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RICH BLOODSTREAMS
THE DAY SYPHONED
FETTERED THROUGHOUT
SCORCHED DIAGONAL,
INVERSE, ROYAL
PENTAGRAM CROSSINGS
TITHING UPON THE RAIN;
TITHING AS A FRAGILE
INCANTATION; A TRANSFIXED
FIGURE-EIGHT. .
ALAS, THE SOLEMN SEA
TREMBLING; STATIONARY ABOVE
THE ABSINTHE PLAT FORMED
SHIP, GLARING IN PEWTER.
GUN METAL BLUE RIMBAUD
CHOPPED PASSENGERS,
BROKEN, TREASON LEGS.
ONLY A MAN STRANGLED,
SUFFOCATED, SPEWING BLOOD…
VOMITING CHARCOAL COULD
SEE HER.
A ROMANI HARPSICHORD,
THE MAIDEN VESSEL
THE MIDDLE AGED , DEAN APPEARED HANDSOME IN HIS WORLD WAR I NAVY PEA-COAT, WALKING BOTH CREST-FALLEN AND ALOOF; IN AN UNAFFECTED MANNER THROUGH THE EMERALD ISLE OF CITY HALL, SAN FRANCISCO.
HIS TRUE NORTH DUBLIN
THEN A MORE SOLDIERED FRANTIC UNIFORMED PACE TO O’FARRELL STREET.
NOW A CORNUCOPIA OF VICES LAY STOCK-PILED IN HIS STUDIO, THE TRINITY BUILDING, THIRD FLOOR.
DAZZLING LESLEY ; SAT BY THE LINUX MINT DESKTOP WRITING HER EDITOR .
“UNE’ ABSINTHE?” DEAN INQUIRED CHERUB LIKE.
“OH MY DEAR PUTRID SAINT. YOU SMELL OF PISS AND SEMEN; AND HONESTLY 6TH STREET FREE-BASE, AND NOW YOU HAVE BECOME A HEROIC NAVAL OFFICER!
AN ABSINTHE FOR MY YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN PORT!”
THEY EMBRACED TIGHTLY IN A PLATONIC PARTNERSHIP, BONDED, CLOSENESS.
THE WANDERLUST WAS DISMEMBERING DEAN EVERY MILLISECOND.
DEAN PREPARES TWO ABSINTHES WITH A CAPTAIN’S PRECISION. LESLEY IS STILL AT THE MINT DESKTOP, PECKING AWAY AT 65 WORDS PER MINUTE. THEY SIP AT THEIR ABSINTHE SLOWLY, SAVOURING THE ORGASMIC THUJONE, DISTILLED BY HAND FROM OAKLAND.
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—– I DON’T KNOW ABOUT SURRAH. WHEN SHE WEARS THAT SNAKE BEHIND THE BAR WHILE WEARING LEATHER PANTS, FUCK. SHE’S THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. DEAN’S CONFIDENCE WAS WITHERING LIKE A WHISPERED, WHITE, FROZEN POINSETTIA.
LESLEY RADIATED WARMNESS, A HARDBALL EMPATH AND SPOKE, A BIT CHEEKY, BUT WITHOUT THE LONGING OF BOILING CONDESCENSION .
—– D-E-A-N BEGAN LESLEY IN A SLOW PITCHED SOLEMN DELIBERATE QUANTUM GRAMMAR—– THIS IS WHAT MATTERS; THE ONLY THING.
TRULY.
AS YOU LAY
A FADING PATTY: SEASIDE
THE SEISMIC WAVES, BECKONING.
CRUSHING YOU,
OBLITERATING YOUR TRACHEA.
YOUR LOGGED COLLAPSED LUNGS
CLASPING, CLASPING FOR ONE BREATH…
THEN MY DEAR SIR, THEN LAD….
THEN, MY YOUNG MAN
THEN YOU ARE CLEAR.
SHUT YOUR EYES WHAT DO YOU SEE?
—– I SEE HER! I SEE SURRAH.
IN AN EMBER KALEIDOSCOPE ADORNMENT,
MY GYRATING, FIXATING SIREN.
MY VALOUR.
MY SINGE TIPPED CHARLEMAGNE AS JOAN OF ARC
—–YOU FIB YOUNG MAN! SHE LAUGHED, GIGGLING GRACEFULLY HER TONALITY ABOVE GOOSE DOWN DUVETS.
DEAN SIGHED LOUDLY, LIKE HE HAD JUST LOST A HANDBALL TOURNAMENT AND HIS SEED HAD BEEN DEMOTED. HE DEMANDED MORE COCAINE.
—– YOUR EYE IS TWITCHING AND YOU WANT MORE? WELL; HELP YOURSELF.
ANOTHER COUPLET OF RAILS FOR DEAN, AND NOW REALITY BECOMING ONLY, A VASELINE, MONOCHROME, MURMUR.
—– NOW WHAT DO YOU SEE?
—– I SEE ONLY SHADOWS IN PURE BLACKNESS.
—–ARE YOU CLEAR?
DEAN SLAPS HIS FACE, AND THEN AGAIN WITH MORE FORGED, TEMPERED AGILITY.
—–I SEE THE WORDS DANCING IN SEQUINNED GLITTERED,
TRIGGER CUT, ETCHED AUTONOMY. NONE OF THE WOMEN ARE THEIR, JUST A WORDSMITH’S DANCING JIGSAW PUZZLE IN SPLINTERING REVOLT.
LESLEY FINALLY UNDERSTOOD HIM.
—–AGAIN! WHAT IS LEFT OF YOUR BLUE HAIRED SIAMESE, SUCCUBI, POLYDACTYL, SPADED ICE QUEEN DILETTANTES.
YOUR HIPSTER, SHOE-WHORE, ANGEL-HEADED HERETICS NOW?
NOW? NOW! NONE. BAH. YOU AND YOUR CHICKEN SHIT INEPTITUDE.
MAY SAINT FRANCIS DE SALES HAVE MERCY ON YOU SLUGGER.
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HE WAS….
HE WAS…THE DAY SYPHONED
FETTERED THROUGHOUT
SCORCHED DIAGONAL,
INVERSE, ROYAL
PENTAGRAM CROSSINGS
TITHING UPON THE RAIN;
TITHING AS A FRAGILE
INCANTATION; A TRANSFIXED
FIGURE-EIGHT.
ALAS, THE SOLEMN SEA
TREMBLING; STATIONARY ABOVE
THE ABSINTHE PLAT FORMED
SHIP, GLARING IN PEWTER.
GUN METAL BLUE RIMBAUD
CHOPPED PASSENGERS,
BROKEN, TREASON LEGS.
ONLY A MAN STRANGLED,
SUFFOCATED, SPEWING BLOOD…
VOMITING CHARCOAL COULD
SEE HER.
A ROMANI HARPSICHORD,
THE MAIDEN VESSEL
THE MIDDLE AGED , DEAN APPEARED HANDSOME IN HIS WORLD WAR I NAVY PEA-COAT, WALKING BOTH CREST-FALLEN AND ALOOF; IN AN UNAFFECTED MANNER THROUGH THE EMERALD ISLE OF CITY HALL, SAN FRANCISCO.
HIS TRUE NORTH DUBLIN
THEN A MORE SOLDIERED FRANTIC UNIFORMED PACE TO O’FARRELL STREET.
NOW A CORNUCOPIA OF VICES LAY STOCK-PILED IN HIS STUDIO, THE TRINITY BUILDING, THIRD FLOOR.
DAZZLING LESLEY ; SAT BY THE LINUX MINT DESKTOP WRITING HER EDITOR .
“UNE’ ABSINTHE?” DEAN INQUIRED CHERUB LIKE.
“OH MY DEAR PUTRID SAINT. YOU SMELL OF PISS AND SEMEN; AND HONESTLY 6TH STREET FREE-BASE, AND NOW YOU HAVE BECOME A HEROIC NAVAL OFFICER!
AN ABSINTHE FOR MY YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN PORT!”
THEY EMBRACED TIGHTLY IN A PLATONIC PARTNERSHIP, BONDED, CLOSENESS.
THE WANDERLUST WAS DISMEMBERING DEAN EVERY MILLISECOND.
DEAN PREPARES TWO ABSINTHES WITH A CAPTAIN’S PRECISION.
LESLEY IS STILL AT THE MINT DESKTOP, PECKING AWAY AT 65 WORDS PER MINUTE. THEY SIP AT THEIR ABSINTHE SLOWLY, SAVOURING THE ORGASMIC THUJONE, DISTILLED BY HAND FROM OAKLAND.
————————————————————————————————————————
—– I DON’T KNOW ABOUT SURRAH. WHEN SHE WEARS THAT SNAKE BEHIND THE BAR WHILE WEARING LEATHER PANTS, FUCK. SHE’S THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. DEAN’S CONFIDENCE WAS WITHERING LIKE A WHISPERED, WHITE, FROZEN POINSETTIA.
LESLEY RADIATED WARMNESS, A HARDBALL EMPATH AND SPOKE, A BIT CHEEKY, BUT WITHOUT THE LONGING OF BOILING CONDESCENSION .
—– D-E-A-N BEGAN LESLEY IN A SLOW PITCHED SOLEMN DELIBERATE QUANTUM GRAMMAR—– THIS IS WHAT MATTERS; THE ONLY THING.
TRULY.
AS YOU LAY
A FADING PATTY: SEASIDE
THE SEISMIC WAVES, BECKONING.
CRUSHING YOU,
OBLITERATING YOUR TRACHEA.
YOUR LOGGED COLLAPSED LUNGS
CLASPING, CLASPING FOR ONE BREATH…
THEN MY DEAR SIR, THEN LAD….
THEN, MY YOUNG MAN
THEN YOU ARE CLEAR.
SHUT YOUR EYES WHAT DO YOU SEE?
—– I SEE HER! I SEE SURRAH.
IN AN EMBER KALEIDOSCOPE ADORNMENT,
MY GYRATING, FIXATING SIREN.
MY VALOUR.
MY SINGE TIPPED CHARLEMAGNE AS JOAN OF ARC
—–YOU FIB YOUNG MAN! SHE LAUGHED, GIGGLING GRACEFULLY HER TONALITY ABOVE GOOSE DOWN DUVETS.
DEAN SIGHED LOUDLY, LIKE HE HAD JUST LOST A HANDBALL TOURNAMENT AND HIS SEED HAD BEEN DEMOTED. HE DEMANDED MORE COCAINE.
—– YOUR EYE IS TWITCHING AND YOU WANT MORE? WELL; HELP YOURSELF.
ANOTHER COUPLET OF RAILS FOR DEAN, AND NOW REALITY BECOMING ONLY, A VASELINE, MONOCHROME, MURMUR.
—– NOW WHAT DO YOU SEE?
—– I SEE ONLY SHADOWS IN PURE BLACKNESS.
HE SUDDENLY WOKE UP AT THE BAR STOOL,
NOW FULLY CONSCIOUS AGAIN NOW,
AND SURRAH WAS BESIDE HIM NOW BEHIND THE BAR; AND NOW THE EXOSKELETON OF TOXIC MASCULINITY SHED AND HE WAS NOW A CHILD . SOMEWHERE BETWEEN FRANCISCAN CANDYLAND, AND SURRAH WAS HIS STEEPLE, HIS CRUCIFIX, MOSQUE, AND GRACE CATHEDRAL PARK
IN SCISSORED DIATRIBE.
HE KISSED HER CHEEK SOFTLY AND HER SKIN TASTED LIKE CHRISTMAS.
—–ARE YOU OKAY YOUNG MAN?
—– CURED, HE SAID IN EVEN CHARM.
THEY KISSED AGAIN SLOWLY, HIS HOLLOW DETACHMENT RETURNED IN A PRISMATIC FLASH. THE BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE WERE PERFORMING ON THE SMALL STAGE. THE MUSIC MESMERIZING, AND AGAIN FORGETTING ABOUT SURRAH. HE NOW FELT NOTHING BESIDES TONGUE FUCKING A FORMER DIOR MODEL, ANOTHER ACTRESS, FOR HER JUST A REVOLVING STAGE, BUT NOT LOVE.
DEAN SUCKED ON HER NECK LIKE A BOILING OSCAR STATUE, HIS PUPIL’S LOOKED LIKE POPEYE’S. NOW; THE ONLY PLEASURE WAS CRIMSON SPRAYED BLOODLETTING. HE WENT OUTSIDE AND LIT A BLUNT. DEAN WAS TRYING TO SYPHON DOWN THE BLOOD LUST DOWN A DEGREE, OR NINE.
————————————————————————————————————————
HER HAIR NOW MATTED, SUNKEN WITH BLOOD AND CUM, CHEEKBONES WIDENED AND BRUISED LEGS THINLY SLASHED, A PASSED PIECE OF SCRIMSHAW. IVORY BRONZE: BENONI, SOUTH AFRICA CHETTLE. PISSING ALL OVER HER HALF ALIVE TURNING CORPSE. NEW SKIN FOR THE OLDEST RITUAL, HE WHISPERED, BUT ONLY TO HIMSELF. TO DEAN LIFE AND ETERNITY MEANT NOTHING. THE WORLD A FEAST, OR FAMINE. SPORT FUCKING MEMENTO. ANOTHER SOUVENIR.
THE SEASONED GUILLOTINE:
A UTILITY RAZOR BLADE OF CASTE AND CLASS TO CUT AGAIN.
The Deacon’s Diagonal Crossings
(Evansville, Indiana–November 2024)
He prayed there on the hard plastered linoleum Hospital floor. Thinking like a renewed, restored, Anglican somewhere between faith and coronary sacrilege of cast off studied, stern succubi, sacrificial daughters. He thought of dancing and singing, and also methamphetamine; digital sensors and smoke, smoke, smoke. O’ Holy cigarettes.
Again, Dear Reader: He prayed making a dozen signs of the Cross like a caustic mad invalid purposely belonging in this gentle beige purgatory of a hospital. Still a Catholic, amongst the working poor who had just been fired.
So, he prayed then, and again for the opposites, or rather for the opposition. Now, remembering to make an inverted cross. The first time was sloppily obtuse, but the second time was quite polished, and the striking of this new pattern turned in precision almost black licorice, rheumatoid clock-work
He was always happy then or rather not joyful, nor joyous, not an exuberant happiness. The happiness t hat came after spinning awful from a Mistresses’ lesson of poor, poor disciplined…snapping, auto-didactic tutelage.
So when praying this time with no enumerations to make, and none to beg, no divinity or safety to accord, or to falsely offer encumbered pleasantries. No, No, No. Only spite to lean upon and somersault, to hasten in absolutism. A marginal pillar three columns away from pure, putrid hatred.
O’, O’, O’. As the words began seizing; they almost looped to the middle onward. A semi-circled diasporic, fragile key-chain. Oh! Oh! Now came the hate and watching the transference as the demons started to tithe and volley watching the boy pray “Oh Goodness!” they beckoned swimmingly, simultaneously in levity and gratitude.
“Our Chosen Son!”
They fastened, in devil red and gazed at Nick praying prostate on the floor. Each De-monoid did not feel anonymous or as a netherworld fastened conglomerate. Never have knowing the feeling of respite. No, No, No. Now feeling a marked difference of individualism and singular authenticity.
He made five more signs of the inverted cross, and each demon giggled, then gagged maniacally, a spastic, diethered vomiting. Oh, how they had yearned for their begotten son’s attention. Oh, Oh, Oh! Here he was; here was their son!
Dear Reader, I won’t tell you the whole prayer, rather I will disclose what Nick did want from his lopsided requiem of a requited speech. He addressed some of them to Satan, and quite a few to Lucifer, and even more to Lilith, the deep goddess of the evening; the true companion or counter-part to the Morning Star Prince, Lord Lucifer:
I am alone
I am always alone
If there was truly
A God-Head. A true Christ.
It would suffice.
I would give everything to
This Divinity. I never said
That God was dead.
For a Myth cannot live,
Or die. I would be better,
Off, sanctifying my life to Zeus.
Or, Athena.
Then he made two inverted Signs of the Cross, and on the third movement which was strikingly precise and rhapsodic, he began to pray again:
Hail Lucifer.
Can you feel my loneliness?
It is the loneliness;
That makes me sick.
The catastrophic seizing longings
Hail Satan.
The loneliness is my Cancer
It is the loneliness;
Absinthiated trembling resolute
That makes me sick.
They say “Old Boy!
You are a genius.
You are a prodigy.”
No one tries to understand.
The Fever, The Mirror.
The rapid cycling melancholia
A famine set Cholera
Hail Satan, Hail Lucifer.
Oh, Holy Temptress, Mother.
Mother Lilith
Thank you for accepting me.
Oh, Lilith. The things I do…
To you, Oh, the things I do.
The carnal fucking from
Your visits in the night.
When you whisper pure hedonism,
In my ear.
Whispering…as I cum for you, then….
As I cum again.
Oh Lilith, It makes no difference.
If You understand.
So long as
You visit from time to time, marking
Your presence announced,
So I have time to groom, shave, and wash
Thank you Lilith for directing me.
Then directing me to cum for you.
At this part of the prayer, the demons began to effervescently steam. Their translucent form shape-shifting into small circles of shadow upon the drape of the hospital room’s curtained window. Nick did not notice this as his eyes were transfixed in prayer. His prayer retreated into war-fare.
Not spiritual war-fare one may presume…Oh! Dearest Reader. It was a War within a War. Almost as if a smaller mirror set mounted and entered in the midst over an inescapable labyrinth: But remember, Dear Reader, the mirror was only an analogy.
Nick clenched his eyes shut forcing them so tightly that if he stopped his prayer; well, that his eyes would become bled white with blindness.
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He sat albeit with poor posture, on a small metal chair below the orange dining room table. His wrists and hands were shackled from the metallic, wrought iron side of the chair with two twin sets of handcuffs. Now Dear Reader, this may sound slightly escapable with a little Houdini valour. However, this room had solely an oversized steel bench and the aforementioned table and chairs. No exit, no doors, no windows. A cell really, or perhaps a fetishized dungeon…to torture, to murder, or to sodomize.
He was praying in the room now and his prayers, were less solemn,and ubiquitous, and he needed the invocation of anyone to save him. His Prayer was as follows:
Oh Jesus! I have Fallen!
So hard, into Sin!
Save Me from this Captivity!
Oh God, Oh Holy Trinity:
Oh Christ!
Save Me from this DANGER
And I Will Truly Be,
Your SERVANT!
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Then he proceeded to clench his eyes shut until Nick heard a beautiful; siren like cackling. It sounded almost like a duet of apparitions bouncing echoes at one another in a high pitched, feminine rendition of Ars Goetia or a more modern Grimoire The sounds were rapid, languid, patterns and the scrying laughter sounded like Mozart itself.
He opened his eyes to a statuesque platinum-haired porcelain ivory complexioned Belle…fully nude besides her thin leather panties which could not conceal her jet dyed blue-black tresses of pubic hair. They sprang out of all corners of the leather, evenly matted, glistening, with an ethereal sheen, trailing upwards to halfway to her navel. He suddenly felt an emotion between fear, pandemonium,and the rawness of a throbbing erection compounding the uncertain quantum chaos.
She spoke to him very softly, a trifling trail right above a whisper:
Oh Saint Nick!
We have had several wonderful encounters,
Rather none in the flesh,
Flesh wouldn’t be the right word, either..
I digress Dearest One
‘In The Blood’
Would be the the more tasteful affirmation
I am Lilith
He surveyed her delicate pale-milk flesh, her contoured legs, to her gaunt and symmetric aiguillette, and to her petite breasts, and purple hued nipples. Her face however was disparaging, and disgusting. For she had horns blocking the platinum hair, and the entire head of a goat with an indented pentagram above beautiful aqua-marine, smoke signalled irises. The eyes were wide with celestial Delirium Still, the young man was in a trance, transfixed by the hair around her pussy.
He looked Lilith up and down again. Distaste and revulsion could not be hid from her Baphomet head, and the exaggerated wideness of her pupils unnerved him. She laughed loudly, and in pixie like rhapsody, but also in a treble of uniformity, and pried at her face with the ease of removing a Halloween Ball mask. The Baphomet goat-head, vanished into an airborne trail of dusted, glittering quick sand. Now, she was as perfect as if Satan had chiselled her to be used by his means and device exclusively. Lilith smile possessed youth, “I find it much more interesting to seize upon existence as a scathing, slashing Masquerade. Don’t you, Saint Nick?”
“Why am I here?”
“Shut!” As if swatting a fly, her eyes menaced, looking like an ethereal kamikaze and began again, “I will tell you which questions to ask, Can you not here me singularly in your thoughts? Are their other voices? Other thoughts? Is your conscience still bleeding out in fear and trepidation?
“Hear me through my eyes. Only my eyes, and answer freely aloud. Fixate more intently on my eyes. Also deepen your gaze right above my cunt. Do this earnestly, like a Prayer. Make my face, my body, and my pussy your new, shining platinum Cult. Both amulet and pestilence.”
“Yes. My Perfect Cult” he repeated meekly.
“Bridge us to the Coffin, of We. Not; You and I, Him Nor Here. Bridge us to the shared Coffin.
He stood transfixed in a flashing silver kaleidoscope adorned with a sweet Luciferian lullaby, in the foreground, as centrifuge. Hours passed, and she pierced his mind with her body, and her body with everything. Dear Reader; He even forgot to ask her permission to take off the shackled Handcuffs, until finally after hours Lilith did this with a stealth autonomy. The handcuffs had been on so long, they almost seemed like a fixture, a motif in the room; like a scented candle or an inexpensive Cezanne print covering a bleak, blank wall. Now Lilith looked older, like an ancient stoic Succubi or something entirely else he could not reason, perhaps a reptilian Joan Of Arc.
The leather panties hit the ground suddenly, and the transliterated thoughts steamed and sprayed and Nick wanted her, alas also wanting the pluralistic consciousness that was instructed upon.
She began a full-bodied chant:
“We. We. We.
Now Together.
Us. Us. Us.”
He joined in enthusiastically, but drained to exhaustion.
“We. We. We.
Us. Us.”
“Us. Us.”
“Us.”
“Forever Undead.”
He mouthed this inwardly and in an ellipses manner ten times in perfect pitch.
This predicated steaming harpsichord transmission like spinning plates against a conquered mind. Or Dear Reader; an almost conquered mind. Yet, it was not submissiveness, no formal bow, or fancy iron floored curtsy. It was a unification in flesh, in mind, in respite and lack of souls, and he looked upon that perfect, flooding cunt and again scanned her from toe to toe, in complete agreeableness.
Her heart was now in his mouth, resting upon the middle of his tongue. They had become the Mirror.
“We. We. We. We.
We. We. We. Must.
Make You Immortal.” said Lilith with the command and cadence of perfumed Royalty
They both spoke in tongues, in Kabbalistic, methodic rapture
“Fuck Me! Fuck Me.” Lilith was pleading, and kneeling now they caressed and turning into a figure-eight semi circle. Lips parting in unison, a slow single kiss of infinite tilting autonomy. Kissing with reptoid tongue lashes, combining in a vortex of Masonic imploding dark skinned cupids. His single tear lay frozen like a Man-Ray print.
Dear Reader: It Was Clearly Sorcery
