the stinking limits of hell

December 7, 2017

No creatures under God are as we are, none so like Him as ourselves, dark angels not confined to the stinking limits of hell but wandering His earth and all its kingdoms.

Anne Rice
Interview with the Vampire

Have you ever lost yourself in a kiss? I mean pure psychedelic inebriation. Not just lustful petting but transcendental metamorphosis when you became aware that the greatness of this being was breathing into you. Licking the sides and corners of your mouth, like sealing a thousand fleshy envelopes filled with the essence of your passionate being and then opened by the same mouth and delivered back to you, over and over again – the first kiss of the rest of your life. A kiss that confirms that the universe is aligned, that the world’s greatest resource is love, and maybe even that God is a woman. With or without a belief in God, all kisses are metaphors decipherable by allocations of time, circumstance, and understanding

Saul Williams
said the shotgun to the head

It’s Sunday –

June 4, 2017

ars-notoria-magical-book

A GOLDEN chalice, like those used in Catholic rites, but having three linings, was given to me in my sleep by an Angel. These linings, he told me, signified the three degrees of the heavens – purity of life, purity of heart, and purity of doctrine.

Immediately afterwards there appeared to me a great dome-covered temple, Moslem in style, and on the threshold of it a tall angel clad in white linen, who with an air of command was directing a party of men engaged in destroying and throwing into the street numerous crucifixes, bibles, prayer-books, altar-utensils, and other sacred emblems.

As I stood watching, somewhat scandalised at the apparent sacrilege, a voice, at a great height in the air, cried with startling distinctness: “All the idols He shall utterly destroy!” Then the same voice, seeming to ascend still higher, cried to me: “Come hither and see!” Immediately it appeared to me that I was lifted up by my hair and carried above the earth. And suddenly there arose in mid-air the apparition of a man of majestic aspect, in an antique garb, and surrounded by a throng of prostrate worshippers. At first the appearance of this figure was strange to me; but while I looked intently at it, a change came over the face and dress, and I thought I recognised Buddha – the Messiah of India. But scarcely had I convinced myself of this, when a great voice, like a thousand voices shouting in unison, cried to the worshippers:

“Stand upright on your feet – Worship God only!” And again the figure changed, as though a cloud had passed before it, and now it seemed to assume the shape of Jesus. Again I saw the kneeling adorers, and again the mighty voice cried: “Arise! Worship God only!” The sound of this voice was like thunder, and I noted that it had seven echoes. Seven times the cry reverberated, ascending with each utterance as though mounting from sphere to sphere. Then suddenly I fell through the air, as though a hand had been withdrawn from sustaining me: and again touching the earth, I stood within the temple I had seen in the first part of my vision. At its east end was a great altar, from above and behind which came faintly a white and beautiful light, the radiance of which was arrested and obscured by a dark curtain suspended from the dome before the altar. And the body of the temple, which, but for the curtain, would have been fully illumined, was plunged in gloom, broken only by the fitful gleams of a few half-expiring oil-lamps, hanging here and there from the vast cupola.

Anna Kingsford
Clothed with the Sun

So that’s how it happened

November 20, 2016

a-mistake-was-made

October 9, 2016

right

loving

Diary 3rd September

Just a fistful of fast, challenging, hot-wired mind-bites!

Today, I don’t want sex, all that rough fucking and scrambling about in knotted sheets. I want the prelude. The slow kisses, the embraces, the fumbling hands inside lose clothing, the tentative touch. Then the sight of breasts gently spilling from lace cups, the tender caressing and stroking. I want the gentle biting, the heavy breathing and sighs. I want the pauses as you try to catch your breath…

Oh, my God!

Then I want the sex –

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Tess Tee, profoundly bored in her marriage, her career – which is going nowhere fast – and in the role she seems stuck in, as plus-one and helpmate to a powerful old man. She’s bored, she’s nearly forty, and she’s all set to explode, or so she says.

She describes herself as ‘Petite ( 5’ 4” and 104lbs) Celtic Catholic with striking blue eyes, freckled skin, red hair and pink nipples.’ And Oh, yes, she has an intimate piercing; something arranged after a fractious, alcohol-fueled hen-night eight years ago.

She describes her fantasies: ‘I wear stockings only under my dress with spiky high heels. I expose myself ‘accidently’ in this seedy night club. Women, men they all see what I’ve got, you know. They see the gold ring down there…The idea of being exposed in public is a big turn on for me. Being bound, blindfolded, helpless and not knowing what’s coming next. Wunderbar! In a room with many men. Sexual servitude is compulsory…those men pinch me and pound me without mercy. God, they fill me with their filthy cum…’

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Tess Tee’s fantasies remind me of Tamarind. In another time and place, she told me her sexual fantasies, which were medical in nature. Doctors and nurses – with Tamarind in the role of their helpless, vulnerable patient! ‘Open wide, please…’

C said ‘Peedeel can write a story based on your fantasies.’

I was surprised when Tamarind commissioned me to write such a story. But I agreed, and delivered it to her a couple of days later. After reading the story, she asked for others.

But poor Tamarind, with her gypsy heart and her longing to always be elsewhere, the little girl who’d never forgiven her father for dying and abandoning her, who remembered a time when the family doctor on a home visit examined her and fired her sexual imagination, died herself four years ago. Of cancer. So young, but so unhappy…Her short life packed with so much sadness.

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Asked why I don’t believe in the Christian / Jewish / Muslim all omnipotent creator God – I have to say why would He / It, in His / Its infinite wisdom, create something as feckin’ useless, and at the same time nasty, as Philophthalmus lacrimosus?

Eye flukes?

Really?

And that’s without mention of Clonorchis sinensis, boys and girls.

experience sacredness…

September 1, 2016

trees

The forest is not merely an expression or representation of sacredness, nor a place to invoke the sacred; the forest is sacredness itself. Nature is not merely created by God, nature is God. Whoever moves within the forest can partake directly of sacredness, experience sacredness with his entire body, breath sacredness and contain it within himself, drink the sacred water as a living communion, bury his feet in sacredness, open his eyes and witness the burning beauty of sacredness.

Richard Nelson
The Island Within

god in your life

idrinkyourblood

Diary 8th March

As usual, there’s a great woman behind every idiot…
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Know what it means to come home after a hard day, to a woman who’ll give you a little love? A little tenderness, and affection?

It means you’re in the wrong house, that’s what it means…

(Cue laughter track)
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God made man in his own image…so therefore God, by definition, must be ravenous, cannibalistic, vicious, and an egocentric tyrant…Did I mention fecking murderous, too?
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Years ago I fell in love with Angela Carter. It was her photograph on the back of a Penguin book, “The Bloody Chamber” The stories and that photograph were all it took. Love at first sight…
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I read “Sadeian Woman” back at the dawn of time. Here Angela Carter becomes a rigid ideologue, fervidly feminist, furiously antireligious. She sings the song of Sade’s “Juliette”, created as a counterforce to the submissive woman of myth and actuality – unlike “Justine”, the submissive sexual stereotype, the natural victim, “Juliette” is masterful, brutal, delights in cruelty and corruption. She is de Sade’s blow at the notion of women as pure and meek, a notion that has done much to perpetuate the exploitation of women over the years.

It is unfortunate that despite a number of shrewd insights into his work, Angela Carter hardly touches on the political ideas of de Sade. Instead he must remain the popular bogeyman of legend, imprisoned under a lettre de cachet obtained from the king by the Marquis’s mother-in-law! “Sade, as Angela Carter vaguely and perplexedly recognizes, was anything but a monster in his life. She notes, for example, that after being released from prison during the Terror and appointed a judge, he was sent back to prison for his leniency toward the accused who came before him; but she doesn’t draw the right conclusions from this.”

The point is that there was a greatly significant gap between Sade’s sexual writings and his actual nature…

In many ways, Sade was a startlingly modern thinker. He despised the notion that women were merely vessels for procreation and celebrated their orgasmic potential. He exposed the institutional misogyny around him. His libertarian writings alienated two kings, a revolutionary tribunal and an emperor. He spent most of his adult life under lock and key: if they couldn’t get him for being bad, being mad would do.
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The Conservative party has a crick in its neck from looking backwards to a Churchillian- Thatcherite ideal. The Labour party, too, looks over its shoulder – the young and half-educated socialists permeate the internet with their dyslexic paroxysms of enthusiasm for their leader, an old man who stepped from the mists of neglect, his head filled to overflowing with nineteenth century class struggle, but who appears totally oblivious to modern society, with its consumer-based sexism, its exploitation of the vulnerable, and its rancid prejudice, now wonderfully window-dressed as nationalism…

And the Liberal party? What of them? I see them as a small group of nervous young men, half-afraid to have an erection…Ineffectual and lacking in identity.
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Lady Lynn Forester de Rothschild, one of the richest women in Britain, with a £467 million ($673.6 million) fortune, recently reported, “To the extent that business is not trusted by society, often with good reason, it is not good for capitalism. There is no excuse for that. A divided society against itself will not stand and it doesn’t matter if you’re in the top 1% or 0.001%. If the society around you is crumbling, you’re in a bad place.”

And that “bad” place may already be here.

According to an Oxfam report released in January, 62 billionaires own as much wealth as the poorer half of the entire world’s population. The wealth of the poorest 50% fell by 41% between 2010 and 2015. During this same period, those 62 billionaires increased their worth by $500 billion to $1.76 trillion.
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