They say, when she fell from Heaven she wore a crown of jagged stars that slit the skies throat. They say she loved them all, in the secret corners of their shallow sleep. Strangers, at the last. They say a lot of things. They’re all lies. Everything is already written."
Sunday, January 11, 2015
"She went down beyond the mountains and disappeared between the crease of sky and land, like a great eyelid folding shut. No one knows what happened out in the Black Hills, but I imagine she lies buried in a rusty coffin under the stars. She had Marilyn's enchanting haze, Hendrix's cool, Morrison's smoldering insanity, but the grave was still surely bare. Not that it mattered. Her face was burned into all our minds, forever young, the mantra of every generation's counter-culture. And on nights when the desert crickets sing her tune, they say one day she will rise again. On that day, there is no telling the kind of vengeance she'll demand of us. Fair is fair.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
This one is really easy.
Put on these tracks on repeat in this order:
04 BONUS LEVEL: OCTOPUS GUIDED VISUALIZATION
...Relax yourself to the point between awake and asleep.
You'll know you're in that state because imagination starts to take on an almost fey quality.
But don't worry too much if you're in the right state, just run with it.
Imagine the thing that you're most viscerally frightened of, and the thing you are the most viscerally sexually aroused by.
Riff on those things, think about sounds, smells, sensations, impressions, images, symbols.
Don't fall asleep just yet, keep with it until shit starts to get full on mantis-headed babes chewing off your genitals and you like it freaky.
Let the music take you in.
Now drift to sleep.
Do that for a week and keep an eye out for the unusual.
Let me know how your dreams are. Or tell a dream journal if you aren't into sharing.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Which sounds fucking awful, doesn't it?
Who could have predicted it'd be a band on the road that set it all off, the mad Bacchae and their rock apocalypse?
So don't be sad. The party is going to be a blast, drinking and fucking to the edges of oblivion; riding off with Lilith and Ariadne, Dionysus, transexual Jesus and Artemis into that sunset, (because who wants to remain virginal at the end of the world?) They offer polyamory and LSD instead of jealousy and fear, spiritual transformation instead of a 9-5 grind. When they pull into your town and open the door, who in their right mind wouldn't hop aboard? The feds say "these kids have to be crazy to go with 'those people.'"
Machines shouldn't speak for men. You'd have to be crazy not to go.
The joy, the release, at the end of all things is absolute. It's the getting there that's Hell. We must find our way out together, or not at all.
Those who wander through life without knowing who they are: No more. Unlock the Fallen God within your sleeping self. All it takes is the right story. Contact the Order of the Hidden Path, begin your initiation now. There is no time to waste.
-Gabriel De Leon, 2012. OHO, OHP.
Take a mad ride past the event horizon of sanity with the band Babylon, in the final days of the American Empire. First in the psychedelic occult, myth and fairy-tale laced urban fantasy series, the Fallen Cycle.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Monday, September 9, 2013
stamping out fear through the soles of these feet.
a devotee screams, and shivers out;
a base bass of arrhythmic proportions.
in my blood in my blood in my blood.
i sing a song so old, only stones understand the sound.
the fires beneath, toss, and coil,
and i am alone in this time, this rhythm, this heat.
existing only for Mad Gods,
and the serpents...
writhing through the chambers of my heart.
I have found a suitable weapon…. Inside the “Silver Moon – Metaphysical Shoppe”. Shelf upon shelf of witchy mischief, profound revelations, and tales of sexual encounters with ghosts. Crystals harboring Atlantean spaceships within their etheric matrix, cauldrons emblazoned with leafy pentagrams, and wands made by someone’s grandmother. All the while, the smell of frankincense emitted solar wavelengths throughout the room, thrilling me with a spasmodic glee.
I decided to pick up and mind-meld with a few old Buddhist artifacts bought in a market in Nepal.
The first item to grab my attention was this magic dagger, called a phurba. It was alive and wriggling like a doggy-snake in a cage, waiting for someone to be its friend. Hmmm.
Snatching it in my paws, I held it to my chest and asked it to give me a little history lesson.
I was watching an old monk, with snot pouring out of his face, handing it to a white man in exchange for some coins. Misty, ice capped mountains thundered beneath his wrinkled feet, while millions of many-colored flags waved and danced mad love with the king of the wind, spreading prayer-filled semen to all corners of the Earth.
The monk was stealing it from a young man in a cave while the youth was busy dreaming of rays of light, nothing but rays of light.
The youth was wearing only a thin, cotton cloth. He was holding the dagger for someone else in a box covered in strange, protective glyphs.
That someone else was a very tall man in red robes with a moustache for a pet, going for a long journey. Someone calls him Ngakpa.
<even more back>
He breathes the sigil into its mouth, over and over and over again. Energy rushing through him and into the maggot-filled stomach. Damaru-drums beat like a sweaty, drug-blurred rave. Slowly, very slowly, the corpse begin to shake. A finger here, a twitch of the skin there. And then the whole thing begins trembling like a virgin girl in the arms of a rock-star. The drums are faster, faster, faster still.
Have you ever jumped off a cliff naked?
And suddenly, it stands up with a roar of rare energy, with Ngakpa still hanging on like a filthy cur, like a devil on sin. Eyes white and dead, it leaps and hops in the air like a rag-doll stuffed with jumping beans, Ngakpa bronco-riding the dead for all its worth, maggots falling to the floor, flitting mad and confused. Arms flailing, limbs smashing, the creature can’t shake its still and silent father, his lips still pornographically poised on his creation, waiting for his moment with the patience of empty space.
And finally it comes. A single gray tongue of raw, putrid meat slides in his mouth and with the speed of a darting fish, Ngakpa grabs the tongue with his teeth and rips it out.
And victory is sweet at last.
The corpse falls to the floor and fades with the soft radiance of a cloud in the sun.
As my vision fades, I watch the man exhale mantras over his prize and mould it into the semblance of a metal dagger.
“I would like to buy this, please.”