XI-WORLD

•October 30, 2018 • 1 Comment

 

 

ONE: SLIGHT RETURN.
The Cyber-Sledge ran roughshod o’er the Northlands powered by mechanical wolves. Shrouded, Scarlett skilfully manoeuvred through the bare skeletal limbs of the trees. She sped upon the powdered snow which fell in icy bullets and clouded her ultra-violent goggles with condensation. This was a dead world and the One-God were on her trail.
Scarlett was favoured by the Goddess and had a bad taste in her mouth. She hated all god-speed for they had raped, ransacked and pillaged her nomadic tribe when they had camped to restock and bear vigil to the Ancient Ones. The spirit of wood, tree and stone called out for vengeance and as Scarlett was the last of her tribe it fell to her to balance the equilibrium in the name of the Earth Goddess.
Our Lady managed to elude most of her opposition, however one squad of troops transported in gas-guzzling jeeps and motorcycles were still hot on her heels. She decided the only way out of this was to head for the sacred heathen Moon-forest. It was there amongst its spiralling and unwinding pathways that Scarlett hoped she could shake off her pursuit. Hopefully, her keen senses and intuition would be able to divine the location of the mountain of madness. Where the spirits fly…
The monotheistic ones murdered indiscriminately: the heathen leaders of her tribe, the women-folk, even innocent children whom knew nothing of warfare. She felt an ineffable hatred; not just towards their hypocritical doctrines, but to their very creed. Scarlett felt an anger so deep it gestated within her, to the roots of her Warrior Soul.
Scarlett’s own brother who was upon the cusp of manhood; only fifteen winters old, cut down bravely in battle along with their father. Her Mother, a simple homesteader, but family proud was raped and strangled at the hands of an ugly, perverted hypocrite. Scarlett slew the foul beast in her wake. She had no time to cry for she was of the most feared warrior-branch of her tribe. At that moment she swore vengeance.
As she heard the screams of her people and readied her Cyber-sledge Scarlett made a pact with the Gods to reunify the heathen tribes and return her planet to the watchful guidance of the Ancient-Ones. She knew their barbarous names, even in this time of “now-reality,” would still answer the call.
As our heroine escaped the clutches of her now sworn enemies; a pack of one god donkeys followed her; the disgusting stench of their inhumane violence, leaving a rank taste in the air. To think she had once believed peoples of all faith could exist together.
Scarlett was fast and her purpose true. With the aid of her Cyber-sledge and her mechanical wolves (crafted skilfully by herself and grandfather) she easily outran them. They fired a few laser-bolts at her, but our lady eluded them easily. Skilfully turning around at speed and returning with fire from her own weaponry she wiped out six of the god-botherers. The other six were left outrun, cursing in the snow.
In actual fact; Scarlett knew that the pig-headed skirmish unit would find it nigh impossible to make it through the spiralling narrow pathways of the Moon-forest. However much the goons of monotheism tried to follow her; once confronted by the ethereal depths of its strange eldritch environment they would be driven mad. Seeing their true-selves in the psychic-mirror; the only thing that awaited them was a cataclysmic, foreboding, arboreal nightmare. For the forest as all the wildest places of the Earth was sacred and gifted by the Earth Mother to the Tribes of the Heathen.
Our heroine knew exactly the sterility of the phallic faith of their one-god; the stagnant father of lies whom they but paid lip-service to. It would be impossible for the invisible man who lived in the sky and who watched them every minute of every day to see if they were naughty or nice to protect them when confronted by the all-encompassing energies of the Goddess. The blinding light of truth that rises from behind the Sun only served to accentuate the stench of their impotence. Their placations under the eye of the Ancient-Ones would be null and void. She sped on betwixt the arms of the whispering trees which sweetly whispered her name.
Scarlett cruised on blissfully, contenting herself with the fact that she had made the first steps towards making recompense for the crimes the monotheistic ones had brought against her tribe. However, her moment of happiness was shrouded in sadness. It was a minor victory, small consolation when she thought of the screams of her people, the women and children. Friends, brother and sisters slaughtered before her very eyes. She had made the first strike towards enacting a wraithful fury against their sermon of hypocrisy.

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TWO: UPON THE MOUNTAIN.
Scarlett arrived at the foundations: the base, the mountain of the Ancient Ones. She deactivated her sled and mechanical wolves; typing a code into the armoury on her utility vid-bracelet. The wolves and sled folded up neatly and she placed the reconvened miniatures into her off-world backpack. Scarlett didn’t want to leave any traces, it was imperative that she did not leave a scent for her pursuers.
Scarlett took the Laser-Gun from her backpack and hooked it onto her utility belt so that it could recharge. She put ice-claws on her boots and got into character, preparing for the long climb. The mountain shook her to the core.
Only the chosen few of her tribe knew that the mountain was in fact a Watchtower of Space. A place of vigil enabling her to plan, regroup and figure out how to avenge her tribe. She was afraid, of course she was, but the Gods must be appeased and her grievance against the sterility of the monotheistic ones avenged. Scarlett carved steps into the mountain with her ice-pick; slowly but assuredly making her way to the summit of the foreboding Watchtower.
She allowed herself to be shaken by the cold, stark megalithic ascent. The mountain became one with her, as she traversed its ancient form: its structure; containing thousands of pockets, caves, crevices, cracks and hollows.
Occasionally our heroine had to shelter from the snowy avalanches that were caused by vibrations from her hacking ascent. An intuitive passage-rite upon the summit; the claws on her snow-boots dug in assuredly as she made her way up. After what seemed like an insurmountable time, the voices started. Ouroboros algorithms of arcane interrogation infected her senses. She climbed on, discarding the phantasm’s that tested her worth. Instead, she concentrated upon the bejewelled epiphanies rising righteously from the miasma. Scarlett utilized her self-reliance to connect with the Ancient-Ones: her inner-voice placating and petitioning them. She affirmed her existence and that she alone, was of their creed and worthy of the quest.
Scarlett destroyed all doubt; all thoughts of failure woe and fatigue would have to be dealt with at a later time. She reached out with psychic-hands to her astral soul and her undying allegiance to the elders of her people. She believed with an unconquerable sense of self in the righteousness of her purpose and the balance of the cosmic order. Our heroine knew in every fibre of her being that if her aim was true; the Gods of the Heathen would answer her call and she could readdress the balance.

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THREE: THE SHAMANIC PLAYGROUND.
Scarlett reawakened far from here at the summit of the mountain of madness. Pow! She reaffirmed her existence. It was dusk and the mist made her cough: scanning the scene, looking for clarity in the misty gloom.
Our heroine set about upon the summit preparing the sacred space. Surveying and working out what was immediate to her, and that which she could utilize. She cleared an area that she felt could be useful as a nebula to connect with trans-dimensional entities.
It was cold and dead upon the mountain. An icy wind blew through her whole body chilling her numb from head to toe. Carrying thirteen rocks, Scarlett made a roughshod Star of Manifestation.
With the dead limb of a tree she carved spidery tentacles in the dust. Leading from each of the stones she diligently mapped and printed the circuits of the cosmos. She worked upon intuition alone. The inwardly-pointed gloom of the misty desolate mountain parted the silent veil of space and time as she strived and thrived upon the thirteen-pointed star. It represented the tribes of the Earth Goddess and the astral space-capsule which she would utilize on her shamanic journey.
Whilst she worked upon her mandala; Scarlett, forgot all of her sadness and without lust of result in the magical operation, let herself be swept up into ufo-logical flights of fancy. Thoughts that transported her; primal energies flowed through her and were guided by the adrenaline rush of the wonders of the universe. Our heroine had not eaten for days and was surviving upon her will alone.
Once the ley-lines of her Star had been scraped and plotted into the dust. The charging embrace of night fell gleaming through twinkling skies which somehow seemed to glitter and smile knowingly towards her righteous purpose. Scarlett lit her Power-Torch. Taking her Chao-Bag she collected sharp pebbles and flat stones from the summits vast wasteland.
Gradually the Magical Star was taking shape. Thee ethereal power-zone had been created; it took the form of a beautifully intricate map of the Cosmos. Banishing with a deep otherworldly and somewhat guttural godly laughter Scarlett sat in the centre of the cosmos and began her vigil.
Slowly at first she began to connect her psyche to the Nothingness; the Great Void calling to her Warrior Soul upon the mountain. She sat deep within the cosmic triangle at its centre. Scarlett invoked with words of power the Ancient Gods of her people and the truth and beauty of creation.
The great Dragon; curled; entwined ouroboros around the Universe awoke to Scarlett’s call. The energies in a risen formation twisted in tessellated symmetries of psychic rope. Her Third Eye opened: the hot breath of the dragon. Her heart and lungs neatly pumping air, summoned strange atavisms from the primordial energies of the planet. Suddenly, she became aware of the vastness of the cosmic universe to which all heathen belong.
She would be their champion. Her ancestors spoke calling to her at the summit of the sacred Watchtower. Past lives resurged through her; slowly the leagues, psychic rope of her exploration connected to her corporeality. Star-ships of reanimation; symmetries manifested through the printed circuits earthed in the fecund soil of the Holy Mountain.
Her cosmic eye opened her whole being to the influence of trans-plutonic energies. Attempting to breathe; Scarlett could sense the vibrations of the Goddess. The hum of her aura tethered her to the polar-opposites of the Universe: the threads of psyche attached to her-self and craft tightened, she felt reunified. The whole power-zone of Scarlett and her space-capsule began to levitate. A few inches off the ground at first; our heroine initiated herself into the Great Void. Yet entirely substance passing into the infinite; the now fearless warrior reached out with all the fibre of her being to the celestial symmetries of the Cosmos.
Further…Further…Faster…Space-Attack…Aeons spiralling, twisting and tessellating outside the circles of Time. Then past consciousness as we know it; lingering in ancient forms of cosmic communication; Psychic syllables that utilize the call.
And now…For one fantastic lightning bolt moment; she shot through a wormhole in trans-dimensional space. Her whole body and Third Eye wide open. She was travelling without moving through inner-space as much as outer. Her whole being was reunified with the light of truth; which always outshines the light of the Sun. She experienced an ecstatic bliss that knew no boundaries upon all the planes at once. Freedom, knowledge, pleasure and power rushed through her name, her face, her spirit. Scarlett; scoping the eternal seam of silent memory; running roughshod o’er their one god, their phallic temples burned to ashes…
Finally the Thirteen-pointed star of manifestation. The tribes of the Earth Goddess chosen once again: communicating in visions, an eternal dreaming from the Children of Isis far beyond our ken. Inhabiting a Universe that shall rise from the Sun behind our Sun. Correlations of a life that matters… Only to be re-remembered in the righteous deeds of Xi-Warriors upon the edge of Time.

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A ZAUCERFUL OF CHAOS

•October 8, 2018 • Leave a Comment

A distinctive Psychonaut arose to shards of seismic stranger-hood. It begets the eternal seam of silent memory. We journey there, powered by thought. Our sietch protects the rainbow of surreality. Curling ouroboros; wrapped around time. The silently torn images and signs in the street are achieved through not just knowledge, but understanding. Sacred visions now returned to our tribe through a powerful initiation.
The Magus stood a fiery one. Arms utilizing psychic antennae, he embraces the dark-side of the tome. Deep within the inter-dimensionalities of the Artist everything stays the same. For one moment; radiations of stardust sweep through the feathery loop of the nine worlds and arise upon the new golden dawn.
The Chaosphere is the paradigm of life; though none can follow upon the mountain. The temple of the agitant is that which is of our heathen. They have evolved upon psychic wings within representations of supreme bliss. The posture placed as I slight return: travelling without moving, folding through time and space. The relentless becoming; guided by the blazing watchtowers which light our way.
I am threading the yarn through the imprint upon the lens of unrectified night. Together we attune our divinations upon the mostly high communication of silence. We are the brightest backbreaking countenance straddling the Saturnalia. The Void drove the wheel. For the gift of life is a gift of love to the down-lode. I resurge through the essence deep within the infernal thousand feathery eyes.
Towards the arisen phosphorescent worlds, is one’s self “inwardly-pointed,” going back by the Eskimo-chain. The operation is complete with lugubrious possibilities for this cup is served towards you.
Looking upon the opened out Gehenna; transcending through happiness is the slipstream outside the circles. The gilded lemniscuses of an eternal seam catch the emptiness from the mountains of our soul. Upon the apparatus of those honoured amongst ancient lore. Darkly poised, the coming forth of the walled-in suspiration of night took a moment to compose the galaxies of within. My allegiance was shaken to the core; as the winter sun burnt through his-self in oraculations of a wyrding witch-blood countenance.

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Revelations from the flaming shroud are armed only with the desert compass. Thought attack opened his third eye and the stoned steppin’ skull was not the monotheistic god-fodder. She answered the call of blackening sub-bass through the transmission aided by illuminations. It eclipses the void within this tome.
Oaths and omens; ineffable rainbows through which we see through the windows of our soul. Gathering to this our transformative infinities of surreality. Expansive omniprescient guided electrostatic devil beyond. Without is the chaos which cloaked the abyss. I strapped on my time-belt and hit the street; chuggin’ moon…Victorious had come to fast and furiously warrior. Burning within and laid waste to the naysayers.

We hit the wheel; opening and spinning ideas of self. For thread through the tangled mind; accomplished fires of our own true nature are a binary temple. The napalm aftermath past the blissful more we change the colours to the path-direct. Leafing through heathen and earth; we find ourselves upon the mountain and are all at once psychological. “Looking-inwardly,” eyes from behind the worlds. Winding behemoth through woven webs; scoping, juggling the body considered as a whole. She shook beside the skies bluest to come once in my life through the cosmic vigil. For the Saturnalia; together we onslaught, perambulate as Shiva digging the worlds of the unconscious mind. Our purpose is to ride the behemoth of our chiefly circles.
They know the nebula is torn from the seeing. Inwardly eyes-wide online. Through a sleep that is skies screaming through waves of dreamtime; to shine through, around and within transmissions beyond the horizon. She adorned herself within the battle. The heights of our inter-dimensionality are our wyrding burning watcher. This constitutes the hair-through another decade. Weaving traces knead-deep within the hermetic light.
Psychonaut is the Yggdrasil heart of making ziggurats and melting backwards into this tome. It is accomplished through a life based upon reason. Know sanctum and the terrible soul sacrifice. Our own arcana, is the prescience of an undead panic. Even wild Medusa’s beyond the posture process the perambulation inwardly upon all the planes at once.
For the trees are people too. Now flowers ecstatic self-love upon the other-side. Out upon the deadly-dark awakening and holding still, winged and wintery. Tree decomposing this mythopoeic narrative offers guidance with due excitation. Unto the Ground-Zero and build another one.
Shines left-eye through the desert-light of our Sun and furnished through a persistent elsewhere. It is all thought out by our understanding. Towards the cracks betwixt the worlds; cannot banish the nothingness through Time and Space. A flame which burns the fiery aeon beneath the weaponry; refracted through the golden-mean called myself.

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Continue reading ‘A ZAUCERFUL OF CHAOS’

ZONE TRIPPER

•June 14, 2018 • Leave a Comment

 

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Nomad Lady/trippin’ through the desert of a backwater planet: U.V. Goggles and great leap of faith, because everyone deserves their Forty-Days in the Wilderness…She took a chink of thirst-quenching water from her side-saddle and carried on, trekkin’ o’er the Dune, unto the otherside…
She gazed miraculously with disbelief at the sight that awaited her: A gigantic, arachnean wreck of a Star-Killer whose New Wyrd craftsmanship was nothing if not incredulous. The fact that such savage weaponry could actually be seen through her own eyes–blinking mnemonic the Desert-Lady checked her head and slid down the backside of the dune, standing in the thrall of her incredulous discovery…
The spacecraft was vast, and as she kicked the sand-up: trekkin’/skull-fuckin,’ her boot hit something hard like a stone–Desert Nomad/Lady Stardust looked down at the glowing mauve/somewhat akin to an obsidian stone shimmering in reflective patterns from the Sun…She picked up the amulet, buried in the sand, staring at the ornate detail of its otherworldliness.
Desert-Lady/in all the systems studied in the Holo-Library of her sietch, she had never seen an object so empowered and alive–it neatly pulsed in her hand as she entwined the amulet around her fingers…It seemed to convoke to her, answering within body, within soul…
Desert-She received a psychic signal from the amulet and neatly placed the biotech/eskimo-chain around her neck: the whole charmed object glowed ultra-violent around her neck. The power-zone of its faceted–otherworldly dream-stone pulsed in time with her heartbeat; upon the foundations of its arachnean mount, just below the curve of her neck.
The pulse seemed now to be connected to her whole being, energy flowing through her chakra’s–the long projection of the pan-dimensional connection opening her third eye as she transformed her flesh into spirit. Becoming entirely something else…No longer human, her life-force echoed in rose-tinted daisy-chains o’er the unknown megalithic astral trees of trans-plutonian life.
Through these carnage vizors she saw undiscovered country/ galaxies, systems and cosmos through the new gold dawn of her obsidian eyes–Staring into pools of worlds, undiscovered by the peoples of her backwater planet…She at last was becoming the total sum of otherness, an entity/a creature unknown to the day-to-day struggle of her past existence…and the inferno of normality that was humanity.
Telescopically/binaurally–and into the Now…The wreckage of the Spacecraft spoke to her imparting knowledge, magickal omens and the dark portents of its workings and capabilities…It spoke to her in honesty, humility and frank friendship/a biomechanical entity explaining in esoteric codices and opening the ways betwixt herself and the void beyond…

The Desert of Set: Nomad Lady answered the Call, felt the connection between herself, the amulet, her new Star-Ship and the unknown…For one moment everything seemed aaoratically connected: she walked, sensing her new self and sensorium, deep within the occult extra-terrestrial connections of her new transformation.
The Craft, though damaged was still beating with the drumming, pulsing heartbeat that shone, symbiont within herself –Like the invocation of a wizened god: a hatched, creaking door in the base of the hull opened, as the battle-drums of her intuition led her up the dark serpentine that made up the gangway and into the awaiting Star.
…Once aboard, Scarlett adjusted her carnage vizors to the darkness, the aperture of her eyes to the cold, dark, vacuity of the craft. Slowly…The awaiting magnetic fields connecting telepathically to the layers of armoury: running, scopin,’skull-fuckin’ through the connectivity of her heartwork/Amulet and Xyber-tronix.
As She walked around the Star-Ship…’twas like a pre-cognitive deja-vu…Scarlett seemed to naturally know and appreciate every aspect of the Craft: the psychic link between herself and the otherworldly entity that had split through a crack betwixt the worlds/the corridor in Time and relative dimensions in Space gifted Her-Self with so much unearthly knowledge, freedom, pleasure and power…
She had been transported pan-dimensionally within slayerologies of unsurmountable significance. The Desert-Lady felt “brand-new”: reborn, sensing the Star behind the Sun, behind our Son, from whence the Star-Ship had come from…As She felt newly rejuvenated…The alienist contained in the talisman, neatly pumping trans-plutonic energies through her heartbeat, intoxicating her whole body with the higher purpose of a Time Traveller.
If it wasn’t for her humility, Scarlett/for that was her human name to which she still responded–could have become quite drunk with the power of her assimilation and the wisdom of the energies of the Ancient Race which now coursed relentlessly through her willowy figure…
Thankfully the sheer heaviness of the things that occurred To-day kept her grounded. The faveolated soul of her true self, her rationality, the realization that she was still on her home planet i.e. Earth and gifted with a way out/thought to herself, “this is not how I thought today would turn out.” The extra-terrestrial entity, her daimon complied within her-self and sayeth to her body considered as a whole, “You have been chosen–Again”…

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DESERT COMPASS(Lazer-Gun Phoenix)

•April 17, 2017 • 1 Comment

 

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Friday 21st April 2017 see’s the worldwide I-Tunes download release of the first mini-album from Doncaster based Avant-Garde/Electronica collective EMPTY SUN.

The e.p. released on IN AT THE EYE RECORDS, see’s the mainstay of the collective James Phaily (Doncaster) and Graeme Rowland (Berlin) along with the help of the e.p.’s producer and Managing Director of www.iaterecords.com Jase Burns(Doncaster) melding together an eclectic mix of drone, cyberpunk, industrial, shoegaze, kraut-rock and avant-garde poetry to form an occult/science-fiction epic.

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The e.p. DESERT COMPASS (Lazer-Gun Phoenix) is an experiment in “process” which began many years ago with Graeme and James jamming with each other and making a selection of Four-Track recordings under the name SUNDOWNER.

With James’ Fine Art and performance/spoken word background he created a series of cut-up poems based upon the occult mythopoeia of his familiar self. Graeme then read these and created a series of Ambient/Drone recordings based on his collective musical inspirations and creativity. Graeme’s response was largely based upon the immediacy of the equipment he could get his hands on in Berlin.

Once Graeme’s recordings were sent from Berlin and downloaded, James edited them into six very basic tracks and jammed them out tentatively before taking them to Supanova Studios in Armthorpe/Doncaster.

At Supanova Studios between August 2016 and January 2017, James and Jase worked on the tracks, skilfully layering vocals and a cornucopia of sounds, to transform the bare bones of the spoken-word and the drone triumphant into a concept mini-album that I’m sure you will agree is “entirely something else.”

The album is available through a worldwide download on I-Tunes from the 21st April 2017 and is marked by a celebratory gig at Supanova Studios/Doncaster on the evening of the e.p’s release.

HERE’S THE LINK TO THE DOWNLOAD: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/album/desert-compass/id1229915814

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www.facebook.com/emptysun777

www.jamesphaily.wordpress.com

www.iaterecords.com

www.supanovastudios.com

 

 

 

SLAYEROLOGY 111.

•February 9, 2017 • Leave a Comment

 

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(i)

 

It is a blackening. Infernal-S/He out of the deep the scribe looking-inwardly above the legion of our Heathen-                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Heathen Caravan…

 

Burning through an inherent “this-ness,” unleashing an almighty resurgence, Maati of the Lady/Queen God/dess to know myself not?

 

Within is the countenance of the Psychonaut. Of the inner-space worlds, relentless and becoming forever, the aeon; in terms of guidance our sietch is eternal?

 

Outside/back-through…leaving a trace enthroned and ‘I’ am the going. Here, precious to the ONE. The thoughts of Mary-Jayne, inwardly-spaced and summoning all her strength shining into the Supra-Kiaoetic.

 

‘I’ forever know myself-not. Fore! Embark upon New-Wyrding/abilities

O’er the aaoratic in a blissful utilization towards a New World Order. Threading the yarn through the legerdemain realm of “not-is,” to know when someone burns the fuck outta tremendous. A deathlike silence, for surreality…

 

Opening…Take ME one-pointed and with the accompanying insane blasphemy ride upon the Simurgh/Metatron, sucking the marrow out of bones and the painterly. Unsummoned/towards the fantastic boots that walk…

 

Adoratory Moon answers. We are of her high countenance and the Legends of the Heathen; or the dream, effigies of the Aeon. That is, the Apparatus/Earthbound Tree. From within is above all…the shining of these our Shiva/Shakti perambulations.

 

The Heathenist of Bells is an incorrigible and insane Behemoth; a-mass with blood and the feathery soaring-spokes o’er mine ‘I’-aetheric…fade-out…

 

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(ii)

 

It is the opening of the ways in/two and unsummoned. Becoming our Shining-Hour to whom the liking, through Mice-Elf. Within the ‘I’ of Thoth-am our skry.

 

Through the “know myself not” and to remain dragging our spent aeons. Then resurge through ME…inwardly, (God-Fodder) “as-now.”

 

Across the Abyss, it is a Wolf-Flow-Drop. The crucifixation of her countenance; all Godspeed are becomingly concerned by the Maatic crystallization o’er…through watery fears. Complete and running from: yet intuitive, arachnean and always crawling. Out on the pending (w) holes in the fabric of Time-iada/ ‘I’-blackout…

 

 

(iii)

 

Alight “as-now,” the re-mastered God/dess curling ouroboros through this love of my life. A-cross even though inwardly: Pennae Agi-Prop is the supreme-bluest, (after another manner) flies; the spiralling/unwinding –‘I’ and all come, magnified through Andromache.

 

Nu-looping through the thought/memory-slipstream, through Nine Different-Worlds, their eyes, jus’ a hop…‘tis a-mythopoeia…

 

This gilded infinity is a conjunction: the Super-Coven and strip, bones: out upon our feed, within powerful echelons, lent by the Therion, crawling, Qoph vel HEKT and “fuck-around.” Tia-Maat shod o’er the blood and the wounded God/dess watching the skies.

 

Through her “this-ness,” ’tis accomplished through one’s inner-vision. “There is no such thing as fearless pleasure?” Chainsaws by the aeonics of a thousand: positronic, triptych bliss, (CPU) through the lens of unrectified night, apparatus beyond the final affinity.

 

A scout in the city tonight: betwixt the mythopoeic-slipstream, ablaze…“fuckin’ me dead,” running …from the fire that they; incandescence. “Stood-still,” or my veritable Upanishad-Infinitum, revolving resolutely around: the Lord of this World?

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(iv)

 

Tank-Hierophant knew the Chao-Metatron: you can read, “clippity-clop,” have the OM/unchained and your illustrious temple, here. Industrial-strength “within mine-‘I’ are this time of “now,” kaleidoscopic aside.

 

Turnabout through self-love, ‘tis a becoming, the penitent touch the island within. Past: from positive/amoral/passionate. This surreality is a Secret-Spool louder/heart-beat being the ONE/Life-Force o’er TimEmit regarding the current stasis of the Chaosphere. Riding the Shark of my Kiaoetic desire…

 

Compass is my very own rainbow. Rifling through the endless/gateways…so it beckons and ‘I’ turnabout, dancing widdershins. ‘I’ am relentless, inquiring tirelessly and into the roaming secrets of the besom-handle?

 

Through the cavernous shining, the Sub-Bass valley that cloaks the abyss “quid pro quo,” Two-souls-in-ONE Temple, initiates “going,” within realms of OD and OB.

 

Ride…God/dess within my view; it is the kindling fire of my blazing abundance. All: they, from the fire, that’s ignition.

 

Smell the colours; faveolated, like a book of oracular-visions. A feathery-thousand and banish. The “shine,” have long razored the future and like the Heathen never discarding our X-Roads/’tis a Promethea. Thought? Our “very-own” light and the re-remembrance “of a daemon in my view.”

 

Now for surreality: slaying the Gods, taste the morae-plane and see trails/aeons of “non-mobile becoming,” running from the fire that feed.

 

We hit Maximum-Volume and aeon through Jodorowsky’s Dune. Above this Tale is the Alchymical distillation of The Peacock…eyes spiralling and unwinding beneath loathsome-skies. Blazing like oracular-flowers…

(v)

 

Moon-Wrack through the standing aeon; the unsummoned Nebula@ Darkly-Noon: “this-ness” our sietch, ‘tis a conjunction, through thoughts of Self-Love within Artist/Magickian countenance-Atu ONE.

 

Through contained energies waiting for release, its very nature an endaemonism powered through heartbeats. Feeling “colder,” up through the Silver-Dusk, laughing as dreams made flesh throughout the aeon beyond. We awaken this “need for not,” a serpentine; breathing apparatus and oxygen enormon?

 

The Penitent-Agitant; relentlessly becoming the Shining Hour/a tremendous resurgence through the inherent light of truth ouroboros “as-if’s” itself “as-now,” returning to claim my land. Cloven, roughshod, and cleft in twain, casting the funambulatory way upon the ONE.

 

Upanishad lands throughout…skrying through the ‘I’am@ ensnaring Metals. A trafficking resurgence of Lord Pashupati roughshod o’er…the saucerful attacks, gazing upon the fantastic Hoor-izon

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Invocation:

•October 23, 2016 • Leave a Comment

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I, silent-inner-space Loki Skywalker: It is hear I make my stance…a polemic weaving its wyrding witch-blood countenance from behind the driving scenae of my alchemic blackening…

Out of the deep I tirelessly seek in elsewhere dissolution, extrication and beyond duality: We are breaking dawn in the annihilation of the way. Infernally ablaze with all that should not be…

I transcend duality, slaying godhead within the unfettered primordial darkness of my warrior soul: It is within the nature of this “process,” that I adroitly gather experience in the name of behemoth and genuflect in the throne-room of the most ancient one. In through the astral forest above the sky…

Blackout!

 

I re-awaken far beyond the valley that is within the “me” of her belonging: Blessed realm of the ensorcellor-Atu One!

As I regain consciousness, limber up and with one-pointed ecstoical purpose find myself going back through night and tirelessly foraging in the hundred-handed…third eye ablaze!

I am re-born and chosen, once again binding our seven souls to the kindling fire of our very own: Truth in  nature…

The inner-space metamorphosis of those whom apparition…strands gathering together, heralding a deic invitation to eternal anti-systems relocated at the nigredo-solis of death and dissolution…

The eye of man is set ablaze and the luminescent cadence of this blazing oracular flower is projected onto the hand of the magickian/artist: Atu One…

I utilize the call, bracing the immediacy with painterly omens and portents arisen in the aethered thousand eyes of my sphinx catacomb: I form anew through the nine circles of the nuclear winter…of all whom approach shall be a most definite saturnalia…

Meanwhile…

The divine countenance of the thought winged stench: Rotting flesh carries us to a fecund scene wherein the monolith of amplifier worship exist in the luminescence of consciousness projected. A Pop-projection: A regression of the electrostatic: hotwire, complete with magickal “import”…

Persistence of vision tears aside the silent veil and the heightened atmosphere reaches amoral pandaemonium…Our rotting corporeality fucks the seven winds as I hang between the worlds…

The retching stench of my rotting spectral luminescence hangs within the cracks; the arterial bleeds…the seven angels of our shedding skin cascade in odaenism’s of sacrificial inner-vision…

My heathen purpose rip and rend creating annihilations of death and dissolution: It is the “black earth” I reassemble as I enunciate this death posture stasis:

Take tooth and claw and make root…

The qlipothic waters are the absence of my left eye?

 

The fecund mandragoria of my poesis aesthetically carved from Sumerian haze and malefic import.

 

Elsewhere…

Our nascent starlit skywalk adeptly receiveth me: I reconcile multi-dimensional polarities, an al-chemical gestation through familiar pleasure…eternally dreaming, taken by an eternal re-rememberance of lycanthropic fullness and one hundred feathered thousand earth-flights…arisen from behind the light…

A thought…the properties of the astral twin above the sky are an exacting nuance of its opaque reflection?

A starlit everlasting night is ours to behold and has yet to surrender: It somehow carved its aspect into an illuminating singularity, creating a prescience of time and space beyond the ken of the “mundane hustle”…

The aesthetic nature of this night-side eclipse is a (re)generative, radioactive (astral) ritual of self-love located on the seventh wind of the Sumerian tradition: The emanations of these primal alchemical energies have at its nexus the eye of the void…

I create form through the alembic that has reified our shamanic playground: “For the one,” before genetics “kick-in,” transmutes a “know myself not” dream-weave of feather and scale, earth and sky…

A psychonaut draped in the flickering invocatory shroud, resurging through: A phoenix committal of the “final resting place,” to solid-black amplifier worship…

Through earth and sky I project the polemic, soil of the nigredo saturated by the waters of alchemic creation…

I hurl myself out of the window…

The ever open door razor’s a smokeless fire, reconfiguring as a chthonic uprising which stem from the arcane answer?

In a parallel universe I stand on the liminal bridge of my surroundings and project my cosmic apparition far beyond…

I unlock the word-hoard aesthetic: Steppin’ outside the circles of time, pass(ed) prescient future-daze and the day-lit (un)dead zombie hunger which men miscall their lives…

I resurge through a most ancient astral communication: Transmitting a kindling unfettered forever…I remain, yours truly: The pan-theurgist, varg-ridin’ shape-shifter of a thousand skies…

I stand, seismically shifting the astral mind-forest above the sky: The blood of the heathen locked-in: Dimensional un-summoned entities channel a risen nomadic form that doth commit psychological slaughter and shatters both the “medicine hat” and the wizened “mask of death.” It fix my unicorn sojourn in the stoner abyss-‘cos trees are people too…

Lucifer-Rising

 

Portrait of the Artist:as a Magickian…

•October 23, 2016 • 1 Comment

My journey into esoteric/occult and magickal matters began like most outsider-teenagers began with a fascination for all things satanic. I listened to a lot of underground heavy-metal Death/Black/Doom/Drone and also enjoyed my fair share of horror movies. In fact anything with Peter Cushing or Vincent Price, The Evil Dead Trilogy, The Exorcist, American Werewolf in London, the list goes on…

In terms of reference to occult artists and writers, a lot these were sourced because of the lyrics of Carl McCoy and his outfit Fields of the Nephilim. My friends and I were also listening to Death and Grind-Metal bands like Deicide/Cannibal Corpse/Napalm Death/Entombed and Doom-Metal bands like Pentagram/Saint Vitus/Electric Wizard and of course Black Sabbath.

frontispiece

The magickal book (grimmoire) I read first was Anton Lavey’s “The Satanic Bible,” its not actually a bad read as far as entry-level (101) stuff goes. After diggin’ around on the internet it began to be made clear to me that the “black pope,” was not highly regarded in occult-circles and his particular brand of occultism was seen as “Hollywood Satanism.” However Lavey is interesting as an entity, by proxy the “Church of Satan” and its more adept offshoot the “Temple of Set,” but I moved on…

I began by reading an Aleister Crowley biography called “A Magickal Life,” his novel “Moonchild” and the few books I could find in the local library. However the first grimmoire to really resonate with me on an altruistic level was Peter J. Carroll’s “Liber Null and Psychonaut,”[1] which is basically an introduction to Chaos Magick.

Chaos Magick meant and still does mean a lot to me. It opened doorways into many dimensions and trains of thought, reading Carroll’s book now, over a decade later activates an even more subtle set of correspondences based on further study of the occult-arts and the pathways I have sometimes precariously tightrope-walked.

Reading Liber Null/Psychonaut and its companion volume Liber Kaos[2] led me to perhaps the most important occult influence of my life, the Artist/Mage Austin Osman Spare (1886-1956).

After researching a little bit online and being impressed with what I read, I purchased an illustrated-copy of his collected works, (ETHOS)[3] which contained his groundbreaking grimmoire “The Book of Pleasure” (1913).

http://jerusalempress.co.uk/?page_id=22

A book like AOS’ “book of pleasure,” fair boggles the brain no matter how many times you read it. However, if you treat such esotericism like a Taoist text and work at its often-cryptic, inner-meanings, the ethos of the conjunction between word and illustration?

The result is arguably an ecstatic, individuated, eldritch aestheticism.

Also Spare’s “anti-system” of Zos/Kia really does work, maybe not at first…but after a reasonable development of application and (penitent/ agi-prop,) effort and will, Spare’s sorcery, techniques and magickal paradigms do work and cause a transformation that can only be described as “supreme-bliss,” through “self-love.”

One of the key, early influences i.e. chucking myself out of the window and into the realm of the artist/magickian was Spare’s piece on automatic drawing-“as a means to art.” Tentatively I began scribbling/writing and visualizing and in some-ways by slow, incremental steps, created my very-own enchanted world-my resurrectory soul asylum.

psychonaut3

I’d been playing bass in bands for a few years, four outfits-Sundowner, (‘99-’00) So Mortal Be[4], (’03-’06) GNOD, (’07-’08) Cosmic Funeral[5] (’08-’12): mainly doom-bands along Black Sabbath parameters. All these bands were trying to get to grips with the nuances of a distinctive heaviness that was down-tuned and bluesy, yet ethereal and life-affirming.

https://doomanoidrecords.bandcamp.com/album/initiation-into-nothingness

My first foray into spoken word was initiated by Manchester Space-Rock collective GNOD and the first gig I did with them at “The Phoenix” was one of the most enjoyable and mind-blowing experiences of my life.

GNOD essentially invited musicians of all abilities, walks of life and skill-set to perform, as a “collective,” including myself. I’d started writing and had three or four pieces of varying length which I dipped into, whilst all of us attacked spontaneously and intuitively over a half-hour set. The recording was released as Lord Fears Dream[6] and is still available to listen to on YouTube.

As I developed my writing, drawing, painting and spoken-word skills I began to read even more voraciously and initiate myself deeper and further into the occult mysteries.

It was through Robert Ansell and Gavin Semple’s FULGUR LIMITED[7] that I came into contact with the work of Kenneth and Steffi Grant, initially through Zos Speaks![8] A memoir of their close-association with AOS in the last decade of his life and including the final logomachy and grimmoire’s of AOS.

Later I read Mr. Grant’s essential “Images and Oracles of Austin Osman Spare[9],” (Fulgur, 2003) which eventually led to the Carfax Monographs-published by FULGUR as Hidden Lore/Hermetic Glyphs[10]. Later their came the last bastion of my occult learning and newly published by Michael Staley’s STARFIRE PUBLISHING[11], Kenneth Grant’s Typhonian Trilogies.

The Typhonian Trilogies are comprised of three-trilogies, chiefly dealing with the evolution of occult traditions since arcane/draconian times. Perhaps more importantly is their relevance to-day. Aleister Crowley’s system of Thelema, Yogic-Mysticism, Spare and Grant’s Zos Kia Cultus, the Ophidian-Current, theosophism/spiritualism Michael Bertiaux’s Black-Snake Cult and much more besides, all is lucidly explained within these marvellous tomes …

Writer Alan Moore terms the Typhonian Trilogies as being “as mystifying as a squid in a cocktail dress” and although quite blunt and expansive, the trilogies more than have their place in any serious occult library.

Whilst in the final year of my B.A and ensuing Masters, things seemed to be…at last conjoined, regarding the art I was making and the literature I was reading. I read anything by William S. Burroughs and count his “Cities of the Red Night”[12] (1981) as not only his best book but arguably the best work of fiction I have ever read.

I also developed a distinct appreciation for the inter-library loan system operating at the University of Lincoln, allowing me to read rarer stuff by Burroughs and the Typhonian Trilogies which at that time, (as far as I knew) were out of print.

I also got really into Kenneth Anger’s Magick Lantern Cycle. The deep-love I have for the final film in the cycle “Lucifer Rising,”[13] in conjunction with all things Burroughs, led me to the artistic/aesthetic concept of “mythopoeia.” Therein artefacts of what writer Alan Moore in the “razor-sharp firestorm,” treatise “Fossil Angels,”[14] would call “good but not-great art.” That which contains auteuristic tracts and narratives of personal, social, cultural and historical mythologies became the focus of my practice.

In 2012 after reading his graphic-grimmoire Coagula (part of the Tela Quadrivium) published by FULGUR and comprising of Conjunctio, Solve et Coagula and Distillatio, I met the Artist/Magickian Orryelle Defenestrate-Bascule.[15]

Orryelle most graciously offered me the chance to rejuvenate and get back on the spoken-word ladder after a long hiatus/coma.

Orryelle was also very kind about my painting and drawing ideas, my interest in the occult and nascent forays into experimental film, performance and the arc (and cadences) of sound, I wanted to evoke through my recording.

In the summer of 2014 I put on a gig for Orryelle and myself in Lincoln (where I was studying at the time) and it was a success, with some room for improvement. I also appeared at the “Sonics of Magick” event at the FUSE artspace in Bradford and managed to get a half-decent recording of my performance which I used in a subsequent film.[16]

So I began to collage all the elements of my cultural mythos, cut-up poems, sentient images and my honed-up esoteric style of automatism/drawing and painting. Slowly I began to put the pages (quite large 2m x 2m) of my own mystical, mythical, graphic-grimmoire.

For these I sourced science-fiction, comics, album-art, atavistic-nostalgia from my past, underground-art/film/music…although cathartic and successful on certain levels, i.e. it was great to get my nascent ideas out there…the “flicker” film I made from a large quantity of stills I took of these mythopoeic pages turned out to be a small-dot on the astral-landscape of the visions that were hard-wired to my brain.[17]

So I reconfigured and over the past two-years since completing my Master’s, after a slow-start and cleaning myself-up, I began to write, draw and paint-steadily.

I’ve had a collaborative fine-art exhibition in the gallery above one of my local pubs, am about halfway through an illustrated (cut-up) mythopoeic novel. I also write for a local arts and culture magazine based in Doncaster (my hometown).

I am creatively self-willed, amphetamine-free (at last) and have made a series of ambient/drone recordings which hopefully will turn into an album…I read. Collect books and vinyl voraciously, like a “jazz” cigarette, a pint and am addicted to British Comic 2000ad…[18]

psychonaut4slightreturn

[1] Carroll P.J,1987, Liber Null and Psychonaut. Boston, Red Wheel/Weiser

[2] Carroll P.J,1992, Liber Kaos, Boston, MA, Red Wheel/Weiser

[3] Spare A.O, 2001 ETHOS, Thame, England, I-H-O Books

[4]  https://doomanoidrecords.bandcamp.com/album/initiation-into-nothingness

[5]  https://soundcloud.com/james-sheer-phaily/carpathia777

[6]  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArdyJhEUPrg

[7]  https://fulgur.co.uk/

[8] Grant K. and S,1998, Zos Speaks! Encounters with Austin Osman Spare, London, Fulgur Limited.

[9] Grant K,  2003, Images and Oracles of Austin Osman Spare, London, Fulgur Limited.

[10] Grant K,  2006 Hidden Lore/Hermetic Glyphs, London, Fulgur Limited.

[11] http://www.starfirepublishing.co.uk/

[12]Burroughs,W.S.1981,Cities of the Red Night,St.Ives, Penguin Classics(2010),

[13] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWYr72xlQIQ

[14] Moore, A. Summer Solstice 2011,Fossil Angels/Abraxas, International Journal of Esoteric Studies, Fulgur Limited, p.182-195

[15]http://www.crossroads.wild.net.au/bio.htm

[16] https://soundcloud.com/james-sheer-phaily/deux-ex-macnina-fifteen

[17] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_aocT9__qo

[18] http://www.2000adonline.com/