Well well well. Twenty Twenty is one to remember. The impact of COVID on my public transport riding has attacked the very fundament of this here oral/aural history/hallucination. Aside from that the distraction of assinine arses in charge of nuclear devices is enough to drive the mind far far away to pine groves, vast open bushland, industrial wasteland even I’d settle for. The Human Element seems so often to be the problem, the NonAnthropegenic is perhaps what nature now hopes for. We’re not all bad we hope in splintered silent prayer and blot in sleepless midnight toss and turn. Staring at the shadows on the corner of the ceiling. Didn’t realise the paint was flaking there.
Close the curtains in more ways than one, we’re not even in lockdown here. Vibrations from the True North rend open the poorly fixed carpet, drill down through the sinking foundations of broken structures to raise the read army, yes I meant to spell it that way. Yearning to stand on Arcturus soil and stare into alien Constellations, to see Earth as but a glimmer at the edge of the known. Then to yearn to return, Born of the Flickering, to work hard, strong, and true, for The Pagan Prosperity. Like Arntor the rebel farmer no doubt those of us who see that the Earth pursues a Journey to the End, unless we intervene, we won’t freeze out in the open. We’ll burn.
Blake-Craftian Cope-ing Mechanisms
Beneath the Oaks of Bethel, I do roam
In forgotten tongues that taste the sky-fire
A fog, like torrents of blood
Envelopes the stone, unmarked, that sets the place
Throwing out sparks starwards
Riding, trancelike, on mountainous harmonics
Draw a line, and follow it to the peak
Then still, static, wind in the ears and echo below
A realisation: we’ve been given Fair Warning.
Ruhrpott Coalminer Blues
Outbreak of Evil!
Agent Orange found in black lung dust driven deep through thrashing up the Heathen Earth.
Loose riffs sink ships.
Rumbling grind to seams of blackest metal in the final years of the iron curtain tunneling beneath to break the chains.
Or perhaps just replace them with new ones.
Multiple Lemmys stand on high riding crumbling smokestacks to the end of time on hawk winds at motor speed down Tapped Vein autobahns. Spray paint Anarchy on the ancient sepulchre and dash run holes through white sneakers, creeping deeper, In the Sign of Evil, obsessed by industrial class visionary with cruelty as creative force.
The Teutoburg Forest recreated in rust.
Red Erik and the Midnight Monk
‘Round midnight, the viking wanderer puts leatherclad boot on a mound of ice and heavy rock. The Ultimate Sinner with Two-pronged Crown beneath the giant bunya pines, Red Erik walks one-fingered-keyboard-style in improvised seeking to the preparations of the great piano on the diamond-crusted veil of reality. Standing tall on mountains of madness at the feet of giants, the Midnight Monk smiles beatifically at this long-bearded traveler, strokes goatee and bashes out a great chord on his honky-tonk to send ripples through time crystals into the deepest chambers of universal memory.
The great Pharaoh once said: “the Creator has a master plan”. Noble as this thought may be, it seems Mother Nature superior has an ocean of chaos for us all to swim. But is there a shore?
One to three in reduced form. The frowning face of liberation. Somnambulant perambulations. Pathetic pastoral funeral in the passionate moonlight. Disinfectant Headflush. That’s what we all need right?
There is such a thing as society….
Ah what a time to be alive. Boris Johnson in fever dream in his number 11 bunker with his number 2 shoes (you know what they say about foot size) realising the Iron Maiden he worshipped as God was wrong wrong wrong (there is no such thing as society you say Maggie?) declares in total isolation from all “there really is such a thing as society”. No shit you neoliberal Shitlock. I suppose Fear of the Dark hole of death finally makes the sickest neo-con know he’s been conned. Powerslave.
Malveillance. Mal Ev O Lence. Ramones covers on repeat locked groove dust and crust on the beds of rotting grass. Why must they insist on mowing it every fucking day? Seems a possum has made chewy crunching punk rock mincemeat of my motherfucking weed collection. Those heart-shaped clover apparently add a fine if slightly acidic spice to a survivalist salad. Law of the jungle on this here balcony let me tell thee.
An owl visited us just before the pandemic was declared global.
Line up in wide circle for Thai. You’re wrong. A cat smoking in skeleton hands sits at the laundromat watching me stroll by wrapped in betel nut leaving with Riesling the Panopticon watching me take the Road to the North.
To wander the aisles in the infection muck of duped working classes left to rot by holy self-interest in high-pointed offices, the Trident Autocrat, his sinister hand directing the lack of appropriate social-distance from Arctic domains.
Far Beyond Driven by the stupidity of my neighbours. We’re to socially distance yet I can’t get 5 Minutes Alone. Furze Reaper Black more real than they understand.
If Brittania’s Gone Rotten to the Core, then what state of decomposition are the antipodes in?
The stupid. Pneuma thick.
Blessed Are The Sick.
Utopia is almost certainly Banished…or perhaps now’s the time to create it.
Death Dynamics. Pianississimo under ancient pine.
Scramble through the muddy necropolis in pouring rain towards the unholy reign of the 666 bus. Totalitarian trolley that it is. Do the dead organise through a Necrocracy? The bus driver looks like he may have insider knowledge on the matter. Happy to stand. Quite frankly, I could do without it. Hit the Super Parquet market after decolonisation class for fizzy water and eggplant. That's right. Fucking eggplant.
It seems we all may be facing a Grave Upheaval.
Nettles grow from the grave. If I pick them to make a tea will it open a door to embrace once more for a single moment those that have passed on from my touch? Will I be able to sing them back into being? Or is it all just Psymbolik?
Of darkness and evil I know so much riding on this lengthy concertina fuck, the 66 bus. To get here from mine one must mount a bridge via the murky trails of South Brisbane cemetery. A fine cemmo it is too. Type O Negative in my ears everyone I'm walking past is dead, and hell many people on this bus are too. Spiritually. But it ain't their faults. It's not. But let's not get too structural while Pete Steele groans out his misanthropic sermons. Another lost 90s one this here device scribbler is the first Soundgarden record. How did such an ultimately shit band make such a good record? Why didn't anyone tell me back when I entered the Cemetery Gates through a Panther's mouth teeth gritted fist paw claws in the cerebral core of a teenaged boy looking for meaning. Diving deep through tunnels on hissing metalzone blood and bone teeth and hair without the slightest care while at least 10 people on here will be experiencing acute psychological horror. Pray to old gods for them. Blood Ceremony beneath the cemetery bough wondering whether to ingest graveside cobblers pegs. What properties would I take on? Opening a doorway to the deadrealms on the 66 bus to a Bohemian Grove named "Kelvin". What would the old ones think? I'd need a barrel of Groundhogs and a bottle of gin to find out I dare say, chalk circle drawn where they buried the worst convicts standing up. The Devil at the Crossroads is the least of our worries. 66 bus, more like 666 bus. Who on here bought all the toilet paper? Fucking idiots. Abyss beckoning under foot the moniliths to replace us as the sea rises and we all get placed on The Rack, metaphorically. Light Devouring Darkness on the six hundred and sixty six bus. Sick sick sick. Everyone's worried they'll get sick. I walked hand in hand with the Archgoat through the 'ol cemmo today the convict ghosts of boggo road gaol swooping round on a gale. Yesterday, while walking through the twilight stone forest, past Russian graves and trinket graves, I spied a man with wizard beard and wizard sleeve tattoos from shoulder to fingertip. He sat, grey and stern, on a grave, waiting and watching in hateful silence leaving me mildly startled. Why he was there, only the dead know.
The Finnish Fall. Autumnal 2019. In the grip of delirium, cold beer in hand, long philosophic discussions, plugging into AM wavelength, patched into the apartment Hardware, nocturnal stumblings in sonic aether. All this, and more, resulted in a warning from beyond, the cragged face of some Anglo-Saxon warrior-priest declaring WARNIAN! We took heed, but ploughed forth nonetheless.
The nocturnal sounds - the nocturne - seems to follow me like the dark in a shadow, the sun red cloud blocked right above burning yearning for the moon. We swelter under the moon in these parts now, far from the Arctic, towards the Antarctic, trees dripping with the humidity that makes the air like a lake in which we all drown in interrupted sleep, tossing, turning, trying to paddle through half-awake liminal lakes.
Close your eyes and all you see is the orb weaver, turning, spindling, thick yellow web joining tall trees through flyscreen windows to the nocturnal beyond. Sleeping, hazy suburbia, the stumble and cry of night time marsupalia, the nation that exists in our trees and carparks in the dead of night, until the death of night.
Perhaps like me, listening to the above WARNIAN will cool you in this never-ending heatwave.
Or lullaby airs from an ancient one who should be listened to more.
Is this climate emergency like the quiet, deathly quiet before the storming of Leningrad, or the dusty half-remembered pits where they attempt to bury atrocity?
Or perhaps we fight fire with fire. Come alive in the night as demons and take it all back from greed and indifference.