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People live, and they die. The execution method differs, but in the end, there's only the noose.

Ropes burn, encircling - the last boundary is death.

Freedom presupposes restriction, and everybody knows that "The word of sin is Restriction."

What happens if you sin against yourself? If you go willingly to the gallows, the long walk made into a pilgrimage? Soul suicide - with Mr. Ketch, face all hidden, your very own Black Man. Featureless executioner-sphinx, silent keeper of the deepest riddle.

How to untie the knot that binds? Like Alexander, the realization of the necessity its destruction sings in the blood.

What am I?

A literary experiment? A fiction? A drug-diary?

Fiend or Angel?

Does not matter, and need not be.

"Dear Beatrice.

How are you, I wonder, up there where the world is a little thinner - thin enough to fold and put in an envelope? I'd ask why you never write to me, except I understand the distinction between collectors and other people.

I can't get up there, where you are. To many stairs - too much steel. So I'm sort of in Hell, stretched thin because I know you're up there and I'm not. That's why I'm writing this, because I'm fucking sick of wondering if every smashed something that falls from the sky used to belong to you.

There's mounds of it now, shining shards of might-be's and could-have-beens. There's even a shoe I thought could be yours.

It's orange.

You liked orange didn't you? The whole thing, not just some shade like tangerine or apricot.

Oh fuck this. Maybe I'm thin enough now, maybe I can fit in an envelope. Would you keep me with you then, all text and dry whispers?

I wish, just once, that you'd read what lay between my lines.

Maybe that's why I'm down here, snarling "Non serviam." with every other breath, wanting to carve your name on the grey matter in my head.

I hate fucking stairs love, that's all I ever meant."

...found it in a puddle by a pile of rubbish, crisp, typed, letters smudged by an oilslick puddle.
It floated there like a lily,
bereft of a froglet prince.

Folded it up,
put it on the wire chair and
gave the rickety contraption a push.

There was a squeaky wheel as it
passed into the silence of the long dead
Ignored the computer flex that bore grisly,
bloated fruit swinging in
a monoxide breeze.

Slid back,
into the wall.
Seeped through the
membrane between
the world and its

All of it you see without knowing.
How can it
be otherwise when
you think you're supposed to
see with your

Instead of your
and tongue, you
squeeze meaning out of humours.

Poor babies
stuck without the memories of how
to suck.

Mother's breast is before you,
unveiled. You never needed to be
apart from each

You could suckle forever
without shame.
But you let
the pain of the

eye distract you and
you think yourselves alone,

If only you
would feel.

The fleeting fragments
of kinaesthesia coalesced around
-which is what doing
is once you stop
thinking -
and suddenly the

WEORLD resolves.

All the broken dreams, shattered mirrors of souls
Flow a
into teardrop
of purest

Hanging Town Awaits.

antinomianism, austin osman spare, bellona, castles, chaos, cities - urge thereof, crowley, cunnilingus, death, delirium, devils, disgust, disorder, ecstasy, emptiness, everything is permitted, fellatio, feverish ontological riddles, filth, gallows, glory, hanging town, heroindreamfuckbloodmetalghostsexmachina, hilbert space, hollowness, horror, hypersigil, ice, invisiblism, irreality, jack ketch, joseph campbell, junk, juxtapositions, lancaster, lust, magick, men, misrule, monsters, mystic, mysticism, myth, nothing is true, old gods, pain, psychogeography, psychological deconstruction, qlippothitic tantra, rasputin, satyrs, seething, shrieking, sorcery, soul suicide, storms, thunder, trees, vi, wild hunt, witchcraft, wodh, women, xenothought, yggdrasil