“the tomb is on a ship, the ship is in a cave, the cave is a signal, the signal is a figment of tespu” – lord anon
Kawaii from Korea is crying on the ancient bed
the wolf-dog is comforting her, head on her lap,
“she is mourning the complex”the blind one said
I’m rolling a cigarette, heart broken by the sobbing sounds
“Ït’s ok” the blind one says softly. “they are now timeless, in a monochrome hotel, dancing to old songs they loved.”

She is becoming younger in her grief. I did not expect her to carry this pain with me. Her sorrow seems to be making my tobacco taste better. Such strange medicine, this girl, this recurring spirit who visits me from the dawn.

The dog-wolf lifts its head and looks at me. Eyes, white as snow.
It sends me a time, a place, a continuum. a book unfolds within me. a name. an invocation.

The blind one senses this. He warns us.
“Only +espu can call it into our world…”
I contemplate my cigarette.
“…and only you can call tespu back from Golgotha.”
I blow out my last drag,
K. Kawaii is finally asleep.


day three

charcoal vines replace erotic red lace
guts of organic room tech revealing
snake like from ceiling,
complex, gordion nests
insect symphony, soil on ancient bed, shamanic soot

K K grows, supple, round, like sweet meat buns
the blind one meditates in shadow
+espu, in hell with The Lord

I’m on the shore, mainframe dreaming
lucid gel, petroleum muck, glowing lube
blown from nose
I’m on the shore, darkening
wolf-pup swims out to ark
“the statues are the greater things” Tespu said
“hewn out from hull, an ancestor mountain,
old ones sleep in obsidian tombs, a shipwrecked temple.”

“She did not crash” I remind him
“Yes, yes, they are our settlement, our early fathers from the dark desert.”

“there are no traces of fadre here, though I remember him being present. but it wasn’t night when he stayed awhile. He had been called by name. the sun is still his ally, but I, the son, contemplates the moon.”

the spirit of tespu moves over the waters
elder wolf-kind swims back to shore,
eyes, the lightning of love,
a crooked branch between its fangs

“I had gotten rid of wood painted blue
but here, I’m given the othern bark”

the naked trees bend away from sea
I bend my soul to the ark
the blind one is a bandit in zebra sky
I hunger for the blood of cadre


septu as
amalgam of the east


many faced temple
orbit / attic
whore-house of
moving nervous systems


septu in the eyes
tespu in the hands


also nest
also garden of eda
winter desert of the north


half mast
full sail
blue disembodied fruit
or foot in landscape
or citadel fire
clothed in southern smoke


calendar mutant of septu
time wells of septu
waves in pastel light rooms
waves in neon rain street
waves through hyperspatial western fronts


night of strangers and protocol
night of darkness swimming
pools to the other spaces
pools of chlorine lumii
animal faced sipping cocktails near pools
world pools
crescent pools

99 nights for the scenes of septu

99 binary gates or rays
99 nodes on the map of epicide
99 circuits from the colony of null


septu as primary
massive hallucinatory artefact


septu as secondary stimuli, surrealismepaths


septu in the bodies of toys
septu in the flora of dinner
septu in the partial lit hall
septu in tv
septu in crests and orifices
septu as witness to the lord tespu









blood money lovers

blood money lovers


we’ve been hiding behind blood money for a great time.


blood money in cakes at high tea restaurants. blood money in bridal white tight skirts with pearls. blood money as a wall between what we love and who we hate.


at 3pm on the seventh day, it feels like our time will run out.


we’re having a last meal in the blood money cafe where we first met, where we squandered cash on an arbitrary marriage. i recall inviting strangers, workmen off the streets, nubile ‘influencers,’ entertainers in leotards and pig skin. we had no parents, for the blood money made us in the labs we burnt down when we were old enough to carry weapons. with blood money, we bought imposter I.D’s and plane tickets and bus stamps. we fled and kept fleeing, having high tea anywhere we wanted.


that’s the thing.


we only remember high tea. no dinners under starlight, no breakfasts in bed. we hardly fucked, during the time of the labs or after our scam wedding. we violated other genders, sure, but we never made it a point to talk about our hunts or resolutions. I don’t know where she hides the bodies. she doesn’t know how i pose them. blood money erases such conversations.


it’s nearly three.


this is a dangerous thing i’m doing but i know i must do it.


I’ve returned to the lab, rebuilt and relocated. I’ve stolen an access pass. I’ve stolen the generic lab coat, false glasses, exaggerated limp. just like everyone else here. carefully, my face is re-plastered from thought forms. i stare into familiar admin-guards. they stare back, unable to recognise me. I stare into surgical rooms, waiting rooms, manifest rooms.


I find the rich prototype husband-prince in a room i do not recognise. He is well advanced. a dangerous being. a maker of she and I.


“it’s almost three.” he tells me, knowing why i am here.


“the veins of our lives will open to the corridors you gait.”


his halogen will reveal all our flaws but this is the plan. I bring him back to the bride, waiting in the high tea room.


the blood money is pouring out of our gaping autopsies. wet notes fluttering onto expensive carpets. we sit at the round table and eat the dog-cakes. I watch her peeling off the top half of a snout. she is licking her lips. i can see cream. I bite off the brown snout altogether. The man in the white suit, who is our maker-dealer, does not drink any tea or eat any sponge. Halogen breeds off his light, exposing us like radiation. All our corridors are open. everyone sees our crime. the authorities are on the way. we have been tired of running for a long time.


i once walked with her on an empty shore.


She once walked barefoot on a beach full of glass shards.


this was before the blood money bought us the new life. This was before our faux marriage. This was a time when we could be naked and intimate and full of real tongues on quivering skin.


I had asked her then, what our marriage would be like.


“a calm morning with a warm breakfast.” she had said.


we never had breakfast.


we never had sex after supper.


we only had dog cakes, half eaten, on a three o clock table for tea.


#irvingpaulpereira #prophescenes



I’m worm on a hook in your fish mouth

I’m glow snow
on slippery streets
easters and winters

between lake houses
and ocean founts
i’m quicksand seconds

between page six and two
we consume word salad

I’m a bicycle chain for your wet bondage fantasy

i’m no mans land
nomads land
endless activated charcoal

I’m fish in a universe, billions of days old

I’m after snow, bermudas, sun,  tanning lotion, iced tea

I’m control, alternate, deleter. Sent out to violent climates

#99tespus #irvingpaulpereira

#spwm17 #spwm17day3 #irvingpaulpereira #noprompt

this disturbance of nocturne
body of a Malay girl at the back of truck
naked, half covered in funeral white cloth
eye still open
her family will find the crypt vacant by morn light
time, depleting.
truck, stalled.
WE HAVE TO ship her back.

parked illegally at pick up point
presence of processions beneath block of the dead
spectres, overcrowding, bright orange banners, candles, flowers
I can’t wash the wake from my skin

A fat boy squatting on the curb, zen hysterical babbling

this haunting is not for him. i tell him to go home.
I tell the Jap whore in the truck to go home

happiness is in her face
because we are not in her
she will escape the gang banging.

I want to fight with the indian boy, standing above the naked corpse.
why did we need to steal the dead in order to have sex with the living?
see, the Jap harlot is overjoyed and running away

I do not want to handle the body. it is becoming softer instead of rigid
the flesh might unclump with a bursting of flies and insects

this is not my doing.
this haunting is not for me.

the fat boy starts his noise again.

we have attracted the cops.

painfully, i know they will find the corpse. how would we explain?
as the first cop climbs the truck, the stolen gun is fired.

this is not my desire.
but this is my doing.

i kill the second cop seconds after.
the funeral cloth is desecrated with warm bodies.
the fat boy is babbling.
the sun is coming
there is no daughter to bury

weird boys

weird boys gestating in membrane of head
dangling ziplock of soil from tongue
“stop flashing your drug in public”
“do you have the smaller pack?”

weird boys producing product to take
for a parade, massive and bustling
gas station midnight
haunted and crowding
closed down in darkness, grocery fausting

vagrants vanished in secret chambers
calling for those escaping by bus

weird boys possessed by outside forces
coriander and chunks of human tide
floating as bodies in the faeces of hearts

weird boys
foreign substance

see, the giant from opposite earth
silver sunglass, overcoat, cape
screen shot of phone face, cat face as app pic
haunched tower apeman greeting our madness

fire won’t burn the lips of weird boys
sponge eyes bulging from inside forces
the parade continues down by the hill

#irvingpaulpereira #weirdsinglit #poetry

#kkawaii ch 2- 3

she opened the doorways with her cheap, cock sucking orifice.

Part vision, part dream, part memory, we find ourselves thinking of night, in some distant history, waking to the sound of waves lapping against the cabinet of crystals in the house of afrioca. we find ourselves watching a hologram of us, back when we only considered ourselves to be the singular: me, him, his, mine. he. we find ourselves watching a hologram of a man standing before a great hole in the balcony wall overlooking the sea.  it was a cave entrance, twenty one stories above ground, opened up to the sky and sea of tankers, cruise ships, patrol boats, with no humans.

we remember the time following the black hole that appeared on our horizons for 3.33milliseconds. less than a blink of an eye that changed the DNA of reality as we knew it forever.

we remember standing in ankle deep sea water in the house, waiting for the girl with the cut throat, waiting for the bloated man, waiting to become the Archangel Ardenai. we remember descending the tower,  the late night parties in the streets, the warehouses, basement rave clubs, a bar in  the desert, the society of night.

we remembered coming home to a house full of whores. succubi, born from the fatal nocturnes of innocent girls, taken by the hand of gr’hg.

we ask Kei if she was one of them.

“I’ve made peace with that story.” was all she said, there on her knees, cleaning the remains of my old life force from the underbelly of my shaft.



we want to know the impulse that created you

was it the occasional wild dog that strays into our house?

eating rampant meat that grows from moss in the corners of the rooms?

do these dogs lay in the blankets that once covered sore bodies?

twitching and gnashing teeth through the night until morn when they

sometimes turn into hairless naked boys or

Babylonian priestess harlots?

are you one of these fierce sexual fiends?


we don’t know where she got the photographs. the ones of her modelling for young hearts lingerie.

she plastered them to the cracked room wall one night when we had passed out for a day and a half.

we woke up to those pictures, high gloss portraits of a slightly younger Kei

in light blue low cut mini panties, a cartoon baby seal printed on the crotch with the words ‘you make me happy’ above it; her face full of sadness and glistening tears.

Kei in white panties with tiny red and pink hearts and a bow at the centre of the waist band. The blotch of fresh blood on her crotch kept changing shapes.

Kei in various coloured neon wigs, in Japanese school girl uniforms, half burnt and torn, Thaipusam spikes through her tender cheeks.

Kei shrivelled and naked in Shibari ropes, bandaged, medical fetish Kei, mummified Kei, Butoh darkness Kei.

we woke up to see her scribbling long letters on the black wall with chalk, her slender back facing us, full of old lash marks. we lay there naked and limp, watching slow, transparent gel worms moving down the side of her inner thighs. we watched quietly for a long while as she tip toed, tensing her petite, nubile bum, to write Sanskrit passages on the higher wall.

“you were the most violent,” she said, breaking the silence, not turning to us, as if knowing we had stirred from formless sleep. “but you were also the most loving.”

“we don’t remember you that way. the violence we mean.”

“how do you remember me?” she turned, there were red ants on her teenage breasts, she dropped the chalk.

“bringing you to school.” we pointed to the pic of her in the japanese school girl uniform. “before the bombs fell. the snow. the unagi.”

“unagi? you never did a photoshoot with those things writhing in my cunt.”

“no, no. unagi the dish.”

she turned back to the wall, “I don’t remember liking that dish.”


you will wake with the light of RA in your eyes- on his burning boat, walls of the underworld lit, revealing lost lovers on the banks, alone and half kissed, faces mostly forgotten, bodies, not there at all or distorted, everything a blur, bodies untouched by your hand but not by your fantasies.
you will wake with the Song of the old cross in your head – you can’t reach out to cusp and heal the flowers, you can’t reach out to touch her cheek. you hands are bloodied, her form sinks into a mediocre mud stream, a face swallowed by burial ceremonies made possible by her marriage vows to another man. there are thorns in your heart. you remember someone saying, “it is finished.”
you will leave in search of morning dew – but you will find the land shriveled, animals staggering from dehydration, rivers running on empty, the sweat on your brow vanishing like steam, your blood turning to sand, dry tongues on strange skin; your lips, cracked and peeling.
morning has broken and so has your body.
you will see elements of her appearing under streetlights – slumped against pillars in dingy corners, innocence suffocating under make up, the smell of cunt on your fingers.
you will see a sign of ravens fleeing void decks, abandoning fresh carcasses, small intestines dangling from beaks, a history of omens in black pearl eyes.
you will feel the lull of solitary winter despite the heat.
you will realise that inside, you are made of ice.
you will see two women in black:
one; tall and lanky and taut from the lustre of monochrome pages, stuck together by the wasted goo of your unfulfilled desires, making a mess of your bed sheet instead of making slow love. there should tears of joy and love on her face and promises on her lips but instead, there’s only your spunk. She kisses you goodbye at the door.
you know you’re not coming back. you know this is not love. you know her name is false while your money in her pocket is real.
there’s another woman.
tight black dress, high slit, head high, a mandate, a monarchy, scar across her neck like her throat’s been slit.
she exiles you to a cage in the earth where thoughts of her are forbidden. you are not given fire or food or a double bed. you kill rodents because they keep eating your flesh as you sleep. you kill rodents because at some stage, you need meat and blood to keep you alive. at some stage, there’s no point in living, but she will not cut the cord of your pulse. you sense she’s no longer in the castle but you know she’s still in your heart, haunting you. you sense you’re the only one left in this collapsed world of black moss and brick and polluted moats and thunderstruck towers. you can neither see sunlight or starlight while the light inside you shows how barren you are. this is the price you have to pay for slitting her throat. this is the price you pay for fucking her till there was no more light in your eyes.
– excerpt from, ‘The Seven Horns Of Night.’
#prose #sglit #literature #irvingpaulpereira

The Poetic Self

“In the House of Afrioca, Great Otogoya sleeps.”

The poetic self, is legion.

One, mostly mutilated, prompts with pain and torture porn.
Another: morbid, purgatorial, criminal; hunts in the ever dark.
Ah Teck, filming up-skirts and pissing on feminists. Ah Teck killed by self—censorship (beware, a second coming?)

Then there’s nonsensus,
a consensus of cracked minds (and a muppet)
sucking on balloons, fucking chimpanzees, communing with decapod crustaceans.

Sometimes, the mythic ones, appear—
archangelic, aliens without genitals, conscious fractals at acid raves and ayahuasca huts.

elsewhere broods the cop: jaded, alcoholic, lonely and eating cold soba in a claustrophobic night scene from blade runner.

up there, off world, the organic occult satellite watches,
remote, complex, inaccessible.

As planet, full of foreign species collecting ancestral culture coding.

As Night Station, astral outpost, broadcast clinic, dispatching self—drones into third world soot streets and basement dance halls—tracking killers, doing drugs, talking to the dead.

Entire eras wait in mental vaults (or institutions)
in cryogenic pods, on arks building arcs, expecting new breath.

The poetic self is everywhere at once.

one thousand one hundred worlds
multiplicity / menagerie / marketplaces
nodal points sending distant signals back to he
hoping data isn’t dissolved in translation
lost to the tides of dream.

Nothing returns cohesive.

Therein lies the pain and pleasure of reconstruction.
Therein lies obsession.
That desperate work, to make the elsewhere real,
for the weariness of this world is more than one poet can bear, even though the poetic self, is legion.