arson about wit candle magick

i slipped and freudian slapped

record's read of journey's mapped

trackin the marks of habits trapped

here cums a collector a gatherer of facts

language but a stone 2 grind his axe

watch him rub his rut and chase his own tracks

jim sol letter crunches a cacaphony of catastrophe because he says truth is so precious it always needs a bodyguard of lies.sunny jim was our invisible grey man in the catacombs underground hallways of the international corporation of misinformation ; a ghost in the machine confidently passing his conciousness thru computor terminals via modem links,whispering along wires as a faint murmur in the conversations presidents have with their superiors.the echo of a slight chill proclaims his passing : "hey someone just wanked over my grave " jim sol is standing right behind u when push turns 2 shove as u gaze into the abyss , he bloodhounds the dog-eared tomes of victims tucked away like forgotten un-opened letters , dusty past their shelf life volumns of dogged files full of dog's bodies , teaboys and scapegoats content with the breif respite from anonymity , fifteen minute letters on a list with no end in sight.

he can be contacted at anagram asylumn , rape alley , nowhere ; a victorian redbrick.across the street a piledriver pounds a relentless stomp as another derry crumbles seduced 2 rubble.a mad whore shouts at imaginary children ,a man in a monk's habit with blue hair passes the hustling black man on medication and the tatting speedfreak on the stair and an old man totters about the garden pissing on the weeds.on the top floor draws a curtain and lights a cigarette from the death packet on the windowsill.a five foot skinhead wearing nothing but a two piece pvc suit as if his arms and legs have been dipped in indian ink , his hairless torso is criss crossed with scars and scratches from god knows where.his walls r adorned with paintings of individuals in physical and spiritual agony,tables of bones and several candles of human fat shaped like quadruple amputees whose male genetalia is fited with a nib and positioned over blank sheets of human skin.these r known as writer's cocks and r made from all mannar of unspeakable arcane ingredients.the natual flame of candlelight is synonemous with magickal ceremony as it can transform a room's appearance and provide an atmostphere in witch the unusual can happen.

each candle has three wicks protruding from its head,he lights one with a blowtorch.and as it bubbles and froths an aperture can be seen opening and closing like a mouth.the penis twitchs and starts 2 draw lines of congealed blood on the canvas that look at first 2 be totally random and then a flourish here and a lick of stain there and like a magick eye picture its subject has been staring u in the face all along.this is yourself lying shot and bleeding like a spilt tin of emulsion.u may not recognise the bomb blasted clothes and your face is all cut up with shrapnel and distorted with pain but the candle is an adept at lipsynching echolalia ; "loose lips synch ships" it mimics and it is unmistakably your voice.jim smiles and switches on a video monitor as he exits the room via a curtain of matted hair....the candle splutters breifly then continues.....

"i was sick,sick unto death with the long agony,right from the start it was my shadow on the sun and never anythink but chaos it was a fluid i breathed in thru the gills like a fish.i had no plan of action.i lay in a bed of seventy hours sweat and fear,i was delerious.i believed someone turned a huge log of burning wood around and around my shoulder blades making me sweat more.i passed out and it was replaced by an electric branch that revolved in the opposite direction and the pain it produced prevented me from realizing that i was awake again.hypnopompic tree surgeons tortutred me in the early hours whispering about truth whatever that may be in an irrating preambling slur of a voice that danced on the line between lewd and ludricous.my perspiration was thick like pus and seemed 2 ooze from deeper inside me than i thought possible.my ribcage was centred in another dimension and this cattle prod passed thru it 2 cook me inside out scarring my very sole.i no longer cared about my body,i feared 4 my spirit lest it be erased from collective memory 4ever.

each revolution loosened my arms and legs a little more,they buzzed wit a steady rythymn that i supposed 2 be my life force.it was no longer night time and cars could be heard driving past like huge lungs breathing in and out ,maybe my jailor panting.i wanted 2 shout and scream "enough" but i could not move my mouth or reach the panic button.the falcon could no longer hear the falconer as i vomited black blood,it was foul smelling and spread in a pool about my prostrate body.as i piss out my arse i can hear people argueing about me out of the range of my vision,they r drawing straws 2 see who will get 2 whipe my slate clean with a damp cloth.a shaven headed man in a pimpstripe suit appears b4 me and takes my hand saying "cum.we r in paris at fourteen boulevard des capufines,december 28 1895 and the film is about 2 begin.with this invention death will no longer be absolute.people seen on the screen will be with us moving and alive after their deaths."

we file in with thirty or so others in a cafe basement where wooden seats have been aranged in front of a white screen.i struggle 2 remember where i have seen the projectionist as i take a pew in the front row next 2 my tour guide in this sick fantasy.the room darkens and images begin jerking across the screen,a locomotive huffs into a station,workers leave a factory,parents feed their babies,a gardener is doused by a hose,and people r screaming and running up the stairs onto the street until there is only the guide the projectionist and myself left watching.the guide produces a dictophone and presses its playback button ; it says " stilton was erased from a 1898 cheese industry and robert de zero's fly is unzipped in silence,freaks left so cryptic as 2 be meaningless,if there is meaning it is no doubt objectionable....." a simulated event shows a nurse being tortured and murdered but a crazed patient in a mental hospitol,convincingly realized by special effects wizard cursory glance.a closed human eye fills the screen 4 a couple of seconds then it flips 2 another person of indeterminate sex tied 2 a four poster tied 2 a four poster bed

 

By Anon