nth & x’th day

day 9

K is full of film
spooling inside her,
red bulb in dark room
pictures appear
a time, a street, a motel,
built then gone
long before she was born

tespu tells me
“her soul moves from body to body”
(Mara, Marian, Daphne, Nicole)
(she’s faithful from age to age, just like her master)

“she’s a model for your myth”
my maiden, my fuck toy, my witch
“the ‘her’ you die for and live with”

I too have moved
from body to body
(Jhon, gHos_haus, Monroe, Lore)

we are DNA strands intertwined, two changing stars in a fabled Armageddon

the blind one is taking photos of me
(to show me my histories, my forms)
the blind one is taking photos of tespu
(to show us his passage, his norms)
Kae keeps these copies
warm in her body.
Letting them grow, letting them fester, letting them fathom.

day 10

Theology of the blind one of many doors (partial)

only the young one knows a little of the blind one,
but tespu knows all, for they are all of tespu,
the all in this room is not the all of the larger house
And there are many more houses still, crouching on the unknown street, ever changing
Sometimes with two doors, sometimes with none
Sometimes a building, sometimes a hut, sometimes a bunker, sometimes a skyscraper
appearing, disappearing from the neighbourhood

Oh mysterious neighbourhood
where ghos_haus stands, that magick shop, corrupted by the outer echelons of slutter gutt, steaming in the red light districts of ATON, calling our souls to erotic nest
into the city, the wombs of night, to which the outher ones belong
they, who are mere organs in the body where cities converge
The cities a mass of flesh and glass and stone and volcanic ashes
Body next to body in the room which is a land, stretched and curled and handcuffed and fornicating
Sea fucking sky fucking space fucking Sheol

Pillars of lightning and fire
spearheading the spreadeagled superblackhole
one of many in the tomb full of tombs, in an underworld full of other worlds
the upper worlds
the current worlds
Inside the greater world that’s outside the outer world bound by the utter world
one thread in a legion of realities
Spun like rays of light from a disco ball, in a ball room where the blind one and the young one dance to the music of the luminous void


day 6

three theologies of sand
‘the ark’
remember the monolith
alien and nocturne
marooned and colliding near the shore
long before the suez
the breath that touched me at the beach
‘the 100th day’
children playing in the sun
splashing in the sea
my heart breaks with pain and freedom
my heart mends with freedom from pain
I’m with mother near the shore
where did the sand come from?
pooled next to the head of mothers’ bed
I cannot explain its presence
I only remember the threads
connecting dream to room to reverie

the seventh day
starts off in a lab with fish tanks
popcorn chicken pieces wriggling like new born mice in my hands
quickly, they turn into curled hamsters
ferocious, anxious, leaping from my palms
I bend to their higher worlds
scoop them up from a nest of twigs

I’m out on green fields
hamsters turn into dogs that run to me
‘like long awaited lovers’
“They’ve grown longer, better furred” tespu says
“Is this your sign of return?” I ask him. He does not respond.
he turns into a chattering Eurasian woman
who sees, as I see,
the cocker spaniel, ready to poop

the woman has wrapped the two dogs up like burritos
(Or in a cheesy way without cheese, ‘hot dogs’)
and because of her faith, or responsibility
She packs up the poop in microwavable foil.

she hands me all three burritos in a bag.
the creatures break free from the wrap
they spill out as roasted chicken meat onto the floor
the cocker spaniel has turned into a chicken wing, mostly deboned
the meat wriggles on concrete
maybe I’m to eat them
like some strange sacrament
‘this is my body, this is my dog’

day 8

the mistaken union (previously unreleased)
there is no matrimony between us
we are incursions and errors
wrong codes for the right line

I am not your waters of life
you are not my fabled shore
I am not your host
you are not my parasite
we are on a bridge above the world
Impotent impostors in the place of creation
you shall not be graven, I shall not be grave
we were simply, falsely labelled as exits

but see, the black door is half open
you can enter its gate or leave the room
your river is already given
follow my gaze, but not into this soul
It is not yet primed for your kingdom

watch for the light that I see far away
follow with courage, do not be afraid,
another king shall guide you, for I cannot give you rest


the mystery of k.kawaii (alt take)
the soft world, cools her, holds her when it breathes
burning strands of tobacco sizzles on her skin
her heart is a glare of television night
her hand will reveal the end signs, shot on large format cameras
these archetypes are not her archetypes
she is not born for those times
but those times will conceive her
in motel rooms, in a cave, on a ship, near a tomb
her mouth opens for a lighthouse, her hair longs for the highways,
her sounded bends to the constructs in the east
“there are mourners beneath the tree of tespu, on his mountains, children will play”
the soft world pushes her out to sea
and like schools of fish, drowned tuxedoes follow
there are bridal showers behind her eyes
there are glowing drifts of tobacco leaves, touching black paint on her lips
she does not want to remember the film
but the film is an infant that feeds her


“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


“mooncakes are too bright
but by its light,
the anteaters shall walk.” – epicus the strange

“my arms and upper body overhang the window
oversighting little street of Goa
mass vegetal smells,
rancid snake oil, ghee, goblin trash,
add to the aroma of wonders
the orbs! the orbs!
such is my mandate” – from the childhood aurora of Benedicto the Latin

“KoreanOK” is done with her singing
opens hello kitty purse for pills
the blind one is taking photos of her
the room is lit by short Roman candles
red lace hang from the ceiling like erotic banners

I am one with the wolf-dog in the meditation room
but I’m also drugged and naked in the dark motel, peering out of slits in curtain, watching the police cruiser park by the coffeeshop. I’m mildly distressed but I know they’re not coming for me. I have my talismans.
The clown mask. The duct tape. The beef jerky wrapper. The hot chocolate mug.

The wild dog shifts it’s weight and I return the worldless place,
the stalagmite kingdom, the room with sea amoebas

Tespu is in the garden with the lord, sweating blood
Korean M.V is sweating on the ancient bed, hands on her bodies
the blind one thinks of the glowing disc on the forehead of madre, minutes before her last breath
the red dog reminds me to build ‘elsewhere’
overhanging window over little Goa street
taking in the scents of hemp and Talmudic preoccupations,
leading anteaters out to sea on an old wooden boat,
in search of the satellite-ark called XOR


“we will darken the wooden wall
with the hypno of piano”
The Lord, Steinway & Sons

it takes time, the dried flowers

to be hung
to be shrouded
to decay
to attain patina

such still life hours

or the framed Victorian wife
golden portrait faded
wood eaten by centuries and lice

six notes from the lords’ thin fingers
opalescent, sinews strained, blackened nails

how I memory blood on ebony
thorns from dead stalk, reveries, ivory
a blind man on an ancient bed
a wolf dog, a young Korean underwear model girlfriend
leaves on heavy beige blankets, winter, stellar conjunctions

“we didn’t know what we were fighting on the mountain.”

“tespu knew, but he also didn’t think so.”

I now know there were taxis waiting outside the wall
that it was late
that I had spilled coffee on the wheelchair
that death feels like all roads home has changed
cupboard doors opened by the winds
her blouse on a hanger, floating in zero G

Tespu reminds me,
“this is not a song for madre”

I know.
I know.
I understand.

the young Korean kitten child mews at me for milk
the blind one on the bed wants fortean cakes
“I don’t know where the knights will lead me.”
The Lords’ hair is wet from rain

The procession of

I enter a chthonic world, of asphalt heavens, doomed and bleak above. The black hearse is already parked, and the family in grand suits and veils and funerary lace, gather around. Their skin is the colour of midnight, just like the large coffin. All these generals and ladies of the gods below, white flowers pinned to their vestments, prepare for the departure of their kind. We’re in a Germanic, industrial sector of a mourning world. Somewhere, I know (or long to believe) there is soot and ash, the suspended animation of very old burnings. There’s something majestic about the haunting presence of these people. The dignified harbingers of death, larger than death itself, a dangerous and criminal communion of misunderstood souls. In their blessed hands, they carry the sickle, the nails, the axe, the rope, the dagger, the gun. They carry to the disturbing table, the cup of poison, the noxious drug, the terrible thorns of The Lord. Their duty, Order, is to bring obsessive hurting.

I am watching from afar.

They are the imprisoning ones. And many terrified lambs are trapped inside them. Full of fear and trepidation, but transforming in the putrefaction. These victims are made holy through suffering.

The world prays for them, yes. I too, pray for them, but I’ve also participated from the pits of my being. I have drunk from this baleful cup, worn this baneful crown. Suffered for it. Liberated by it. I have traversed into the halls and hearts of such monsters, derived pleasure by communing with the masked and divisive beings of night. Would I dare say I have eaten with the scorpions and serpents sent by the Hand of God? I do not partake in their actual rituals. I have not carried out the acts they are passioned to do. It is not my path. But I have basked in the fields of their carnal celebrations. I have been illuminated in their hidden (de)basements.

But that was a time before (and I do not know the shape or name, the time of twilight power that might return.) Death has made me fertile in a way where I neither reproach not await. I’m merely watching from afar now. The dark family is ready to enter the gothic church.

“for even the darkest shall pass away
and will leave their kin behind to mourn
and behold, the weeping by those who love them
for even medusas are mothers
monsters, still daughters
serpents, still sons
For Who else then
is God of Cain and Judas and Vlad and Bundy?
a heart born from hatred might still know grief”

I do not enter the church with them. Like a funeral arrangement long ago, from the time of the Loa, I am not permitted to witness such sanctification of shadows.

A woman appears before me. Like a sister from a different mother of night, a caring daughter that comes just before the dawn, a morning star in the form of a flower. “I am Daphne.”she says, and In her chaste presence, I am in love.

stations of nacht – parts V, VI


the imps of night, visit
bringing gifts

the first brings me meat of fowl in styrofoam box
steaming grain, wheat, lost soup

he is late

giggling and shifty eyed
having returned from prison
‘for harassing a young one’

I know the traffic lights are confused around him
there is no hunger in me
he yabbers
he leaves
I sense a small pink dress on his person but he hides it well
I do not consume the offering


the second one enters Chinese mall of labyrinths
red lanterns, massage women, cheap pyjamas hung on plastic hangars
clothes rack wobbling under strain
women eating lunch out of styrofoam boxes
the second one stresses
the escalators are confused about him
he scurries about, to buy my airline ticket

he is delayed

but I will still depart, sitting in a spacious room
lit by projector screen
flight path animations on the wall
the cities below us
arteries of snake lights
black oceans
weaving, rippling
punctuated points, glittering

I’m in a night room in the sky
the repose of creatures around me
the softly breathing
the hum of movement, the transatlantic

dimensions and hours and genius loci changes

I’m at a ballroom wedding
luxury and feline and designer handbags, fabulous people engorged in wealth, bridesmaids, tuxedoes

blood clots on the bathroom floors
red streams on the walls

he washes
he washes
spraying down the scene

blood and water
water and blood

(what is this intimate relations, between grand hotels and restrooms?”)

maybe the year is ending here
marriage of heaven and earth

images of guests in drunk positions are sent to my phone
stances, celebration, dancers in mid turns
legs cocked, knees bent, night dresses akimbo,
feathers in ruffled hair, peacocks and strange birds, curved flesh bent waist, winged masks
pictures after pictures appearing on my screen

I do not know where the bride wants me
I am here to anoint women of sequins and glazes
glitter on powdered skin

they are not at their oblong tables
they are scattered from their numbered tables
a disruption of sequences
posts and spots abandoned

the second imp of night still has my ticket
I watch the whole ceremony on the screen
in the wooden room, the sleeping room
on a ship, in the upper echelons of sky
far above the cities
streetlights below like lost and glowing insects
converging, dispersing, crawling through the crevices of dream

stations of nacht – parts I – IV

“there will be a second primitive age
of flesh marked by the aftermath of fire
ships, built from deadwood,
dense with soot and sickness

It will take us from the dark of somewhere, to nowhere
escape routes mired in ancient ocean floors
risen like a sub terrestrial creature
a mystery, sanctified by darkness”


this is not like the merriment of a time before
where food was served to the elderly
laughter and harmony between tables

perhaps we thought we were safe in our wooden towers
high above the unnamed chaos
I stood before ladders that brought us to our peaks

but somewhere within me
there was no rest
I clutched a white book
a remedy still trapped between its pages

the weak could not ascend
there were people with dead limbs, waiting

we had left them alone
left them to the ruins of the land

no one else seemed to care

I felt helpless

while there were elevators
they could not work
steel doors sealed shut
machineries of hope, silenced

father then, called me from a place beyond
“mother has been friendly to me” he said
together, in their quiet, I knew they were safe


we are not safe here anymore
our commander, despite his militant stature
is wet from sweat and toxins
sunken in bed, clamouring in slow motion

this wooden shelter is not like before
the walls are now blackened with decay
soiled by septic rain
damned by fierce damp winds

I call up drones for oversight
where are our scientists? our doctors?
the admin woman demands departure
there are not enough survivors onboard

a man enters our doorless room
flustered and frustrated
”with all your tech you could not find us!?”
his frightened daughter in tow
they were last to arrive


we set sail
either by sea or air, I cannot say
the lands of our fathers are failing
our depleted passengers are weak
we may or may not be on a star ship

the admin woman
reads out a full name from a black book
is this my white book, transformed?
those with the same surname step forth
thin, lightless boys, waiting in line to suffer

something isn’t right

I intervene, calling out a longer name
belonging to a boy I knew from before
‘he who was killed on the roads’
and yet,
here he is, emerging and eager to be sacrificed again

he steps through the disappointed throng
they must return to their benches
the boy who is called must go to his nest
he climbs into a black box
his life, an echo, dropping into depths


at the end of journeys
In stillness, I am

time unravelling
ages pass

the ship shall become a monolith
a massive monument on uncertain seas
a great black casket of asteroid rock
bodies and forms of dead gods are chiseled from its sides
such an ancient mystery, a necromantic ark, mad not by human hands
an ancient ship from the star fields of death and destruction

from the foreign tomb
the boy will voice out as an old man
a distant calling, a muted thunder, a language unknown to the bloodlines of men

the ship shall grow with primitive dread
a mass, a complex, armour corroding,
old granite structures, sullen with soot

“this is our ark for a new olden age”

the ship shall sway on thick, lifeless waters
the sky, a blackened canopy of cremations
ashes of kings and newborns, geological entities choking the heavens
our progress reduced to tar and oil and blood of the earth
calling to shore where I stand

the corpse of the ark lolls into another
like the remains of worlds colliding


that which was below us
will be that which is before us

there will be only night

and the sea floor, our eternal deathbeds
Will be the only land in sight
wasted, writhing, the beginning of another time

ages pass
time unravels
in stillness, I am
at the end of journeys
the lighthouse keeper for a lost species