Friday, April 15, 2016

And Eternity Near...

Ten years ago
    on a cold dark night
There was someone killed
    'neath the town hall light
There were few at the scene
    but they all agree
That the slayer who ran
    looked a lot like me.

The judge said, "Son
    what is your alibi?
If you were somewhere else
    then you won't have to die."
I spoke not a word
    though it meant my life
For I had been in the arms
    of my best friend's wife.

She walks these hills
    in a long black veil
She visits my grave
    when the night winds wail
Nobody knows
    nobody sees
Nobody knows
    but me.

The scaffold's high
    and eternity near
She stood in the crowd
    and shed not a tear
But sometimes at night
    when the cold wind blows
In a long black veil
    she cries o'er my bones.

          -"Long Black Veil"
            Lefty Frizzell

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Slurdge Squickle...

There's three things you need to know about me before we can begin:

1) I do not have sex dreams.  Which isn't to say that I don't have sexy dreams.  It's just that the actual acts of sex never manage to happen in the dream.  I've had many, many dreams where I'm about to have sex; more than I could count, in fact.  But something always interrupts at the last possible second, and the dream then flows on to something else, and I wake the next morning and remember almost having sex the night before.  (I've always assumed the reason for this to be that there is just something about the act of having sex that my mind simply cannot recreate for me, and knowing this, it always comes up with some last-minute coitus interruptus to avoid having to cross that particular body-mind barrier.)  I have never had a "wet" dream.

2) Far more than any other form of art, entertainment, or media, graphic depictions of rape disturb and upset me.  I can watch graphic, bloody, violent horror movies all night every night and not be disturbed in the slightest.  But the second a dramatic movie suddenly veers into a rape scene, I know I will be having nightmares and disturbing daytime fugues for the next week.  It doesn't have to be violent; it just has to be forced sex.  I don't know why I respond this way.  I was not raped as a child (far from it, I was sexually adventurous), nor as an adult for that matter, nor have I ever witnessed anyone actually being raped.  But something about forcing sex onto someone against their will, something about twisting that highest of all loves and pleasures to its darkest apotheosis, repulses and scars me every single time I experience it.  Every single time in my life that I have encountered graphic rape scenes in movies, or read them in books, I have become very upset and traumatized.  For several days, or weeks, I will have a hard time getting the images out of my mind.  And I will feel sad and scared and small every time I have to see them in my head again, almost as if I am reliving this moment - this fictional moment that did not actually happen to anyone at all, much less to myself.  As if I am trapped in my own fictional hell.

3) I am currently reading Moore's Neonomicon.  Some of you will understand the significance of this.  The rest of you are lucky.

+          +          +

Last night I dreamt that I was attending the upcoming national moot (chaos magickian retreat).  Late one night, after a long, hard day of black magick, I went back upstairs to my hotel room to go to sleep.  I found my roommate waiting for me there, getting ready for bed herself.  She was young (and she looked a lot younger even than she was, almost disturbingly so), blonde, very pale skin.  To my waking mind now, I do not believe I had ever seen this person before, and as far as I am aware, she is entirely ephemeral.  But in the dream, she was a close friend of mine; perhaps a temple-mate.  So the familiar, intimate, affectionate ways we touched as we orbited each other around the hotel room getting ready for bed, did not seem unusual or in any way out-of-the-ordinary for us.

But something changed this time.  Somehow, the friendly affection we showed one another began to feel deeper, and more intense.  Being unafraid of the other's touch suddenly became wanting to be touched.  I don't know how it was communicated, but we both knew we wanted each other, and we knew it was going to happen now.

There was holding, and cuddling, and running of hands along outlines of form.  Layers began to get peeled off.  Bare flesh was marveled at, and taken by the handful.  Our mouths grew sore from kissing.  My eyes were closed but I could see and my fingers were inside her and I could feel the wetheat on my fingers hands wrists arms legs and

We were in the water now - dark water dark night where?

A swimming pool, it seems.  After hours.  All the lights off, water black, can't see the bottom can't see ourselves.  We're not swimming.  We're floating upright.  No need to swim, the water holds us up like gentle caressing hands of Mother.  It is warm.

We're completely naked, this girl and I, wrapping arms and legs around each other in the dark water.  I can feel myself throbbing against her under the water.  I can feel her licking me all over under the water, while I am holding her and kissing her and running my hands all over her.

Suddenly, she takes a fistful of my hair and then slips me inside of her.  After, there is not the usual motions, no thrusting, no rocking back and forth.  We are not fucking.  She is pressed against me, sucking me.  I can feel her undulations as she sucks me inside of her, rippling up and down the length of me.  The pleasure of this sensation is indescribable.  I look down and can see through the water clear as glass at the mouth that is surrounding me, pursing lips sucking up and down.  Please understand, this is not hyperbole or poetic license in my description - what I saw was not a vulva, it was a mouth.

I looked up from this scene of mounting horror to find her young, beautiful face now leering at me with an impossibly wide smile, and black eyes of terror madness.  At the same time, I felt the will to resist being drained from me, as the astoundingly pleasurable sensations emanating from our conjoined bodies suddenly intensified beyond anything I had ever known.  I recall the sensation of licking tongues caressing my entire sex all over; wand and orbs inside and outside, it was the Hell of All Flesh.

I wanted to scream, but her tongues were in my mouth down my throat, writhing fat worms, wrapping my tongue, stroking it sucking it.  I felt tongues sliding along under me, caressing and licking the underside black door searching for purchase finding entrance.  Licking me opening me impaling me gods pleasure fire fear I can still hear the sounds as they plunged in and out of me still feel the fire fire gods heat no no no no

I remember wanting to fight her, to stop her, to scream, anything.  But I couldn't make my body respond at all.  The pleasure was overwhelming to the point of paralysis.  The last image I saw, as we began to descend beneath the still surface of the water, was our bodies' intersection, one last time.  It was a star.  Or had become a star.  Her occulted mouth had split open eight ways from center - each ray of flesh a prehensile tongue that squicked and squiggled around my naked body, wrapping me and pulling me and licking me and draining me and taking me down down down and in the center of that eight-rayed star of inhuman flesh, a pink, pulsating mouth, with row upon row of concentric rings of tiny pink tentacle teeth, sucking me down, pulling me in, eating me raw, draining the nuclear fire from my very atoms, returning me to the black void of the bottomless unending sea.

+          +          +

It must be Spring.

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Love's Hallows All...

In the cold November night
She had given us a fright
So we ran arm-in-arm away
Running towards forgotten days
And the sorrow of that
    woe-begotten light

We had told her what we'd done
And she'd said I'm not her son
Then we'd bolted out the door
Left your bootprints on the floor
And were gone before she'd
    leveled out the gun

The shots rang high and loud
And I swear that we were proud
To have made the Beast so pissed
To be the Devils atop her list
Of all the evil Hell hath spat
    on this gray shroud
Into the Night we ran and played
For we had met our Judgement Day
Burned it down with light and love
Killed the monster, came the dove
And forever on we knew
    we'd have our say

There's no one could tell us "No"
If our Way wound to or fro
Our life at last was ours to live
And Death our gift to give
So we'd return for her at sign
    of year's first snow

And return for her we did
Deep in the cellar where she'd hid
Her thrusting cross and sobbing loud
"In Jesus' name I cast you out!"
For all the good that useless
    trinket never did

She wept and screamed and prayed
Hoping she'd at last be saved
From this night that wouldn't end
And her faith that wouldn't bend
And these children with their teeth
    like razor blades

We ripped and tore and fed
While she cried and shat and bled
Until her flesh began to cool
Her life now just a crimson pool
Puddled under her like Satan's
    marriage bed

We left her there on that stone floor
Behind us closed and locked the door
Our mother's blood across your face
Looked to me a veil of lace
In all our endless life I've never
    loved you more

Thursday, October 1, 2015


At the Great Frederick Fair, there is a tent down by the tractor displays that sells old-fashioned candies.

And every year, I go there and buy a roll of Butter Rum-flavored Lifesavers, because they remind me of you.  You used to keep a roll in your car, and sometimes you would give me one, and so they remind me of you.  The version of you that raised me, and loved me, and schooled me hard, and whom I thought of as Father, with all the meek adoration of an ascetic at the feet of his Creator.

As silly as it sounds, I have to get them every year, and I love them, and would be wounded if I couldn't find them, because those little sweet rings of amber candy remind me - they remind me that I am your son.

Friday, June 26, 2015

A Great Day In America...

So proud of my country today.  We are one step closer to becoming that nation we always believe ourselves to be.  It's a good feeling.

And it's a strange feeling.  I'm suddenly all-too aware today of how rare a moment like this is.  The good guys won.  People's inherent humanity has been recognized, and enshrined into our law.  The evil has been banished from the land.  It feels like it should ALWAYS be like this.  But it almost never is.

Sorry to be so melancholy about it.  I'm really ecstatic, truly.  Just wish we could feel this more often.

We are a better nation now - a better people - than we were yesterday.

Here is hoping, sincerely, profoundly, that the trend continues.


Thursday, May 28, 2015

Her Heart's Apocalypse...

an extraordinary girl
In an ordinary world
And she can't seem to get away 
lacks the courage in his mind
Like a child left behind
Like a pet left in the rain 
She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
She gets so sick of crying 
sees the mirror of herself
An image she wants to sell
To anyone willing to buy 
steals the image in her kiss
From her heart's apocalypse
From the one called Whatsername 
She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
She gets so sick of crying 
She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
Some days it's not worth trying
Now that they both are finding
She gets so sick of crying 
an extraordinary girl 
an extraordinary girl 
          -"Extraordinary Girl"
           Green Day, American Idiot

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Final Summation...

Goddammit I hate memory sometimes.

And everything it leads to.  Nostalgia.  Reminiscence.  A concrete sense of Self.  Rambling, confessional blog posts about supposed childhood sexual traumas.  And so forth.

After all that, after my whole humiliating confessional frenzy here in my last few posts (holy crap, was that all the way back in February??), I have to admit now that I'm not entirely sure my memory of these early experiences is even correct.  And I've wanted to write and post this explanation for a good while now, because those posts are still sitting there on the front page, like a severed head at a dinner party; but I've been alternately too busy, or, mostly, too embarrassed by the whole ordeal to want to return to it.  But I can't just leave that shit up there for anyone to read without any context or resolution.  I have to put this to bed.

So here's how it all started.  I was driving to work that February morning, and there was a discussion on the radio of how children respond to parental abuse.  I don't remember what it was exactly, but something they said reminded me of this childhood friend (I'm going to start calling him "Bill" just so that I have a name to refer to him by).  I hadn't thought about Bill in many, many years.  I remembered some of our experiences together, and I remembered his big, angry father.  And that's when I suddenly made the connection and realized, "Oh!  Bill was abused by his father!"  And everything else just followed from that.

I still believe that to be true; I believe Bill was abused (at least mentally and emotionally, if not physically or sexually) by his father.  But the rest of it, I must admit now, I am significantly less sure about.  I know that Bill and I "played doctor," but I don't remember all that we did.  I don't actually remember how far our sexual play went. And, I am forced to admit to myself and all of you now, I don't actually remember who suggested what.  I thought I did at the time, but I've since realized that's not true.  It was just too long ago now for me to remember it clearly.  It was so long ago that even the things I do remember clearly are suspect.  And through my research I discovered that I would be forced to admit something else, something much worse:  it is entirely possible that I am the one who abused him.

Reading through literature on the subject, I was surprised to find out that one of the more common, and yet least often discussed, forms of childhood sexual abuse is to simply educate a child about sex too much at too early an age.  (It had never even occurred to me before my research that this could possibly be considered a form of abuse.)  Sex is one of the most complicated and complex of all human interactions, and a 4 or 5 year-old child is simply too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it (hell, a lot of adults are too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it, for that matter); and so therefore giving a child that age too much information on the subject can often lead them to act out behaviors that they are not able to fully understand, process, or deal with in a meaningful way.  That's the basic idea.

My mother's policy was that if I was old enough to ask the question, then I was old enough to hear the answer.  And she was always very quick to let me know that if I ever had any questions at all, she would do her best to try to answer them truthfully and completely.  And she lived by that statement.  And I was a very curious boy.  I had a lot of questions.  And she answered every one she could.  So I remember that throughout my childhood, basically until high school, I always knew more about sex (among many other things) than any of my friends or classmates seemed to.  I was proud of that, actually.  It made me feel grown-up.  It made me feel strong.  And superior.  (Realizing now, as I type this, that this may have something to do with why I value intelligence so highly, in both myself and others.)

But in terms of my memories of my experiences with Bill, that throws everything into a new light.  I only actually remember one thing we did that was definitely Bill's idea, and while that was a little dirty, it also wasn't exactly sexual, either (we were naked, but there was no touching); it would fall squarely in the category of "normative childhood sexual play."  I don't actually remember what else we may have done, or who might've suggested any of it.  But I know that in my memories of all the other boys (and some girls) who came after Bill, I was definitely the aggressor.

The hard part to admit, is that when I suddenly realized that morning that Bill had been abused by his father, I didn't then "realize" that he had actually been acting out his abuse on me, as I originally wrote.  No, the truth was that I actually just assumed that was the case, and didn't recognize that I was making an assumption.  "OMG, Bill was abused by his father!  What do abused children do?  They act out that same abuse on others.  He must've been doing that to me when we played doctor!  So that's why I then went on to do it others; I was acting out his abuse on me!  That's where it all started!  It makes perfect sense."  And it does make perfect sense.  But that doesn't automatically make it true, either.

I still don't know what happened back then, and I probably never will.  But I have to admit that the much more likely scenario seems to be that I was actually a victim of childhood sexual abuse, but the abuser was my mother, not Bill.  And it seems much more likely that I was acting out my abuse on him (and all the other boys and girls that came after him) rather than the other way around.

Bill moved away before we even hit puberty.  I haven't seen or heard from him since I was a child.  I have no idea what his life has been like.

If you're still out there, "Bill," I hope you're okay.  And if you're not... all I can say is, I'm so, so sorry.

It wasn't my fault.  I was only a child.