Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Rome Wasn't Burnt In A Day

Party At The World's End cover

"Grant Morrison's The Invisibles meets Fight Club, with ...a completely unique take on what makes myth tick," said Underground Reviews, and that's exactly what you get with this lean book, no choice but look the void right in the eye. As Nietzsche famously said, "When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you." He knew the storm is coming. The fabric of the self, the fabric of a society, of a culture, of a species, all may reach the point of rupture without recognition. Is that not even more true in the psyche that wishes to distract, to look elsewhere, to numb out the terrible truth, that we live in that void already. It is an absence, the myth of no myths, no meanings.

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.

Party At The World's End

Monday, September 9, 2013

The Ceremony

jeffrey jones
mounting the rhythm again,
i push.
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.

To Arms! Or The Joy of Psychometry

The streets are bustling highways of etheric energy gashed out in the astral-body of the Earth, as all modern cities are. One single strip of human consumption. Vast constructs programmed for profit and desire. Like a goat eating a sugar-coated pop-can, I take great delight in these creatures’ delicious little webs; but of course, the spider never catches me. I am a drop of dew among the flies.
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.
<farther back>
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.  
<more back>
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>
Looking out through the eyes of Ngakpa. I see a small, dark, dusty room. A glorious, glittery altar bedecked with talking Buddha-dolls crowd its surface. On the floor lays a corpse, freshly dug up from the charnal-ground of his Mind. Ngakpa lays across it, his eyes reflecting its trance-like stare, his arms wrapped around its lifeless shell like a necro-lover, the muscles of his lips locking it open.
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.”

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Mother Hive Brain From 1995

These started showing up in graffiti, at malls, etc in 1995. Track references in later works and through other disorganizations since...

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Make Money From Home From NemeTode Industries

MAKE MONEY AT HOME from NemiTode Industries

You will receive a package of our Proprietary Blend Feed, and NemiTode eggs in an air-tight canister.

Keep the eggs below 32F for at least the duration of a month: they will die if left in our atmosphere above this temperature for any period of time!

After this incubation month, take out of the freezer and immediately swallow the contents of the cannister with milk.

The second phase of incubation will now begin.

When the eggs are ready to hatch you will begin to feel an itching sensation all over your body. This is normal. Find a dark place, somewhere underground. A basement or cellar will do just fine - and wait. Make sure that you have a large supply of fresh animal meat nearby. This can be a tense period, as it can last anywhere between 24 and 72 hours. At some point during that time, they will begin to hatch. MOVE AS CLOSE AS POSSIBLE TO THE ANIMAL MEAT, as they will be very hungry upon hatching.

After they have hatched, send us photographs of their shed skins as proof of your hard work, and we will send you a payment of $9999 care of the College of Aethyric Sciences.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

We Don't Know Where This Leads

Intentional dreaming experiment: tonight I will dream of taking a long ride on a 19th century steam driven train, fucking myself to hellth with the Scarlet women of the Apocalypse while the great minds of that century have a great debate in the background about the nature of the subconscious.

Specific enough? Just need to visualize it and access the narrative and things are bound to get weird-----

From my journal when I was petitioning the College of Aethyric Sciences, back when that's how that thing worked. Beginning the experiment again. 

And then... more on the mask. I've begun the blueprints. It began when dreams were kickstarted by several synchronicities with a South American diablo mask, and then this-- 

More as it develops. I'd like to present the methodology behind exploring these symbols and building dialogues with the subconscious, and whatever exists under/through/behind/in it...