Tag: black-magic

The Qliphoth

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment
excerpt

verses the sun will go pop pop. But that’s in the multiplicity of sacred time.We
live in a single vulgar time, time for the butcher boy apprentices to come into
their own, swaggering out into the garden to escort me inside for tea. Soon
they will be shouting for Fuckbeard the Freaker.
I can’t complain about the name. I probably uttered it myself in one of my
ecstasies . . . These damned drugs have erased so much, so many cut-outs,
cut-ups, my golden memory chart is all such a tat album design, my head full of
flowers and stars and triangles and spheres and tits and bums and fiery swastikas.
Later I will carry on secreting all my secrets. Like a scared insect, I mean a
sacred insect . . .
And Lucas may make his annual visitation. Minded by PP, scowling in the
middle distance. I only want a flying visit, Icarus descending for a brief lesson
with Dedalus, nothing histrionic. Just a chat under the shelter of the Brain
Tree. To talk living eternities. I need help to implement the salvation, transformation
of the world. Why, Pol Pot, you bitch, you talking cactus in a pot,
why have you washed out my son’s brain, flooded it with your serums of
untruth? Why, why won’t he come?
I woke up this morning
Mr Blues all around my bed
Mr Blues he’s mean and evil
He done messed up my happy head
Rocking Rod was sprawled on a pile of cushions in the dayroom, strumming
his boogie on an old acoustic guitar, singing de blooze in a thin weaselly voice
with a Cockney Delta accent. I knew that voice. It had roots, long and tangled
as his hair, as his ratty moustache.
When he saw me, he leapt up, switched to a Stones riff, and began a
duck-walk around the ward. At the end of the room, a cluster of huge cardboard
boxes had been upended in a semicircle. The cartons displayed the logos
of great multinational drug companies—Wellcome, Bayer, Glaxo, Sandoz—as
if they were sponsoring this world tour. He stopped in front of the biggest box,
and made a jabbing bayonet thrust with his guitar. He whirled an arm to hit an
inaudible power chord and froze the pose.
“Get a load of that back line! Four five-hundred watt Marshalls.
Fanfuckingtastic, man! You can’t beat the old valve amps when it comes to
raunch, right?”

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The Qliphoth

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

For I must concentrate—I am making a strong black record for eternity.
Lucas will know it, one day soon. It is my legacy.My uttermost Will. This time
I must get it right.
So I sleep with the black notebooks as my pillow. It isn’t easy to reconstruct
my Holy Lore. I need the resources of the British Museum Reading Room, the
Bodliean Library, whatever. But the Oakhill doctors think that mad people
prefer Readers Digest. I have rely on my hand copied archives; my dictations
and visions from the Inner Plane; or memories of memories. I’ve been starting
all over again for years.
For Poll Pottage dispersed the treasures of the Lore. So shall she burn by
aeonic fire and be crushed by thunderstones in the End-Times! That woman
has caused me so much extra work, it’s worn out my astral body. It’s not just
the scriptorial battle fatigue, an ague in my old claws. No, this channeling is
hard and bitter work.
But today the woodentops must have under-dosed me. I’m still functioning.
Herewith a taster, a private view, just one sample of my wares drafted from the
black notebooks, a typical Nicholas Oscar Beardsley production. My methods
are multifarious. Last night I got up to no good underneath my smelly blankets.
This sample of the Teachings happens to take the form of an unusual
radiophonic transmission from the dead.
I do this trick as follows: take one transistor radio—the British-made “Roberts
Rambler” is probably the best, because of its plywood chassis, good for natural
vibrations—and hide it under your pillow. Press your ear very close to the
speaker. Tune close to BBC World Service on long wave, but allow the signal
to drift on the edge of intelligibility. Keep the volume to the minimum of audibility.
Listen for the radio years.
Soon, beyond the urgent twaddle of world events, the stratospheric squeal of
lost souls, the muezzin wailing from their burning mosques, all the rest of the
global anthem, you will hear, filtered through hiss and static, a voice. It is
clipped, brisk, extremely British,military, dry as sherry, so very reassuring . . . it
is getting louder already . . .
“. . . in 1910, I made the acquaintance of a military attache, posted to Central
Asia in the service of one of the great European powers. Despite our inevitable
differences, we shared the comradeship of bearing arms, and a common
interest in arcane matters. I was intrigued by his knowledge of esoteric
Tibetan beliefs and practices, especially when he told me that at a ‘gompa’ or
spiritual college north of Lhasa there was a ‘gyud pas’ or ‘high teacher’ who
had the gift of astral disembodiment.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508

The Qliphoth

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

Nicholas:
Special Withdrawal Unit
I have to get it all down. For the record, the Akashic Record of the Aeons, naturally.
Wherein all our phantasms are inscribed, squiggles of amoebic neon in
the starry darkness, every damned thing we’ve done radiating across eternity
like an old broadcast of Journey into Space on its way to the Pleiades.
And I have to set the angelic record quite straight. Writing very carefully.
Not my usual psychedelic scribble—letterforms in doodles of wild purple,
loopy loan-words on the run—but disciplined blocks of sensible words,
arranged thus, line after neat line in my black-and-red Notebook, made in
Taiwan but purchased for me at the hospital shop right here at Oakhill, sunniest
hotbed of sanity in all Devon, as Doctor Jago says, whenever he tries to jolly
us along.
It’s very civilised, “. . . considering, after all, Mr. Beardsley, it is a locked-up
ward, yes?” He allows me the privilege of unlocking my old word-hoard in its
frumpy box of smelly brocade, my little shop of curious relics. I’m permitted
this verb therapy, joining up my grown-up writing. Better this, certainly, than
farting in the day-room all day, like old Beddowes, or wandering about strumming
a cardboard cut-out guitar, which is the preferred pose of Rog, or Rod,
or Rob, or Ron—I haven’t yet made out his name, because our mass dosage of
Largactil makes everybody’s speech slurred.
In fairness to Beddowes, such drugs doth make great farters of us all, our
sulphurous bursts of bad air permeate the lower heavens . . . Perhaps it’s really
Beddowes’ high boredom quotient that’s against him. His preferred interpretation
of reality is that he’s Headmaster of a large inner-city comprehensive
school, that our day-room is his staff-room, and that we, fellow-clients of the
Special Withdrawal Unit, are his backsliding, incompetent staff.
“You’ve no control,” he wags a warning finger several times a day, “no control
at all of your juvenile criminal elementals. Young people committing
problems of evil, terrible state of things in the toilets, boys with knives, and
tinsel in their hair, hair everywhere . . . Look what you have permitted at the
end of the day, you with all your beards and long hair . . .” With me he always
permutates the same set phrases, beards and all. Even the stuffy acoustic of the
day-room can’t take the edge off his abrasive burr, but it goes nicely with his
jowly blue-shaven red face and bald scalp with plastered licks of thin hair.
He likes to grab some old copy of Plain Truth Magazine, and he rolls it up to …

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508