Now Wash Your Hands

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Frater Scatophagium made a final wipe with the toilet paper, looking down at its streaked surface before throwing it down the bowl. A wrist thick log bobbed in the water, studded with what looked like sweetcorn or peanuts, neither of which he could remember eating during the past few days.

He wondered briefly if he should make a record of its consistency, amount and quality, like in the diaries of Aleister Crowley. What great mysteries might be revealed by meditation upon all that has been rejected?

It seemed an apt metaphor for the transgressive philosophy of the Left Hand Path. Perhaps he should write a blog about it, with footnotes and quotes.

With that thought he pulled up his trousers and flushed.

Black Rite Gone Wrong

Down and down and back to Essex, era vulgaris 1970, the moonth of Februate or thereabouts, the hour midnight. Is the desertified church of St. Mary at the Walls in the olde town of Coldchester. Black robed skir hand covine in widdershins circumambulates, enchanticating names of infernalised drakness, “Lucifuge! Samyouwill! Natas!”

Centric of their circle stands upright Szanded Dashwoor, eyestraining The Book of Dragons Red in pail luminations of too few candles, far much smokiness of incenses and charcoal. The furds of envocation is all bewuddled; somewitch spiked the chalice with Hell’s Ess Dee and whooshing up strong. Zazas for a nasatanada as door swunged wide with not a prayer as in they come, all possessed with no excorcist between them for the Licence of Departure.

Daemons come and daemons go but where they comes from we don’t gnow. What we does gnowsis most of thems comed in the gingerhead on the alter, hypnotricked with curdling oaths of secrets held and spells of covine punishings. Struggles strains and hurts as change of mind denied, held fast by wrist and arse and she but 16 years jung. Was Essex Craft and all so let us not pretend of good blood manners. Concepted by Black Rite gone wrong, solitary semonid bespatters panick strucken egg and what was writ but the Grobbly – summoned to homonculi from who gnows where by squidged langs of magicology.

Seven moonths a secret but belly grows gibbous. Grandmatrix and Grandpatrix fingerwaggle blames and shame but Matrix tells them not of the name nor the when or way of it. Rumourmonger neighbours all a snigger, her reputatiates shredded. She is a just a honeybell, say all. Knows even not the patrix name nor when and way of it, say all. Keep it not the stranger’s basturd sprog, say all.

And so If was, Grandmatrix sprunching Matrix’s pregnified gloopits in the heating tub as glattles of whiskey belittered the cractiled floor – is how was done in the Old Daze. But wriggle free of cuntsquish did the Grobbly, amniotic caul and all, bobbing to the surface of shit stinked wetars and red mess bubbles in me flesh balloon.

Sliced of sack the babe within but 3lbs light, purple blue of skin and furred with red from toe to head. Crooked spined with curly tail at arse and six toe funny feet, a gribbly sprog so hard to love but kill me they could not. Hellow, is back again!

Doctors is called and comes. Besaided, “Done prematurely cuntsquished a crooked sproglet. Will never of the follolop, he so criplified. Best be chopping off that tail.”

The furry felled all rub away leaving plump baby pinkness, yet still is no bondies with Matrix’s cold witch teat. For worse our chopper sprouts teethipegs, many lots in doubled rows and sharpestmost, as if even then we sensed her twisty self hate for blame of the Grobbly and willfilled keeps the distafied.

From birthed behind a veil of tears it gets no better for matrix nor the Grobbly as life is by. Szanded Dashwoo done a flit, the gribbly. Off to grobble sproglets and snorting of wrongness with rock & roll dwindlers. So matrix was a honeybell and patrix was the Devil, and what proceeds? That which preceeds in wrongness is sure to proceed no better and so it is. Fret not fickle Fate of witch no have of sway.

So here is the Grobbly decades flitted, comfit at the crossroads as trafficking flashy by, gribbly olde bowler for tributes and all rags and blankets. Who in the now is follolop along but you, pockets at a jingle, bethinksing gnows of khaos and magick and Ifs and If Nots but no occifisdom for the Invisibubbled.

We at this intersects all dazed longing. Eyewaggle the Grobbly or no the Grobbly eyewaggles you and all your journeys of Ifs and If Nots, growtesqueries, thwarts and whatnots. All what your preceedids and proceedids whatnotted. There at the over post where Red Men sign for stillness and Green Men becon on.. Away is gone, not eyewaggles to right or wrong and folloloping lanky strides.

One day perhaps a woopsie daisy splat, run over by a karma if not more care. But this be the Grobbly litrified, not your vayn pocket jingle sprentings. Downtime bethinksing wander of your own begendings – pay more attrition for Grobbly’s sake, bespair and overstanding comes. The lessen is soon under and down and downer to the atavistical begendings of all this gribblish and grobbalosolalia. Be gentle with your selfs and blessie blessie every mourning.

KHAOS AT TRINITY ROAD & Other Stories

WARNING! The author and publisher accept no responsibility for any loss of sanity or risk to personal safety that may or may not result from reading this book.

“Tall tales, low lives, filth and fun – a deliciously dark slop bucket of enjoyment from a modern master. If you like mind melting urban epistles that are inky with intrigue and redolent with the stink of sorcery, then hold your nose and jump in quick!” – Julian Wilde, author of The Grimoire of Chaos Magick and The Real Rasa.

“Right up my street.” – Pat Mills, creator of 2000AD

“Put what you think I might say. That should be fun.” – Ray Sherwin, originator of Chaos Magic.

 

Stories include; The Dangerous Author, MK Ultra Culture, The Lost Keys of Solomon, Everybody Loathes a Clown, The Rape of Saint Peter, The Apollyon Machine, Ex Nihilo, Marmalade Lane, Mistress Beta Von Rhine, The Cutting Up of William Burroughs, A Grim & Unfairy Story, Embrace Reality Through Imagination, The MK Massacre, Khaos at Trinity Road.

Available now in paperback

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Ex Nihilo

Last one for this year. Written in response to the suggestion my work is irresponsible, nihilistic and likely to provoke youth violence. NM.

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KKLOCCK!

You always wondered why it made that noise in movies but not in real life. When someone throws a right hook. It doesn’t sound like that to anyone else. No-one else hears it, same as no-one else feels it. Just you. So now you know.

You have no idea what you might have done or said, or to whom. You’re pretty sure you’ve never even seen him before. You would definitely have noticed that mohawk and all those tattoos, EX NIHILO across his forehead, NULL and VOID across his knuckles. You were just going about your daily business when he came out of nowhere. You stagger, raising your hands in self defence and mouthing, “Why?”

And then..

KCRrUNtCH!

That’s how it sounds inside your own head when someone smacks you one with theirs. Your nose being driven into your face. The little bone inside. It’s like the sound of a 7” single snapping, some pop-piss you regretted buying and threw in the bin, or the Kit-Kat advert. Take a break. And then..

SCHWAapP!

That was the sound of your jaw dislocating, the tendons snapping under the impact. Hanging there unable to close. You can’t speak. Can’t beg for mercy. It’ll be a long time before you can chew food. A back tooth is out. Iron taste of blood.

THRrUNKk!

Doc Martins. Steelies. You bend double, clutching your busted testicles. They have been shoved so far inside your body they may as well be ovaries. Fuck that hurts.

OooMmPH!

One to the guts. You struggle to breath but your lungs disobey.

BONnGgg!

Hollow resonating sound as your head hits the concrete. Like something out of a cartoon.

He laughs. Says your name. Definitely not a case of mistaken identity, then. Tells you to, “Say goodbye, cunt.”

GLOCcKk! GLOCcKk! GLOCcKk! GLOCcKk! GLOCcKk!

Relentless skull booting like the drums to a hard core thrash band. Big. Loud.

KkRaAcK!

And that.. That was the sound it makes when someone stamps on your head. KkRaAcK! Again. KkRaAcK! And again.

And you know when your old TV finally gave out and the sound went all fuzzy as the picture kind of shrank into the centre of the screen, finally leaving only blackness? That’s what it’s like to get booted unconscious, except that the blackness is much.. blacker. More absolute.

All the pain is gone. You can’t feel anything. Not even fear or anxiety. All gone.

VvRrooOOOoooossSSHhhh!

It’s like you’re flying along this tunnel. You realize you’re having an out of body experience. Consciousness beyond the physical. Like in those stories you read in magazines. The ones where people are in hospital and get brought back from the edge of death. You always wondered if those stories were true.

AaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhHHHH!

A single most perfect note sung endlessly by an infinite chorus. Ahead, getting bigger and brighter, the purest light. And then..

Silence.

From nowhere to nothing. Less than even the idea of nothing. Freedom beyond the confines of time and space. A return to that nothingness beyond nothing that is the source of everything. So now you know. And then..

Everybody Loathes a Clown

A clown walks into a bar. Everybody else gets up and leaves. Not a joke. More of an observation. A lot of people are afraid of clowns.

So there’s this clown, in an empty bar. He turns to the barkeep and says..

The irrational fear of clowns is often discussed in terms of a specific phobia – coulrophopia. The term is informal and doesn’t appear in any diagnostic manuals. Nevertheless there are three commonly accepted theories as to its cause.

The first is that some event in childhood left psychological scars, and that something about the image of the clown is triggering. As may happen with trauma the memory may be deeply repressed, inaccessible to the conscious mind whilst entirely colouring its perceptions. So the coulrophobe can hate clowns but never know why, and it is probably best they never find out.

The second theory is that the fear of clowns results from media programming. The clown has become a cliché of the modern horror genre. Like the movie It, which was clearly inspired by John Wayne Gacy aka Pogo, or Killer Clowns From Outer Space, or the Halloween craze of ‘killer clowns’ pranking people in the streets, inevitably leading to genuine murders. Giving us all a bad name.

The third theory is we really are evil. People have good reason to fear us. There is absolutely nothing irrational about it. Pure evil, creeping up on you unexpected. Jumping out at you with buckets of water. Slapping you in the face with a pie. We are everything you deny in yourselves, the meaningless absurdity of the human condition writ large. The embodiment of Khaos, the Abyss into which few dare look for too long..

None of these theories tell the whole story. I’m speaking from personal experience here. I know all about psychological scars, media misrepresentation and the dark hearts of clowns. Pour me another and I’ll tell you about my childhood.

It is still happy hour, right?

A Grim & Unfairy Story

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Snow White scraped two fat lines of fairy dust across the ornate mirror.

I still have trouble sleeping. The idea terrifies me.”

I know what you mean. Supposing we never wake up again?” said Beauty.

You would wither on your bones, slowly dying of dehydration and starvation,” said the mirror.

Snow rolled her eyes.

Nobody asked you.”

Beauty grinned, once porcelain perfect teeth as decayed as her castles and destitute kingdom.

This’ll keep us awake. Rumpelstilskin always scores the best. Is it pure enough to shoot?”

Snow’s gloved hands rolled a Note of the Realm into a tube.

You and needles. Don’t you ever learn?”

I haven’t pricked myself in aeons, you know that. Not since our princes ran off with each other.”

We should have guessed by the tights.”

Did you hear about what happened with Cinderella, poor cow? And in her shoes, too..”

Snow wiped her nose on the hem of her dress.

Life goes on. The only difference between a happy ending and a tragedy is where you stop telling the story.”