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jack_babalonCrawl drifting through the cracks & corners of my eye. Floating around the room, fat white pirhana-worms the length of Black Mambas, swimming through the astral fog around me. Milky translucent bodies, segmented and throbbing with pus blood through paper thin skin. Eyeless heads with dirty bronze jaws snapping mechanically at the open air. They flock together into schools and pass through the walls of my home, dashing through the brick and plaster leaving no trace of their passage through the surfaces they disappear into. They don't seem to notice me. I force my nerve to reach out and touch one, my fingers pass through it, it's like trying to grab light with a butterfly net.
Suddenly I can hear something. In the back of my head, that sounds like muffled thunder echoing down a long corridor. The pirhana-worms slow down, all of them turning to me, their jaws biting faster and faster. Then I hear it again- a dull explosion under the white noise of humming appliances. The ghost creatures fire forward and I instinctively hit the ground in panic, but it's a fake out no sooner do they shoot forward that they 180 and turn in a dash, fleeing through the bookshelves, art prints, and mirror. Completely disappearing through the surface of boundarys I live in. There is a sudden shift in the light of the room, not that anythings gotten brighter or darker, no, this shift is in the quality of the light. Something big is coming, and it's scared off the smaller monsters around me.
All right man time to get my shit together. Piece it back, pick up the details out of the fuzzy memory and polish them into clues. Something went wrong with the ritual - 'Thee Invocation of thee Deathshead Rose'. I scored this little number out of 'The Grimorie of the Laughing Assassin', one of those wonderfully bizarre books, like 'The Necronomicon' or 'Dianetics', that keep intruding on the world despite their imaginary status. Alright play it back quick. I did everything I was supposed to and yet I can't shake these fucking Lovecraftian fish fucks out of my head. Now I know I followed the instructions to the god damn letter, read it twice in fact, and banished, banished, banished until the air crackled with blue orgone. I sat in a seven starred circle, each point of the apex a needle point pricking the unseen fingers of the devine. I sat facing the mirror across the room, in the Death posture, melting down the ego in the burning of my reflection. Then I called her down: My lady of the combat harlots, the killing muse, the blood whore of Babalon, and in the seven names of her manifesting I barked and wailed for her to guide my clumsy hand. Next step, I took out the four bullets I was to bless. 9mm ammo, smooth silver that felt clean cool at the touch. I then took a nail, one that was broken off from the finger of the race of Nephilim by a jealous angel, and proceeded to carve on each bullet a single letter of the tetragrammaton. Then I placed each shot into the clip of my 'Wand' and carved three sigils in the air I learned at a great cost to both myself and those dumb enough to help me. I stood in my circle and took aim at a stack of books, randomly selected and stacked, from my personal liabrary and fired. With each shot I vibrate the invocation slow, the Deathshead rose vortex-blooming out of the Anahata Chakra. Zen aim and the Books explode, gunsmoke burns the nostrils and ocean roar drowning my ear, but as the pages of those wounded volumes lept out of the binding, singed and feather floating around the room, I could see the ones I hit directly, the slight tinge of lightning blue flickering for a second, a trick shot of the eye. I stepped out of the circle and snatched four pages out of the book blizzard draft. With the nail of the nephilim I begin slicing and cutting the pages across the surface of the circle, rearranging the fragments and sentences until the code is cracked in the vault of my mind. I see the Invocation spell opening - the blooming of the Deathshead Rose- the dreaded anti-God of the Knights Templars.
The effects of this sort of invocation vary. Some practioners say they hear the music of the stars playing buddha poetry across their soul, some get nothing out of it, but a head rush at best and at worst the feeling that the world is a graveyard for magick, and some, some see things so bad they tear their own eyes out with their fingers. Oedipus reactions against a horror so immense that the act of sight is forever tainted with the terror they have witnessed. I'm not sure what the hell result this is, but I'll tell you how it works on paper. This is supposed to open my imagination up like a port, for the ship of Babalon, allow her to LOA Rider me up and through my mouth her words will come- prophet light and math parables, the signal flares of new utopia. I don't what this is, but what I called sure as hell ain't her. Picking up deja vu loops and stray memorys of being a child afraid in the dark. It occurs to me, I did not call the Scarlet Lady, but rather the seven headed beast she rides. I feel a current around me, a tide pulling me in a direction that doesn't exsist. It size makes it hard to translate down into my field of awareness. I'm hearing the paradigm strain of our exsistence make room for it, it is finding a way to compress itself into my nervous system. The experience, if it doesn't outright kill me, will leave me little better than a braindead shell of a man capable only of screaming and shitting himself until his bowels are empty and the lining of his lungs crack and drown him in his own blood.
I think we all agree that last part is not an option.
I consult the 'grimorie', flipping through the pages and ignoring the strange titles that try and hook your attention- 'The poison love song', 'How to seduce angels', 'A ritual of losing your name',and my favorite 'The existential death
trap pocket mirror'. Finally I get to the protection chapter, finding the two page chapter entitled 'Word mask of the forever hidden: How to become fictional for fun and profit'. I take in the info and hop online, quickly pulling up & tracking down the ingredients. I can hear that muffled thunder coming closer now, an earthquake of fear erupting out of my gut, I dry heave to the side of the laptop and continue preparing my spell. I am constructing an interactive helmet made out of the identity strands in a web of associations, weaving wish names and electric personalitys found online into a shamanastic gas-mask, a semantic caul that will allow me to breathe under the waters of the coming horrors and stay hidden. I hit the buttons, copy, paste, click, (hurry fucking up the shadows in the room are taking up shapes I really don't want to think about right now) it's loading up, another thunder clap and the pets in the room are all wailing now, scratching at the doors to get out- 'Fuck you you little bastards, we're all in this together', it's loading, and the glass in the cabinets are shaking now, car sirens up & dow the block all fire up in a cacophany of alarms, loading, and the light of the screen is getting harder and harder to read until finally it appears:
get your lj-web at doktoryellow lj-web page
I can hear my thoughts. Their very tiny. Streams of other peoples memorys are flowing over my surface thoughts- love letters, confessions, set lists, dream journals, diaries, random reflections, photographs of coy strippers and ancient cities, i'm drifting down into it, and just in time... I hear it call me... not with a word... but with the memory of the first time I screamed for life when I came out of the womb... I almost forget everything else, now the light is gone from me except the mask, I try to shut it out but I'm hit with a sudden image of it- a shadow the shape of a blue whale diving down through the names to find me, seven heads each with a taste to nest in my mind. It's getting closer, I step onto one of the identity strands, a graduate student out West, big Philip K Dick fan, he's just lost his girlfriend, he's taken a meme to see what kind of esoteric film style he'd be, he's Bollywood, he's copied the lyrics of some stoner band on one page, I duck between the verses of something so banal. Quiet. I don't think a thought that's mine. Hiding. I hear a hundred train crash orchestra coming from all around me, I press myself up against the 'The' in the title of the song, using the the trunk of the "T" to shield me. It's shaking all around me, sentences crumple up and entire poems are wiped out like a flash forest fire. I step back a post and land in a jpeg of him at a club, i'm frozen in the background of a party i've never been too, statue smiles and awkward laughs never progressing, I hear the post I was in break apart and drift away. I see a comment and step onto the identity strand. She had a good time. She's into
80's metal despite being 18, she has a few laughs here and there, but is worried about her Grandma at the moment. I stop in her misery to catch my breath. The mask is starting to itch, to many points of view stinging my thoughts, but I can feel it climbing back up the web- the fucking beast is starving, there is nothing real here, nothing but phantoms and props. Ghost town community mall. It's receding it's seven heads blurring into one vague notion, until finally there is nothing but me putting words down in a void.
Suddenly I can hear something. In the back of my head, that sounds like muffled thunder echoing down a long corridor. The pirhana-worms slow down, all of them turning to me, their jaws biting faster and faster. Then I hear it again- a dull explosion under the white noise of humming appliances. The ghost creatures fire forward and I instinctively hit the ground in panic, but it's a fake out no sooner do they shoot forward that they 180 and turn in a dash, fleeing through the bookshelves, art prints, and mirror. Completely disappearing through the surface of boundarys I live in. There is a sudden shift in the light of the room, not that anythings gotten brighter or darker, no, this shift is in the quality of the light. Something big is coming, and it's scared off the smaller monsters around me.
All right man time to get my shit together. Piece it back, pick up the details out of the fuzzy memory and polish them into clues. Something went wrong with the ritual - 'Thee Invocation of thee Deathshead Rose'. I scored this little number out of 'The Grimorie of the Laughing Assassin', one of those wonderfully bizarre books, like 'The Necronomicon' or 'Dianetics', that keep intruding on the world despite their imaginary status. Alright play it back quick. I did everything I was supposed to and yet I can't shake these fucking Lovecraftian fish fucks out of my head. Now I know I followed the instructions to the god damn letter, read it twice in fact, and banished, banished, banished until the air crackled with blue orgone. I sat in a seven starred circle, each point of the apex a needle point pricking the unseen fingers of the devine. I sat facing the mirror across the room, in the Death posture, melting down the ego in the burning of my reflection. Then I called her down: My lady of the combat harlots, the killing muse, the blood whore of Babalon, and in the seven names of her manifesting I barked and wailed for her to guide my clumsy hand. Next step, I took out the four bullets I was to bless. 9mm ammo, smooth silver that felt clean cool at the touch. I then took a nail, one that was broken off from the finger of the race of Nephilim by a jealous angel, and proceeded to carve on each bullet a single letter of the tetragrammaton. Then I placed each shot into the clip of my 'Wand' and carved three sigils in the air I learned at a great cost to both myself and those dumb enough to help me. I stood in my circle and took aim at a stack of books, randomly selected and stacked, from my personal liabrary and fired. With each shot I vibrate the invocation slow, the Deathshead rose vortex-blooming out of the Anahata Chakra. Zen aim and the Books explode, gunsmoke burns the nostrils and ocean roar drowning my ear, but as the pages of those wounded volumes lept out of the binding, singed and feather floating around the room, I could see the ones I hit directly, the slight tinge of lightning blue flickering for a second, a trick shot of the eye. I stepped out of the circle and snatched four pages out of the book blizzard draft. With the nail of the nephilim I begin slicing and cutting the pages across the surface of the circle, rearranging the fragments and sentences until the code is cracked in the vault of my mind. I see the Invocation spell opening - the blooming of the Deathshead Rose- the dreaded anti-God of the Knights Templars.
The effects of this sort of invocation vary. Some practioners say they hear the music of the stars playing buddha poetry across their soul, some get nothing out of it, but a head rush at best and at worst the feeling that the world is a graveyard for magick, and some, some see things so bad they tear their own eyes out with their fingers. Oedipus reactions against a horror so immense that the act of sight is forever tainted with the terror they have witnessed. I'm not sure what the hell result this is, but I'll tell you how it works on paper. This is supposed to open my imagination up like a port, for the ship of Babalon, allow her to LOA Rider me up and through my mouth her words will come- prophet light and math parables, the signal flares of new utopia. I don't what this is, but what I called sure as hell ain't her. Picking up deja vu loops and stray memorys of being a child afraid in the dark. It occurs to me, I did not call the Scarlet Lady, but rather the seven headed beast she rides. I feel a current around me, a tide pulling me in a direction that doesn't exsist. It size makes it hard to translate down into my field of awareness. I'm hearing the paradigm strain of our exsistence make room for it, it is finding a way to compress itself into my nervous system. The experience, if it doesn't outright kill me, will leave me little better than a braindead shell of a man capable only of screaming and shitting himself until his bowels are empty and the lining of his lungs crack and drown him in his own blood.
I think we all agree that last part is not an option.
I consult the 'grimorie', flipping through the pages and ignoring the strange titles that try and hook your attention- 'The poison love song', 'How to seduce angels', 'A ritual of losing your name',and my favorite 'The existential death
trap pocket mirror'. Finally I get to the protection chapter, finding the two page chapter entitled 'Word mask of the forever hidden: How to become fictional for fun and profit'. I take in the info and hop online, quickly pulling up & tracking down the ingredients. I can hear that muffled thunder coming closer now, an earthquake of fear erupting out of my gut, I dry heave to the side of the laptop and continue preparing my spell. I am constructing an interactive helmet made out of the identity strands in a web of associations, weaving wish names and electric personalitys found online into a shamanastic gas-mask, a semantic caul that will allow me to breathe under the waters of the coming horrors and stay hidden. I hit the buttons, copy, paste, click, (hurry fucking up the shadows in the room are taking up shapes I really don't want to think about right now) it's loading up, another thunder clap and the pets in the room are all wailing now, scratching at the doors to get out- 'Fuck you you little bastards, we're all in this together', it's loading, and the glass in the cabinets are shaking now, car sirens up & dow the block all fire up in a cacophany of alarms, loading, and the light of the screen is getting harder and harder to read until finally it appears:
get your lj-web at doktoryellow lj-web page
I can hear my thoughts. Their very tiny. Streams of other peoples memorys are flowing over my surface thoughts- love letters, confessions, set lists, dream journals, diaries, random reflections, photographs of coy strippers and ancient cities, i'm drifting down into it, and just in time... I hear it call me... not with a word... but with the memory of the first time I screamed for life when I came out of the womb... I almost forget everything else, now the light is gone from me except the mask, I try to shut it out but I'm hit with a sudden image of it- a shadow the shape of a blue whale diving down through the names to find me, seven heads each with a taste to nest in my mind. It's getting closer, I step onto one of the identity strands, a graduate student out West, big Philip K Dick fan, he's just lost his girlfriend, he's taken a meme to see what kind of esoteric film style he'd be, he's Bollywood, he's copied the lyrics of some stoner band on one page, I duck between the verses of something so banal. Quiet. I don't think a thought that's mine. Hiding. I hear a hundred train crash orchestra coming from all around me, I press myself up against the 'The' in the title of the song, using the the trunk of the "T" to shield me. It's shaking all around me, sentences crumple up and entire poems are wiped out like a flash forest fire. I step back a post and land in a jpeg of him at a club, i'm frozen in the background of a party i've never been too, statue smiles and awkward laughs never progressing, I hear the post I was in break apart and drift away. I see a comment and step onto the identity strand. She had a good time. She's into
80's metal despite being 18, she has a few laughs here and there, but is worried about her Grandma at the moment. I stop in her misery to catch my breath. The mask is starting to itch, to many points of view stinging my thoughts, but I can feel it climbing back up the web- the fucking beast is starving, there is nothing real here, nothing but phantoms and props. Ghost town community mall. It's receding it's seven heads blurring into one vague notion, until finally there is nothing but me putting words down in a void.