The Hole

A singularity,
The darkness that use to be your mouth,
An absence,
A hole through the centre of the world,
A pit immune to magick,
A well that captures memory,
A black hole where your mouth use to be.


So There Are No Stars

So close, so there are no stars.
Like words without sounds.
Or cold spots on floor boards without past possession.
A hollow thing.
Like a passage without rite.
Or a signal without a gesture, returning uncast.
A writing of circles held below the oceans and the lakes and the rivers.
Weighed down by buried dreams and drowned desire.
Everything falls apart.
And everything moves in circles.
Everything will be beneath the water.
Even the stars.



From drowning sky, I hear you. From burning ground, I see you. From buried waters, I touch you. Though without time and place. Though without point or purpose. I reach my hands out to the last star of the morning. Some raise their taloned limbs. Some insight violence. Others close their eyes to sleep. I can not believe. Doors are marked with crosses by claws. From the well and the altar and the pool and the mound, I hold you in my arms.



With rung and twine tight and nail. From earth to star, from dirt to air, from pit to spire and anchor. And with hands and feet, to climb and to hold, stations, states and stages. An axis with rod and with ring. From past night toward future sun rise. Hold on and climb down. A centre held with wrought of might. Of power cast. From body shroud to brain crown. Structure found and continuity forged. Like spokes from ceremonial wheel, captured to connect that which is above and that which is below.


Your New Tower

Excavate order to establish your tables. A tooth seal, a bone seal, a skin seal and a blood seal. These grids will hold together elemental properties so that you may prepare your way. I will cast my shadow onto the ground you need and mark the earth with charts of stars that have long disappeared. The trajectories of their haunted orbits conceive a map, plotting inverted recollections, past peripheries and ground to break. The holes in time and space left by these undead stars secure the coordinates for your secret tower. A tower that will bring law to unclean mythologies and purify the stagnant wells of fallen gods. I will watch you mold your bricks from a distance for they are poison to me. From the wet dirt, a kabala of chalk, rust and ash will be the base. These methods, to make manifest a form that ladders into the sky unseen. Such are hoary and such are dormant beneath. Construct your foundation from the blueprints chattered to you by my pointed teeth in your sleep. Traverse this horizon, this visceral strata, these shifting plates and build your tower where the lines connecting all the holes in the sky meet. Pay attention to your footing. I will wear my heart heavy on my sleeve for you as you make this journey, build and weave new talismans together to fortify your house that connects the sky to the ground. 


Separate Tail from Stinger

Separate tail from stinger and domesticate these strange devices that trigger memories a thousand years old. Replace your falsified objects that glow in the dark and suck the warmth from your room and lay waste to your dreamtime. Activate invisible, sealed door locks by cutting the air with these violent tools on borrow from a museum built upon a mound of cicada shell. Slaughter your old tools, for they are slow from the drinking of your blood and sleep. Bury them and build a mound for them, for in time they too can become true and holy and violent. Return your borrowed bells and mirrors, magnifying glasses, and ladders and rings. Acquire new objects and milk antidotes from their poison teeth.


The Sleeper

Feeding on Time and moving through the roots and the ground and the dirt. The headless one, the sleeping one, the sleeper of rust, the chthonic sleep walker of paths, tunnels and ladders. These routes drowned by rust. He sleeps beneath standing waters gathered by holes in the sky. He prays to himself. Slumbering in deep Space without feet, or hands or body. The decapitated one, the dreaming one, the dreamer of dust, the starry haunter of caves, houses and lodges. These dwellings buried by dust. He dreams behind mirrors of mud. He listens for movement. The bone tunnels beneath the world of the Alpha, the skin room at the center of the world of the Omega, the walker and the haunter. The first one seeks and the last one waits. The last head of the hydra waits. That which now walks on all fours upside down seeks. Horns now grow from the head to hear. Hair grows from the body to see.


Of Magick

...and dust and mud and ash and salt and paper and wax and chalk and clay and rust and rust and rust...and blood and tooth and bone and shell and skin and shadow and hair and horn and seed and seed and seed...and black and purple and blue and red and green and yellow and white and brown and grey and grey and grey...and volcanoes and hives and altars and caves and wells and nests and pits and pools and mounds and mounds and mounds...and of time and of matter and of space and of memory and of chaos and of order and of sleep and of dream and of magick and of magick and of magick...


A Return to the Source

Drop down with magnifying glass, tweezers and candle, this ouroborian cycle of the Terminal House. Watch as it devours itself and those that watch. Surgically remove it, isolate it and place it in an envelope and lock with wax and seal. Give the envelope to Roman. The black outline of a circle turns inside, hidden between exorcised, primordial archetypes and barbarous barriers of racial recollection. It is the haunter of the orbits of long dead stars. It is the headless rambler seeking reunification. Inside the house, a hairy heart within a silver cage waits for its own absolution and Roman listens at the door. 

The Coming

Go out to the thickets and the marsh and the woods at the city walls and bring back the names whispered by the locusts and the bees and the moths and the wasps. Fill the halls of your house with these names and purify your walls, and ceilings and floors. Guests with see-through wings will sing of the forgotten and the lost. Their resonance in unison will seem as chants uttered by the mouths of men. Men whose tongues click and hum like deep, dark summer nights.

A New Pathway

No more crimes to the self in thought, intent or action. Defensive capabilities strategically optimal. Time to initiate new protocol. Sweep existing pathways clean and begin the construction of a more direct route. A more clean route. A singular path that will remain free of debris and trespassers. When complete, it will be a secret. Only animals that talk human in their sleep will be allowed to use it. The other paths will serve as decoys.


Table of Nine

The Passage of Fallen Stars

These fallen stars of bio-occult fragments, tearful eyes from the head of God resting in the secret pits of our ignorance. Our heads are removed from our bodies and our faces are peeled from our heads. Our faces will hide forever in the forests of formlessness. When you encounter such a figure, such a godless fa├žade, a headless body with arms outstretched, holding a faceless head, you have wandered far from your path. This non-mundane path is primal and barbarous, cartographies are required to locate the empty eye sockets of divinity that will help make visible your return home. Those that sacrifice or find a goat for themselves on the path become beasts and demigod bastards crawl upon their death heads, but we are in-between. We die a father of our own sons. Please take the time to inspect your silver cord harness and make sure your psychic cable is not in tatters from our obsessive gnawing. We are sorry.

Formlessness from Nothing (From Nothing)

Separate formlessness with the mythological scalpel of biomechanized ritual. Sip the cold water and the warm wine. Clean the surface of chaos with your shed skin and exorcise a space for you to stand and later sleep. Cloak those that will parasitically feed off of your secrets. Those invisible notes you keep folded in the pockets of the winter coat once worn by your All-Father. You take them out to smell their memories when you forget whom you use to be. Keep your pack kind during the storm, during the dirge. You are Ragnarok. You are the Alpha Omegian neoprototype, last legion survivor set on stun, but you will wipe clean these badlands if you must with your devil dogs.

Writings of a Geomantic Nature

[I am facing 523 degrees South East.]
My hands and feet are cold.

[I am facing 237 degrees South West.]
I feel complete in the midst of debris.

[I am facing 120 degrees South East.]
I do not want to be hairy on the inside anymore.

[I am facing 173 degrees South.]
I have a strange taste of blood in my mouth.

[I am facing 73 degrees East.]
My star has fallen. I am tip-toeing across the floor so my nails will not click on the wood.

[I am facing 73 degrees East.]
My friend had a dream about brutally killing a shark. I cannot get the image out of my head. I told her that she had murdered a part of herself and it was a mercy killing.

[I am facing 299 degrees North West.]
I am looking for drawings about war. I am weary of answering questions.

[I am facing 313 degrees North West.] I am NOT an agent of chaos, but I might be a puppet.

[I am facing 112 degrees East.]
My house shoes are missing. I have noticed lately that various items are moved or lost for small amounts of time and returned to the place I left them and already looked. Dials, buttons and other mechanisms are moved, pushed back, etc. I thought it was me being forgetful, preoccupied or for drinking too much in the evening after work. I do not want to fuel these occurrences, but I am keeping a close eye on the small things. I also sleep with three alarm clocks as of late.

[I am facing 172 degrees South.]
I am hairy on the inside, but silver armor encases it. I wear golden armor on the outside and silver on the inside.

[I am facing 274 degrees West.] It is the armored warrior who forever battles the fanged and clawed, hairy Beast. Both are wrong and both are right.

[I am facing 42 degrees North East.]
I do not feel well. The front of my mind is numb and I cannot concentrate. I have washed my face three times today and changed my clothes four times. I feel obliterated. A small black hole is pushing on the inside of my skull and trying to get out.

[I am facing 182 degrees South.]
A star "can not breathe without noise."

[I am facing 306 degrees North West.]
Last night, I did find a nozzle left open on purpose closed. I am seriously monitoring these phenomena and leaving simple devices with dials, switches and levers at certain noted positions. This activity seems to be isolated to these types of apparatuses.

[I am facing 103 degrees East.]
She always talks to the bus driver every day, even though it is usually a different person. I find this strange, as though she is paying him homage for transporting her. She is very beautiful.

[I am facing 0 degrees North.]
My GOD is Chaos and I hate Him. I am not His servant, but I am forced to knell before Him.

[I am facing 120 degrees East.]
I do not like being alone.

[I am facing 215 degrees North.]
I am attempting to eradicate all signs of my daily activities, like erasing your footprints in the cold dirt.

[I am facing 112 degrees East.]
I am mutating prayers.

[I am facing 306 degrees North West.]
There is a significant difference between a house and a home. A house is an empty shell. A home is a feeling that encases you when you are away. I am very anxious about these words.

[I am facing 0 degrees South.]
Today, I am allowing you to see these words for the first time. The End.

Nullify Intellect with the Pure Hostility of Instinct

Abandon the lawful and sacrifice everything to walk on all fours again. Obtain the secrets of the ninth point at the centre of the eight-sided cross, as the snake struggles against its crucified station upon the crux. The burning, iron box that  holds the secret animal, keeps it senseless and drunk. The cuffs that bind its legs to the cement and concrete dulls its powers and makes it impotent with a rage for all that humans make and touch. Remember your lustful longings that rise from the scent of wet leaves and moist dirt and soaked stone. You want to run until your lungs burn. You want to run until your feet bleed. Climb the city walls and cast yourself into the deep damp dark of the unexplored outside, immune to the trespasses of sentries, soldiers and even spies. You want to sleep in the forbidden tree beneath an open sky of stars in the silence of light. You want to discard your camouflage of weak, man flesh that allows you to hide beneath the Earth’s star. You want to tear out that which is hairy on the inside and speak in the tongues of the hoary. Like a falling star pretending to be the Devil. Like the decapitated head of an ancient king pretending to be God. Remember and put out the burning box. Loose the bindings and stealth yourself back into the wet forest of the forgotten. Sleep with angels and demons and see in the day and night. I could write to you forever and ever, but you need to sleep to dream.

Rest (when you can for as little as you can [and dream])

Dig your trench deep and prepare yourself even more so. Set up your sentries, be vigilant and never rest with both eyes closed. Keep one eye always on the borderlands of the secret memories you hold dear beneath your uniform of mediocrity. Listen for the sounds of bastard intruders, for they will rummage through your past tragedies to steal anything that glimmers of hope or smells of innocence. Always maintan a tight patrol on these borders and allow your dogs to this frontier as they will. Let their violent nature guide them as they purify your territories from thieves and liars. They will protect your lands, preying upon defiliers as you seek respit. When you do sleep, dream hidden in the thickets of wild flowers, ivy and fallen branches. Prepare your thoughts as the sun rises and collect the remains of what was once you.


Six Stages to Exterminate Thyself

I. Leave behind empty your rationality. It will no longer serve. Your actions need to be as base as the prey animal. II. Time to run. III. Time to hide. IV. Do not allow the pumping of mania from your heart that is now in your head to frenzy your actions and reveal your platform of concealment. V. Do not make a sound until you are certain of your surroundings. Any movement could give away your temporary location of false sanctuary. Do not stir the air around you; the smell of your fear excites your predator pursuers. Not until your path is clear and direct and all danger has passed out of sight and earshot can you come out of hiding to retreat yet again. VI. Do not think as a human, you are an animal and need to depend upon the purity of your instincts. Recondition your thoughts, your motivations and your morality.

Thee Room in Thee House

Enter the Great House and return to your room,

Return to the source of your powers,
Clean yourself in your room as you draw down the sun and the moon and the stars,
Return and purify,
Return and be clean and your powers have returned in your room,
Be clean in your room,
A white room with the black smell of burnt paper,
You can purify SPACE,
You can reset TIME,
You can cleanse all MATTER.
You will never be unclean in your white room,
You will be clean in your secret, black room whose door is cast by the shadow of the white room and in your black room with the smell of wet paper, you will wash the Beasts.
You will clean their fur with salt, seed and saliva,
The smells of the burning paper and the drowning paper,
The cleansing smells, this is the smell of clean animals under the ground in secret, black rooms and when you leave, 
You will chain the Beasts to the floor of their polished damnations,
You will keep them comfortable on beds of hair cut from your still dreaming childhood.

One of the responsibilities of the Housekeeper

The wolves of the world below the ground run up and down the walls of the house. A Housekeeper who neglects his wolves will soon find his stronghold collapsed and its guardians in the final act of suicide.


Camouflage this secret door to your secret room with secret and sad words written in invisible blood from lies that were never told as you prepare yourself beneath sheets and dust and rotting furniture in a house that has washed onto the bank of the River Lethe. Hide from Time who is afraid to enter. Mnemonically siphon what you can from those three days of darkness that became thirty-three days that became three hundred and thirty-three that became three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three, and synthesize an antidote to transmute the toxins of antitime so you can remember whom you are and whom you used to be and what you are supposed to do. Prepare your beast and your armor and your shield and your sword. Prepare to ride out for your great battle, and prepare for your holy crusade without a God and without a Devil.

Protection Spell Against Sleep Parasites

You need to stay on your side with your empty eye sockets and open wounds. You jumped the fence and you belong over there with your cruel kind. If you return, you will be torn to pieces by my dogs. Your bloody sheet will catch and tear on my patches of briar, thorn and horn and your true form will be exposed to the light of the moon, you will weaken and perish by the morning star. You are lost and need to stay over there with those other ones. These words will burn you as I speak them to you if you do not return to where you came from, even if you pray to your dead god of dead deconstructed things. You can kneel in your own blood as you pray. Return to your own blasted house that has been burnt, drowned and buried. Find your blunt and broken sword, your rusted armor and your skeletal beast and return. My dogs hair will stand on end and turn to needles if they sense your trespassing. It would be unwise for you to come back and whisper decomposing pictures into my ears while I sleep. They will protect me as these words protect me. They will dispell your form as these words dissolve your integrity and will.


I have kissed Purgatory and now it is on fire. Time for sleepwalking down Jacob's upside down, inside out ladder. Heaven is for dragon chasers and lonely messiahs and I simply cannot see it anymore.

Observation: 001

Mile marker 178 on 65 South is exactly 1/2 the distance from my house to my Mother's house. Traveling either North or South on 65, there is a time change (from CST to EST) that occurs between markers 198 and 204.

God is Ground

Ground is ground,
and sky is sky.
Devil is Devil,
and God is God.
There are hierarchies above,
and there are hierarchies below.
There are starry towers of white fire,
and there are chthonic pits of black water.
There is a house at the centre, inside out,
and there is a house in-between, upside down.
In this house, there is a ladder that goes up into the sleeping sky,
and in this house, there is a tunnel that goes down into the dreaming ground.
Floor is floor,
and ceiling is ceiling.
God is Devil,
and Devil is God.
I am me,
and me am I.

The Flesh ov thee Eye

UPON THESE CROWNED AND HORNED AND HOARY HEADS: these heads of many, this head of one. THE TONGUES SPOKEN ARE MANY (but sound as one) AND ARE DESCENDING with viral sonics. THE SIRENS scream out binary codes. I return to the Thorax Data Morgue with ear plugs and the death and rebirth of Legion and its new human host. The influences of quasi-catatonic materials need a container of skin and blood. The influences of unknown spaces can now be felt. Conjure Red, White and Black ectoplasmic tools. Twenty seven seals can prepare and anesthetize the room for ritual surgery. THEN VIRAL NAMES CAN INVOKE HOLES IN TIME AND SPACE, and the governing towers of Enochian Adam will release angelic prisoners for hostage negotiations. Spiral hooks rotate beneath skin, and cabal papers jar in the night with written words that bleed. Animals that see and speak in the dark hang upside down. Strange animals with carapaces sleep during the day in the cities of Man. Nocturnal animals with carapaces breach all earthen contracts and become rogue agents. THIS IS THE ARMOR TYPE OF THE NEW GOD OF THE MOUND. THIS IS THE ANIMAL OF THE NIGHT OF THE LAST AGE. This is the nocturnal, armored, hanging animal shielded from the weapons of Man (including the atom).The dug up paintings, found in the first sunken city, painted by blind prophets, OUTBREAK and rage. Invader vampirical doors open wide. Destructor doors merge together to form one door. I know she made ointment from another's blood and rubbed a doorway that tore open like long cuts. Now, he (Legion) sits with knives through his feet. He is a FALSE OBJECT and will never be able to read or write in this world. For him, books are sewn together. Books have their own needles and thread. For her, only, there are many drawings on a small table and open books that cover the floor, walls and ceiling, forever. UNNATURAL CYCLES unfold and also descend with their directive to re-write the core of our world. Blood can be air. The sky can breakdown to see in hidden gardens of dust and despair through flesh that too descends. The flesh of the eye looks into the hole and calls the sky to amputate. Hands that descend can turn the sky and pull the skin inside out. The animals of the other believers will bless ground for their children. They will talk with curved fingers and never tell hearts. They will strong the ground and ground the fire and the catapult. They will HOLD. The old body will open. The body will become. The spaces in rooms without windows or doors are a new shelter to reside. EYES THAT ARE HOLES IN INVISIBLE BODIES will warp the wolf of the door of the doppleganger that sees the layers for what they truly are with its eyes of flesh. Wash with wood.


The skin, the blood and the bone make up ONE. My left, old eye plus my right, new eye equals TWO. The body of the wasp and the body of the bee are divided into THREE. The earthen keys to the earthen doors are FOUR. The daubs of the mud nest and the honey of the wax hive equals FIVE. The barbarous names that are carried on the backs of flies, mosquitos and ticks are SIX. The angels of Hell and the angels of Heaven total SEVEN. The empty thrones of the upside down saints are EIGHT. The secret symbols and the holy signs are always NINE.

Axiom: 002

Three times three times three is a holy number.

Axiom: 001

The headless ape body of the decapitated body of God that de-evolutionarily rambles mindlessly across all places and all times of this world while the head of God sleeps in Darkness at the centre. The head too, is a (new) body and it pierces the skin of heaven with its horns as it tears the throat of hell with its teeth and drinks its blood.