THIS CITY, EACH NIGHT

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Take my hand and walk with me

through this brooding city.

Above us rises the cold black sun,

as the lights in the tower blocks go out one by one.

*

Before these streets were ever paved,

before these towers built,

before the coming of man

to lay claim to this land,

what lived and breathed here then?

*

To what powers did the founders of this city

give their sacrifice?

*

Do they dwell here still, stalking these streets

like hungry dogs in search of meat?

*

Or do they brood beneath our feet,

Dreaming of a city that never sleeps?

*

This city, each night, claims its sacrifice.

This city.

Each night.

Claims its sacrifice.

*

This city.

Each night.

Claims its sacrifice.

*

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Remembering a conversation with Johnn Balance (Geof), and Peter Christopherson of the band Coil. Standing in the doorway of a Xmas party. The venue is a body modification parlor in West London; Into You. Beautiful self created freaks cavort all around. It is winter, and both Gef and Peter wear matching  ‘Christmas jumpers’. They look like any middle class gay couple. 

 We talk about mutual friends and acquaintances, Enclave X, and vapid occult gossip. Gef does most of the talking, with Peter seeming a little disconnected from his environment.

 We remember Alex, who played guitar on The Tenderness of Wolves; a song taking its title from the film of director Ulli Lommel, based on the real-life crimes of Fritz Haarman (Kurt Raab), the so-called “Vampire of Dusseldorf”, who murdered over 25 young boys, drank their blood, and sold their flesh as black-market meat.

  I knew Alex as a ‘friend with potential’, by which I mean I had a massive crush. The year before he had been murdered by a sadistic thrill killer who was never brought to justice. Alex’s body had been kept ‘on ice’ by pathologists throughout the entire trial period. His funeral had been on Friday 13th December, just days before. The only friends that his family had permitted to the service had been myself and one other.

 Briefly, the topic turns to literature, in particular Ackroyd’s Hawksmoor, about which Gef is darkly enthusiastic. 

 Gef shakes my hand vigorously when we part company.

 We did not meet again. I exchanged some emails with Peter Christopherson, not long after Gef’s fall. It did not take long for him to follow.

 This poem is for Gef, Peter C., and Alex.

But mostly, it is for Alex.

‘You know the living. We know the dead.’

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HEX UPON THE MODERN WORLD

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I cast my HEX upon this modern world

And call for re-evolution

Up against the wall,

Foul traitors,

Collaborators

Cowards all

Up against the wall

Taste the cold steel and hot led of our contempt

As your guts spill endlessly upon the pavement

And the grey green matter inside your skull

  is exposed    

    for all to see..

I choose not to eat the brains of my enemies

Not out of any sense of morality or disgust

Simply that their flavor is too bland for my palette

I cast my HEX upon this modern world

And call for re-evolution.

Deep within the collective subconscious soul

Rebel rousers rise

They cry;

“This is the re-evolution

“Happening not before your very eyes

      “ or beneath your very nose

But between your eyes and behind your nose!”

“Kick open the doors of perception

“Smash away the windows of the soul

“Reach out,

    “claim what is yours

        “without fear of recompense!”

Reach out.

I cast my HEX upon this modern world

And call for re-evolution.

___________________________

Originally performed on the stage of the Humanist Centre, London, at UKAOS93.

HONEST TO SATAN

A dark and musky woman walks out of the night

Proffers her cigarette,  asks for a Light.

Obliging her I ask,

And where do you live?

She says,

Flat 777 Lucifer House,

on Goetia Road,

on the left hand path

over Devil’s Hill,

in the district known as Hell’s Kitchen.

You’re having me on, I reply

Honest to Satan, she says, meeting my eye

But what can it mean? I say

I don’t know man, she sighs,

turns to walk away,

I just live there.

A recording of this poem appears on Timedragons;

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TRACY’S INTO TANTRIC SEX

Tracy’s into Tantric sex

She wraps her legs around your neck

Invite you to join in her spiritual quest

To be the best you’ve tasted yet.

Invoking Siva and Shakti too

She fucks until her skin turns blue

Its a love transmission through her to you

The sacred sexual secrets of ancestral Hindu

As passed to her through her Guru.

She’s an illuminated alchemist

An unrepentant hedonist

A whore and sexual feminist

Who will deliver you up

  to the ultimate bliss

With two fingers up your arsehole

  and a kiss upon your lips.

Her stunning cunt  does cunning stunts

It eats three men a day for lunch

Regurgitates them once a month.

She’s a Kali Durga Chela

She’s in the know

And she’ll realign your chakras

In just one blow.

Not THC and LSD

MDMA and 2CB

Nor GHB or DMT

Can reach the heights of ecstasy

As suburbia Nirvana

With our Tracy

The serpent is crowned

There is blood on the moon

It feels like the world

Could end real soon

.. As neighbours bash upon the walls

“Keep it down in there!”

They jealously call

But lost in light and love and lust

To them, you are oblivious.

LAAAAAAAAM

VAAAAAAAAM

WAAAAAAAAM

BAAAAAAAAM

Thank you ma’am

I’ll come again.

Now Tracy’s into Tantric sex

And shows no signs of tiring yet

Unfettered by imposed taboos

There’s nothing that she will not do

Because the mores of our society mean nothing at all

Since she spent that weekend in Nepal

And met the crazy-wise Sadhu

  on the top of the mountain

Who showed her just what she’d been missing out on

To live, to lust, to love and to laugh

Beginning her journey on the left hand path.

Now Tracy’s into Tantric sex

She uses it to hex and vex

Ex-boyfriends who pay no respects.

[Poet dies.]

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Originally published in recorded form, 1999

SAINT PETER

Although I’m dancing

  where the angels fear to tread

I don’t fear no Damnation

  when I’m dead

Oh no they’ll never put me down

For what I am

Because there is no Son of God

That is not too a son of man

So condemn they’re condemnations

And eschew what they believe

Declare yourself

To be the king of all thieves..

Oh Saint Peter,

  Heaven’s gatekeeper

With those keys to that lock

  I’ve got to tell yer

That to my eyes

  you look just like a jailer

Except you keep them locked out

  if they’re a sinner

You’ve got the name of every Christian

  down on your list

And if you’re name ‘snot down

then you aint coming in..

Although I’m dancing now

where the angels fear to tread

I don’t fear no damnation

when I’m dead

I’ve condemned their condemnations

  I’ve eschewed what they believe

I’ve declared myself

to be the king of all thieves.

I’m gunna creep-er

Right past Saint Peter

The Lord’s avatar and gatekeeper

I’ll take me lock-picks

to them Pearly Gates

And I’ll be stealing the fire

  from Heaven, mate.

 

 

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Originally published in audio on Timedragons & the Galafron Rite, Original New Falcon Press.

WILL THE REAL NATHAN SATAN PLEASE STAND UP?

 

They call me Nathan Satan

‘Cause my rites are all reversed

As I’m sure that you will realize

As you listen to this verse

I’ve got the words

I’ve got the rhythm

I’ve got Luciferian lyricism

But don’t go mistaking my philosophy

For no kind of Churchianity

They’ve got no jism

To their religion

You can stuff your missed-icism

And your ill-uminism

I ain’t got no station

For your tran-sub-stantiation

Just give me love, give me drugs,

And good old fashioned copulation..

Ain’t got no time for guilt

Ain’t got no time for remorse

DO WHAT THOU WILT

SHALL BE THE WHOLE OF THE LAW

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Originally published in audio on Timedragons & the Galafron Rite, Original New Falcon Press.