outside the rain pours poisoned salt water. The gutters are flooded, the graves turning and coming to life in the mud. Death is coming, listening to the siren like scream of the rooster. Finding its way from its almost full term into doom entrance to the world. From above the angels are falling like snow. Power and life taken from them slowly like a fatal cancer. One by one the Field servants drift downward into martyrdom. Elsewhere, children are weeping in locked rooms. 331

the war room great figures danced around in fighting and flighting. Winged creatures screaming against hallowed walls, crashing into ceilings. FIRE somewhere, FIRE burning down the t emple, “split it in two and saul will rebuild in three days.”

Frenzu occurs at the soundo f that name:

Fighting and flighting.

The mastodons crumbled through the iron gates, bending steel, furious names.

Battle ring ON!

Sirens call the name of enemies

Lost at sea! Lost at sea!

The sattelitte stumbles, diverting, making the war ships follow it down into the ember (sheol, gammorah! FIRE)

Black fire

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Red fire (war of the zeitgeist revisited.)

Open mouth gaping black hole.

Repeat command ! Firewall discharged. Soil trembling with the moving tanks. Its darker in the jungle, its darker in the heart.

Soldiers having nightmares.

Babies crying.

Feet slapping on wet sand.

Young girls running away naked from their captors.

War come! War come!

The rooster crows long before dawn.

the war hall 333

mara

is wriggling out of her tiny white panties in a hall full of lustful

men. This is what father has taught her. She dances. She enchants. She is wearing a big red ball gag and she’s drooling on the bare feet of the cheering men. She moves her body to the dark electro beat. The men are already ripping apart the dress she tossed to them in her act. Theye ach want a piece of cloth that clung to her body. They are in rupture as she moans into her ballgag with dark eroticism.

Monroe is in the guest room , telling his ‘victim’ not to cry when he unties her, that she was safe.

Monroe’s gimp was charging elsewhere in the hall of war.

24dec07

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7 days till the end of the year of the wraith. Johnny xmas paints his nails black.

After he had cut it

neatly. He leaves the church, dagger charged and in boot. He finds a phantom cab waiting.

“the white tower, seventy one.” He tells the ghost driver. “no. no go there. Bad power.” “yes. Lord say go there.” ‘mm.” god say, I do. “ the driver takes johnnyc hristmas to the war field.

Horatio and Eli finds a phantom cab waiting. “ocean_frictional.” HOration says. Eli is caught surprised. 335

“I thought it was destroyed in the last apocalypse.?” “only resting.”

THE WAR HAUS “there is money burning…” Into the elevator shaft, saul tossed the luggage full of cash on fire. The smoke rises through the haunted building in THE FIELD.

Outside, the red storm has come with mara, who stands in a red string and tiny red bra, her neck broken, her lips pierced with fishhooks. the revenge of the oracle through mara’s aspect is exacted. The almost naked dead girl walks towards the cursed building, her storm a rush of violent red sand wind tearing thebuilding and the city around it apart.

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Like figures in a blurred screen rage, they approach the rooster. The money is burning. American notes. Its nearly Christmas eve. Gunfire in the nights treets. Cold night. The hwores are all sick. Rush hour. Late night shopping. Lights of wonderland, delusion, grandeur, festive joy. Cold Christmas cominh.

“loneliness is not a phase.”

Alice was in chains then. Till the death. The suicide. The end of it.

I remember it was raining…voices somewhere on the street. A girl’s voice. I remember the other office. I remember.

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ENDnotes the administrators visited ATON street with the riot police, scared as they were of uncertainties. even before entering the main toll gates, some had become sick, the van they rode in stopped for them to puke into bushes. the folders in their hands trembled. were they to be killed or raped or sacrificed? they dared not think of it. they could be cursed, turned into the mentally ill. they, however had to do their jobs. "money?" Avo said, "i do not work for money. i work to make the world turn. to make ripples in the sands of humanity. i move with the tide as much as i move it and it, me. you understand?" the little boy shook his head. what a young fellow, looking for his chipmunks. Avo patted him on the head. "i need to go restring guitars." he said, "you want a guitar?" the little boy shrugged. Avo finished his cigarette, emptied the golden red bull can and dropped the butt in. the sugar hit him, forcing his adrenaline to rise that one bit notch, however little that was. "you take it easy little fella." avo returned to work.

Uncertain

of the final outcome, the two old men play chess. Already half an hour

past midnight, the snow is falling but slowly. The old men are not so cold. “trust these crazy magicians and their future systems. Its madness for us folks.”

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“too old for this shite as the old blacks of the day say.” “ha! Old blacks. I had an old black woman. Fine priestess she was.” “oh, you go for any priestess. Even of witches.” “love ‘em!.” They continue playing. “where do we go a fter this?” one asks. Contem,plating his friends move. Old folks home in ATON. Safehouse they say.” “ha! Them.” “them. Yes.” Check.” “old fool!.” Moves to safety his piece. .”jingle bells with Johnny eh? His ornaments, gold balls. Bloody bombs they are.” “think we’ll have chicken soon?” The other old man shrugs, “check. Don’t know if they can kill the rooster.” Theold man saves his king again. “god damn violence I tell you.” “umm hmm.” They take their sip of steaming coffee. Contemplates the game. “. You ever get tired of waiting?” “for the raising up on the last day?” “of anything.” “like for This war to be over?” “like that yes.” “no. I don’t get tired of waiting. Immortals do nothing but wait. You don’t think about it much anymore.“ “like sleeping.” “ha! Yes. You miss sleeping?” “sometimes. The dreams are …different. “ 339

“vague. Its more concrete here.” “but vague dreams hold most stories.” “everythings a story.” “THE OMANDAE APPROAACH was a good one.” “sending his future self back into the past. I agree.” “you ever think we’ll get that kind of magic again?” “not a one off thing. It’s the next thing. It’ll be mainstream in a while..next year maybe it’l’l end.” “but .” “no buts children.” “oh my.” “what?” “mad policeman attacks.” The other looks at the chessboard. “fierce.” They voyeur “funny how people are still shopping. Rushing for presents. Buying wine and dresses.” “plenty sex yes?” “while this war goes on,. This cosmos changes.” “plenty sex.party drugs.” 340

“think some of them will see when they’re high?” “the war.?” The old man nods. “no. too far , even for acid heads. Only saul heads. Outher heads. Yes. Not shopiing people.” “what a rush eh?” “itsyourturn.” They drink coffee..

WARPATH 341

MONROE BINDS MARA. LOCKED IN THE BLACK VAN. SHOPPING.

MONROE DRINKS THE TEARS OF THE VIRGIN. ACK! POSSESSED!

You come taunt us with foolish toy magick! Puppets and stones? HHAHAHAHH!! The ghost gimp breaks loose. Mara is typing furiously into the notebook. Writing the story of the death of the rooster. Sweating to make it manifest,. “bartender, the doors have returned but an earthquake hits.” ERCONDUS notices. Much time had been stolen.

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An ocean of sound like a fury. There comes, bits like rain, a winter gone bad, animals dying in the snow. Off the distancing blinding white, the people are screaming There is a sound of a ROOSTER “now we’re going to spend all our time “we have already found it.” “what?! Where?” “a brothel in ATON.” “god. Another whore?” “the customer.” “who?” “saul.” “god damn it!” “The LORD is your friend and he’s near. You blaspheme? Its his birthday, do you dare?” “always dared. And mother fucking saul screwing a thai girl.” “Japanese.” “whatever. What is he doing banging a hoe?” “because that is his destiny.” “bullshit. His magickal name spelled differently is VIRGIN. He will always be one.” 343

“Yes. he will always be a virgin. As far as making love to someone who loves him is concerned. He pays for his lovemaking John. It has become a transaction instead of a transcendental act.for thata ct alone, he is virgin.” “another one’s gone then.” “another one has left for the garden.” “yes. The keeper.” “off to see the enemy.” “He has embraced his enemy. His enemy is LUST.” “we are losing the plot.” “it’s already lost with the coming of the ROOSTER.” “do the men at the coffee shop know about it.” “some of them are already dead.” “when’s the war?” “we’ve been at war for 24 and a half hours.” “my god.” “it started in the church. Midnight mass. Christmas morn.”’ “who’s fronting?” “Johnny Christmas.” “oh god.does that mean we’re team B?” “I believe so.” The two old men took off their clothes in the sparse night room. “there is the creep that will commit the nativity sin.”

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25th December 2007 There is not much life in daylight morning. There is vodka and vomit in the bushes, signs of over consumption during the xmas eve parties across the country. There is a lull. Monroe is nightmaring. Visions eating him like cancer reptiles in the gut. Sick, acidic, (a semi naked girl tied up in a gift wrapped box.) Horrific early visions of the monster and other names. Jamie. Nicole. LYN. Sleepless. Full of milk to neutralize intoxication. MONROE SWEATS in bed. Seeing the future. AH, horrors. Everyone’s desires were stolen at midnight and the day of Christmas was devoid of feeling and energy and life. (dried cum on blood red sheets) DAY 2: “all the beautiful girls are here but also gone.” 345

“its getting harder to breathe, harder to see …” “they said pieces of the end will come, in random order. In chaos and confusion. Such lame words compared to this. Such meaninglessness when not fully experience.d” “you’re fading away people, we need the mic signals strengthened up…” YET another old astronaut sits in a bar, recalling days of the blue earth, nights eternal on the moon. Taking pieces of the moon back was the mistake… “and dreams become butterflies, become sand, become machines of carnival glory.” “there was madness in any direction.” -‐ HST 27 12 2007 Ercondus, meets Saul in the drinking room. The black stones on the wall of pub de la blues fell when S\the man arrived. A door had opened for him. He stood among the two. Ercondus and the bar keeper. “fix me a midnight tide.” Saul spoke and it was done unto him. Ercondus recognized the reference. “you drink the same drink as ELI.” “in a different state of trance, we are the same.” 346

“then, are you him now?” Saul ponders, drinking midnight tide. “we are not him. Tonight, I am returning to my roots. To the pub de la blues, to tell you the story of my war and with it, the way it ends.” “he darkens the room with his mind. He is after all master of this dominion. The place of miserables and in mourning. The act of loss manifested in reflection of the elements that expresses it. Instruments of grief and continuity.” He continues drinking the dark drink,. “this is both troubling and liberating. You must understand. A war goes on in my name. a war that spans at least three universes. There is no real name to the thing I’ve created but there are numbers. One thousand one hundred. And this is the last of its darkest nights.”

Fate of the rooster. Part one.2:11-28-1207.

The ROOSETR, rose above ground, and stood ontop of a small hut that sold little girls underwear. The ROOSTER was smoking a cigar, in defiance towards his enemy, Johnny Christmas.

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Johnny was just lighting up his Havana. “you little piece of shit.” Johnny spat at the ROOSETR. “do you know how many young ones are suffering because of you?” He takes steps towards the dandy dressed monster cock. “do you know how many are dead?’ He pulls his dagger out of his right santa boot. He chews on his cigar. “you’re fucking fried chicken.” Instead of going for the neck, Johnny Christmas stabs the foot of the monster while yelling the accursed, ‘HAR CHONG KAI!” The burd burns upp in fierce flame. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. Fucking fried chicken indeed. The power of the rooster in cut off from the HALL where: MONROE is burning a luggage bag filled with American notes turned hell money. The bag burns and mara le oro, channeling the spirit of the dead girl/queen of ordom, begins slaughtering the men trapped in a doorless room, snared in her ball-gag enchantments. Of a broken neck lolling about on a fine almost naked body. DEATH BY G –STRING. 348

DEATH BY D CUP. “feel as the sick scum feel.” “feel like the horror you inflict.” “feel like a little girl, raped by big foul man.” One by one the tycoons of the perverse Gr’Hg fall to their knees, foaming bile at the mouth, stomach turned upwards. (bladder bursting, contents sucked into bloodstream/air stream (lung) ) CHOKE. 349

Its raining in OMANDAE “there’s ash all over the girl in the white dress..” “be careful, she’s a haunter. Let the girl pass.” “how many more days/” “four.” “I hopei t really ends this time.” “it will.” ON THE LAST DAY. “it seemed colder then,” Monroe said. “did it?” mara stubbed out her cigarette in a tin ashtray, staring into a white horizon.

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They were sitting around a small white plastic table, in the middle of an Antarctic. Nothing for miles around. They were waiting. Their spirits were drained. They were dying out in the cold. “at least the young ones are alive.” Mara wanted to reassure Monroe. “yes they are and all is well for them. but we ,mara. we must pay for the magic we play with.” “even when we’ve used it for good?” “there is no good or bad. There is only the use of magic and its consequences. We now pay the consequences.” “I do not believe this. We’ve gone through so much physical t rauma while saving those eleven girls and killing their magickal captors and now we must be punished for it?” “not punished. Judged.” “judged? And Who is to judge us then?” Monroe smiles, peers ahead and laughs at the coincidence. “you can ask that man riding here on an ass…” Mara looked in monroe’s direction, squinted her eyes. “oh Lord.” She said. Monroe laughed. “indeed.” Then they began hearing the forward guard call out, “make way for the Lord!” ‘ January’s child. The DJ hung himself from the tree. In the morning light of the new day, MONROE awoke, half naked in a village turned club neighborhood that was completely vacant. It was as if, in mid party on new year’s eve, everyone had vanished unexpectedly. Half cups of drinks were left about, shadows of unopened bottles were cast onto the wall. Taps were running in the lavoratories. 351

Graffiti spelt arierep lost recon eli on menus, drifting about on the winds like ghosts, were deleted names. “I’ll need you to cut him down.” The sudden midget said. “or would you rather go find your lost naked girlfriend?” The village was submerged down a hill, it overlooked the wild jungle. Like old school houses connected. Long corridors and large empty halls. Her name echoed in the absences. “mara! Mara!” Naked, she is found wandering near the fountain, getting her feet wet. She is hugging herself, her hair is wet and streaked red. She seems shivering, staring into space. 352

The ,midget trailed Monroe impatiently. “you’ll have to cut down the dead man now mister.” The dead dj was buried with champagne glasses, bottles of beer and cigarette packs full and empty. After the cheap ceremony, there was nothing else o do but wait. Day;ight is longer than night but with night, time vanishes when you expect it to. DAY THREE Nine and Jaqi walk down past neon hotels and rows of prostittutes from china. She observed that they stood by the drain, unaware of its symbolic power. The network that connects the dark and dirty underground. The waves washed the blood of the rooster over johnny’s bare feet. The sun was rising on the island resort, the almost beheaded rooster, rolling about dead with the coming tide. Its wet and crumpled wing sticking out into the air, its eyes white and lifeless. Johnny Christmas was reaching the end of his trip. The twelve days was soon to be finished. Day nine, and his feet is wet. The stench of the slaughter is thick in the air with the dead fish. Though no dead fishes stained this beautiful sunrise.

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The ghost of a morning rave haunted the beachfront although the silence beneath the vast empty tent was staggering. White curtains flapped against the wind. The sound of the hushed morning as giving way to rougher crashing of the sea. He Let the ocean claim its dead children. He paces down the beach, weary, looking for the seaside village club.looking for the girl-‐ child mara and the perverted Elijah. On the morning of January third, the mad detective Monroe was possessed by the demon who called himself pussyface. Pussyface was already given a bribe bride. A young Chinese whore. Monroe needed information. He started questioning the spirit. “what has become of Gr’Hg and its consorts?.’ “it has seen the red beauty, the grotesque daughter of the avenging red god. It knows its place and its place isn’t here. Bound then is Gr’Hg and its consorts to its own dominion.” “good then. Where to next?” “the resting place. The filth club BOWEL MOVEMENT. To find Johnny Christmas. Bid him his goodbyes.” Pussyface demanded one more girl. “no more pussies my ghost friend, unless you want to owe me another boon.”

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“no more boons for mad cop.” “then, return well to thy dark place.” “wet and warm.” And with that the devil, pussyface was gone. ” TAKING BACK OF GHOS~HAUS Past the brothels, NINE and Jaqi came to the 24 hour mall. The resurrection crisis was near again.

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Teeh streets is colder, less hectic now that the red December has passed making way for Januarys child. But so cold is this birth. “had mara roamed THE FIELD? After the war was done…” “is the war really done?” There is no answer… _____

THE THREE GUN PROJECTOR WAS IN ITS TESTING STAGE AT THE OCEAN_ FRICTIONAL. 356

When the first powers had come to the silent and cold club, HORATIO PAVLOV instructed ELI to power up the projectors first. “words. Names. Poetry. Everything begins with those first three.” Horatio explained to ELI. We must charge those first. He plugged the cable connected the three gun straight into his laptop. ELI had tried his best to not notice the hundred and eleven bodies littered on the main dancefloor. According to HORATIO, they were asleep and not dead. “and they shall be raised on the LAST day.” The hierophant said. “we’re late.” Came the interruption. The two men turned to find Johnny Christmas, smoking a cigar. Blue smoke was filling the place. Johnny grumbled, “the war started more than a week ago, where the hell is the soundtrack?” he seemed anxious. “this cannot be,” said the Heirophant. “for fucks sake Horace, you yourself should know what kind of weird magic 1000, 100 is. You KNOW time don’t apply here, nor prophecies, nor future reading. We’re dealing with THE ROOSTER, here and he’s shitting all over your plans. Now is the system up?” “we need to charge the names and the words and poetry first. Its almost done.” “get your groove on pixel man. And ELI, why aren’t you at the console?” HOration explained that he didn’t show him yet. “and wait for what? Music for our funerals? Who the hell is going to play when everyone’s dead.?” “ok, ok I’m sorry. Eli, its over there, behind the black curtains.” “get your groove on brother Eli. They don’t call you the first for nothing.” “the what?” ELI turned back. 357

“no no nothing. If you’ve got more black flowers, I suggest you consume them. You’ll need it behind that console. When all tehse dead fuckers are up raving to the march of the end.” With that ELI, vanished behind the black velvet screen of black flowers and electro trance. The music was missing. That was the problem. Johnny decided. That’s why it was so easy to kill the ‘rooster.’ The fried chicken was a fake. The one glothstuck killed was a clone. The one mara destroyed with a red storm was a replicant. None of them were the real thing. And there was only two days left for Johnny Christmas to kill the rooster; with the rest of his gang. On the screens the key names flashed. STATUS RED WAS UPDATING.. …. MARA LE ORO:, THE DESTRYOER, ‘SHE WHO WRITES OMANDAE.’ ELIJAH MONROE, MAD POLICEMAN PSYCHIC NECROMANCER. ELI, THE FIRST – ELECTRO/TRANCE DJ, FIRST SAENT OF THE FIELD. JAQI DANIELLE – DELUCIA, THE LAST OF THE VAULT OF M DOCTOR HORATIO PAVLOV, THE NEXT ANTHOLOGEIST. ORCHESTRATOR-‐STRATEGIST-‐ GENERAL-‐PHILOSOPHER. SAUL, THE NEU-‐SUN GOD, CODENAMED, ‘THE SOURCE’ GHOS~HAUS – THE HEIROPHANT ERCONDUS, THE LAST NOMAD OF THE FIELD 358

NINE, THE GHOSTWRITER

LICKING WOUNDS AND OTHER PARTS. BOOK SEVEN. (EPILOGUE) 359

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“The LORD visits our lost souls To survey the damage We see a bonfire Burning in his eyes And he whispers It’s the atrocities, of your stories.”

- Antony & the Johnsons ‘Atrocities.’ -

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Near future: The glass city rising with the morning sun. high in the glass tower, they over look. The boy and the girl , watching the world wake up. A man and a woman, awaiting orders. The man is rocking to and fro in his leather chair, a gun in his hand. The woman is drawing pictures on the white table with blood from a hunting knife. In the background, on the floor, is the dead man. Gutted and shot point blank in the head. His blood is still wet and fresh. The man in the chair abruptly stops rocking. The woman looks up. “whats wrong?” he was staring out the glass wall into the city but he also seemed to be listening to something else. Or watching something happening in his mind. The woman is getting anxious. Waiting for the man to speak. He starts rocking again but not as hard as before. 362

“the nine Is in order.”” He said. He suddenly got up, keeping his gun in its holster. “we’re needed somewhere else.” “what about his partner?” she asked the man as she gestured to the dead body. “we need to kill her too.” The man is already wlaking out of the invaded apartment, “its her lucky day then.” He opens the door. The partner is just walking out of the lift, towards the house. She pauses when she sees the man standing in her doorway. He pulls out his gun. In silencer, to Silence her. “not so lucky I guess.” Before she can scream, the bullet hits. Square between the eyes. She drops with a soft thud on the carpet floor. The woman walks past her man. “we better get lost before the laundry lady come.” “I’ll be keeping the girls panties, “ the man told the woman. “suit yourself.” His lover replied. No hint of jealousy. He steals the garment off the corpse. ‘poor sick child.” The hierophant watches her in the library café. Sniffling with her flu, slender neck, sweet young one. He marks down the sign of Gr’Hg upon the notebook. Marking the time it surfaced with its vile thoughts. Focus on the subject matter. He waits watching the girl but he is also waiting for people from the future. Sa man and a woman came up to him. He could smell blood on them. “you the hierophant?” the man asked.

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He gestured to the chairs “Elijah, Mara, sit down, please.” He was gentlemanly and aged. Monroe sensed his power and perversions. “you ever killed a time bandit?” He asked of them, Mara said, “we don’t do space time interference.” “but this concerns time stolen from two of you as well.” This caught heir attention. The hierophant continued. “Monroe, you’re all cleaned up and straight. Tell me how you came to this?” Monroe could not answer. “mara, you’re bored and weary. What happened to the energy of the destroyer?” She too could not answer. “how many years has passed you think?” They both seemed suddenly aware that they were not aware, like a veil had been lifted adter the devil journalist played eleven questions. “your memories have been stolen. Your personalities changed though your profession is many numbers above and beyond your usual. What has been traded?” The cleane dup monroe was speechless. Mara had life coming back into her life in the form of anxiety. The veil is lifted higher. __ THE HIEROPHANT surveys the damage, watches the hour on the clock. JOHNNY CHRISTMAS is stationed outside, in the cold, smoking his cigar, counting down the minutes. The 12 days of Christmas will be over in a little over an hour. No one is sure of the ROOSTER is truly dead and gone. Only statistics remain. Suicide figures drop. Eleven girls are saved, eight are discharged, four are in psychotherapy. Accident figures fall seventeen

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percent. Prices go up. Numbers are changing in the city. The city is changing into anaotehr city. New journeys begin. He takes his laptop,, finishes his coffee. Catches a phantom cab in daylight, time blurring . a haze upon reality as they go about their ways and he goes about his. He tells the driver the name of an asylum hospital. As the taxi journeys, he thinks of the orders given to mara and Monroe. ‘kill the time bandit.’ Take back our memories, strange they maybe’ He thinks of the things he needs to say, to explain. They erach the hospital. The dandy dressed old man buys some flowers. He punches the lift buttons. He walks the paths. Finds the doors. “good morning mara.” He announces. She is stretching in bed, in her hospital clothes. “hello father.” “your future self responded to my call today.” “oh good.:” she was rubbing her eyes, yawning. “I hope she’’sok.” “she will be.” “how are the girls?” A stream of figures regenerated itself. A repeating of comings and goings. The loss of innocence, finding the fountainso f youth and immortality/

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“’do you think it’ll work??” she finally asked the hierophant. “what?” “the omandae maneuver.” “its theonly thing we’ve g ot left. Thatis why you need to rest. You need to write again soon.“ HE squeezed her hand. She seemed younger this morning to him. Parts of her true self are returning after the possession. “allw illbe well my dear, don’t you worry.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ve got to go.” She kept silent at first. Sad. “sayhello to him for me will you?” she asked softly. “of course.” He replied, softly. He let go of her warm hand. _____ The BDSM club was cold because itw as almost empty. The goddess was no where. The men in black wer eoplayinga stripped down gothic set. The lead is almost whispering, makings hortgroaning noises from his throat like weakly dying. Weeping ocasisonally… Monroe was alone athe bar with a quart of whiskey left. Hunchbacked, dejected. The HEIROPHANT approached him, drink alreaydin hand. “any signo f her?” he asked the tired cop. He just shook his head as the elder sat next to him. “what thehell happened back then?” he asked the hierophant again. And again, he tred to explain.

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“your ghost gimp was wiping out the fourth floor when she just disappeared. She entered one of the rooms and was gone. Her enemy also had vanished but the seventeen year old girl was scared but safe. By the time team B raided the mall, you were already out cold and mara was gone. Johnnyc hristmas found her and..anotehr aspect of you by an abandoned village club by the sea of arghe. Mara was in a trance. You were trying to get her, naked, into your magickal circle. You had cut yourself.” Monroe looked at his slashed arms again, now only just healing and could not remember any of it. “what about my memories/” “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your future self returned several hours ago. He responded to my call. “” “the omandae maneuver?” “yes. Third time in thelast three months. I’ve sent him out with another aspectof mara to kill the time bandit. When the headof the thief returns, so do your memories, and the memories of everyone else. “what now?” “we wait.”

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In the morning half light, NINE saw the naked prostitute, huddled between the tombstones of ALBU and CHANG. She was crying, as if afraid of him. NINE got up, foundhimself in a cemetery. The teenage whore backed away a little more when he moved. She sobbed into hair. “please don’t touch me anymore” she pleaded. NINE Was backing away from her Not knowing how or what was happening to him, to her. The trainstation is fogged. A white cold mist in the darkness. Sirens in the distance. Thephantom train is approaching. Johhny chritsmas is finishing off his cigar, black luggage in one hand, santa boots slung over his shoulders, weapon cleanly disposed off. “we tried our best John.” The hierophant assured him. “many were saved, worse things diverted.” “why cant it END? Why is it always adiversion?” Gives you something to do when the next year comes would be my guess. “I suppose its a good guess.” The train was approaching. Elevenminutes. “it was agood fight while it lasted. You did good john.” They shook hands when the train pulled up. Its skeleton driver waiting. “take your rest Johnny. Rest for us as we take it from here.” “good luck Horace. Andi’ll see you att he next one.” “godspeed.” “godspeed.” And two minutes before midnight, the train begins to pull away. 368

The end. postAD:

The ghos~haus will re-open on the 369

eleventh of January 2008 while recovery is in progress. Thank you for your patience.

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AFTERVOLTE R BOOKS 2009 Aftervolter press. Inducted January seventh two thousand eight. Principle platform: editing facility for VOLTERGEIST series. Editor-‐in-‐chief: status unknown Location: AFTERVOLTER BOOKS, street 07-‐01. City of omandae 2008. First contacts: Mara Le oro (independent)updatesentenced to asylum 42 (reckoning space) level 3. Ish-‐grant 2.0 Writergeist NINE /9 (aftervolter books) update:: 2208 technologies. Space-‐time robotics. Before: The law got NINE in a remote lockup, in some southwestern desert across the sea of arghe. No one else for miles around. An earthy Alcatraz. A dust storm was blowing up, the sun stripping the earth of its 371

nutrients while freezing it after sundown. There were no roads or paths to the lock up. Just an ocean of dried sand. No clouds gave relief the day HORATION PAVLOV visited. No experience stranger for the three on-‐duty officials at the lock up. They didn’t expect any visitors. That was their first complacent mistake. NINE had given up calling out to them, trying to explain that he didn’t know what was happening. That he didn’t know who the naked prostitute was. And he didn’t know anything of several dead prostitutes. The cops already dubbed him a modern day jack the ripper. He was already tried for the death sentence. Now they just needed to pick him up and ship him over to a proper gas chamber. The cell was always dark for they barred the windows with wood. No sun had reached NINE for months, or was it weeks or days? He did not know. Time was always strange and different as if a disease had eaten away his mental conception of time. Time got even weirder the day HORATION PAVLOV came. It was the coffee cups that vanished first. “hey mac! Where the hell are the cups?” “I kept’em where they belonged sir..” “I don’t see them! Lax! You put the cups where they aint supposed to be?” “don’t yell at me boss. Maybe our prisoner stole ‘em. Hur h” “not fuckin funny lax! How the hell am I supposed to have my The main door unlocked itself from the inside. The captain stopped speaking and turn towards the door. It swung open with the wind “what the hell… A man was standing in the frame. A full grey suit, clean shaven head, about 50 odd years. 372

“losing track of things?” he asked the stunned cops. A dust storm was blowing behind him. Instinctively , they reached for their holsters…to find their guns gone. They panicked. “I suggest you boys sit down.” One of them came lunging at the visitor with a chair. A piece of the floorboard rose by the will of the visitor. The lunging cop tripped, fell face down before the man at the door. “now would I have to force you two down as well?” he asked the others. They backed away from him slowly as if letting him come in. one of them knocked over a bullet. The captain turned to see their bullets neatly lined up in two rows, forming a pathway to the one and only holding cell in the small remote prison. As the cops looked towards the cell door, it unlocked itself. It slowly swung open. “come on, ghost writer…” the man yelled to the cell door ajar, “ you’re going elsewhere.” The two cops had already taken their seats. The third one stayed on the floor. NINE peeked out from the open door. “lets go lad, nothing to see here.” The cops a[ppeared stunned, in a daze as NINE slipped past them towards to the exit. He felt a tingling sensation run up his back as he passed the old man at the door. The old man leaned in to tell the cops. “I believe you will forget how all of this happened.” He said, then turned and walked out, the main door after him.

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A narcolepsy took over the cops. And They will wake to find the prisoner gone. During”: NINE slept at the back of the caravan as it journeyed on. A great fatigue had taken over him as he was exposed to the sun. sleep, now, was the only mercy. Helmed by horation, The caravan drove westward, toward sthe sea of Arghe, back, to the heart of the glass city. Nine dreams. Toss the coin into the well in the house of GHOS. You do not hear it hit the bottom. It spins endlessly, like the grief of ghost parents, mourning the lost child. Like the mothers who lamented for saul. ERCONDUS shaved off his body hair before the well. The mad guy sat in the corner to watch, naked. He was having an erection. He liked ERCONDUS. Hit the off button on the wireless. Disconnect. Leave no trace. Feel the vomit want to come up. Fight it. Name your demons, even in mid-‐fall. The book dealer wept in the corner, outnumbered. He had dreams of the starving boy with bloated stomach, being beaten by his master. He saw insects crawl on wasted food. Unedible. Abandoned kitchen. He feels the ruthless, impatient nameless love light up. 374

A fire in darkness, a hymn in madness. Musical note. The hermit moves into Subterranea Lantern lighting the way, a shock in the background Down slippery slope. By whose name are these words channeled? Whose history to these provide? “can you see the cave paintings?” Have you read the signs? By the solidification of this work ahead, all inherent mistakes, defiler, blasphemy is to be kept to the heart, unbroken, un-‐appealed, ready and waiting like a slave. The book dealer was weeping in the corner Squeezing his genitals in fear Wetting himself. 375

“you see? Yu see? Any how open the book…” Lie down. Rest the weary spine. The rain grows heavier, I can hear it from here. Stick to the few people, everyone else comes and goes. ILLIXANDER NORTH “have you been to a memory lately, rotting arm?” __ NINE woke up. ______ After: Horation had burn marks on his palm. Like a stigmata. By the breakwater of the Arghe sea, he sat, to be in conference. The hard rocks bit into his flesh. Bleeding from the anus, the flowing blood is forming a circle around him. Wet smog rises form thecracks in the stone, clouding the hierophant. In the smoke, voices speak, takes him elsewhere, back into his mind, into the tunnel(birth canal), into the universe. Be home, in paradise Be home, in war control 376

Who is then, alive? Who is then, reforme? Speak. What is your notion? NINE is to be renamed. Takes over the dead man’s shop. Recalling it AFTERVOLTER. Keeping place of the VOLTER books And of The resident? ANCHOR MAGIC in operation chains cast at the house of GHOS new cards to be mixed. Break the seal 1221 Three cards to bring ghos~haus back mixing : 101 times 3 cards chosen: To bring ghos~haus back 1227 read

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Card one Chariot Two distinct forces Pulling in two directions The red horse The Blackhorse The charioteer is on fire Card 2 Page of swords The knight with the blade And of the staff Uncovering the unknown, awake to unknown dangers: Card 3 Two of pentacles Change or difficult progression. Thus the figures of the cards danced in the smog, enrapturing, forming visions on the stage. The military man is rushing to a pay phone under a block of flats. His hand trembles, as he dials the numbers. His uniform is caked with mud and blood. He makes a connection. At the other end of the line on the other side of the world, in a desert the commanding officer is seeing to his army of monsters. In the background, creatures are howling , strapped to iron beds in a sit up position. The creatures are white of fur, like abominable snowmen in the sun scorched sea of sand. They are trashing as other military men are preparing them for battle. His phone rings. “what?!” “sir! the rooster…the rooster was a diversion!” “fuck is this? its not the source?”

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“no! its from anoth Cut off. Dead line. Arrows of fire were screeching down like rain, it hit and burst through the aluminum shelters, burning up the monsters aret heir fur caught fire Panic. “get ‘em out! Get ‘em Cut off. Death line. Arrow in chest. More howling in the background. Screaming. Humans and monsters in one cacophony of pain. Human flesh tearing. Attack. Attack. Diversion. Attacked. Something clawed HORATION::S arm, breaking the vision. The thing dragged him off the breakwater. He tumbled and rolled naked into the sea, a violent outburst of falling over rocks tearing skin. He could not see his assailant. He hit the water, was dragged under. Something else grabbed his ankle. It yanked him upwards. Pulled in two directions. Limbs tearing apart. A roar. A scream under water. Water turning to blood. TORN. “terrible.” ILLIXANDER NORTH stubbed out his cigarette in to the half eaten plate of cold green noodles. Divination via wasted food

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The great Viking like warlord Shook his head, “one fucking death after another. What kind of new year is this?” GREEDA< His little midget sex slave chuckled to herself. A hard hail was brutalizing the streets outside the cave. Car windscreens smashing. Sidewalks breaking. “listen to this shit outside.” He continued, “ And they say the world aint ending.” “it aint!” fuck toy sorcessess declared, she chuckled some more, playing with her nipples. “what time can we get on the first train?” he asked her. She tucked her small hands into the crotch of her panties and fished out the tickets from an inlining pocket. “in twenty three hours.” “damn it. That’s a long way.” “want to fuck fuck?” she offered. He looked at her with a why not face. Tugged at the chains around her neck to pull her closer. They made love to the sounds of a hail storm and chains banging against broadsword. A robot thing from the year 2208 found the caravan with no driver, no apparent signs of life. Scanning its contents though exposed a sleeping form. The robot thing moved in for inspection. A voice crakled into the robots transceiver”have you found the girl child?” NEGATIVE. Unknown subject is in vehicle. “inspect.” COMMAND ACTION IN PROGRESS. SHIVA SIGHT ACTIVATED The caravans exterior was removed, aubatomically erased to expose the inside of the vehickle. The robot thing inspected the sleeping form, capturing grid of the body, measuring, calculating the form, the breath, the movement, the facial. Cross checking with its infinite database, a match ws made in nano seconds. SUBJECT IDENTIFIED.

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FORMELY KNOWN AS NINE. ASPECT NAME: WRITERGEIST NINE. HUMAN LIFE FORM. PRIOR SERVANT OF OMANDAE. “retrieve subject.” COMMAND ACTION IN PROGRESS. LCD screens in the computer room circled NINE as he lay on the tatami mat. The buzz of the monitors lulled him from his comatose. He woke to faces on the screen. Masked men, compact disc eyes. Barcodes for mouths. //“happy return.”// They said in unison. Disorientation hit him as he tried to sit up. //“nottoo fast or you’ll be dizzy”// the faces said. “I’m…..you’re….where….” //“its ok, you are lost. This is 2208. We welcome you.”// “2208?” //“year of the machine.”// “future? How?” //“how?”// NINE sat up slowly. Organic tubes were running into his body. He \panicked and the machines seemed to understand. It pumped strange liquids into him to calm him down. //“relax brother NINE. Be safe here.” ////“he who has lived on the fringe escapes all manner of death from the centre”// they echoed. “I don’t…whats happening…I can’t understand…” //“others, like you are/ are waking, more others yet did not make it./”//sad deaths. Many a funerals//be out of cycle//take you out of cycle now//little while. Be safe here// The monitors circled him again, lights came down from above, running over his body. He saw images on his skin forming. Hieroglyphs. //mother butterflycalls us. Be safe. Rest again// The lights shrouded him, taking his sight into a white light that wasn’t blinding but comforting blank, taken away into a white zone. 381

____ Thin white sheets glowed and suspended in the air; thin white sheets floating slowly around a white room. The glowing butterfly rode on the lights in. wings abruptly stopped fluttering and suspended, it drifted like in space in synchronocity with the sheets. Some sheets began blinking, glowing dim and bright, at different speeds. |communication|direction| White lights passed overhead. Three white screens were raised Then on them Three sigils The primordial triangle of fire. The one thousand one hundred. The vault of M Then came upon the white light above The sigil of

  382

   <ODAR> <OMANDAE> <ATON> 383

Thus come the break of cycle Omandae, come, in aton of odar Thus come omandae process Doth halt the girl of oro.

Because she is asylum’d Thus not open to data Decommissioning shall be status 384

accordingly By whom doth the writ of? It is not of the girl it0is0of090level0two0doth0writ who doth be the first FAEDEM

0Ghos~Haus0 Ghos~Haus Who doth the completion run? Monroe Monroe Monroe who is mad who is coma. Thus Wake him. 385

YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY Monroe’s return Mad Monroe slept for fifteen nights. On the sixteenth, the stars fell. It lured him out of comatose into a darkened room. He was acutely stiff, uninspired and heavy like bricks on a thin stretcher. He wanted to di, not wake. He wanted eternal blank rest. He could hear the clock ticking though he thought his ears had been badly damaged from the scream of the demons. His throat was parched but not torn from shouting invocations and warnings. A headache was building up with his return to consciousness. He didn’t feel like he rested a day. He turned slowly in bed, letting his bones crack and click back into the movement of life. He felt for his blood pumping, felt for the curse coursing through his veins, wondering how long it’ll be before he required an entire bottle of alcohol to counter the poison pumping form his blackened heart. He stretched slowly, not wanting to pay attention to his mind that was already wandering over the events of dire November and December’s doom. He tried not to recall the horrors etched on the faces of the young girls. All eleven of them, now probably safe although he didn’t know how many of them were left sane. Was death a preferred door over madness? He didn’t quite wish to think of black philosophies and dark questions. He turned again in bed then slowly got up, trying not to trigger off a dizziness after lying down for more than two weeks. He felt the environment in the dark for his ghost child but she was not present. He sat up in bed contemplating his return to life. 386

On the Eighth day, God created the secret worlds. In 2008, Eight children began to discover it. They are the secret children and this is their story. 387

On the 22nd day, balloons were falling from the sky in THE FIELD> Several death ships were present, approaching the white mountain. The balloons parted for the ships to pass. Far below upon burnt fields, DECORUS the third walks with a small girl. Her name is ALICE> “I am thankful,” DECORUS said to the girl, “for coming to me at such a time.” “there isn’t anywhere else to go, I cannot find uncle SAUL.” She sounded sad. “that’s alright. He comes and goes, whats important is what you want to do next.” 388

They continued walking on crisp dead ground. “I’m very confused, about all of this.” “many are confused, even I am not sure myself.” Decorus declared. “why must it be so…complicated?” “when the secret worlds begun unfolding in reality, its always hard to understand because….well, its not our reality. These things takes time, understanding them I mean.” “then I guess that is what I want to do next. To understand.” “are you sure?” She didn’t think about it for very long before she nodded her head and said, “I’m one of the secret children right?” Decorus nodded his. “then I think its my duty to start trying to understand.” Decorus stopped to turn to her. “youre a brave girl ALICE, your uncle and your father will be proud of you.” She looked to the ground. “I’m scared I have angered my father.” “he will understand.” She nodded her head,“I trust you uncle DECORUS.” He smiled and stroked her small head with his magickal hand, “thank you.” She smiled back at him and took a deep breath. “so what now?” “you go back to earth. And you find uncle Monroe.” He pointed to the mountain, “you’ll have to walk alone to that mountain and when you reach it, you’ll find a cave. Go through the cave even though you may be scared, and keep walking straight. You’ll come out in the end, how long I’m not so sure but you will be safe and you will come out at the end to find a door that leads to uncle monroe’s room. Things will begin from there.” She paused to digest all the information then asked, “but what do I tell him?” “you tell him ALTER-‐VOLTER begins. He will understand.” “are you sure?”

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“you trust me right darling?” She smiled. “ok then.” “ok.” They hugged, long and tight then DECORUS watched little ALICE walk to the mount. The death ships parting for her passage, the mirror waiting at the other end of the cave, long after the darkness had taken her. For she is Infinite Alice, the secret child of mirrors.

BREAKFAST AT MAD MONROE’S The coffeeshop men were guffawing at 5 am. Drunk on beer and nuts. MONROE steadily treaded the roadside, to get more ice from the store. His swigging of the bottle just didn’t do any justice without ice. His stomach was blated, head still heavy, muscles still stiff from sleeping so long. His bladder was contracting and he needed to piss out the poisoned blood. He reached the coffeestore just as the main bulk of alcohol took hold of his system and started working its ritual. “eh mad cop! Long time no see eh? Wahahahah!” the coffeeshop owners friends laughed alongside their chief, not at Monroe but with him for they all considered themselves mad as hell. “get me some ice, old fog I need to pee out my blood.” “you nasty mad cop! Wahahahah! Nasty fucker!” MONROE Stumbled into the dirty wasted loo. Paused before the mirror, he stared at his heavily bearded face, fatigue written all over it. Fatigue from the sleep, from the terrors of December, the direness of November. The mirror started fogging as he studied the bloodshot eyes staring back. He first thought he was breathing too hard into the mirror buts omehow he saw that the fog was building from the other side of the mirror. It started to turn black and dark. Into the mirror he saw light forming in the distance, then a shape of a girl melted form the light. The girl started running towards Monroe. At first glance, he thought it was his ghost child but it didn’t felt like her. This girl had a deeper, older, almost infinite feel which he almost lost himself in. he maintained consciousness, the girl ran closer, shelooked like she had a bright sundress on. Everything suddenly slowed, she looked like she was tripping forward, her left arm raising as if reaching out to Monroe. Instinctively he put his left palm flat upon the mirrors surface. The girl touched him. Inhale. Like a thunderbolt he was thrown back, crashing into the unrinal. A cubicle door that was opened slammed shut. As he recovered from the fall, he saw that the girl in the mirror was gone. Everything was back to normal except from the sound of a girl sobbing behind closed doors. 390

THE FIELD> DECORUS followed the path of the bon fires. Moving downhill in the night Far towards SLUTTER GUT. In search of the transvestite entity RAYZORIA, the mother-‐nurse of GHOS~HAUS “eh..” the coffeeshop prince said to his friends, “who is this girl mad cop bringing out?” They all stared and watched him, following him as he ehaded to the counter with the girl in tow. He put five gold coins on the counter. “thanks for the ice.” He said coldly and left. His face a little shaken. “mad cop? You arresting small girl? Stealing her for naughty ends?” “nothing of that sort old man. She’s a friend.” “young friend you have. Too young maybe.” “your business is coffee and ice, not what I do with who. I’m off, don’t drink so much.” Monroe left with ALICE accompanied by mad laughter from the coffeeshop in the morning sun. ROOM 2208 The machines of 2208 hovered over the naked form of NINE. His head had been cleanly shaved, blue light like lasers were studying the surface of his skull. A holographic mind operation was about to be initiated. A series of maps of sigils to be imprinted upon the consciousness of NINE. THE FIELD was building its first scribesayer, INEN-‐PRIME. To mine and channel the historical memory of THE FIELD. 391

In the ward of RAYZORIA , a naked ghos~haus is lying on a slab, an oversized tombstone. The transvestite is holding a long black screwdriver like device with a needles edge. The device is attached to tubes running to a boiling vat of black flowers specially administered to a midget alchemist in a gas mask. Dr RAYZORIA is tattooing the seals of ATON OMANDAE & ODAR above the seals of VAULT-‐M, 1000.100 and the red triagle on the chest of the unconscious magician. He will wake to a new creation in his consciousness. He will awake to be a sorcerer of THE FIELD. His journey would be to exorcize the field of its black demons, the alien symboite holding all life hostage. The scoreceror , Jar-‐dar is preparing his specimen doorway druq for the ODAR age..

“WE ARE CLOSE” “

A group of messiahs called the bloated men have crossed into our space-

time continuum with a warning.

The age of ODAR is coming. Evolve before the beginning is nigh.

“ Army barracks 17. Deep jungle 392

trauma.Minus 129 men.no more gunshots. “HELLO!…!.!”echoes through an empty barrack. PORO the clown flip flops through the grey camp. Empty and haunted. Apparently. “motehrfuckers!” echoes again, motherfucker bouncing back to PORO in singular instead. This freaks him out a little but PORO is strong,. He removes a ball from his pocket. Tennis. Tosses it across the hall. It lands, bounces, tok tok tok toktoktok. Breaks a mirror. Shattering shards. A sound from the far end. Urghhh. A moan. PORO calls out. “you here man?!” no more echoes. Ugh. PORO flops faster to the corner. He hears his friend. “the other worlds fucked up.” His friend says to PORO as PORO comes into view. The man is crippled and on the floor. A giant arrow in his chest. Chicken feathers at the end. “what the fuck man” PORO says in shock, falling to his knees by his friend. “listen, clown…” friend coughs blood. ACK! “listen! You ever see gates broken in the wind? Chains clanging on rusted steel, both sides of the fence empty? “ “I…” “desertion! Desecration! Their fucked up world is moving into our fucked up world. Its all fucked up now…” blood coughing.

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“WHO ASHCROW?! Who is they?! …I bring dokteer with balloon?” “no, no, no need. Listen! Clown….you’ll walk for days and see nothing. The sun will never set when you want it to. You want to drink sand but youre too bloated with water. You’ll walk far and find nothing….yet…” COUGH cough. A tone shifts in the room. PORO notices it. “a small desire, a triumphant elephant! PORO! I have seen the book…VOLTER GHOST..I have read parts of it…VOLTERGEIST…look at me now….” \ASHCROW was dying. A crippled death. He continued,”it’s a god damn nightmares. Its coming out from big holes in the earth,…”COUGH Ack! ASHCROW, the crippled, dies in the arms of PORO, the clown. A tone shifts. PORO hears helicopters in the air.

“have you contained the area?” the commander asks. “yes

sir!”

“and the clown?” “in quarantine sir.” “good. Time to Bring out the spirits. I want to know what happened here.” “I’ll get TOMAS, sir.”

TOMAS sits alone by a dark well behind barrack 17. He’s adjusting his black lacy glove. His long feminine fingers holds a slim gold cigarette. His hand is trembling slightly.

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His long, tight black dress clings too suffocatingly in this jungle heat. He can smell blood everywhere and unrestful spirits. The seargeant is approaching shim with apprehension. “umm..madam Tomas…the lieutenant says/ “I know...” He cuts him off, “…sweetheart. I’m coming.” She squirms in her small wooden seat , exhaling a lustful moan of smoke from a final puff. Crushes out the cigarette into a used tampon before him. And orgasms like a shivering horror, as if it was the most disgusting emotion. “time to raise the dead.” __

“there will be memory in the cells that are still dying,” the transvestite necromancer said as she stood before the body of ASHCROW. “excuse my methods,” he said to the leuitenant and his men as they watched. TOMAS slid his hand up along the long slit of his black dress, tugged down his black lacy g0string and squatted over the dead man;’s face. “wakey, wakey.” She said as he rubbed his castrated clit on the dead man’s lips. As strange slime squirted in to the slightly parted dead lips, TOMAS quickly slid his crotch down and placed his head with flowing black hair onto the man’s chest. She was listening to the cells. Almost immediately,m she was thrown off the body, backing away like a terrified cat then suddenly regaining his composure, on the floor, staring ahead at the body that seemed to scare her. He focused. “what a bizarre thing.” She said. “a killer and his monster pet rooster.” “what?” the lieutenant said. Some of the other men scoffed. A small terror began growing on the transvestite’s face. Under his breath, “its still here…” She jumped up, “GET OUT! GET OUT! GO NOW!” started running, “TAKE THE CLOWN< GO!” moving out of the hall, some men panicked, moved with her, the lieutenant seemed to be getting angry, “what the HELL IS GOING ON TOMAS” 395

“GET THE FUCK OUT NOW! “ The roof stared crushing down, all uniformed men fled. The whole barrack is crushing. By invisible giant claws. Doors windows bricks walls ripping. The ground shaking. Tomas still shrieking, “EVAC! EVAC! TOMAS sees the quarantine camp. “TAKE THE CLOWN NOW! GO! EVAC! EVAC! Uniformed men rushing to copters. Blades beginning to propel. The g round on which the barrack is built is sucked in or crushed down it is hard to tell. TOMAS turns to face the oncoming unseen menace. She

pulls a long sharp blade

from her high stiletto boots. Flips her slit skirt aside, appears to begin stooping slightly, then without mercy She stabs the blade up her rectum. And twists. Grimacing in pain and pleasure. A distorted orgasm escaping the crossdresser’s black painted lips. Eyes screwed shut. The blades of he choppers growing more violent. She pulls the blade out as fast as she jammed it in. with her ungloved, corpse colored hand and red painted nails, she buried her fingers into the bleeding mess. Collects the blood. Then strikes the ground with it. The rotors are in full blast, a whirlwind of dust storms violently. Jabbing the dry earth with bloodied fingers, she draws a line with the blood. The holes breaking out in the floor signaling the march of the rooster stopped before the line. “FUCKING GO!” tomas yelled back to the filled copters now almost ready for take off. her eyes rolled back into her head then She spat out some curses towards the invisible thing before her.SHe began limping towards the third chopper ast he first two began their ascent. The red line in the sand fizzled out, invisible claws crossed over and the crushed earth kicked up dirt att he loss of its prey. The choppers rose and escaped in to the western sun. “what in gods fuck was THAT?!” the commander yelled overt he blades to TOMAS>

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“I don’t know darling.” Came the slow reply, “but I bet mister clown over there knows more...”he looks to the giant blue plastic box at the clown huddled in the corner, weeping.telling its sick rotated jokes.

“don’t mind if me smokes.” The clown pulls his red flower out of hi szpocket, the stem long and red. With his yellow gloved fat hands, he makets he shape of a scissor and cuts off the lower end of the stem. He tucks the red cigarette like thing into his mouth, uses his red lips to turn the stick up to his nose then he pinkes his nose once making a horn sound and a flame flicks out of the nose dead straight. The clown lights his stick,.” That was some nasty magic back there.” He said to the transvestite sitting before him outside the quarantine cube. “I bet yo’r emore freak than me.” She ignored his remarks, “you got a name sweetcheeks?” “I’m PORO< the clown. From carnivale de odar.” Clown paused, took another puff. The stick seemed to be expanding intoa cigar. “you ever heard of us?” TOMAS kept silent a little then said, “my father has.” The clown raised an eyebrow,”you father has seen much.” “what were you doing in barrack seventeen?” “trying to save a friend from the war.” “the war was over three months ago. We were going in to find the last company.” “oh no. not that kind of war. neither of your kind. Nor of mine. But does it matter now sinsei? The war has already taken him...” “what do you speak of?” she leaned in closer. “oh. you know. Your father knows. Has he not told you?” TOMAS remains silent again. Listening inside him.

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“he will not speak of it.” “then there’s nothing we can do can we? Ifr the elders don’t speak, who are we to act?” “what is this PORO? Whats happening?” “this isjust absurditys’ tip. Monster roosters and bloated men.” That caught the attention of TOMAS. “bloated men?” “sure. With strange signs on

their bald heads.”

Tomas got up, walked towards the cube. “tell me of those men…” “you have dreamt of them too haven’t you?” More assertive.“tell me about them.” “ASHCROW knew more. I just heard …stories. That the messiah is grotesque. Used to be from this world. Now, some kind of god. They say he’ll return again. Then vanish again. Then return again. The always returning. Fourth, fifth coming, it goes on and on until its all really over.” “what’s over?” “the world. This universe. Reality… Over.NEXT STAGE.” The clown shifts his weight off the wall. Walks to the transvestite. “its getting uglier. crazier. A lot more disgusting and potent. Worse than calamaties, tragedies, massacres. It gets real fucked up I heard.” “who do you hear this from?” “the people. from all sorts of worlds and lives. Those who come to the carnival to find justice, answers, hope.they tell us things.those form the future, they speak of things to come. ASHCROW was one of them. He needed our help.to stop something.” The clown shook his head sadly. “Now he’s gone. But More of his kind will come to us. Mother says so. But more will also be 398

gone. Its all going to shit really. We need more than ourseleves. Lots more.”he stubbs his cigar out on his big red flip flop boots. Stares back at TOMAS with the weariest face a clown could wear.a silence hangs between them, a silence like a punctuation, a state of ungrace where nothing else said could change the tone of the evening. This was just the beginning of things.

A door

opening far behind TOMAS breaks the silence. A man in uniform calls out to him. “sorry to interfere but the lieutenant needs you now, madam.” “I know.” Tomas said, getting up, leaving the clown in his quarantine cube. PORO watches him go, A clown smile breaking on his face. “I see now. I see.this is our next act.” He nods his head.

“you’ve been reassigned.” The commander told TOMAS as he entrered the room. There were two elder men in suits in the room.”these gentlemen will brief you on yoru way out of here.” “what? Wait. I just gotten” “its an override. I just got off the red phone. Go TOMAS. The first table needs you.” That was a big enough name to drop. The first table. A kind of united nations for x-file cases. TOMAS shook his head. More in resignation than in defiance. “lets go.” He told the two men.

“there are several criticals we need you to look into. A burning haus scenario. Mr WU and his consorts.kiled. Elijah Monroe. One of ours. missing. There’s a gaping hole where a magickal authority used to be. We need you to find out what’s going on in the glass city.” “fine. I can do all t his for you. But I too need my resources.” “name it.executive will provide.” “I need the clown PORO with me. He’s under quarantine here.” The two elder men thought in silence. 399

“it is done.”

“man is sad at his world. the mad dog steals underwear. Fire crackers in the distance. Man has shot himself in his history.” “The parrot-‐dogs were discolored and aged. Most were on a limp, tail burnt 400

out. They kept speaking about holes in the sky, holes in the ground. All opening up.and such black smoke…”

Attention STATUS UNKNOWN. Attention, STATUS UNKNOWN.

THE STRANGE POSESSION OF ANSLEM BLANK MACHINE MAJESTA Thundered RED be the bitch time of post earth ghost time. Half howled moon disfigured hour of breath amen. Soul torn struck the tower of ghost time. Speak kings dispowered wrath, flooding endnding ghost time forgetting. Hours be final judgement. Penetrate. Thundered be blank machine majesta be. Forward fields, unto which arc formation womb one. Mother be safety, structural handrail. From above like mountain/tower. Breeding time, but skies be mensus, evening time allowing shortchanged depravity. Launch nexus sixteen. Ala carte dystopia. Stomping ground elephant sunrise Heavy rotation. The agent then said, “we’re a secular nation mister Monroe...” he took his time speaking from his suit, “we cannot allow rampant magickal phenomena occurring in public….” All the while, detective Monroe just listens, his heart craving for more cold whiskey. “the FIRST TABLE has assured master minister,

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everything will be under control.” He stoped pacing around Monroe like a wolf and stands before him.” Do you understand? Mister Monroe?” ANCHORAND Existed, then appeared in a descending elevator. Down down below. Opening to present earth. Relieved to see sunlight he exits the metal box womb into life. THE MASS CONFESSION OF RAYZORIA THE WITCH. I would’ve done more for her. Loved her more, but i couldn’t. the dark night of before had claimed me. In the stark heart before sunrise, long after midnight, in that desperate twilight hour, Such black menace arrived. Cold, brutal winds, un-‐rained; a lost storm stole me in sleep. Returned, criminal’d, I cannot remain to be with her in the sun. I would’ve done more, if I could, but I am crime’d, blasphemied, in surrender to the real, twisted soul. Even the night will not be safe for her, if I was near. Abandoned be, leaving her with sleep, I depart, to be haunted, hunted, obscured with my demons. If you have to begin this tale with me, I first ask for your forgiveness. The crimes I’ve committed in the life before this one, are severe as you will soon see for yourself. I am now called RAY ZORIA in this life but before this, I was known as le graheg.

Sarrogheitus. “the mind is a figment of the imagination.” -‐ Lord Anon. “The great sex monster deity was dead but its heart was thrillingly alive. Pumping blood into another world of meat and black flowers, giving life to aborted dreamers. 402

In the pool of piss, its fishes swam, rediscovering ecology and evolution, the dirt of mankind and waste Through the trenches of vomit, the soldiers marched, to the dream of beating heart, Sarrogheitus. The gory soundtrack leads them from death. The drone and the silence digest their souls. “ -‐from the song of sarrogheitus. “the whole of creation is pregnant with mysteries.” – Barbara john.

From ‘the anger of saint luscious’ by padre john liera Cold is the dead night, a lifeless moon, disassociated stars. Red is the gash in the sky bleeding. Black are its shores. Mud and oil and blood comingling. Angry was the woman who gave us life. Raped be beloved gaia, womb accursed with the structures of steel SEX

be the slime we dehydrated

Parched were her lands, stolen her seas. Dark be the grime of her waters Dead be her belly of fish Soft vagina hardened by concrete 403

Flesh cut by razors and machines. Stolen be the rocks of her moon Mindless, be the violence of her guests Sad be her shaven hills. Soiled be her beauty’s best. So Kill us. Lost conscience. Mud and oil and blood be living The fruit of her womb, rotting.

a sick man, diaries. Small pieces of ash Blackened, peels off the bed. The bugs had escaped, so there was nothing left to eat. The sores are getting worse. Very little blood was left in the porcelain mug, the old stains now badly staining the white. I drank a little from the remains, felt the sludge crawl down my throat. The taste of rust hitting me hard (like licking old metal ladders at playgrounds) I’ve run out of cigarettes and Katie wouldn’t be back for at least two more days. Death, the promotion, could’ve claimed me by then. ‘naked feelers… naked feelers… Its like that…’ Voices return, with the pain. I struggle first to find reference to the naked feelers.

404

Then I fumble around for medication.

Post-‐occult-‐murder (unknown of) “its still quite a horrible way to kill such a young girl.” The golem said to Voltaire. “I am but a horrible man, “ his master answered. They sat naked around the dinner table, smoking black cigars in the dark, as the stench of decomposing bodies from upstairs began to take hold below. “maybe its time to go” the golem said. “why so early?” voltair sounded unhurried, casually smoking, tapping his stomach like after a good meal. “afraid to kill some first responders?” “there was only supposed to be one.” “but there’s three up there anyhow, whats a few more?” he sounded and looked calm. The golem was expiring. “master, we should go.” Then a voice interrupted. “or arrogance will be the death upon you.” “oh my” teased voltair, unworried, “an intercession.” “I am no angel.” Said the voice. Voltair laughed, “and you’re certainly not one of those devils either. I’ll know. I am master of some of them.” Voltair turned towards the voice, “whats your name little creature?” he asked as he turned. The horror that struck him was black and menacing. Diasabling him his sense of safety Exposing him to guttural fright Of twisted organs in the nightmare room.

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reprimandissance So I asked the monster, “you let Voltaire escape?” “only with very little wits left I’m afraid. Death would be too easy for him.” “that’s nasty. He’s pissing himself now ain’t he?” “he’ll have to collect the piss in a bottle and drink it to stop his recurring panic.” “double nasty.” “he deserved it. After what Nicole went through.” “yeah…sorry bout nic.” “she’ll have a special place in the myth. She’s a secret child too. She’;ll be greater, even than both of us.” “is that why Voltaire killed her?” The monster pondered about this for a moment, “no. not exactly. He was more of a puppet. A kind of priest for a higher power though he didn’t know it. He was used.” “so…her real killer is not yet killed?” “not yet my boy.” We then just sat there in silence. Don’t know what was on the monster’s mind but I was thinking about the myth. About omandae. About the secret children. The train for the city will not be here tiill morn. There is time for sleep and dreams but I chose to explore the tall fields, where, according to the myth, black cobra-‐men lived. I just ,may meet one of them. “excuse me” I said to the monster, and picked up by glass of iced whiskey. “I’m going for a walk.” “don’t let them bite you” the monster said. “I know,” BINARY, BED, BREAKFAST “it is the monsters that conjure the sorcerers.”

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The systems woke us from the cryo-‐labs. The dome fixture adjacent to 2208, where they kept the writing man from earth. We were told that nurse rayzoria is attending a magic man in coma-‐death, down at the camp hospital. It appears that she cannot decide which dimension he should belong to. As we woke, the systems flooded our memories with things past, the surging of armageddic seasons, the loss of two more secret children. ‘one was taken by the diabolical/ one was taken by the sea. The parallelisms are more distorted. We woke up to the static of confusion. The systems remained the tubes in our arms, lang-‐coils of string, a hurt in out jaws. The systems waxed our muscles, assured our nakedness. ‘the transference in the veins are irreversible’ they told us. Shaved body one by one we rose. The systems gave us plant-‐life for adaptations. Mechanical breathing, maintaining a steady rhythm . they thought us about pallid skin and rich emotion. They let us visit the writing man in 2208, though he did not wake to meet us. (the pain comes and goes in our heads) the screens made us watch them. Visions of grandfather in the skies. The ancestor astronaut andillion. We paid our respects to the transfiguration from womb to room to pale witness. The spacesuits held special memories for us, like ana infantile projection, like childhood yearnings. Seeded. Blooming. Twisting back our limbs on, the petri dish machines collected our samples. Awaking 98% When the system awoke us, they recalled in us plastic and metal. They did not forgo our skins, they gave us flesh and bone. C.R.I.B Complete rest in bed. And on the third day the system rose the intelligence of the wheel. Insectoid zodiac programme running. Processing… Year of the earthworm Year of the cockroach Year of the eel Year of the spider Year of the locust Year of the mantis Year of the beetle Year of the android Year of the virus 407

Year of the maggot Year of the scorpia Year of the wraith. …Processing ended. The system returned us to the wombs. On the eighth day, the system reset. Reboot. Reemergence. And On the last day, in baptism of odar. The sarrogheitus program was initiated. Cold room hospital floors. When we rose to a suitable height, through the glass windows, the system let us look outside. There were old 50’s American café’s about to ramshackle. White wooden walls, there was traditional BBQ with meats. Home made Apple pies, coffee and tea and cocoa. Ice cream sundaes were brought out on weekends. Free flow of flat soda water. Burgers. Fries. Milkshakes on holidays. Inside were the survivors, milling. Carrying Bottles of post-‐apocalypse genitalia in yellow liquid, the last chance for reproduction. All they needed were receptacles but most of them were dried up, too late for dying on the dry shores. The mud could not bring them back to life. During phase two, the system showed us the mirror to our insides. They explained our systems, our regulations and wires and veins and organs. They showed us, in graph and grid format, how we’re evolving, manufacturing, how the clock of algrowrhythms worked according to the run of sarrogheitus. The program already taking on a life of its own. On the second day of the new run, the system showed us the lights, stolen from above, from below, stolen from the dreams of dead gods. They showed us histories. Ruins. Paraphernalia. On the new seventh day, the system drew maps on our souls.

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Processing, the system entered its second state of shutdown. Responding. Rehabilitate. Giving us back to the wombs. On the third week, we rose again. Fertilizers fresh in the sun. the fire of sarrogheitus keeping the wound warm. Utensils clash in the hall of our minds. Awake. Sarrogheitus expels. To commence final run. The program and the system greeted us. Welcomed us back. /we have given you your dream masters/ said the system. LED lights. They came to bring us sights. Raised, we saw past the café’s. Beyond us were footnotes and grave stars. A procession, adjourned, too terrified of the creation. They buried the book of our makers in the fields. The system let us free after the last and dire installation. Robot parent, attempting weep, turning the children loose into the grids. The green search of the radar map missed us, shaped us.the A.I designed, the tracks of their tears, to be gone into hybrid sunsets. Then the system, at last, gave us a heart to scream. GOLEMS and the shifting people. I had auctioned for the golem pair, when I saw them at the exhibition. They were strong and durable but humorless. They helped me move in the shelves during the first days of the store. There was no rent to be paid in the abandoned half-‐demolished building. The mastertenant was afraid of the golems. Their bald heads and twisted faces scared him the most. “they love books” I tried assuring the landlord. He left me the keys and left in a pale panicked hurry. Whoever tenant was left could run on whatever power that surged through daily from the excess points outside the torn neighborhood. Pretty much left alone except for the customers. Into the second h alf of the week, the pair helped me bring in the books from the warehouse. Dead grandfather was taking back the storage hall.”its time to start writing your books.” He said at the wreathing hour. It was time I had to move out. On the fifth day, my sleeping and resting furniture came, with the small eating table and an outmoded footmassaging sex doll. The golems helped arrange the books over the weekend. I imprisoned myself in the store like a busy god, not even resting on the Sabbath. The store sign was coming in on tehninth. I had to be r eady. I made special arrangements for the instruments. On the eight day, they came. The golems hid when the two delivery men came. They said they had taken over the myth of albu&chung. Their sign was not red, but blue. Their truck longer and bigger and older than the last. These two were more powerful. The golems were afraid of them. WARNINGS ON T HE WALL The mythical environment for the secret children has been destabilized. Two are already dead. A makeshift structure must be put into place

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THE NEXT ONE THAT WRITES THE BOOK, IS CONSTRUCTED AS PROGRAAM. DJANGO’S BOAT. God damn pieces oof fish. They gave us the playpen, to design our universe. And that came out all wrong. DJANGO wrung his hands. Near bit off me arm, swordfighting/writing one at that. Shit fish. He spat globule on his hand. Sizzled closing the wound. Fucking writing hand you had to hurt. Bitch fish! stop grumbling weed django, or I’ll capsize you. Said the boat. Not all fishes are bad. Can’t we go any faster wood chuck!? I am seprium model 165. I do not answer to wood chuck. And if we go any faster, we’ll end up in a typhoon that will hit six hours ahead. We must keep our time to seven. Then you will be alive. Alright alright. Got me guilty. Take the time as you need. He looked out around to the infinite seas. You’re the only one I’ve got anyway. They travelled a little longer in silence, then DJANGo asked the boat, in a tone most serious. “whathappened in the glass city again?” sea sick was getting to him. Mny boats were capsized. Many islands sunk. Many people gone. Django leaned back in the boat. Dug out one more of his last few joints and lit it. Tossing thematchstick to the black forever seas. Just as the counts promised huh? He resigned to the travelling. As the counts have said, came the reply. Oh my, what have we here, said DJANGo as he came across the seemingly abandoned fishing trawler. I thought we were in ghost time, boat, what is this doing here? It is not in my expected course of journey to encounter this. A phantom ship? I do not sense any AHH! DJANGO scrambled to the end of the boat, terrified at what he saw on the trawler.

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A man with long flowing black hair, holding a swift silver katana. Like a Chinese swordfighter. “who doth sails near status_unknown’?! If you have a weapon, reveal it to me! Not armed! I’m not armed! DJANGO terrified, hands raised in surrender, he looked into the boat. Boat? Are you armed? WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO! The boat! The boat speaks with me! Are you a mad sailor? Relaxing his blade. I am just an editor! Finding his way back home to the island! This boat is my friend! Let him be, came a voice from the trawler. He is one of us. The voice was old and crackled. Like an aged woman. A ladder fell from the trawler. SEPRIUM 165 bids master goodbye. Said the boat as Django climbed on. I’m not going to let them recycle you into a coffin, he yelled back, then up We take the boat yes? The swordsman complied.

sheol disco of avo/eli A superclub vanishes into hell, leaving an impenetratable shell on earth. Luscious avo, the producer/owner 411

And Eli, the dj are the only two music magicians that can bring the clubbers back t o earth. Before they die from dancing. The circus of odar crosses on board. Can they help steer the disco ship out of sheol?/ EDITORS’ NOTE: STATUS_UNKNOWN. The black draped box on the wheel chair emanated smoke. Master will smoke now, said the swordsman. The speaker mounted next to the box lit an LED green. A crackled, torn voice seeps from the speaker. The SARROGHEITUS is t he genesis program for the ODAR. Its first manifestation is the CIRQU DE ODAR. They are reconnaissance. The ones who go before us, setting the flags. They do us as a great service in exchange for a great redemption For each messiah in the circus, is also a criminal. And these are, cosmic, space time crimes. Things blasphemed against gods, against humanity, against creation. This is the way of the ODAR.

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“this is the tightest piece of shit writing I’ve ever seen. I think I now have tentacles growing out of my anus. This is devlish, satanic, obscure.” -‐Wellis .T. Metro. Editor in chief. FABRICATED SOCIETY on THE DISPELLLINGS OF SARROGHEITUS Chapter 1 Lovers day. One more day of work and the weekend lands. Usually, the bar/food place would be packed at this time. Lovers day meant it should be even worse. But no. not even enough patrons to blast the rock music. Ice sitting around melting. It was nearing midnight. Valium, the weary said, “space-‐time having the mensus?” . The bar boss shrugged, poured the e x=-‐professor another whiskey rocks “I’ve never seen this kind of shit before Val. Something big happening elsewhere?”

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“you mean like… another party?” “secret party. I know all parties happening around here.” Valium shrugged, “maybe someone important died and everyone’s mourning.” “someone important is dying everyday mate, no one gives a shit anymore.” “or we don’t know enough to give a shit.” “don’t let go one of your media lectures here val.” “just saying man, jesus.” He slugged off the whiskey in one go. Lit another cigarette. The bar boss looked around his near empty bar while pouring valium another whiskey. “fuck man,” he said to himself, “where the hell is every one?” Just then, a skinny woman stumbled through the doors. She looked heroin dry and haunted “help….help…the people…” she kept pointing outside. The bar boss and some others ran out. Valium ambled behind them. They exited to a sudden winter, a terrible kind of ancient snow storm blowing through. It was hard to see through the white. Itw as all wrong. It NEVER snows in this city. A babble of voices escaped the storm shocked crowd /what the /where the buildings? /No road…no sky../oh god oh god//Fuck. In in “ said the bar boss. They all stumbled back in, confused, rationale disabled, rattled by the cold, utterly alien/ And found all the furniture in the bar, missing. Chapter 2 Some of the patrons had disappeared too.

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“what the fucks going on?!” motorcycle bill shouted. Valium was unusually silent. “everybody calm down “its fucking snowing out there man, calm down?!” “it’s the end of the world as we know it.” Radio-‐junk-‐lord quoted. “its all gone. Its all gone.” Valium then spoke, eyes lost in a daze, “we’ll find the lost superclub, battered, roofless, out there. something had hit.” He looked up to the door, purposefully possessed, channeling something out of the norm, “we’ll find the bodies…” ‘hey Val!, you alright mate?” the bar boss tapped him on his shoulders. Snapping him out of his strange reverie. Valium, rolled his eyes into his head and collapsed. Chapter 3. Hey. Hey. Val. Can you hear me? Val! Valium, the weary, woke up. Eyes blurring into the faces of the bar boss. A young boy and a huge figure under a black drape. Val! Can you hear me

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He just moved his mouth a bit, then struggled to sit up. The men helped him up though the big black figure did not move. The bar boss pointed to the door, “the handles are too frozen to touch. Door wont come down. “Val saw broken furniture tossed to the useless side. He saw dents and chips on the door. “all the phones are dead. The internet’s down. No power.” The boy said. The draped figure remained silent. Val kept staring at it. He then noticed the heroin dried girl shivering in the corner. Her eyes, big, Japanese, staring straight at Val. He looked back at the thing, “I know you.” He looked to the girl, “I know you both.” Val then saw the boy and laughed in disbelief. “are you ok, val?” the bar boss asked. Valium was just looking around the empty bar as if seeing it for the very first time. “and this is the outpost?” he looked at the draped thing, “this is the outpost?” he asked it. “how do you know us? “ the confused boy said, “Its not possible. We’re not from here.” Val just laughed again, a strange glow on his face, looking at them in disbelief. “of course I know all of you. “ he then looked straight at the draped monster, “I created you. “ “everything of earth now as it is seen are suspended memories. we're reliving off the memory of the earth as it fades away allowing us time to adjust to our abrupt end. language breaks down even in safe structures. certain words have changed meaning. context appears non context. its difficult and compulsive. to argue to speak. “

Abstract from DYING STORIES

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“To day dream in the unreality of our canon.” The omnibus, the anthology, the book. Its all waiting/wanting. The pages ripped and shredded and smoked, facilitates a rush of saliva, dizziness, virtue. The ancient man was blind and full of grime. Smoking up the fiction/fact. Old as fuck, stank enough to blush sheol. Crazy bastard really. Used to molest children as a child mind you. OLDER children. Went into time for multiple rape. Claimed a demon made him do it. They always blame the demons. Now, he’s grown wiser they say, looney as a bin by boat side but still wiser. More powerful even. Those who dare venture more thought of him will find him almost bottomless. Abysmal. Black. i collect books and films and musics they narrate and repeat histories but i don’t keep them very well. i let them age and wear and tear I let them be damaged and forgotten. It will be nice Very nice If I could find my earphones…

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MYSTERIUM TEXTES the author of these works thanks the caring public. good named zuma december childe the Jeff from 2001. but the author is always breaking the others are still at stake. forests are coming down. god have mercy on those who lost soul mercy to the god that finds mine. lust/lost/catatonia automatic pilot i run the engine to its final days another home destroyed, taken over broken down. a brutish high will take me tuesday there will be sweat and slime and mental screaming there will be much fear in the imagination of eye. "oh god, the angels are at war." so many people are missing. the vanished. the taken. there are already five mystery texts... and there are so many parallel lives of violence valium & vacuume and Vama

WOMB_ONE COMMAND SATELLITE APOCALYPSE STATE 1000 GTPE-‐063 (GHOST.TIME.POST.EARTH) EDITING BOARD – ‘THE PANTHEON’ “The memory of apocalypses crosses path like the creep of eternal lightning. This is existences engine in cycle, terrestrial turbine Churning the memories of dead dimensions Of realms birthed, unfounded, and lost.” IN attendance be, PANTHEON elders (dramatis personas) C.V. 418

L “the bridge thing of archaea.” D “the dweller over vault-‐m.” W “in sprawl lay the great droning sound” N ‘post-‐school of 1000.100” COURT PAS’TRONS ART.JA (A.X)2 n, being the nearest to the recent star, took commence in the confrontation rm. Over earth , seen the window stretch Mother of heavens against ended skies In orbita non locala * (non local orbiting) n, program initiates (excluding self-‐initiation of NATIVITY) :ad1 :omandae :sarrogheitus

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:IJAGI’2.0 Womb one is a super massive planetary satellite system that exists in the archetypal/armageddic region of existence. It’s the principle mother ship of Fetus ONE the resurrection crisis hotel (omandae) And FETUS 2(IJAGI’2.0)) WOMB ONE is in recovery position omega. Ghos~haus from the field NINE from 2208 The data from VOLTERGEISTATION WOMB ONE is in installation act alpha For FETUS 1+2 “we extracting FATALIS from dimension FIELD for two assassination contracts. a)

The current high-priest of G’rHg b) the warlock EXCESS

@ IJAGI2.0 Recovery of *the writing man in 2208 * + ghos~haus. Attempted search for patrons belonging to the continuum of two mystery texts. Of which An interruption occurs. 420

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