Nebulous rays from LEDS strung along the highway that led to the riflebox of your heart.

                             Rituals as inner visions: “Hands form the Triangle to the forehead”

You lit a Crescent Moon cigarette, the only light in the gloom of the choked world. Dreams of exploding silver balls in my head, decomposed flesh and the promise of contact with the Other Self.

Fragments from the Octavo spread across the floor, hand drawn sigils of the Amor Fati Working on your flesh as you sat on my face and the light passed over the curves of your Body.

We were the Twin Pillars of the Temple—cryptic monsters who muttered mantras until daylight during those days of fasting, days of erotic discourse. At the Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus our transparent figures reached across the Void—proof that destinies are written on the papyrus of the night sky.

I recall the insane drive on the Nativity of St. Jarry, hotboxing the wheeled space capsule until the smell of Emperor Kush guided the dream, slow like molasses as the blessed pines melted in front of us…You looked at me and hissed before placing your reptile tongue in my mouth…

                                                                     “Honey…your lips taste like honey.”

Drained and dying in the space of your own triangle…my fingers covered in your monthly blood,

piercing the vagueness while keeping my eyes closed…the inertia of our bodies pulling us to the

centre of the Earth as a means of punishment and penance, the axis of the solar system shifting beneath us as the sweat poured…

A glow, a reminder of the Holy Ghost: “the Light of the manifested Logos, the spirit of Truth.”

I raised the blade and carved my initials in your flesh, the second step in that secret of secrets—full bloom, passages to the softest touch, paralyzed like you promised.

Spread the eagle wings and spread yourself before me, unravelled and ready to be punished. The whip hand, the blistered skin of the reddened ass—symbols of an undying love and obsession as testicles are drained and nipples pinched by clamps.

We brought each other here in handmade wombs of turbulent death, mutilating the other—dark only for the cut on the tongue slit—your prayer for me unheard by the Demiurge, and ignored completely by the Hidden God. My heartbeat out of control as I emptied my essence on your chest, a wry smile of content or mockery—who the fuck cares anyway. I’ve longed to strangle you, if only to see the fate of all humanity drain out of your face…

As I turned away, I could see your humming image begin to dissolve as the dark matter of the Universe we created began to congeal at my feet. Blessed children of the astral womb, quickly aborted and left to lie rigid in the primordial Hyle—time suspended, then ticking out like a dripping faucet. Illusion is all that refers to Form and outward appearance, just like the nerve endings of your sacred tunnel.

This is when I wake from the turbulent haze of the hologram, watching the wind shift the curtains as I put another pre-rolled dream elixir to my lips, inhaling the vapours of another sonorous vision. The night can’t be far behind and I long to step into its sphere. Putting on my silver mask, I walked the backstreets with my warm palm against the handle of my knife…

Slowly I walked toward the Hanging Gardens where I witnessed your execution—the black hood over your head like on the night of the Winter Solstice… “breath play” you called it, and I can never forget as it was a flash of Paradise, an explosion in the mind-field in that moment before you can feel that warm air exit your body and it finally turns cold.

The rain falls silently here and I can hear my footsteps over your grave as the water washes away my memory of you in slow streams into the underworld, a faded dream bound tightly with lost fluids, sweat and blood. Could you ever forgive me for being the cannibal and eating nothing but your flesh? The rising of the moon tells me that you’re always over my shoulder, licking my neck and blowing smoke into the Void that exists between me and you…

No more spectres of you standing next to my bed as I try to sleep, the High Priestess of hash and sacred mushrooms asleep in the hidden playhouse of my heart, never stirring. Born as a sacrifice/dead as a lover…your image reflected back to me in the blade on the night I killed the succubus.