Monday, April 20, 2015

Occult Humor by der zauberer

After he dies, Manly P. Hall goes directly to the library in Heaven, to make sure his opus Secret Teachings of All Ages is well displayed.

He is not at all surprised to find the book listed under the title A Controlled Sample of Potential Platform Simulations Derived from Platonic Epistemology & that all the copies were in Hell & overdue past grace to fours levels of manifold infinity.

All copies housed at Larry Screwtape, 666 Park Avenue, NY Apt. 237.
Current fines: The constant of 214, 748, 367 in a 64bit two's-complement format at a unit of 300 Krugerrands = constant 1   

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Catch 22 X Two -- Dennis Koch -- Gallery Luis de Jesus

In this new & terrible year, it has been my delight to assist in the creation of a catalog for the upcoming showing of Dennis Koch at Luis de Jesus, L.A. on February 21st.

Dennis is a pretty boss multi-media artist who is attracting some all-seeing type attention from disparate corners of the Great Cubic Matrix of Art 'n' Shizz.

For me, this collaboration was all that & a bag of 64 gig hot-cheddar Frito-Lazzles, my brothers & sisters.  A memory I will keep close.  Thanks, Dennis.

Below is a selection from my contribution to the catalog. 

Culled from my massive collection of arcana nervosa, wedged for nearly 30 years between a couple folders-full of my favorite Chick Tracts & my pristine collection of Classics Illustrated comics, is the essay Valis Schmalis, from Dr. Aziz Aziw.   The section below is the introduction to the full version of this mysterious antique pamphlet circa 1988.

If you are at all able, check out Catch 22 X Two at Gallery Luis de Jesus.

To read the full text, & enjoy Dennis' Art in your very own paws & that of contributor Talitha Wall, you'll want to grab a copy of the catalog.  Copies are going fast.  Available through Gallery Luis de Jesus.

The glacier knocks in the cupboard
The desert sighs in bed
And the crack in the teacup opens
A lane to the land of the dead 

- W. H. Auden

Inroit & Kyrie

In the 1970's, sci-fi pioneer Philip K. Dick attempted to clarify & then to document the nature of a sudden meta-vision, derived from a series traumatic psycho-active events he experienced in the wake of the Watergate scandal.

His attempt to apprehend this awful wave of truth would dominate completely his work & life for a decade, until his exeunt stage left into the wings of the Great Mystery Play, leaving for examination of his vision the shambling Ozymandian opus Exegesis, & VALIS, a gently fictional chronicle of his adventures during the period of his Watergate Breakdown.

The baseline of Dick's vision is that of a perpetual Time Loop, a loop designed to forestall the return to Earth the Kingdom of Heaven, a kingdom he proposes must exist only beneath the domain of a truly just & healing prince, whom he identifies somewhat skittishly as The Head Apollo.  

The fact that this misnamed Apollonian saviour in the most profane manner is also Christ, & in the most fine manner is precisely Christ, is a point of critical distinction, as in the key anecdote of his epiphany, Dick relates the conviction that the Loop is initiated by a group of shadowy magickians in & around the period of The New Testament Book of Acts.

Acts unwinds following the Crucifixion of Christ, to continue for about 80 Solaris Anni, until the destruction of the Second Temple, when Christ has promised to return, heal the meek & rid the face of paradise the wicked for all time.  

The magick of the Loop is that at the exact moment of The Promised Return, the historical timeline rears back upon itself, warping space & twisting the return of Christ into a retooled allegory of the horrorshow at Golgotha, 80 years or so gone away, when The Act begins again.

For a while, a Xerox of the typed-out version of Dick's Exegesis was available for study.  In the margins, pencilled in cursive scrawl by a friendly inquisitor of the manuscript, a precise term is used to describe the so-called bad guys in our story, the designers of the Loop.  

Jewish Alchemists.


In spite of this blunt & finely targeted expression, that Jewish Alchemists designed the Loop, it seems that Dick did not undertake to illuminate for himself much in the way of Hebrew Mysticism or the widely known ancient documents of the Hebrew tradition, the essence of which one learns quickly to be welded at the foundation with Integers, or Numbers, as it is likewise welded with Hebrew Letterforms.

Had Dick sought out such a study, we submit that the factual existence of the Saturnine Loop of his celebrated vision might ring more truly, more brightly in these latter days of the self-satisfied certainty of science.  Moreover, Dick's ultimate attitude toward the Loop, which he also called a Black Iron Prison, which he perceived as strictly evil,  may be, in the halo of a more studious light, reevaluated with some delightful results.

We consider first a couple of basic axioms.

1) If Dick's vision of the return of the Head Apollo is an accurate vision, then the Loop is a temporary fixture, allowed to operate as an extension of human selective choice until the level of abomination reaches an offence too great to permit, when the entire Loop is justly destroyed.

2) If Dick's vision is flawed, then the Loop could be a permanent fixture, potentially representative to the finest degree of all cosmic phenomena & sensational experience.

There is a paradoxic irony in the tension between these axioms.  If one perceives through the lens of a need, such as the first axiom demands both the destruction of the Loop & the restoration of the Kingdom of Heaven, then any deeper understanding of the Loop becomes profoundly pointless.
On the other hand, should one observe a less outcome oriented approach to the material, the possibility for detail & even legitimate Gnostic inspiration seems limitless.

We choose the latter.

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Moon In The Middle Tutorial Table Of Contents

Will be updated & brought to the top page with each new lesson.  Follow links to MRC.

TODAY is RED (1)

Friday, September 19, 2014

Midnight Mini #1 Alibaba Kazam!


Hey Madge, do you mind if I tell 'em that you are an incessant smoker & reader of paperbacks who propped lil' ol' moi in front of the boober-tuber to receive psychic transmissions directly from Stalinist Russian satellites 24/7 as soon as I was able to sit up without falling over?  And can I tell 'em just how many times you mused a comparison of my alcoholic embezzler & long-lost dear-old-dad to Jack Nicholson?

She calls back from the boiler room, "shut up, Stan".

I'll take that as a yes.

Jack, Ma & Danny
Got an email today from friend Denny Coq-au-vin, who thought I would find interest in a Japanese cartoon movie called Alakazam the Great.

I read his mail not too long before my traditional mid-afternoon 2 to 6 catnap.

Upon awaking, my Mom accosted me with some info she had heard on the BBC.  Here it is.

The biggest (or one of the biggest) IPO's in the history of the NYSE, from a Chinese Internet company called ALIBABA, the brainchild of a Chinese man my Mom insisted looks like a Macaque.

"That is interesting" said I to she, "because I just got an email from a dude, about this Japanese cartoon that is the story of a little Macaque who makes it big in the show-biz, but reforms & goes on to serve humanity in a big way.

"Really?" said she, adding "what was that show called?".

"Alakazam the Great", said moi.

Now, because I was still a little groggy froggy, it didn't click just so, & my old Ma slinked in to score the one-timer.  "Alakazam like ALIBABA?", she winced.

At this moment, I said something no young man should ever have to say to his Mom.

"Mom", I sprechen, "you just fucking blowed my mind".

It had to be said.

Here O Bruvvers & Seetsas, are the astounding details.

Alakazam the Great is based on a Chinese tale called Journey to the West.  Like the journey of a massive whale of a Chinese IPO heading into a Western market, an IPO with a decidedly Arabic appellation.  ALIBABA.

Here is a picture of Alakazam the Macaque.

Here is a picture of ALIBABA CEO and founder, Jack Ma, who my ma thought looked like a Macaque.

Does your inner monkey see what I see?

Now, here is the juice.

As many of my readers know, yer pal Da WWWiz doesn't get out much.  A couple of daze per Moon, to get the chores done.   The rest of the time I am home & alone, or with my dear old Madge, sharing a laugh over the Housewives of OC.

Well, just a very few days ago, I shopped for a new shirt at a big & tall shop I visit a few times a year.

It was an early hour.  At the check-out, I offered that I was rarely up at such an ungoodly time as 10 am, as I usually worked late into the night & slept in accordingly.

The fellow there asked what I did for a living & I gave the standard, "I'm a writer", which isn't exactly true, but much easier to explain without giving the dreaded TMI.

At this moment, a lady employee of the store jumped into the chat, & in an odd way to say the least.

She was a Chinese lady named Feng, with poor English pronunciation, in her middle 50's I reckon, a bit too friendly.  She inquires "You have a nice place to write?".

"Nah", says I, "I write in a dingy stairwell".  True.

And may the fires of Satan confound me for all time should I lie, here is what she said next.

"There's this movie about a hotel".

I waited like Phillip Petit waits for a strong breeze.

"It's got Jack Nicholson, and I'm kinda obsessed with it".

JACK MA!  Are you fucking kidding me Stanely?

(But in the dark ardent corners of a burned blue heart I whisper...Stan, my boy, I'll be yer mechanical bride like fur-evur, duder.)

And, for the last, thanks Denny Coq-qu-vin, & by the way...

Addendum Explanatium.  There are two Stans in this tale.  One of them is me ('cuz my mom calls me Stan).

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Jesus Christ Super Chicken or The Strange Case of "A-E-A" & the Robin Williams Sui-Murder on the Throne of the Feathered Serpent

Dedicated to the memory of Robin Williams, who feels to me like a friend somehow, someone I understand.  Long may you go wilding in ever-shifting, never-ending difficulty of beauty, which is truth, or something.  

Maybe it is just Jumanji.

Please apply musical selections where indicated.


"Nanu, nanu"

- Mork from Ork

"There's husbandry in heaven". 

- Banquo, from der schottische spiel

Over at The Kitchen Sink, I discuss the inevitable link of the death of Robin Williams to Auto Erotic Asphyxiation, in the main with two nice gals, Grassy Knoll & Joanie the Lens Key.  Grassy feels, & she feels firmly so, that the connection of this death to the AEA phenomena is profane, & perhaps unworthy of any legitimate occult bearing.

I am here to disabuse that notion.

Was the event itself an ordinary fatal AEA?

I am of no mind that such is indeed the case, & in the common way, there is clearly no point in this kind of speculation.  All of our info about the matter, by the time it reaches the gaping yaw of our personal hungry media-feed sources, has already passed through a massive intestinal orrery of gore & propaganda too much for all the Charmin in Charleston.

It is all shit.  Well maybe.  It certainly looks like shit.  Stinks to the rafters of glory.  Tastes like it too.  Good thing we don't step in it.

The trouble with shit is Merlin's Laugh, which informs that the deepest truth, the finest of all treasures, is discovered somewhere in a pile of shit, literal shit, steaming, golden feces, hidden like a needle in a haystack.

More like a crowbar in a silk purse though, once the process of collections & corrections fulminate into connection & then Gnosis.

On this particular case, our connection is the necessary understanding of the occult meaning of the A-E-A letter sequence, along with a few supporting details, to prove for certain that the practice of Auto Erotic Asphyxiation is intimately linked to the strange, difficult & truly fucking heartbreaking death of Robin Williams.


To begin, please look at Betsy McGee's superb expose on the Family Guy.  It is ALL worthwhile.  The section on Williams begins about half-way through.

Caveat: if, after looking at Miss McGee's thesis, if you, my pasty little reader, have any inkling that these extraordinary links are attributable to ordinary coincidence, please, go jump in the lake.  The one with the crazy Baptist.  Yeah, that river, 'cuz you need to wash your stupid brain.

What remains to dispense then? As the alternative to McGee's theory of predictive-programming & Illuminati mind-fuckery? 

Well, what remains to the interpretation of the Family Guy clues is that it is some sort of Cosmic Coincidence, an arch-typical synchronicity.

In her video, Miss McGee dismisses the possibility of Cosmic Co. Inky Dink in favor of outright conspiracy.   I'll get to why she is so obviously correct in just a wee smidgin, but for now, it is important to cover the territory of her dismissal.


Back in the '70's Philip K. Dick reported how some events from a novel of his materialized in startling detail into his world, so much as to draw him directly into the texture of his fiction in what seemed a random & almost meaningless choice.  Dick is not alone in this type of experience &/or delusion.  Marcel Proust & Poe, in their tech-free times, report a likewise experience. William Burroughs too, & the parochial Charles Hoy Fort.  The list goes on & on.

Syncing into the Maelstrom.

The experience itself can be explained easily in terms of regular confirmation bias.  With one's head & heart & gut going under in the waters of divinity, the artist or sympathetic type is able to draw easily a meaningful comparison from otherwise ordinary events to a peculiar & personal Cosmic fixation.

In the legal sense this first hurdle is impassible.  The matters of which we speak CAN NOT be proven, & thus are beyond the social intelligence.

But something unproven is by no means unknowable & for those with a thirst for knowledge & perhaps even truth, legal proofs become irrelevant.  Next to Knowledge & Truth, proof is a bag of old cheese.

So we face the problem of the unplanned Cosmic Corollary, the authentic sync.

In terms of the Family Guy clues, for myself mind you, I may have been on the line on this one, unwilling to accept that the symbols which telegraph the Boston Bombing & then later the strange death of Robin Williams are in fact placed within the media with the deliberation of its fabricators.

Unwilling, at least, until I hear for myself the words of Seth Macfarlane, who calls those "abhorrent" who decry these vague "co-incidences" as meaningful.  Well that's just bullshit, Mac.

Let's say, for instance, that Seth is in fact innocent of any knowledge or complicity in a predictive programming system of Nasty.  In this sense, his statements about "Turban Cowboy" are flat out fucking ridiculous.  At the very least any honest person would find these corollaries interesting & troubling, if not totally fucking boffo.

I mean, imagine if you had written a joke that would prove at some later date to describe in frightening detail some event of great suffering.  At least you say "Wow, trippy duder" or "Jeez, that is disturbing".  What you do not say is that people who see the same are crazy &/or "abhorrent"  To do so trends upon an Act of Evil, if not worse.

So we know that Seth Macfarlane is a stone mutha-phunking liar.  But curses, we are foiled again, because we do not know why he is lying, & that last step is a big, dreadful leap.

What we know is that "something wicked this way comes", that muckies in the media know it, channel it, maybe even control it. But WHAT IS IT? As ugly as things seem, the application of Gnostic Logick demands the suspension of Judgement along with the careful application of discernment.

What is it?

This must remain unanswered.  For now.


Now, to prove the value of the A-E-A sequence as an occult clue in the death of RW, I must do some stablishin'.

Let me tell you a true story, which is verifiable by the intensely cagey researcher John Fell Ryan.   We are in no way close, he & and I.   I often wonder if he thinks your pal Da WWWiz is a crackpot, so Cagey is John, but the man is legit.

Ace Kubrick researcher Rob Ager sponsored a pop-up forum devoted to all things Kubby.  It shuttled hundreds of threads of some of the best Kubrick & most hard nosed Kubrick research anywhere.

My total contribution to the site was less than 1%,l but my thoughts precipitated Ager first to ban & chastise me, then to rant like a nutbar at yours truly "Kubrick was a chess player & a film-maker not a MONSTER!" & then, without explanation, to nix the ENTIRE FORUM.  There is no doubt that he did so because he was disturbed by my influence.  I feel certain he became afraid of an element of his hero he could not confront, but that's just MO.

Of course, I did not suggest Kubrick was a monster, or even a "bad guy for certain".  In this matter my work is consistently ambiguous, to reflect my own love of the difficult depths of reality.  Instead I honed in on a code found in Kubrick that denoted the crypto-strangulation of a character in pretty much all of Kubrick's work.  I call this the Doc Strangle Love Code.

I'll give three strong examples, there are others peppered throughout my work about Kubrick.

In The Shining Danny is choked.  Jack suggests "he must have done it to himself".

In FMJ Pyle is told to "choke (himself)".  When he does so with his own hand, he is told to do it with the hand of the Sergeant who made the order.

In Strangelove, the Doctor has a split personality, with the implication that one of his arms is out of his own control.  This arm wears a gloved hand, which may also indicate that the arm is an actual transplant or bionic arm.  The hand occasionally attacks the Doctor with a grip around his neck.

In each of these examples, the strangulation has a dual description.  Is it self-strangulation, or is it the act of an outside influence or program?

In my discussion at The Sink it was the probing Miss Grassy that opened up a new eye upon this matter of the Kubrick Choke Code, the A-E-A sequence, & the hanging of RW.

There is some delicacy of reasoning here to touch before the final details.

Don't give up on us, baby.


The last Hebrew letter, the Hebrew Omega, is called Tav.  Tav is a word too, & it has, like many of our English words, more than one subtle meaning, subtle meanings connected under deep etymologic codes.

Tav means in the main, Drum &/or Cruciform.  The hidden connection to these terms is that they describe something "pulled taut & fixed", the way a drum skin is pulled & fixed across a drum, the precise way that a man or woman may become crucified upon a cross.

In Revelation, the completed Christ names himself Alpha & Omega.  These Greek letters have a precise simulacrum in the Hebrew letters Alef & Tav.  As Alef/Aleph Christ is the OX or more precisely the Yoked OX, who pulls forward the teleology of human spiritual history, just as his father Cain establishes the mainstay of human existence here on Planet Oit, namely, agriculture & the husbandry of animals.

Conversely, as Tav/Omega, Christ is Crucified.  Pulled taut & fixed like a guitar string.  It is these two seeming opposite dignities of divinity that form the foundation of a) a reality that can change in any way, the way a guitar string can be tuned, while b) remaining permanently stable & most importantly unbreakable.

Interestingly enough, Philip K. Dick poses the question in his Exegesis.  "How do you create a Universe that doesn't fall apart (at once)...?".  By what mechanism?  The dual divinity of Christ, to the schooled Occult Gnostic, is the precise mechanism in question.

To the knowledge of the letter & term Tav, we add this little-known tidbit.  In early pagan myths of Christ, he is not crucified but hanged, pulled taut on the end of wire, while the letter Tav looks just a little more than remarkably like a man hanging from a gibbet.


Now, I don't know about you kids, but when I was a lad, we sometimes called masturbation choking your chicken.  I do not mention this anecdotally, but rather because it reveals a key detail in the crypto-punny story of Christ & in our investigation tonight into RW's weird transfiguration.

The main thing about Christ is what he represents as a Human, & that is The Rejection of Death.  

But what is usually missed about this feature is that it is also the rejection of earthly nature, which is that of blunt, unconscious decay & blind regeneration.  The idea of Death is repugnant to ALL humanity, in spite of some growing new-age claims of the suspension of that repugnance.   Any form of spirituality, regardless of the vagaries of its language & of its rhetoric, implies a transcendance of the being, & transcendance IS NOT Death.  Not the blunt Death of earth bound nature, which mulches the concentration of spiritual memory into its base atomic elements to be reformed at random by natural selection.

This fear of Death, this repugnance of Death, & finally, this rejection of Death is precisely what it means to be a human, and it is the precise Mission of Christ.

It is most necessary to see this rejection of annihilation as a Fear, a Fear unique to human beings.  Animals fear pain & physical damage, & thus will rush straight into the arms of terrible danger without hesitation.  Humans fear annihilation & thus will stand in line to for pay for iPain.  Everything, every fucking thing about reality on this planet attests to these simple, bald-faced facts.  But most humans will reject this truth like a blind man rejects a newspaper, as useless in their hands.   

Now this whole rant about Death really matters in terms of the aforementioned pun regarding Christ, as Christ is the avatar of this human fear & the avatar of the desire for eternal truth.  

Cryptologically, Christ is connected to the Roman Sun God Apollo, & although this is by no means the story entire, it is a hot hot clue.

Because we speak of this Fear of Ultimate Death as the lynch pin of Christ's Message, we may conflate, just for a moment, the term chicken as one who is afraid.

The term Apollo breaks down as a-pollo, or a chicken.

Here is where all the stuff about Tav, the crucifixion & the gibbet goes all pop-eyed.

The act of masturbation, for a male, is dangerously similar to the act of a hanging.  As a matter of record, the hanged male often ejaculates at the moment of tension.   Horny or not, it just happens sometimes.  

Moreover, in a state of deep depression &/or mania, the deeply embedded human desire for a spiritual transfiguration rises faster than a David Lee Roth show.  Or so I am told.  As we have seen, hanging is a well rooted method to achieve this transfiguration, & it is also perhaps the most easy form of self execution to undertake without the breaking of the skin or the need for an instrument hard to acquire.  This ease of execution is a really important point I will connect ahead.

Add to the the idea of this transfiguration the very heavy emphasis of our age & times on sexual satisfaction as an absolutely necessary component of the New Spirituality.

Am I making my case yet?

Yeah, I is.

Now we connect the final thread in the case of "A-E-A & the Robin Williams Sui-Murder on the Throne of the Feathered Serpent".

You can leave your hat on.


To begin, I want to explain my first association to the AEA abbreviation.  Unbelievably difficult occult super-genius Julius Evola called EA "the cry of the serpent" & associated it with the transfiguration of Knowledge to a Higher Realm.

The conflation of serpent/phallus stands for itself.

Next, & here is where it gets meaty, we go back to the master, SK.

In 2001: ASO, Kubrick uses Strauss's well known Nature Theme to frame the mystical orientation of his film.  The theme, heard in the rising trumpet melody & in reverse in the thunder of timpani is expressed as the 1st, the 5th, & the 8th notes of a major scale. Because this 8th note is an octave, it is the same tone as the first, but at a high frequency & thus also connoted as the 1st note of the scale.  It is common for musicians to refer to this sequence of 1st, 5th & 8th notes as simply 1-5-1.

Although Strauss's Nature Theme is in the key of C, it is obvious the A-E-A sequence is also a 1-5-1.

Kubrick reinforces the 1st, 5th & 8th/1st motif when we are introduced to the AE-35 Unit, the communication array of the Discovery vessel, which looks just like a spermatozoa lost in space.  Of Course AE-35 is also AE 8 & therefore A-E-A/1-5-1.

Are you getting my signal yet, 'cuz here comes the strangler.  When Poor Frank Poole goes into space in his urine yellow suit, to repair the AE-35, he is strangled to death by a space pod only he should control.  

1st, 5th, 8th/1st
Poole's Death by Suffocation
AEA abbreviation

Are you kidding me, Stan!?

Fucker.  Stone fucker.


But this is all about Robin Williams right, my fellow jerk-off in the sky.

In his stand-up, Mr. Wiliams called his pocket-friend Mr. Happy, & gave it full status as a human character.  He self-identified as a constant masturbator.  Mr. Happy, according to the wiles of Aleister Crowley, who conflated the Sun & Happiness, could be easily interpreted as Mr. Sunshine & thus as Mr. Apollo, the oft-choked chicken of so many bed-time tears & self-inflicted jeers. 

Williams's seminal character Mork from Ork proclaims Nanu-nanu, & although it may be a stretch, because of the repetitive nature of the term Nanu-nanu, it is possible to read Onan-Onan.  This particular type of code is called a lexigram, & while you may take it lightly, NSA analysts do not.  

Onan is, of course, the sacred father of jerkin' off, although what he did really was pull out before lift-off, spilling his seed in a moment of Havlockian castration anxiety, & this little detail is muchos importante.

Hang on Sloopy!

First let's examine what we have learned about the Alef/Tav circle of life & compare its themes of something yoked & driven forward, which is Alef, & something held taut like a string, the Tav  Let's compare these images to the act of male self-masturbation.

What, do you people need a compass here?

Next, let's take a look at Mork from Ork & remind of the already suggested connection to Kubrick & Clark's David Bowman, who would become The Star Child, which we, among other excellents, have decoded to mean The Moon Child, & to me, more meaningfully, The Egg Child.

In 2001: ASO, HAL, the mutant computer and real hero of the movie, suffocates Frank Poole & tries but fails to do the same to Captain Dave.

Later, on anther movie set, Mork from Ork plays perhaps the returning version of Bowman, a possibility firmly hinted by the show's creators.   The new Dave, cracked out of his Egg (& out of his gourd), feeling all sorts of slap happy.  Like Bowman, Mork is dressed in Red.  Mork also sports silver triangle on his red space suit.  Silver is the occult Moon/Egg.

I think by now, Dear Miss Grassy Knoll, I have made a decent case for the hidden & deeply fucking eldritch connections between the death of Mr. Williams & the act of Auto Erotic Asphyxiation.  

I would NEVER claim that his death was in fact such an act, & add that this investigation is motivated by Love, which is the Law these daze.

Furthermore, I can tell you, at some length & some other time of a man I know, who sitting quite happily one day, not too long after a healthy reflex action, if you get me, how this man sitting quite happily in the very finest time of his life, without a single care or worry, made a split second decision to hang himself.

They told him he was sick, that his act was a kind of a delusion.  He knew better.  He didn't know why, but he know he had been triggered somehow, so he started to examine the unique details of this horrible & life-shattering event.

There was only the one thing to stand out, the big change in his life.  Namely that at the time of this awe-full event & for the first time in his life, he began to study media codes, & in patik the codes of Stanley Kubrick

Later, he found them.  This article is one tale of the tape.  Another is a permanent scar around his neck.

But maybe you need the most direct of all connections I can give to the A-E-A sequence in the death of our subject tonight.

I have explained how the Alef describes an OX in a Yoke, & also an erect phallus in a tight grip.

But what about the E in the sequence?  What does it mean?

As you look below at Mork from Ork, Jesus Christ Super Chicken, coming out of his shell into the Happy Sun so proud & friendly, consider the meaning of the term Heh, the 5th letter of the of the Hebrew alphabet, & the acknowledged partner of the English letter E.  A meaning established in the very most sacred of texts, and repeated like a hammer in all of its worldly tongues, tones & notations, & so well understood nowadays among occulties, it is practically de rigeur.


(Da WWWiz OWT! Drops mike, takes long nap.)

Sunday, August 31, 2014

The Hold Out

--for Samson Shillitoe

After three long years of wrestling with this meta-poem, three fuckin' years I shit thee notwise.

Well, in the words of its inspiration, the little known but titanic poet Samson Shillitoe, this my most finest work of ever is at last ready to "break free & beat back the sun with briny fists of fire".

As a piece of meta-poetry, the following work is meant expressly to be read while listening to the attached musical selections. 

The work is defined by three pieces of music.  Three Preludes.

Prelude the First, which includes the first three parts of the poem.  Prelude the Next, which covers the fourth part of the poem. Prelude the Nexus, which completes the fifth & final part of the poem. 

This is a dramatic poem, to be read dramatically.  Some musical indications are given (in parenthesis), but by & large, try to follow the flow of the music & you'll get it good enough.

The play list is set up.  There may be an advert to skip at the start.

When you are ready to go, & reach the playlist, press play & read on.

The Hold Out


Three Romantic Preludes into Gnosis, in G Sharp Minor and D Flat Major, and F Sharp Major, Respectively

Prelude the First in G Sharp Minor--Rachmaninov

(Casual, firm but steady, a normal talking pace, with tempo adjusted per the music & as indicated in parenthesis)

Part I:  Major Toynbee Makes His Case

I find the Hold Out in her hiding place--plain sight
Doing the usual Shakespearean rag & some desultory reading
Maintaining stylish pallor
Dr. Chopra on the telly:
"...I think the main thing is not to try to meditate...just let it happen..."
In hazy blue of blue in green
Ordinary cathode smoke
Dolorous & hazy
Dollarless & broke

My own breadth is shiny with the medals I dun won
Fighting in the Pacific theater longside Darkwing Duck & the Olsen Twins
Four gentlemen abreast, we lay waste to Nippon Disneyland
With no more than a well-timed request for American Mustard on our Dogs

I come to share the awful truth of that final campaign
That Easy meets West after all
Quite regardless the efforts of Shania Twain
& that the jig is up
& that Time is tighter now than Sacred Cow

(faster here, intense)

It was a lark, of course--an overblown grovel ground for glory
In retrospect
But the moment itself was a double-shot of piping-hot Campbell's Mushroom 293
Back before they started  to decrease the sodium content, mind you

(Much faster, frantic, schizoid)

& I recall General Lemay
Grinning & on the verge of invisibile madness, saying something like
"...If we don't win it now boys
We'll all of us hang for crimes against humanity, sure as shit..."
Lemay, old he
He sprechen zie, of course, in the vernacular

(sweetly, still fast)

As some ladies also present
Demure, becoming breath & sex appeals
Deployers of whorls, hairspray & heels
Demand their official notice & the right to vote
&/or to die like soldiers

(Quickening, but quite slowly so)

Those were the days, my friend
So anodyne & innocent
Chin up for the cosmic snap-shot & perma-tan economy
We each believed would catch us Kodachrome
The child inside backlighted
Throwing a beach-ball or something
Wading maybe
Near the Boardwalk in Atlantic City
Long-lasting in the dog-day summer sun

(Fast and fearful)

But nowadays our sins are snapping taut like tired sinew
Mad fingers play Mephisto Waltz just a smidge too technically
Harpists dropping acid-lines of opium fruit roll-ups
In Tic-Tac-Toe on top the Metropol & cross-crissing the Monsanto prairie sky
The corporate locust coming home to roost
While stealthy chicken-wings deep-fly by rocket boost

Dr. Venkman said it better
"...cats & dogs living together..."

We will manage justice later... if we can

We can

Part II:  Entre'Actualize-a-tion

(Continue a bit slower)

Nothing is a problematic state
How blissfully it yearns to self-negate
& to remain "as is", Nothing-ness must whiz
From less than one to evermore than eight

Part III: Sempre Phi

(Building intensity here, stately)

We are told, through demanding application of theoretical models
That the "irresistible force" must overcome the "immovable object"
Nevertheless, we find it likely that nothing (no fucking thingis truly irresistible

So c'mon kids and be the first...
The first on your block to be irresistible!

(quick & smooth, a fast-talking car salesman, triumphant)
You are needed--here and now--on the front-lines of history, the wispy Araby of Old

Your adventure awaits

Join now
Become Irresistible

(fading, pause, quiet & sure)

Become Nothing

Prelude the Next in D Flat Major--Rachmaninov

Part IV: Visit With The Assassin

(quick, in uneven measures, a happy drunk telling an urgent story)

She says
In an unplaceable
& unplacable drawl
Foster Brooks in his vodka cups
Or nigh on to drivel:

Sit down Major... cigarette?
Rot-gut, but it does the trick
For old times sake I'll suck your dick
No twenty?
That's all right, I'm too polite
I know
Y'er noodle's limp...

Welcome to adulthood
Viagra is the new Black

Anyhoo, (she continues)
During my tenure with the Mossad, I learned the importance of being wrong
The dyb-dyb-dyb & dob-dob-dob of dyb-dobbery--right?

Being wrong is preparation
Mistakes the Master True, the Tutor, & the Way
Fortune makes fuck-ups of us all
We so hot & ready for the shiznit
Suckling for the Salt
The "keepin'-it-real" of a dreamed ideal
Without a fear of foe or fault

Preparation H-Bomb my friend
& that is all
That is All

But I digress
Where was I, yes
Oh yes, the Lamb & such
& such & such
So much, so much

Only the Lamb
The Lamb, my friend
Only the Lamb can make the necessaries
The Lamb
The antidote to all this shit
The terrible, bloody, turpentiney mess
Of diaper rash and holiness
In which the Son of Mourning has us dress
In clothes of clotted carelessness
& Emperor's must sure impress
To guarantee a safe egress
I guess

But the button is broken, see
Reach up & see
Pull down upon the dangling chad
Be free
Be careless, leeward thee
Be glad

G'head and try
Try to fly away the body, mad
& try to fly away your body, mad
& try again
& settle sad

Fly canst thee not, a glitch, I know
You try to fly, the body's NIGH!
Our hearts are caught
& so we flee
With someone else mind & someone else's song
Along the way a seventh swan
Along the passage of a faun
From the stagnant, pregnant levee
Where the filth is loosed & vile & free
The vacuum offers up the key
A welcome to the poisonous sea
The vitrious, bubbling, burgeoning sea

(Angry here, but still sweet)

Let me put it "plainly" then
"Plainly", as I've heard you urge
Good Major, man
A common breath of common breadth
A math for weaker on the path:

Some short few moments past the post
On which we nailed a gallant ghost
Some short few moments
& no later
Not one fucking second later
We roll it back to Zero
In the usual seizure of fear and desire
The lingering warmth of  Promethean Fire
Back along the aggregate
The aggregate of our desire
The darling spark
Promethean fire

(keeping tempo with a growing pace)

& looking down
Downward without shame
At last without a shame!
Good Germana oughtta do
Into the muck & without shame
Into the ignominious primordial slime
For some uncertain parasite
A grey misshapen not of name
Stamped, against the will
Into a flesh that yields to joy
& rushes to its rot
& is so glad to be forgot
& I dare you say it not

The emptiness of space
A pad of ooze without a face
Looking down
Like some dumb kid might do, who hasn't yet become a mess
Like you there in your fancy dress
Scanning for the slightest trace
The faintest of a vagrant stench
Of Ill
Or misdirected will
Or hidden, sacred pain
To eradicate & wash
The lost chance to be right
& to make thyself White
The White for Black & Black for White
No matter of the skin of fallen making
Commerce low
Or commerce high
The color changes as you go
The dollars wiggle even raging by
In the plodding, doppled measured paces of a chess-bound hack
Bound to looking ever back
Backward, rolling back
Ply upon disjointed ply
Speeding games, timed on a clock
To find the way
To drop the rock
& never knowing why
We cleaved it so
Just like a kid might do

No One can face the Unknown

(much faster, intense)

Think you can? Think you can?
Face the empty nowt?
The deluge of eternal drought
Water gone and growing wan

Are thee another transcendental Kraut?
Bound for existential doubt?
Freshwater Salmon, Seabound Trout
Find a hook and work it out


Though not says I!
Cuz', like I said it ain't been done
It never shall
It is
A fool's game
After all
A fool's game
After all
Repeating old things
Terrible & Lovely Things
Beautiful, Terrible Things
Forever &
Forever more & such
It is too good
It is too much
Too fucking

So terrible and lonely, see
So dreadful to be One
Warm and safe in leather cap
A thick asbestos apron
Made for a butcher's son
Protected from your glory
So flatly brown and grey and gory
So hopeless for a stable story

Cuz' the break of day
All Goddam frightfully unbearably bright
From the safe and reassuring moisture of your bath
Of your bed
Dim, cool & marmolite
Is a troublesome fright
& don't you think it best remembered as a feature of the Night?

Rolling back
Back to the moment musical
Bouncing that ball
A kid
Buscaglia something something
All fresh and pink
Warm and new
Calm and wonderin'
Cool and wild
& before they attach and make it all metal
& before they attach and make it all mental
& clinical, tubular
Ontological, frontal
& all so relentlessly fucking grown up
That we despise every proportion of the pirated mess we are told we have made
Fleeing the Shepherd
Fleeing the Maid
Fleeing the Moonlight
Feeding the Tradewinds
Fleeing the Trade
Sneaking away from the evenest deal
Like a camel in to the twilight
Unto with tattered bridle and water low
The mythical appeal of something something
Something real

Cuz' don't ya want it even cos'
Cuz' don't ya want it made

It isn't Mozart!
Isn't Rembrandt!
Isn't Walmart!
Isn't Kant!
It isn't perfect!

You can't handle perfect
You can't handle Art

(a bit slower, slowing steadily through out)

But goodness gracious it IS Green!
& and tremulous
& keen
& brimming full of of lovely lovely trees
A grove of lovely trees unseen
A ring of brightling keys
To an innocent young glory
& grace, if one should please
A place in the Moonlight
The comfortable trees
In the Moonlight
Which is God's first thought
& the dream of children gazing, dreaming on the stars

A Place in Moon, right
A place in the Moonlight
In the Moon's Light, right?

Oh God, be right...



A crash & then some quiet please, her teacup falls, she is asleep

Prelude the Nexus in F Sharp Major--Chopin

Part V: The Coup de Grace

(Medium quick but not too quick, firm, like a solemn, steady, insistent Shakespearean soliloquy, end as thou please & let the music play)

Thinking to himself
About that sleeping soldier there
About her strategy so fine & of her wealth
Her wealth of heart & mind & care
& how she gave her finest thought for peace
Into a garish horror wrought

Vermis Sum, he then declares
Whispering to his own lost child
Gone fishin' in the afternoon
Who played
& rode a bike
& cried out easily in pain
& laughed quite effortless in love
& all of it lost in his hand
Like grains of stardust in his hand

Lost in his pocket, grains of sand
A note-in-a-bottle on the limitless strand
A message lost on endless strands
Of sentences and ampersands

"Just plain lost" as she would say
The Major thought, and shrugged it off

Just plain lost. OK
That's it.
Just plain lost.  OK.
It's all Perdido anyway

& just before his muted pistol flares
& dust is moved
& dust is spared
He blinks somehow not common sense
For a marksman eagle-eyed
For a marksman & a man of pride

Yet at long last
The cold commission of his duty blares
& the boorish horn of Jericho declares
& walls come down
& tears come down
& not a mother-lover cares
A single fucking whit

Of course, she seen it comin'
Sure, she knowed that this was it
The time had come
She had to go
An Age of Voices spoke just so
As ages turn
The martyrs burn
The time had come & so & so
& straight as rain the Major's bullet hit
& just as planned
From Ankhenaton to the Pope
& butterfly to rope-a dope
& dinosaur to Golden King
Right from the very dawn of timed
Inception of a tortured rhyme
& going on & on like grime
Our assassin found his crime
& the Major offered up all hope
& tight his finger on the iron
To no one's cry

Because her passage overtakes the veil
Because she always makes this darking leap
While laughing softly, half asleep
She takes the bullet
Soul to keep
Lead to Gold & few to weep
Because she's old, she makes the leap
She always does
She can not fail
She can not fail to pass the veil
She is the veil
She is the leap
& all of this this has happened hence
& and all of this will happen still
It always does & always will
In heaven or in in hell, you see
No one there to kill but "me"

She does why?
Because she must
She must, you see
Because of love
Crazy wounded, bloody love
Because the weak are are manifold
So many & their sickness deep
Who can not dream
Who can not sleep
In any healing way
By fleeing night or gnawing day

The gentler night is lost, gone cold
To such as these
The night is cold, gone lost to me
& is to all all of us

But here
The pistol burning in his hand
The wound delivered
One to one
The wound delivered
Man to Man
He claims a silent prayer to Pan
& turns a practiced pirouette
In honor of some distant ethic
The semblance of a feeble hope for resurrection
The resurrection of
That kid
That kid with hope
Loved and safe and somehow free
A growing wad of summer grass
That special scent of a fresh wad of gladly scorched & spongy sod
When every corner is a bliss
Where every mourner is a god
& only goodness comes to pass
Owing to a child's forgetfulness

& turned a pirouette
Without a sentimental beat
& walked into the salmon street
Without a hope
Without retreat
Into the rushing river street
Without a thought of who to meet
Another pilgram on the dole
Another casket with no grave
Prowling for a moment of peace
& said a silent prayer to Good
To all that could be slightly Good
& and finally to God

"I loved her
She could hold the line
She could make the mystery last
Blow clear the dust off of the past
And make me live again
A kid
Who used to want, aw hell...

I dunno,  a kid who used to want something

Me, the lost
To find a place
To earn a kiss
To own my face
To be a child & grow again
To Want Something

To Want Something

Want Something