never bet on saving a dancer's daylight

when we finally met
it was already the late afternoon
in the day of our time together
when you got off the bus
and I saw you in your sundress
how you waited with girlish anxiety
for the long traffic light to change
so you could cross over to me
I knew I had the green light
to be with you
for the short time you'd be here
I heard there's a rook, you said
sphinx-like smile
eager to start to explore

there were no dirges as
we tripped over worn gravestones
and spider-webbed crypts
remarking more about the life
left in the summer and the day
and in the other animals around us
wild turkeys puffed up at us
young rabbits ran away halfhearted
not able to pass up good clover
a young falcon gazed long
down at me
my totem giving me permission
to be me
what you would let me do

I miserably tried to get you
to sit by me hidden in the dell
I wanted to seize you
and run my hand up your dress
feel your dancer's thigh and butt
that's why I laughed when later
you revealed you wanted to
take me in your mouth
on top of the rook
the roof of the Hub
treetops already blanching
but the yard's workmen disturbed us

by the reflecting pond
while we talked of politics and feminism
I looked down your dress wanting
to see the nipple of your small breast
I wanted more of what I could see
I wonder if I'd have been surprised
it was pierced if I saw it
then later only pleasantly so
and too when I lifted your dress
kissing your stomach and found
you were shorn
you are a dancer after all

and funny too how I ridiculously
asked if you'd like to come to my home
and your concession was so blasé
I was still perplexed about
that sphinx-like smile
at my place I tried to think quick
about how to invite you to my room
and you honed in on my photo
of victorious Victoria Pendleton
I mumbled a few things and then
took you in my arms and kissed you
to shut you up
so you'd not wake my housemate

we both had surprises for each other
when we stripped one another
rocked and flickered in candlelight
cool sweat coating us for hours
your brown eyes twinkling in candle-dance
with each thrust
deforming that cryptic inscrutable smile
in your rise and peak
shudder and fall
nice to meet you we joked
glad you stopped by

we paused at turns
I didn't want to finish what
your exit would
we enjoyed our company our secrets
our jokes our honesty
and when the car came to pick you up
I should have known it was
already midnight in the day
of our time together

GHETTO ASS WITCH (FEAT. GVCCI​-​HVCCI) [BLIND BINDINGS REMIX]

GHETTO ASS WITCH (FEAT. GVCCI​-​HVCCI)
[BLIND BINDINGS REMIX]

from GHETTO ASS WITCH - REMIXES VOLUME ONE by RITUALZ

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A Day In the Half-life

To the reader: A special agent to a federal bureau, left this file at the apartment of an avid fan, who then submitted it to us, with you in mind.

He was ideology and I was methodology.  

This is hardly a confessional. It is not a rail or rant. Neither William Chadwick nor I are weird beardos hunkered down in the woods. Nor are we gun-toting white power right-wingers. This is to prove how our project failed due to the very elements we were compelled to eradicate; the sedentary incompetence that has infected this country.

I arrived at Logan Airport in Boston late, due to fog, one morning last September. My only luggage was carry-on, a briefcase containing a neutron bomb that would wipe out the Greater Boston Area up to the Raytheon plant in Wilmington. I wasn’t nervous about the time, once I made the drop I had to catch a flight to St Martin by 3:30. At 5:30, in rush hour traffic, atonement would be made.

Chadwick and I went to MIT together & graduated in 1949, both with Master’s degrees in physics. He was the beautiful bastard, and I the awkward Wunderkind. He was the idea man, and I the one who made the ideas real. He got the gorgeous women, and I got their frumpy friends. He was ideology and I was methodology.

We were in school during the war. Chadwick’s father, who was inspirational to us both, sympathized with the Fascists in the face of the Communist agenda in America. The Cold War reinforced this sentiment in our minds; there was none of our hearts involved. It was this patriarch who made me aware that the underclasses must be put down and their proliferation halted.

I took a cab from the airport and had driver, a Caribbean, drop me off at Harrison and Stuart, in the middle of Chinatown, in what’s referred to as the Combat Zone. I wanted to soak up the filth, and clear my mind before the big event. I started walking west, toward the Back Bay, where the drop zone was.

At the New England Medical Center, I passed mothers holding bald children whose pallor was green. I grinned, thinking, “Soon your cancer will be burned out.”

The two of us built bombs in California. We always worked for the government, in some capacity, up until the eighties. Because of cutbacks, I then began to do consultations for nuclear medicine. The crowning moment in my career was a speech delivered to the American Oncological Society.

“Individuals are the rebel cells. Affecting all others. They metastasize against society.” With this future credo already entrenched, business was good through the sixties. As the decade closed, the sympathies toward a Free Burn Society improved. The big guns wavered from outward to in.

From Rutherford’s early experiments to Cockcroft’s and Wilson’s, the mission was clear: to accelerate the human race to a singular and pure destiny. But these men of the highest ideals, only thinking in platitudes amongst the clouds, had no awareness of the glutting masses, which labored, but prevented this flight from even beginning.

Chadwick and I were the medium through which these lofty dreams were to be made real, or at least truly begun.

But indeed, today it had begun.

“Though even as a body fights a foreign infection from without, how does one amass an army to fight against those most lethal to the self, the enemy within, soldiers from the order of their own?

“Nothing is more dangerous or crippling than a revolution from inside the home ranks. But occupation need not be taken battle by battle. But, by the displacement of sheer numbers using up too many resources.

“Case in point, the supposed invasion of barbarian hordes. The Eastern and Northern Europeans tribes’ progress into the Mediterranean region was recorded by those whose land was taken up by the uncivilized brutes. These brutes, however, had no written language to record their own migrations. Thus the record is one-sided.

“They chose to have only an oral history, not for lack of advancement, but for higher ideals. The barbarians chose not to develop a written language, because in their own thinking, that would lead to a sedentary populace, which leads to kings and tyranny.

As we are earthbound by the laws of physics, without
these laws we would have no hope of ever lifting off it.

“They chose personal freedom over civil order, a choice that still divides this world today. And the hardest choice for any man.

“Order cannot be seen as unhealthy or unfree. As we are earthbound by the laws of physics, without these laws we would have no hope of ever lifting off it. As a body becomes more complex, more order must be enforced, or the system comes in conflict, and a fugue ensues resulting in cannibalism of the self.”

I walked swiftly over the Harrison Street Bridge, spanning across the expressway. The wind was cutting. Passing the Boston Herald, I thought of how the paper declined into a mere tabloid, yet tried to maintain its status quo, working-class roots. Its lies were thinner than its third page. The liberalist Globe wasn’t much better.

The area was desolate now. Some rummies collected like trash in the wind. In an alcove, one pushed another while the others yelled. He reeled around, drunken, urinating and stumbling. Barely breaking his fall, he leaned on the trunk of a car, urine still cascading onto the middle of the sidewalk. The scent of his sick, fetid water knifed along with the wind.

I made my way onto Appleton Street, and took a left onto Clarendon, and soon was in the now eclectic South End neighborhood.

Three fourteen year olds offered, mostly jokingly, to sell me heroin and then threatened to “kick the shit out of me.” A bug-eyed woman, face speckled with sores, said she’d “suck me for a rock.” The fact that I, a 73 year-old scientist, could be a part of their universe seemed to their bleary perceptions, perfectly normal.

Two men window shopped, oohing at a feathered dress, and then looked on into a shop that body pierced. They held hands, and as I walked by, one reflexively and openly stroked the other’s buttocks.

Two blocks down Columbus, I hooked a right onto Exeter, for a short walk to the Back Bay. The drop zone, the Prudential Building, had been bobbing and weaving across the rooftops.

To Be Holding the Eye

To the reader: A federal coroner was in town for the weekend recently. She was caught short with a steep bar tab. The editors were only too happy to help out, and received this manuscript as a token of gratitude.

In terror I... beheld the living machines
of my mates standing before me.

In 1954 there was an atomic test that was part of Castle Project. It was a 13.5 megaton device called Yankee Shot, and was discharged somewhere in the Pacific Proving Ground. That it happened, of course, is of some importance, but for the sake of my story it is but one brief shining silent instant.

I was a Radio Engineer for the Navy. We were to witness the blast topside, standing at attention, with a hand covering our eyes, in some grim salute. At the time of the blast, for a frightful moment I could see not only the bones in my hands, but the network of nerves and blood coursing through it. In terror I dropped it from my face, and beheld the living machines of my mates standing before me.

I was dispatched to one of the decommissioned vessels that had remained afloat, to test the electronic equipment. This test was intended to be done on merely a pass-or-fail basis, the idea was to get in and then get out fast before things got too hot.

My preliminary testing showed that most of the gear's internal resistance had dropped to zero. This, of course, was impossible, but even my meters were cased in lead, so I trusted the reading.

I decided to extend my stay to pursue this theory, as I was bucking for a commission and transfer. In the middle of my testing, I heard a squad hit the deck hard, and quickly descend the stairs.

"Jumpin' Jay-hoo Mister! Ain't your brain getting too hot down here?" It was Commodore Bracken, an egghead, and some MPs.

"Sir, no sir. I was running some tests on the suspected zero internal resistance of the radio equipment, sir."

"Well sir, you can suspect your ass is going to experience some zero internal resistance with my boot if it doesn't get topside stat."

"No, let him speak." The egghead hissed like a goose in his white protective gear. He was the only one of us decked out for the holiday. As Bracken glared at him, the ever helpful MPs roughed me up the steps.

Anyway, after getting out of a failed career in the Navy, I wound up repairing appliances for some slave-driving company in Poughkeepsie. I had some innate knowledge in the field of fixing washing machines, refrigerators, and dishwashers. I'd just look them over, make some polite chit-chat, and be outdoors, fending off the appreciative thanks of bored homemakers.

Some portion of the good sense of duty that I had managed to glean from the Navy kept me pretty square until about the summer of '66.

I was at some place on Lawndale, which was inhabited by the wife of some pawn-broker, by the look of all the gold dripping off her. She answered the door draped the doily from the end-table, and was smoking a 120mm cigarette whose last half was stained red with lipstick.

I was hungry and grumpy in the humid afternoon, with donuts and coffee straining in my abdominal cavity. I was going to play this one.

"Howdy, ma'm."

Disinterest.

"Mighty hot today."

Apathy.

"What's the problem?" Entering the kitchen, I saw it was the fridge and only a fuse at that.

"Fridge." She said, squinting through cobalt eye-shadow. "Want a drink?" She was a bit puckered.

"That would be mighty kind of you." I palmed a 600 amp cartridge in one hand. Pulling out the appliance out a few inches, I popped the dead fuse out, and slipped in the new one. It hummed alive.

"Yay..." she intoned flatly, handing me a Bloody Mary. "My husband...," she said the word with disdain, "...will be very happy. Cheapprick!"

She trotted back to the counter, boozy on high heels, and put her big ass up on top of it. She fished out another cigarette while giving me a kind of "get to work" look.

"Will your husband be home soon to thank me?" My professional pride was hurt. I stood and began unzipping my coveralls, which were older than me, and stank of sewage.

She stuck most of the butt down her throat and sucked hard. The pigments in her heavily painted face irradiated, glowing under the sudden flush of blood in her heat.

"He told me to thank you myself."

"UFO" Siting at the Closing Ceremony of the 1984 Summer Olympic Games in Los Angeles

I found some weird thread with a prediction about an alien, or a least a fake alien, invasion during the 2012 Summer Olympic Games, most likely occurring during the 12 August closing ceremony. There was during the closing ceremony of the 1984 Summer Olympic Games in Los Angeles an elaborately staged "UFO" siting that happened between the extinguishing of the Olympic flame and the reading of a poem attributed to a group named Pindar by the announcer, and the flash appearance of an alien— all before Lionel Richie busts in with All Night Long. Check it out, it's pretty funny. 

[ed. note: The reference by the announcer to the poem has been picked up by conspiracy theorists as a convenient slip. Pindar was a Greek poet (d. 443 BC) who did write victory poems, but Pindar is also the alias of the Marquis de Libeaux, known as Phallus of the Dragon. The Marquis is supposed to be a Reptilian alien leader who fathers royal Aryan bloodlines, like Prince William's. The whole thing is suppose to be rife with Illuminati, NWO, CFR, Bilderburgs and the Merovingian Bloodline complete with MK-Ultra slaves and Princess Di's murder. So it is hard to say if group was referring to our Reptoid masters, or that he was just another know-nothing media chump. Either way it has to be the worst production for TV since 1978's The Star Wars Holiday Special.]

Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922)

After finding a copy of the 15th century occult text Malleus Maleficarum in a Berlin bookstore,Danish film director Benjamin Christensen went on to produce the film Häxan during the years of 1919 - 1921 through a Swedish studio. The film ended up being the most expensive Scandinavian silent film ever produced due to the length of production and Christensen's meticulous recreations of medieval scenes. The final version was banned in the US and highly censored versions where screened elsewhere, due to themes of torture, nudity and sexual perversion that were considered graphic and taboo at the time.


The film uses still photography of archival prints, animations and horror movie style dramatizations in a documentary study that proposes how superstitions and misinformation of mental illness lead to persecutions and civil unrest such as the Inquisitions and other witch-hunts of the past.


There are five chapters to the film each building the case of how the human need to provide supernatural, or worse superstitious, answers using faulty reasoning when confronted with the uncomprehensible or not understandable leads to paranoia, injustice and an ultimately sick society.

Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922) -- 240p, silent with English subtitles



The above version is best viewed while playing the "ULTIMATE WITCH HOUSE PLAYLIST" created by YouTube user futureextinguisher -- also on tumblr: witchgate




Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922) -- Criterion Collection Version
360p version with musical score and original Scandinavian titles -- no English subtitles

Fleeing From Security

arr. by Andread T. Eblis

It is highly unlikely this will reach you. I hope you can piece together the mishmash of coasters, napkins and gum wrappers that I stuffed in the envelope I sent you, as it is of grave importance to your affiliates.

Being an Army dropout and a failed cop I've worked security most my life. The post I got now ain't no cake. That's why I'm running. 

It's 07:10, and I know my tail just showed to say he hasn't seen me all morning, and that I never came home last night. That's because I'm running, trying to figure out what to do.

At 07:00 I'm usually just making roll call. The only rolling I do however, is on a gurney in 7 -point restraint.

The job pays well I'd suppose, if you ever got to spend it. If I m not here, or working a double, I'm trying to bust the hangover from all the dope they load me up on. Then there's the booze and pills from trying to drink myself to sleep. I'll never sleep again with this gig.

They roll you to some operating room in some sub-cellar. They induce death... You spasm, you shit, you seize. I've died more times than any sane man should. I am no longer sane.

The only solace is that I know I'm not alone in my vocation. There's MacDouggal and big ol' Earl Jones. MacDouggal always bitches about me being late [I've built up a tolerance to death], and mumbles about his late car payment, or his wife's cheating, or something as he slips out the door, leaving me with a hand full.

Jones is a company man, though. He's always on overtime, helps me set the load, and is early to relieve me. The man is huge, with sweat always boiling on his knotty black brow.

I'll skip the part of bow we transmute, how we get there, for then I would be truly nuts. To even try to relate the process that tears a man's being in shreds and delivers it to that place, would snap the thin thread of credibility I have with you and your people.

So, once I'm down there, or up there, or where ever there is, the reality of my task becomes apparent. Not that this is a place where reality has any meaning. 

As I become aware— after the initial overwhelming stink and sound— the sight of one puny man holding back that, seems wholly ludicrous. Its enough to fill one with tears and titters, and then I know I am to replace the man who is firmly entrenched, maintaining the security of the Gate.

Yesterday morning it was Jones. Actually the man is huge and dark, looking proud and tall, holding it back with unfailing ease. "Where's MacDouggal," I mumble.

"No call. No show," Jones grunts. "Got him before I hit the gurney." All conversation is over as I brace myself for the load. Jones, kind as he may be, lets up too quick, and I am nearly bowled over with the sudden encumbrance. 

Those on the otherside rally at the newcomer, emitting that low, though deafening, hiss-click-click noise which I know is an entreaty, an empty promise.

The frayed edges of my mind tell me that if I succumb I will not die like the rest, I will go to another place, have great power, much of a realm, and thousands of concubines; things I have never imagined. 

Pulpy talons stroke my chest, and tails— at least I hope they are tails— lash and wrap around my thighs. My shift has just begun.

I no longer have any concept of myself. My life before isn't even triggered by photographs. My off-duty hours are bobbled and lost. I have no paid holidays, sick days, vacation, or health insurance. I am off on a folly and I run...

Peckman's Model

to the reader: Following is a copy of the transcript from a recent police interrogation. It fell out of the pocket of a local detective who was taking a cab ride home to his wife, after a long night on the town. The cabbie was nice enough to send it our way. The questions have been edited out.

I first met Richard Peckman when we were bike couriers. We called him Peck, Heck, Hecky, Pecky. Called him Pecker behind his back. We called him Heck after Richard Hell, because he was such a dark son-of-a-bitch sometimes.

He had gotten a Multi-Media Art degree, and worked as a messenger while getting a Master's in some sort of Bio-chemical Engineering thing. He did it pretty slow, it took him a long time. We were pretty good friends for a time, but then he met Molly. Molly Sindretta. With an “S”, I think.

He had just graduated, and he was acting like some golden boy. He was high out of his tree. We had done some partying while he was in school, but this was like all-natural, through the roof. I don't blame him, we lived like dirty dogs for years, we were always filthy then. (Laughter) Yeah, thanks pork-pie.

I was there when they met, him and Molly, that was a wild night. I was there with some other people, the place was packed. I don't know, some summer... I don't know which year, I was hammered.

Peck comes down to bitch someone out, I forget who or why. Had a shot, did his bitching, and went off to the back of the bar, by himself and nursed a beer. I had seen Molly earlier, across the way, sitting like the ice princess she is, or was. I couldn't get anything going with her, never could on the other times I'd seen her there.

I see her look at Peck though, and he catches it, and goes limp like a goose with a rung neck. I see him rolling gears in his head, like he's trying to work up to chatting her, like he always had to. He makes like he's going to, but I know he's just going to get another shot. She wags and curls a finger, and points to the seat next to her, and like a fool, he sits down. He never stopped doing whatever that itchy finger required.

Anyway I start seeing him rarely, if ever, and he's always got some big ideas, real hare-brained stuff. She's got a Fine Arts degree and they do some joint art projects, or some such thing, together. I never understood the stuff, it was way over my head.

They get this gallery going down on Pittsburgh Street. Yeah, where you busted up the party tonight, where you busted me. That was the chick’s pot, not mine… The bassist from the punk band… I thought I'd get lucky, I don't know… What’s the matter with her?... You don’t know that!...

Anyway, they hook some freaky patron, some French faggot, and get offered some wacky gig in Paris. The get married before they go, kind of elope. Too good to be true? That's right, her hooks were in him so hard, so quick.

Next time I see him in is in the bar… Yeah, the same one… Well I guess you'll always know where to find me then… To let you know that that cheap tie doesn't go with that even cheaper suit.

I see him in the bar and he looks worked… Not more than a year-and-a-half ago. Molly's left him and he's not too clear on why. He looks like hell, like he's taken it real hard. And he admits it too, "but not to worry" because he's got some big stuff rolling. I don't hear from him for a long time.

I was down on Pittsburgh awhile ago… Like six months ago… Making a drop at some photographer's place in that same building… Yeah, that's him… Yeah, in Peck's building.

I see Peck's name on the mailbox, so I drop in on him, ring his bell. And he looks worse than when I last saw him…