PROSE GLOWS 1
THE WHY COLLISION (MR)
8 is the day...beyond...calling the Superman a monster. All agents have now received the Operation JUNIPER cipher message transmitted in 5-figure groups; same frequency different stations. Crazy feedback from a UK-based registered charity. Unconfirmed (unconformed?) reports of splatter pattern, sinking wells. Topple lost their bottle. Dr Disdain making drones for supper. Heard talk of a Hypnotoad jammer then a double-acrostic code in the end credits of EastEnders. Oh Mr Snowman, stop snorting the 70% bulk-out of character, what on earth time triskelion Isle of Man masker as neck-crick adverts dog-whistle perpendicular for certain antiques of interest to the sexually pervert, hiking the Pentagon with heavy lubricants, eventually where illegal unknowns congrex in fountains of diamonds, notwithstanding 400 Cali USOs. Q: Who really benefits from puberty blockers? A: Paedophiles, as these drugs keep children children for longer.
999 is a joke, look at that cop's grip on the gun, his finger on the slide, jeez... No wonder the Screaming Woman is on overtime, not to mention the darkened Met. "You couldn't make it up" but they do, although the urban myth Vigilante Strangler remains at large. The peoples stuck in the all and all is the same, one giant "spin around the broom" game. I'm enjoying the nonsense, my nonsense. Two minutes of remembrance via repeating a charged DVD segment. F weird nice. Leading on to pondering Six of One The Prisoner (1977); 6-in-1 vaccine (2017); One-to-One infection; the Wuhan-400 virus predictive programming via airport novel (1981), and you CAN grill Stilton. The main thing now is political vacuity. Incompetence obviously. Don't cry for me MoD, tell it to the 5G Witchtowers, for as the creepy judges do say, "Crime doesn't pay" - unless you're the IRA.
IT'S ACTUALLY DIFFERENT PATTERNS (MR)
On the way home I tripped out to the quality brickwork there was a hanging poster of an illuminated skull above a longish text against the "Psychiatric Psycho Psychedelic Shitshow" that reminded me of the amazing Throbbing Gristle track Last Exit which relates in psychosis levels to His Arm Was Her Leg. Inside the abode, after I uttered the truth about reality from the top-right corner came a coming ionospheric ecstasy, as in "Are you tuned exactly?" When I walk forward I am also walking through me, aware or not of the WKRAPLENXE behind heavily encrypted radio silence. Before and after a possible automated station: Q-Bot? The sender blocking probes with a smattering grasp of late-1980s rave portals. The times before EEES AES EHB FRTEE EDODE ETN EIMHA EI EEDTJ EEEZ. A hop and a skip away from astrally-scattered bizarre polaroids of the modem soul box, imaginary friend ultra-horror, the Resistance all scarmongering cosmopolitan fingers and thumbs, a worked distortion. Forget bets. Remember Terminator. AI is danger. The singularity links to binary...quantum anchoring...apocalyptic voices...standard missile tests...the green of a plastic machine. You will see it unfurling. 2026: steal a brainrot steal a president. They are all amateurs but not the same.
DESPITE THE FACTS (MR)
I've fucking forgot it. Was just there a second ago but now gone. The horseshoe emptied. Total ostracism. Even the mirror hates to see me coming. Yet I could develop this zeroness. Dare...Dare!
KNIGHTS OF THE WOBBLY TABLE (MR)
Are there really "God's Servants"? Some people do say so. Moreover, the as-yet unknown project is fermenting in those hypervigilant, a garden on all edges, obsessing on the Midnight Mass with inklings of code, unseen crop circles fading back into the fields, nine tales after mask in line with Satanic Rite. An introit by the stars climaxes the heavy cider drinking into magic lantern dabbling in the occult with Prometheus Psychosis and the "return of the disturbed fantasist with an only child," but I do not have children, unless alien hybrid or some spirit-world stuff.
Dateback 1979, when I watched monochrome horror film The Devil Commands (1941) on recovered stash Julie acid after the attempted slaying of the counterculture by police bust that just let the gangsters in, resulting a poorer quality drug, and now one cannot even trust the first class sausage rolls on trains! At the seance scene echo-effects, when the spirit appears was reflected in the looking-glass on the north wall, accompanied by voices out of the kitchen sink plughole.
When I'd come down and was leaving the house at dawn "Bombs Away!" was shouted by a plainclothes officer from an unmarked passing car, part of the Singing Lips Sync Shippes security detail, myself framed in the front doorway, perhaps a reference to 'me' turning into a front organisation for the Door-to-Door Maniac (1966), but this is not a film, as I listen to invisible radio messages where it is already getting dark again, reverting to type. "Still a lot of islands around island UK."
IT RELATES TO CONNECTIONS (LO & MR)
The mushroom queen, eating her skirts. Under the mushroom, selfbeingself. Unique qualities, yes, but no-one is ever really here...red light blue light: memory input for future times. Now it's X-Files, beans on toast, book, dream, fix, paint, wider, oscillating with the alcohol tunnel of fun...intra/outer-phased playground bollocks until I replace alcohol with me. Although all I can seem to do is come to what I've experienced fleetingly. The BI London Frequency Desk says "INFOrmation MANipulation," then flashes up "humpingmillions.com" in staggered three-second bursts. Cut to the 'British' royals get unexpected somethings on their luxurious car; unwanted dreams of the dark deet champagne jet in the face; strangers stepping on bespoke-covered toes; the realisation that everyone is here precariously so should behave properly. Also know Freemasons on the radar again. Will the Met cop and cop staff ones finally have to admit membership, and why are they so vehemently against doing this?
CAPACITY & WATTAGE (MR)
This world is strange: the Canderel Spoonful, the Grecian 2000 Mystery, monsters at prehistoric sites, SAGE Radar Networks. In the obsessions for quite a while the ones out of the question for general reasons, teachings, and whaddayaknow? Exalted under the fan in the new nowadays I can more clearly see the mainstream monitoring output, forcing the rhubarb, pandering to unknown influence, and as a corollary to this some odd solutions, a happy out-there hour but the clock not necessarily present. Elsewhere the square. Satanic holidays millions on. So glad to blot out this awful commercial enforced respite and its nudged overindulgence. Slid past both CM and NY calendar blips with strong drink and films until activation of the open scroll mirror, message dance dreams high later, back to X-Files huge going about their day. The world turns again, international ringleader spied on by the ouija-board, astral projection and spirit agents (the original "spooks"). My reward-lady tempting me with the offer of a solid gold Count Dracula coin, that is legal tender in the UK thus exempt from Capital Gains Tax.
I now await a call from the actoscene standoffish suit-shark who fetishes UF PRO elite tactical gear and keeps repeating "go for it." In disgust I have happily deleted 16% of the superfluous tosh I had once counted in, and done celebrated this by rather stimulating matrix feelings of interest and knowings that I should go anti-fashion, moving towards only wearing full-length silk longjohns or pajamas under black work overalls, perhaps with a basic t-shirt or jumper depending on temperature fluctuations (I reject washing machines and launderettes with their harsh cycles; a minimal clothes collection can be cleaned old school in one go via the bath or buckets, almost for free), army surplus boots (ITURRI Patrol, Altberg Defender Mk.2, Lowa, Meindl or Haix Commander GTX), and a large black scarf to unfurl and throw over my head should I need to camouflage during night manoeuvres. If this starts a new fashion then so be it.
I, NOT ROBOT (MR & LO)
The peoples are getting Reverse Accelerationism, lost in the grow room, paralleling an imported gangster slave waiting for the echoes of axe and taxing throes. Three months in country for a stained mattress and on-back monkey, breathing the green on cop heatseek screen, caught by the infrared, chained down for a more uncomfortable bed, where the bud is cabbage. The once invisible web now obvious: guns, alarms, men...committing crimes at the Once Club amongst cymbals and glitter, baked in with a fishskin tie, twiddling a bendy wand, stylish but overlooked like Citroëns and Saabs, or at least off-grid horror stories. Looks thick as if pages, the watches synchronised, sharpening pencils... "Oh muddy muddy, there's a stranger man in the scullery. I'll smash cut glass on his drainpipe then hide in the wallflowers on Sunday." I am barrelled as a hated chore in new context, expresso bongo, the mainstream Soho, a bridge too far. But the British 1950s was really with it and we should go back there, the after erased, no darkmares. Q: Who or what is riding what or who? A: The carrying on side-order. The sky in an acid bath. Arts near the hear and now. The H & N is what's beautiful. Special hip-flask gets us to the Space People.
AGAINST THE LONGHOUSE (MR)
Take it from me, an International Sex Master, that it's pretty obvious women hate women, mocking them, shading each other, stalk-prompted, sucking the nest, less than a puppet's ASMR, everyone is offender, digging own grave. Equivalent preference cascades shape the clout-chasing larpo-grifters, dollars in debt, lusting for the bang. Robert Maxwell name-changed, subversion of Conservatism, astroturfed pandering, tradcath daddy issues dragged through the dirt. All from Elvis. The crucifix seethes. Can't afford a ring. Glued to The Way UK. Every single person hypnosis unlocked possibility denied in torment, rebranded across the world but never escape the horror drones or freed in error: Straw Dogs, Deliverance, Hills Have Eyes, Teddy Bears' Picnic. Just 5% learned since then, shouted down by the men who can never be king, reliant on numbers.
HAVE OBTAINED STRONG INKLINGS (MR & LO)
All media is more-or-less a graffiti gang, spoiling the environment with planted clues, but if I want news the Daily T Podcast and swilliamism are the only shows in spectrum town, kinda, sorta, cognate with behavioural problems, the exponential Offensive Facts > State Intervention equation, implementing the 'unthinkable'. That board game GO, the power elites in on it and daily rag crosswords deeper purpose, a 24/7 cream tease, laws slaughter, regular World War, stepped-down to addiction social media, the players content in echo chambers, communal narcissism, plastic gangsters, a Rolling Stones lips-and-tongue sticker on their moped, but snakes can be charmed. As for me, public image...I got what I wanted...the only one... I have never worn makeup or dressed as a lady, even in theatrical productions. Would like to be a millionaire, know more Japanese girls and the Master Musicians of Joujouka, the secret of Knights Templar, no aprons amassed. This time-lapse slideshow world is variations on black market moonshine and street Valium (Etizolam) to sparky NHS amphetamines with sublime radio comms, taking it in pseudo-mono from the right stereo channel only. Forget it all for the Blood Axis (British Isles-Northern Europe). Peanuts or potatoes are called "Earthmen" in Sweden...roots and tides to Alien. A piece of automatic writing could change the world.
THE CRANK AS A SHAREHOLDER WINS (MR)
That coupon geezer...had a lot of front on him...a five-county rep...bags of street legit. Sunday to Sunday a ton of respect. Wore his work overalls to a wedding. Stole a cooking chicken. With a snort and fancy there was no stopping him. Loved a ruck or bigger tear-up...would never bolt...could land you one anywhere. Any of him could hold the fort on this manor, where the mugs dare not register. A flash git though, balls of mercury, 666 numberplate and the Anarchist Cookbook, running on crank with a widowmaker. Was right into Disco Animal...boxes and boxes of the stuff. All you can eat at a table worth more than the house it was found in. I needed it real strong, the Bingo-Bongo crusade against Drearoism overthrown, its sinister dictator assassinated then replaced by a child-king, adorned with valiance, decorated with octagonal medals, who entered a pact against every outside threat, the other signer still unknown in the shadows. You turn down the volume but still get the solar panels because some just have to cheat, with or without a rudder, the wife confiding in her "yoga friends" who already hate her, replying with a mix of fake crying and real laughing, the clothes at least walking past this stinky skinny husband with serious man-tits and no-one on his side in the bushes. Thinks he's rock with a 9-milly wrapped round him but his arsehole became a vice when the big boys felt him out. A total melt like marshmallows on toast the fucking shitfinger. "I'm going to kill a knife at her." Obvious these twO MEN are OMEN...90% remains unworthy...stupido screens lurching to sponge-divers golfing in the muff. The core is about to leave, oxyacetylene in the rain, the shown-up cops lying to spastics, and all I get is the irony of being excluded for not being inclusive, the punchline cropped. I love you loads do.
OF THE MIRROR & ITS SUNDRIES (LO & MR)
In basic web of life trap at mo, painful and laughable. I have not seen your (my wife's) orders, therefore you are suss, a proper nut living outside a mental institution, who dares to call ME "neurodivergently challenged." What haven't you seen? Is it all the 'played' side of living, not anything supreme? Enough of your protestations. There is nothing to do...so deep silence or action is called...fuck confusion. Hate to say it but forget useless humans. Contact the aliens you knew as a child.
THE HOUSE WITH ONE WINDOW (LO & MR)
Had love head from a bright green friendly grasshopper. Later active cider in Wetherspoon, then awake dream of French President, falling trees. Was all about: "Who is your handler (the animals in cages part of our lives)?" I had to answer: "The pleasing of others," which is somehow connected to if I made a feature film I would want The Doors' song 'The Crystal Ship' in it. Always happy makes me I suppose, an episode away from scarface...sarcastic...caustic. No pressure to force, no rumour mill spin, a quarter on the heel. A pacifist reaches John Churchill.
LAST WEEK ALSO (R & MR)
They are telling us to prepare for war now, as in a smorgasbord of chicanery shenanigans, whilst "The World Is Witnessing a Rapid Proliferation of Border Walls". Have you dug your bunker yet? Maybe best digging a pond first, then after the war you can turn into a pond. As for the traditional (pre-postmodernist) "skills from ideas", there are still parts of it left in the middle. The way it was when it was stables; anyone on a tortoise. "It's like nothing we've ever seen" is impossible.
TURNING THE WEAPONS OFF (MR)
It is Sunday in a month of Sundays, my right to choose. Am hazy but happy, seeking something more than a fuck, hoping fan favourites a thing of the past, soon gone, that all new systems are technical hell, soon gone, like the gold spun out of screaming hair on the waltzers at the strobing fairground, like social bondage tripping balls to Element 115. Me and the like paying zero attention, a fulminatory breakaway civilisation. Building, rooting energy, not blowing in the wind no more.
TESTAMENT (LO)
Q and A 1970s Chesterfield leather sofa on some near wasteland, living dump. No impostors, just the real deal, dying, passing, smacked-up, narrativeless at last. The runway seen, uncorrupted, clear, crummy, existence blurred horrendously, non-subtly no more. The everyday blast in the face. The conditioned at a mean balance point. The rotting interiors amidst the day sun, night moon, rain and snow. A sofa no more, returned to the original being, absorbed.
BEGIN NOT (LO)
Graveyard stay hard, my card endangered far cry my cry may life my death, my view fulfilled, kicked over the ever-after, the ever-now, the non-beginning, the ever-threatening end. The evasion, castration, intoxication, libation, inter-galactical formal persuasion, testicular invasion, Planet Earth radiation, groove grave...graves grave...rave.
ONE MAN, ONE MAN ALONE (LO)
"Get your coat," said the dream to your drunken self. "I have more to dream," said the mouse to the dream. Get your coat. Have seen this many times. He wasn't retreating, he was reloading, chasing the line. Most of the box-set actors play again and again. The gut lands well upon these fragments but how you then incorporate? It's just an endless whine. Most things written confuse or just lead to more. Look out from yourself with the hidden feelings you feel...live sweetly there forever. Everything else is just a two-way CON.
DIFFERENT AMOUNTS (R & MR)
I here speak to long-established but little-known skulls of the pre-olden times, when your neighbour was a dinosaur in the genetic opera, with no fucker mad with power or sleepwalking into disaster, filling in the pool for another forever war. Don't get on the bus. Don't get off the bus. Your room, their dead body, out there everywhere. This is real, destroying from within prisons, NHS, other departments governments, then take over the freedom of nothing. Abuse then use, unequally yoked. NONONO-one's safe in any man-made machine (alien command) and no need to gas people anymore just give them doctored vapes, the night illuminated by hot air balloons on fire.
REVANCHIST HUSBANDRY (LO & MR)
I use £10 electric a week. Hate feeling nice when I top up the payment stick. Today the atmosphere is like the beginning of a 'shield film', slit open but not dancing, old wind. Soon after the solstice shall so easily slip out to the fields for magical mushroom wisdom, the 'opposition' bedecked in army camouflage or a flowery dress; humming hopeless judging by the arm tattoos on the skeleton anorexics, their fucked fox fucker drinking stark alcohols into a jinxed skinhead jumping the gun at Halloween refused to down his tools as the badges mingle. He spoke in gargles. Lord Lucan is looking for him. The perhaps inevitable rape in the brambles led to penis thorn. No real thing until the erasings began. Ergo, that portrait of William S. Burroughs' face, cut-up and stitched together, an icon for skrying on mantelpiece. We both take on some out-there respect.
QUEER ON THE COAST (MR)
The respected medical doctor Ernest Basil Gladden Reeve was the childhood best friend of the double-initialled homosexual pacifist who adored maths and cricket Benjamin Britten ("Great Britain's Great Britten") in seaside Lowestoft, Suffolk, and I myself Reeve am very interested in BB's opera Peter Grimes, Op. 33 (1943), especially the 'Four Sea Interludes', that code to myself walking the beach-shore of Aldeburgh in Suffolk, where BB, an arch masterpiecer, later made his home at the Red House,[1] also on the coast, Golf Lane with his lover in fact, the double-initialled imposing tenor Peter Pears. I stayed away from Snape Maltings and too much opera, the floor derelict paste, a different timeline not merging, but you can bet your bottom dollar that 85% of the vector is on the gaydar.
This is 1984, when I was molested by a hungry seagull then a cold wandering hand in the sand dunes, which necessitated my swift retribution via a closed fist, and the rummaging of damp green screen pockets for rightful recompense. You know who you are, probably in the future vicinity of lesbian artist Maggi Hambling's unpleasant steel Scallop sculpture, a tribute to BB, put there on the crystals in 2003, a hole in the pole, not the whole in East Anglia, me going magnetically to outer-angle meetings at the Roswell Pits nature reserve of Ely in Cambridgeshire, where I saw a gigantic star I couldn't remember from before. Next day at teatime it was boomerang-shaped, monstrous UFO, which goes right back to BB's Phantasy Quartet for Oboe and String Trio (1932), that I dreamed with a hard-on, waking to multiple flying light orbs with tails above me, not spermatozoa, you who entered another, made life anew for death again, whoever's at the rudder. I fell out of bed into another pit, chuckling in horror, leaning on doors, Ken Russell's smooth ceramic dream-finger inside my anus reverberating.
This entire stems from my great regret at being denied a certain private school education in which I would have excelled (all that cock and oak; old money to cover every eventuality), that wasn't exactly if.... zone. You only got bummed if you didn't resist. Oh flow my tears as the lark ascending. Of course the only true love can come from that of a man to a man, for them phenomenal mutual masturbation is the norm, far away from the egg very keen on the right bent, despite being teased for our dirty advanced proclivities and secret hooded bunkers, the sea foam a spunk tome, with serious early-1970s Unman, Wittering and Zigo vibes, when Doctor Who became DO WHO. The no space thing has started. Whistle and I'll Come to You!
ENDNOTES
[1] Not to be confused with that other Red House in Parwich, Derbyshire, England, which served as the ideological headquarters of the extremist religio-Trotskyist political cult the Workers Revolutionary Party (WRP), which, according to [trusted sources], emerged in 1973 out of the Socialist Labour League (SLL), which emerged in 1959 out of The Club (an initially entryist grouping that operated somewhat secretively within the Labour Party), which emerged out of the Revolutionary Communist Party (RCP) in 1947.
From 1975, the WRP Red House operated as a champagne socialist wooing party location and indoctrination centre, run by television director Roy Battersby. In 1979, the creepy cult bought Comrade Trotsky's deathmask to be used in closed door macabre rituals and as an icon-fetish for public events. It became increasingly enclosed, oppressive and paranoid with dark hints about an imminent military coup. Rumours of guns stashed at the Red House led to a police raid that only found bullets. Some of its members - including those of its youth wing the Young Socialists - displayed signs of mental trauma and brainwashing, with a fixation on provoking a general strike.
The WRP split into two factions in late-1985, after allegations of the systematic sexual abuse against females and regular violence plus slander against opponents committed by its longtime leader the obnoxious Stalinist-adjacent Gerry "Feely" Healy, and there is a recent critical book about its history: Aidan Beatty, The Party is Always Right: The Untold Story of Gerry Healy and British Trotskyism (Pluto Press, 2024), which adds the accusations of "collaboration with the state and vicious infighting." Although it must be said that, astonishingly perhaps, one of the WRP factions still exists today, and does not seem particularly dodgy, apart from the plethora of anonymous (AI-authored?) articles.
RENAISSANCE REPORT (MR & LO & R)
He not me real. Way off the needle. I don't like people. Your bullshit never reassures me. I, who declared the meat puppet, who pumped the chain, ran the way over and does not lend a hand, like the war memorial stolen turned to scrap metal on the black market. I operate mostly on command hallucinations without risk assessment. Living choices. Waistband cut. Think of lessons learned, for example don't seed stuff that feeds into mental fuck-ups. All is learning and there is no dross. Wallow at your peril. I am more powerful now. Closer to the rumblers. Ease of doing. Happy to avoid. The garage fucked. Stumbling into torchlight warp parades in-cult on freaknights. Too obvious a blindspot to plant fears into. Know dimensions othereal. What goes up comes down on all of us. We live in a snow-globe.
TOO MANY BILLS (MR & LO)
The psycho-elite grown too close together not hiding now, and remote-control from embedded machines. Weird toys put us to bed. You can feel the dysgenics wanting you like a Triffid. It's chemtrail raining misanthropic pessimism, no silver lining baptism. The unwise ultra-greed fomenting Apocalypse is believable on the spider-web ladders. I am not really here though...no there...just creepy developments. Yet youthful endeavour eventually bears fruit, inside or outside the tree. You choose. New cash spread...different things at play...MIB deathbed confession. Real bubblings of "Anarchism is democracy taken seriously and operated directly, without a government." School dinners lead to singles, but a veggie with other veggies is happy, not battling others' presence, so find someone (not thing) who you can respect fully. Don't worship: respect.
THE BIRD HIDE DIVIDE (MR & LO)
I seek euphoria but get sedation so I'm keeping my head down, but the streets full of data ladles, dimensional passthroughs, a notable standout being Marty...USA...grand pelt demon and two big dogs' cocks behind wrongful student pirate radio heard in reverse order, state opening. CARLYLE. It has been delayed so many times...zero-zero sex trap if I help it here. Free tickets reform camp poss., yet involvement concerns. Why contract?
PROJECT INTERGRATE 1986-1989 (MR)
I have the evidence already in my/the system that I am always the "significant other," which is why they target me. "We did not give you the 'third degree'. You earned it." They call from curtains, a drop in the clock, nitrous ox, exalted improvisation. I know Bormann. He doesn't know who. A shock life through mincemeat machine goggles. My husband at the Jack in the Box, tip of iceberg. Paid to spend an evening with the Victorian strychnine sexual stimulant stamina; studying escape options via iron compass; thunderstorm fucking in an armoured car (shallow grave). Staff Hoegel, Star Hotel, standing moat, the corpses switched. He "buys hands," gets them to do things, rubber gloves and rubbish bags, emnanations of paid innocence, false like his wedding ring. Centrist Dad, counter-jihad. A lust to "come clean" (lies) concocted, chasing rainbow gold, the anti-capitalist anorexic, anti-pills in the food, snakes-&-ladders stinger strife from clicked-into teen mind as axes move the door.
After I was NOT sectioned psyche-ward I was told to "Get an Alsatian" with dangerous overtones, and applied to join Are You Being Served?, talking to myself that that's not me, because to kill is to give life to others. But they said I lacked "self-control" (debris!), so how come I do not consent and reserve all rights? Obviously Neoliberalism, but usury is a sin. No-one called the cops about the stench. You think they dirty not a dead body. Plus many are now inorganic fabrications. Looking back it was a right shady bingo-banger. So many red flags: happy ego, dropshipping, traumatising spelunking, whistle while you work, unexpected friends, the way her face always seemed dirty, physically and/or astrally (invisible chain). And they will sell these words!
THE HORRIDS (MR & LO)
A walk through Bangor, Gwynedd, North Wales. This mild heat is elongating calm moments enough to catch them, the Sun in ways to go, but needed strong drink and sugary inner suction, activated sherbet dip with white liquorice stick, thick boots of leather to tramp over, no headphones but plugs. A disgust crust of chewing gum masticated pavement at the lower level of High Street, nothing much better further on.
Would like to take everything off, way beyond clothes, but I am spun in broken candyfloss, the fairground warning siren on loop, Keir Starmer bending over, a tangle of fox hunting footage making me puke, avoiding grey pincers hanging around the sagging school, freedom of nothing all for nothing, soar points gained shot at killed pigeons in disputed waters half empty half full. Recover to "man up" and get gifted a stationary exercise bike wired to the oldest rocks sparking up the county anti-curse. It is explained sideways, as if to two puzzles. I look after.
THE PARADE ON PARADE (MR & LO)
I'm chasing grants for the yesteryear project but quite out of it. Some shine stats coming in on the pornstar postman opening the chainmail. Garage set, hot, paper, nice, beginning. Now at some ungodly hour interacting with a drunken plumber. I'm sure she has a life in her hands, wild streak running through her. Showed me her thermal camera. The pretty obvious by now was long ago aglow in fact. Just turn on the screen and the digital artefacts in glitch reveal the shadow side like a 9-volt Freudian Slip, Psychomania on repeat coming on strong; a monster mutant marathon. I do not believe anything this mouthpiece says. Its eyes tell pure evil. Unreal who it has affected. International implications. Am still reeling from that Batcave 1984 no-show and what filled it. I remain lost there, vodka in clove cigarette, still to buy black raincoat, pink powders frothing in memory. I open the gate and the goat is field.
NEW OLD OKOK 6 (MR & LO)
Castaneda's 'mushroom' aura type thing going on...the door or the roof...falling up. Odd head crossover in our sunny days, but can I do it single with real energy? Also getting false 'transhumanist' transmissions: "If you go to work on empty and drink the lunchtime; if you hate the consecutives and love nothing, then the New Umans are an outstretched hand." Right now pondering Bloodline One. Be clear...decided. Increase The Vril. The Folk First. Retvrn to Natvre. It is 51% chemical that makes us here. Break on through...to this side. Soon we fly!
NEW OLD OKOK 5 (MR & LO)
Demented = Immersed in Understanding a Battle. Sound offers tools to higher identity to inform via direct mind impressions. Yet I am too out other for visitation in temporal calendar. Hope solid séance can help, and films here. The secret saw board game very interesting, like a pop-out book cum advent calendar, at least three levels. Do self-hypnosis before/in dream by rhythmic breathing visionary visualisation to bring up the tutelary telescreens. Wake up to them still there. Everything aglow!
NEW OLD OKOK 4 (R & MR)
So I was trying to be Christ-like and got car-rammed on my bicycle again outside a closed-down charity shop because I don't want anything corruptive around me. Wrote a letter of complaint to the alleged authorities but everyone has eighteen 'names' now and it was returned opened but undeliverable. They are all in it: politicians, police, bankers, doctors, journalists, more. Humans are becoming I haven't a name for them.
NEW OLD OKOK 3 (LO & MR)
I am still 'around', backing 'me', not babying to the 'system', letting the penny drop. Today doing nothing but so weirdly something, in the right place of myself and feeding. Dreamed and Radio 4 Extra blended...pleasant beasts interaction. I became a friendly/boozy car-boot seller good deal giver, but too sad trickster tapped role, like poets who reek of the past. On the way out saw a man carrying old Tupperware boxes. Upon one was written 'Electric Doors'. We grasp the mutual recognition, agree that everyone knows everything all the time, and arrange a meeting to climb the sunshine. No more makeup. Accept the gift of love on a scrubbed-clean Earth.
NEW OLD OKOK 2 (LO & MR)
man+woman prison world... Fuck all that, but don't be divided, crazily still not 'serious' about your being, the world full of love, junk and jilted reasonings. If undivided all actions would be settled and potent. Stick neck in or out ??? Possible NRN (Not Real Name). Wide application. Some 1903 pale content from a big mouth. Probably not true but a window to shoot through to truth, like that pay-as-you-go sex club dream I stepped out of.
NEW OLD OKOK 1 (LO & MR)
The River Thames colour orb I saw could not see, just sound and feel, needing a home. I should have interacted, reminding me that if I rest long and calm in bed I dream next day a little at full power, whilst the old lead people are gimmick-tied...gagged at breakfast...radio earth bonds...energies switched off via obedience to shit ways. These folks are limiting. The world's great. It's all about trust in self. Let the shit blow away. Look at whatever you look at the way you want to look at it. Good feel...life in and out of hand. Public relations properly.
A NIP IN THE AIR (R)
What took Pompeii out? The real cause of the effect? Whatever, the claws are evolutionary, even good in complete isolation, perhaps a key to self-examination. But everyone in the dog has been dragged through a hedge backwards. The rest are given a wire paintbrush and dumped in front of an office block. So zero wonder people don't care about nothing anymore. No wise ones, just the No-Nos, who waved Ukrainian skull on. Destruction Wars. What are we on this planet for? Anything that's natural nice real they kill it. The technology is ready to collapse like the Ghettos in the Skies to kill more innocent people. The unstoppable meets the unmovable? That's what the dinosaurs thought. Women and girls are messed by beauty make-up dyes that can't be good for their heads faces. The lip jab filler craze takers should be shown pictures of Pete Burns of Dead or Alive group. What happens when things go wrong. They get addicted to the needle sensation and are becoming more and more fake with their plastic rubber fillings in fashion trance they copying becoming the sex-robot-dolls for weirded off-kilter men to dump in the wardrobe when finished, with no need to worry about nagging or any unwanted kids. I hope the world runs out of microchips for cellphones, the killer of everything. Invisible Virus in your brain.
1961 (LO)
Here sky sets. You are living in another's dream. My man is a carpet. Everything I wanted to be. Smiles all round. Daylight affects the spaces. Things went wrong. 23 centimetres extra pair of hands gallery withers. We are here to help. Get your head around day light at night. Turners take on Margate. Mid-day back it up Rome. Light any space. Hold daylight. Victoria's Dream. Go and get your bags. This is definitely the right place. Showing me the Spectrum. Evolved into Children. Adults in frozen shoulders time. I just got bitten by a tiger. Make it out of whatever you like. Balance the light. What do you want from us today. I'm a school teacher from Southampton. The 2nd aspect of being. I'll see you tomorrow in the Midlands. Off to bed. Scrap it. Are you ready? The job is done. You are not here, over time. Switches, plugs, sockets and bulbs. Breeze blocks sad. In a pocket of dust, making. Later is good for us in dream only. I am an arch specialist. Bend over. I'm using my head one way or another. Morning. One more day to go. A long time isn't it, as time goes by? Constant Message 24 hours a day. Breathing. Put a well in here. I agree I totally agree. Love Again... I got all the tools but no sense... Fine. You have been here before. Tidy the... GO from here. Curious side effects. 62 Hong Kong light sources influencing your mood. Caught in a dress. Make it more, make it less. This kind of atmosphere. Contrast. What happened now?