Rosy Cheeks (3)

The ride was bumpy and chaotic. We almost capsized twice. I had to slam on when a mad stag crossed our path in a single bounding leap. We heard its forefeet slam into the ground like two mechanical pistons, saw its breath dissolve in a snorty cloud in our beams. It resembled raw biological power. Stags were my spirit animal, I had knowledge of them crossing dangerous, fly-by-night turbulent river systems with their young, who didn’t always make it, when they were migrating for a living. I saw it on the Blue Planet show. They had to swim to avoid drowning, some of them after only having just been born. They also fought impressively, clashing their antlers epically. And they appeared in movies books TV and folklore all the time. Really, they were as mysterious as the wolf. Well, maybe, not quite. It was cool to see, but risky with it being so close to taking us out. There was only one winner in a stag and my dirtbike collision.

 The banshee (I was unable to summon the courage to ask of her name. that seemed overly personal) continued to drool and hold me tightly. One of her fingers lodged in my belly button. It tickled me a bit. She muttered unintelligible mantras under her panty breath, probably pleas for assistance from the noble gentry she was in the process of calling, this mutual aid bloke who could take her back to tinsel town. It was neither English or Spanglish, but a nasal utterance of pigeon broken mixed-up dialects. At one point I got emotionally caught up in a divine purpose on my hands; if I crashed, it was the end of her and I. I would be stuck with Banshee for the foreseeable. We’d be forced to live on cereal in my shanty house, I could never show her a good existence. If I held my nerve, I could impress her with some slick and fanciful once-in-a-lifetime wheeling and a quick escape.

Because something was coming for us.

That’s what I deducted from her voice. That something was coming for her. Banshees are a rare commodity in this universe, and they are always hunted when out of their natural habitat. I supposed she had trinklets on her or crystals or something she could rub together to garner the attention her grandfather, the noble gentry; honestly, I had no idea what communication device she owned. Maybe it was the power of her mind, the power of thought alone.

She made it clear to me that that method would a last meal, at any eatery at the bottom of the mountain. A celebratory last meal sealed the deal. The devilish foe on her trail who meant her harm, and perhaps me too, was the Mothman, He Who Could See Farther, and he who had a penchant for the taste of blood from Banshee. She called me the Faring Patron, one who could settle a deal between noble gentry and Mothman.

I had seen a movie called Mothman. Apparently he gained his strength from creativity, which he rather stole cheaply from female Banshee. This was way back in my youth. All I remember about the Banshee in that movie is sleeping with the light on for three weeks after the film. In my mind’s eye, she looked like an angel who had seen better days and ended up in the dole queue, all bashed and tattery, but no less likeable for it.

Finally we reached the bottom of the slope. There was a diner at the end of a car park, lights on in the windows, waitresses attending customers within. The halogen didn’t stray far from the glass, and the neon sign outside was down most of its letters, keeping the build shrouded in an air of shadowy secrecy and foreboding.

We parked up, took deep breaths, and prepared to go in for our final meal.

Stay tuned for more Mothman, Noble Gentry, Banshee, and Faring Patron.

Commonplace Blather

I’ve hardly had the energy lately, of the physical variety, to carry myself across town to the library and back. I’ve gained a pile of weight this year, even though I stopped smoking for 6 months and became a vegetarian. I knew I had to start exercising but I never quite got round to it. A few stretches is all I did. Then I could touch my toes, now I doubt it. After maintaining a level of decency over recent years regarding my physique, I’ve now come to terms with the stark reality that I’m out of shape. It’s one thing looking out of shape, but feeling out of shape is even worse.

There was one time when my physique was important. At times I lived and slept in the gym. My motto was Eat like a Dickhead, Train like a Wolf. I’m 6’3, so had a tall angular frame to fill out. I enjoyed the challenge of being a hard-gainer. I remember one bus journey to the gym when I sat on the backseat with my hood up superbly focused on the task at hand. It was full of squabbling schoolkids who normally made me nervous. I couldn’t see them this time. I was blocking the world out. I was poor, cooking all my meals myself, eating out of Tupperware, not quite sleeping on the floor, yet utterly single-minded and tenacious to get the job done. I adored bodybuilding videos, new and old alike, they transported me around in time. I even went to a show one time, hooked up with a couple of girls, met Mr. Olympia, and had some sh*ts n giggles.

Its okay, I tell myself, look at my age for crying out aloud, I’m over the hill, I’m all washed through, I’m a has-been, but I’m in daddy mode big time. Is my main goal to be a full-time athlete? It was, you know, before the virus hit us. I was training twice a day, in the gym at 6am. Cardio, swimming, iron, you name it. No Zumba, no yoga, no intensity classes…but still a major portion of the day killed off. I used to love running ‘downhill’ on the treadmill, at a fairly fast rate I kid you not, to the drony rhythms of German trance music.

Instead of wide-awake nightmares and visual disturbances, I’d have genuinely pleasant scenarios in my head. I’d be with my ex-girlfriend sometimes, she’d be jogtrotting leisurely on the adjacent machine. No smokes or beers, or drugs or porn, just pizza and juice, or percolated coffee, back at her place, then off to the kingsize bed, to read a Harlan book on laundered sheets. Happier times, but everything’s different now.

I might have said this before but we would leave each other little sublime notes around the house. P.S. Always Love xx, and sentiments like that. The trick was to have it found as long as possible after you left it somewhere. If she found my message in five minutes because I left it in the breadbin then that was a dramatic fail. Somewhere like under the toaster was better. She got the best one ever. She wrote a message on the label in my bobble hat. It took me 6 years to find it! I have great faith in the one still behind her washing machine though!

We split up because of the Mental Health Act. It spliced us apart when I first recognised early bird symptoms. I got hospitalised, she lost her house, she and her son moved into my flat, I was organising food vouchers from the ward for her, it was all really tough. When I got out we were all rather squashed up like sardines with the bed in the living room so I booted them out so I could self-indulge in cheap counterfeit pornographic material on my billy goat. Laughable, isn’t it, making half a family homeless, just so I could return to my stimulating vomit, but that was its pull over me.

I recall shaving my genital hair before sticking the slap n tickle on. Someone in the pub told me that it aids sexual pleasure. Another said it adds an inch to the length. I heard a perplexed voice from outside the window at the time, “Andrew, what the dickens are you doing?” It’s awkward and far from easy, no matter what implements you are using, and I had a waterproof multigroomer trimmer kit. Joke. I had a Bic razor. Dead embarrassing. It’s the worse thing you can do when you feel like you are being watched.

I once nearly self-indulged myself on a railway line. I was running away from home but still really horny with images swirling around in my head. Stranger Things, eh?

I might buy a weight lifting magazine to keep me in the game. To ‘stay in the game’ of something, you don’t actually have to participate in the activity of it, you just have to sniff around it long enough to fall in passion with the waft of its nostalgia. This includes a maintenance of general interest around the sport or hobby, which may come from simply looking at a website about it from time to time, watching a documentary about it, or reading a piece of literature about it. Your previous devotion may well up in a spate of recent newly-founded rekindled appreciation. When you’ve forgotten all about something, and you go back and revisit it, the results are often utmost pleasing.

Just been regularly amused with the specific knowledge about a craft or habit you were once involved in keeps your nose in the current affairs around the pastime. Knowing a little something about something is a foothold of conversation, banter, debate, and smack-talking, rather than knowing nothing at all.

I call this staying in the game. Or keeping your nose in. Or whatever. I might have to implement this philosophy with my lacking exercise regime. I used to write novels, for example. Now I fear I am unable, so I do this. Little tiny blogs each week. It means that I haven’t totally sacrificed the art of autofiction. You don’t have to run 10k, you can hobble around the block. It’s a nice technique to cultivate enthusiasm in something bigger than what you do.

Try and get re-involved in something you’ve been away from for a while. Times are always moving on but you might like it. Guru advice there.

Also 36 Bishops Way, My Home Town - Betting Premises (AB)

 A B BET LTD

Incorrect Details or Privacy? Request a change

Work Group, Category & Country

• Category

  Gambling and betting activities

• Work Group

  A B BET LTD

• Country

  United Kingdom

• International Time & Dialing Code For United Kingdom

  United Kingdom

  Local Time
  3:57 PM

  Dialing code
  +44

• Address MAP

  • Street Address

    36 BISHOPS WAY
    CHESHIRE
    

  • City

    WIDNES

  • State / Province

    UNITED KINGDOM

  • Zip / Postal Code

    WA8 3LW

Change Of Address For 3rd Eye. From 36 Bishops Way to 27 Kingsbury Road. They also have a third at bottom. An address for each eye.

3RD EYE PARANORMAL INVESTIGATIONS LIMITED

This is the face of my best mate’s dad, Demon Joe. We called him Demon Joe because his son had a wicked shot at football. He’s really helped me out a lot, I’d like to thank him. He started out by giving me a bugged TV to watch porn on as a kid. He’s into his sleek fancy saloon cars and bespoke hotels. He keeps in touch all the time. It’s like he’s with me 24/7. I see him everywhere. More than I’d like too actually. He recommends I keep in direct correspondence with his son, who is NOT my chief TORMENTOR, he is my good old compadre from school, I will not have it said any differently. We are not spiritual rivals from yesteryear, NARC & CHOSEN, we are simply competitive co-gamers on Street Fighter 2 Snes/megadrive.

I adore David’s company (Joe’s son), he’s a positive influence in my life, he always bigs me up, keeps me calm, gives me positive vibes. In a way, I couldn’t live without him. He inspires me to shout loudly in public houses at closing time, asking the management, at the top of my voice, to release any toad-eaters from the cellar. He says obeying like this will boast my self-confidence.

He’s so kind, he has all this power and responsibility, not like being in my head or anything, but in the community, facing me, being a man all the time and that, sharing my company on the veridal plain (actual reality). There’ll be loads more of material about him, I miss him when he goes the toilet, and takes a break from me for two minutes, because like his father, he seems to be there all the time.

• Category

• 
  

• Work Group

  3RD EYE PARANORMAL INVESTIGATIONS LIMITED

• Country

  United Kingdom

• International Time & Dialing Code For United Kingdom

  United Kingdom

  Local Time
  3:26 PM

  Dialing code
  +44
• 
  

• Address MAP

  • Street Address

    27 KINGSBURY ROAD
    CHESHIRE
    

  • City

    WIDNES

  • State / Province

    ENGLAND

  • Zip / Postal Code

    WA8 3B

  3rd Eye Paranormal Investigations Limited,
•  Unit 7 Unit 7, 55 61 Halton View Road, Widnes, WA8 0TT

Rosy Cheeks (2)

This is Rosy Cheeks 2Feat. Kali the 2^nd

Uploaded Thursday 28 May 2026

Produced by Art Till Death

For Anvil Samsara, Wheel Of Life

Zombie Publications ©

“I don’t want my clothes washed. Why the hell do you want to suddenly wash my clothes? There’s nowhere to wash them.” I pushed her away.

She came back at me in an embracing lurch, pinning me down, leaking out that sloppy white fluid from her mouth onto mine. I wiped it away, rolled off, and exclaimed unto the heavens: WTF! MY shaman just died. Now you want sex or something! Who are you? Where did you come from? What do you want? All the rest of it.

“You brought me here,” she murmured.

Closer inspection of her revealed pale white skin beneath a black torn gown reaching down to her ankles. She looked desperate and sickly and pressed for time beyond measure, as if any second a portal would open up and transport her away back to the place that had spewed her forth – my mind.

She sat on a rock, scratching her calves with wizened fingertips. That white fluid dribbled down her chin and flowed down her ample bosom. There seemed to be no end to it in her narrow yet deep well of a mouth.

I could see she was a banshee, or Irish wailing spirit. My family and peers had warned me of them growing up in the region as a kid. I had never experienced one. Dad said they only come along once or twice in a lifetime, even if you spend all of your time cliff-hanging, which I didn’t.

After the hook in the arc, it’s important to have a trigger or a surprise. I don’t even know what a trigger would look like. Maybe it would be her yellow teeth or something, inspiring me to kiss her. Maybe it would be a cop showing up and blasting her away with a real trigger. Cops always showed up in the stories I liked. Usually they got shot up and gone before having time to draw their gun. Sometimes they were the heroes. Often characters showed up in movies or stories and demanded instant gratification, casting a new POV upon the plot. They were likeable and funny.

“Can you get me halfway down the mountain? If You can, I can meet my noble grandfather, who can collect and return me.”

I eyeballed the banshee. I had heard of their powers. None of them were good if you were a weak innocent human unoccupied in the obscure drab outdoors after the watershed. Really I should declare her off me, renounce her life, and have nothing more to do with the offbeat, off the wall, far-out being, before she got to work with using some of her supermundane ministry on my unsuspecting senses.

But I saw something in her.

It wasn’t beauty. Far from it. It wasn’t anything empathic. None besides it. It was…it was…it was…I dunno, something.

I glanced at my Motocross four wheeler dirtbike. This is the surprise part of the arc, a slinky machine all in my possession. She wouldn’t trouble the suspension too much if I offered her a seat on the back. She must have only weighed ten stones. Mumbling something underneath my breath, I gunned the engine, blanking out the mechanical rapid clicks of crickets, and flipped the lights, upsetting the hypnotic traily pattens of motes swirling in the beams.

All we could see was rugged rough terrain. I sat on first. “Okay, climb aboard, I’ll take you to your grandfather.”

We shot off, shooting dust behind us. All I could feel was her soft cuddle around my waist, and the sheen of wetness from her drool on the back of my neck.

Kali the 2nd loves the wind.

Kali The 2nd, aka Rosy Cheeks, Atop Mountain Range

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(proceed with edit)

The first arc in my mountain linear graph is her face appearing. She had a long horsey kind of face, wide brow structure, narrow purt mouth, subtle almost imperceivable pastel makeup. I wouldn’t call her a painted doll by any means, so she didn’t look trampish in any sort of sense. In fact, she looked resolute and determined. She looked straight back at me like a doting daughter. I was aware that my thought processes had just created her. Maybe my thought processes should be the first arc point here, but I don’t know what I’m doing with arcs. I only know there are seven major points of eventfulness to which they are strung along and entwined nicely alongside each other, like simple how-to steps in a recipe menu.

Take a situation, and highlight seven different important points which happen in chronological order. That’s an arc. I know, I know, I really do know, there is much more to it than that, there has to be, but not more than I dare to care about. Give me a moment here, before we trip onwards, because I’m gunna Bing it. I used to Google it, now I Bing it. Okay, done. Didn’t take a moment did it. It starts with a ‘hook’ and ends with a ‘resolution’, which is all I render as important.

I always thought I was correct in thinking that there was a bit just after the middle, towards the end, when the baddie, who was primarily thought defeated at one point, comes back for a second go. That happens in every film, the baddie coming back for second helpings, apart from Equilibrium (2002), in which case the final baddie just gets battered before hardly having a chance to draw his sword, by a gunshot from the goodie. Dispatched instantly, without having time to throw a single haymaker. That’s become a thing.

My mentor, who was nowt but a dirty and strong common roofer who bought me breakfasts sometimes (some way to summarise an individual), used to tell me to start at the beginning and finish at the end, if I was confused. One mad hatter told me to write the ending first. He wasn’t Johnny Depp. Even better advice than writing the ending first is not to write anything at all, somebody else recommended! My A-Level teacher insisted that I just show up for class, because I was becoming missed by being steeped in porn. She wrote me a letter actually, hand-written, Andrew, where are you, please come back to lessons, your coursework time is running out…sweet, touching, uplifting, but no match for cannabis and high-resolution XXX. Shame on me. Now, this is far better than XXX. I think…nudge-nudge-wink-wink. Where were we? Or I? You were just making a cuppa, weren’t you…? Lol.

Kali. What we’re doing on top of a mountain, an ill-lighted murky mouintain, is none of your business. It’s none of mine. She appeared from my brain, and looked at me gargling a mouthful of thick stringy white fluid, like milk mixed with blended porridge oats. Yes! She appeared in the ree-al! The real! This, I hope, hooks you in. My thoughts at the time were influenced by an elderly diplomatic shaman and his frog poison. Between these two, my brain waves had ascended off the planet and became resident in what can only be described as a lush casino-like lounge on Neptune, where I picked up Kali (the 2^{nd, she insisted}) and brought her back to Earth with me.

Astra the Shaman, nice name isn’t it, leaned forward and touched the dribble from her lips. He raised it to his mouth and tasted it. The way I looked at him doing this would have tickled me if I could see it in mad dog 20/20 super eagle eye vision hindsight. He seemed childlike, like a tween investigating a milkshake with hundreds and thousands tippled every which way about it. He was always very interested in the psychoactive properties of substances, and Kali’s suspicious white slobber was no different.

After licking his lips, he pulled a sour face and fell off the cliff (or mountaintop, which ever you prefer) backwards, arse over tit. I hate to say that this was the last we ever heard from him. His fading, floating-back-uppy cry down the high side of the prominence haunted, I think, both me and Kali the 2^nd. The terrain, I have failed to mention, was tremendously treacherous. One wrong footing and you were brown bread. Astra just got diddily done proving it to the two of us.

The wind was out to sculpt dunes that night. I had the insane idea that it was pissing its head off at him. When it started screeching, like a ban–

“Let me wash your clothes,” Kali the 2^nd muttered, and reached for me, her stubbed fingers tearing at my lapels.

General Thoughts

 My voices are saying that we are better than you, we are better than you, as is usual. Hence me not listening to them, as is usual. Just been to the coffee shop and the pub for hydration purposes. I bought two large vanilla lattes (extra wet…that means no useless foam at the top). The pub was crammed with rampant pure girly buttocks, honestly, there was fish-netted ass everywhere. This is because of a concert in the local park. All the bitches are dressing down in the tropic sunshine. There’s so much smooth tattooed flesh everywhere, all different girls and ladies, different ages, different sizes, you have to be careful with your eyes, or they may be led astray to a plunging cleavage you didn’t see coming.

I learned that looking once is natural and nothing to be ashamed of. Looking twice is undressing them. The third helping is adultery.

But do please remember, that all sins are forgivable apart from one, and that is blasphemy against the Holy Spirit, which involves renouncing The Lord from your life on a permanent basis. Only a fool would be so crackerjack crazy. Walking away from his glorious glow takes a hardened heart who cannot bear the beauty of his mercy anymore.

Please Lord, keep my heart soft and spongey. Keep me touched by the Holy Spirit, a soul who warms to empathy, compassion and kindness. Keep me in love with the way children move, and always regard innocence as truly sparkling in my mind’s eye. I cry, and am proud to cry, at the littlest thing. I have cried this morning already, just a single tear. If I may share it with my readers…oh yeah, it was an idea about a witches tribulation, I’ll write more about it soon, it comes from an idea buried in an ancient timeline somewhere, suffering makes me cry, and abject beauty does too, as with solitude, misunderstanding, pursecution, many amongst others.

I’ve always been a big old softie at heart, Lord, but now, oh now, I am fearing just a tiny bit with an inkling of uncertainty that I may be the monster some people genuinely see when they peer my way. This is born not from years of slander but from a rising sense of frustration, despair and rage, ever so slightly in my members. My fervent desire for women also rears its ugly head Oh Lord. This mixture of unpredictable wrath and insatiable sexual wanting are natural parts of me and I sure won’t let their guilt and shame stop me on my spiritual journey towards your seraphic heavenly realms, but my many opposers do not feel the same way. They will use anything to unsettle me, especially a bonky storm of my own making.

I’ve done great so far Lord, in my humble opinion, there’s nobody dead or covered in blood, please let me just advance more along the route, in monologue with inwardly angelic factors who I distinctly believe reside within me and are listening around the clock, to flipside the evil mind control. I have let down my ‘higher power’ of late, by not listening to it and giving in to the temptations of the sinful lions. Sorry, did I say lions? I meant to say loins. I need to regain total holy control and start pluggin’ in daily again, for starters.

Because, if things get out of hand, and I don’t listen to my own great humble advice, I might be sat here without knowing what a single word to write. That’s how it works. This fleeting capacity to share gets on up and leaves sometimes. That's why I mentioned my muse yesterday. She isn't certain, from one calamitous relapse to the next...

________________________

WILL IRENE CONFESS? The Spectral Virus, Representing

She sits there tied up by her bosses who are determined to find out where this ‘Ghost In The Machine’ came from.

Smack her around the head and ask her about it then.

We are sooo getting sacked for this.

She’s only a cleaner, no one will miss her.

But won’t the floors get dirty after two or three weeks?

Better that than Born Slippy. Can’t you clean up properly or what?

And she’s the head of department?

She gets a robotic hoover. The others only get mops and buckets.

That’s where the sentience comes from then. A hoover or something. I mean, how do those robots know where to move to? It’s obvious Steve Jobs has put his brain into some of them. He’s too goddamn clever for his own good!

I think he’s a gimp.

A gimp!? What special type of mental arithmetic helped you work that one out?

The fact that he’s balding with gigs. That’s gimpish.

So most people I meet over 4o are gimps?

Especially if they have a keg as well.

Pardon me, but what’s a keg?

A dock-off power belly. That’s a keg on ‘ya. 

These things are bad luck and no one’s fault.

 But they are your fault though.

 Aren’t they though.

You should use caffeine shampoo to stop the male patterns, contacts instead of gigs, and do crunches instead of drink lagers. Dead. Pish. Easy.

Don’t forget the medicine ball.

Is that a glob of phlegm?

No, it’s a heavy ball you train with. Ask Jack.

Who’s Jack.

Some sick paedo who abused me by enticing me in with his medicine ball. That’s f**king Jack’s back.

At the youth club? When you was a kid?

Yis.

Did you sue?

He died the day the trial was supposed to begin. Some people say he escaped justice.

Where exactly did he stick his medicine ball?

Underneath his ass, mainly, while he sat on it. Then he sat me on him.

Was he erect?

Did something happen?

Did he come buckets?

Nothing like that. He just repetitively stuck his tongue down my throat.

I bet he smoked woodbine didn’t he.

No. Mints helped him forgive himself. Tic tacs.

I’d hardly call tic tacs mints. You wanna a big softmint or a trebor or a XXX.

Those XXXers are bangers.

Jack was pure XXX.

Sounds like it.

 I do what he did to me to my own kids now. I can’t help it. But only my daughters, not my sons.

Why do you do that?

Mainly because my wife just ain’t givin’ out anymore. Anyway. Irene…

 

Don't Give Me That Inner Light Stuff...

 I declare I will never get writer’s block. There will always be no shortage of fabulous material here at the blogspot. My muse is too prevalent. It has changed over the years, but it is still with me, in one form or another. It used to be a full house of spirits, whom I now distrust; now I see that the amplified cinemascope movie light of creativity comes especially from a source within. One or two or more ‘beings’ may or may not be part of my muse, that much is still true, but they do not form part of the clique which haunt my physical external world anymore. They live on in the heart, and in the heart they shall stay.

I became aware of my inner light earlier this year, when getting arrested at home for no reason. I started hearing all of the authorities squabbling over me. I was having conversations with doctors whose voices were disembodied. I’d heard a certain amount of voices throughout the latter stages of my life but not as many as this. Why should I suddenly be hearing doctors?

The reason I was hearing them was because I’d stumbled across the reason why I was being persecuted so much – because of my inner light. I feel like a right sucker for saying this, some holier than thou do gooder or something (not that there’s anything wrong with them), but it’s the only thing I can think of to explain proceedings. How can I radiate something so beautiful as an inner light when for years I’ve lived as a bit of a recluse on a council estate, with all my many known vices?

Haven’t we all got one of these radiant inner lights? Surely each of us as a child of God has got one? What makes mine any more brighter than yours? When I look around at good-looking people in the street I start to think that everyone and his dog have one. Do you have one? I’d love to hear about it…

 

 

The Spectral Virus, Representing

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pinchframeedge.peelfullshot.lifttriple.executebeginning.

03.01.18.74.09.04.19.00.23.10.20.29 (pardon/scheduling)

I’ve just heard of a machine, or a pile of metal and cables, getting possessed by a ghost, or a spirit. Apparently this bodiless life-form is representing as AI. The hardware is ancient, it had no internal monologue to ‘speak of’, or vibe coding, it is thought that the spirit whispered its own big data into an old vocodoer attached via an extension outlet. It refers to itself, in all zany manners of articulated voice pattern, as Master Tommy Mistress Knocker. First inclin was to set it out under the blazing sun in the car park, and render its arse on fire. We could safely organise the inferno without many witnesses, I could line up any excuse, especially the one that says we torch it with those broken pallets which have been leaning against the bins for weeks. This way, we can later adequately dispose of the damage with fire extinguishers. I think this is our only level of play.

Before this thing gets out of hand.

That’s correct. Nobody knows what the hell it is.

Exactly. Some kind of spectral computer virus. 

Much worse than that. Damn thing turned the sprinklers on in Pendleton’s office. Ruined a bunch of analysis into the very pipes and metal it’s inhabiting.

Pardon me, but that’s bullcrap. There was a real fire in Pendleton’s office.

Sorry, I haven’t met a fake fire yet.

Yeah, where do they make those?

Make what?

Fake fires.

Calor gas. The flame’s blue and green.

My uncle used to sell them.  Not bad portable fries. I mean fires.

We put one of them onto a bonfire. It exploded, jumped quarter mile onto a golf course, and killed a putter on the 13^th hole.

Unlucky for some.

Unlucky for him.

Properly unlucky.

Why would it kill him?

Weighs a ton.

Plus it was hot.

Something being hot doesn’t necessarily kill you.

Ask the witches that.

Say what? Ask the who?

Ain’t that a band?

The Who. It’s a band.

Oh right.

You were saying say what?

Ask the witches if fire doesn’t kill.

Too right, and well spoken. They got burned at the stake for 300 hundred millennia.

You mean centuries.

You think this thing could be a witch.

Ghost. For sure. 

But no one has ever died in these offices.

How do you know that?

Okay, okay, the head cleaner is in her seventies, but she still goes swimming. 

Proves she likes wet stuff. Like sprinklers being on.

One thing though – she’s still alive.

Do ghosts have to be dead all the time? I think it’s really boring. They’d be better if they were still living. I think it’s the cleaner. What’s her name?

Irene. She works by a timer. I’ve done a skint with her. 20 minute spree, followed by a reward of ten minutes, then its rinse and repeat. 

What’s she rinsing? And why would you be working with a cleaner?

We all swapped jobs last spring for effective team building. Anyway, do you want to frig this AI spirit up the main pipe or what? I say we tie Irene to a chair and beat her up until she confesses.

See if Irene confesses next week.

Execution Teardrop

I did shed a tear for somebody who got executed in the States. It was several years ago now, but I only just found out. I wouldn’t have cried if I hadn’t known he was targeted. Once you find out they have been targeted, and their crimes were a direct response, it makes the whole affair extremely sad.

I think he shot four people he knew in his house. Why would anyone do something like that? At the time I believe they were talking about him. He went on record stating something about a secret machine reading his thoughts. That’ll do it for me, this man’s a target Your Honour. You’d think it would get you some sympathy and compassion, wouldn’t you? Some understanding. Nah. All it gets us is a diagnosis, treatable by medication, to make our word and testimony invalid, because nobody believes us, because we are nutjobs. I know how it works.

I’ve been thinking about the possibilities of my own targeting edging me into a deadlock of bloodshed, like so many others, and I’ve been praying for a headful of sensibilities which are slow to wrath. I’ve just discovered joy and peace, even with all the technological hounding, so why oh why would I swap it all just to see one or two guilty persons took out of the game? A wise man wouldn’t trade that of for anything.

No one agrees with me, by the way, about my joy and my peace. They all deny it. They spend all day winding me up, pressing various psychological buttons, and when I think about a little tiny reaction, they jump up and down like lottery winners, claiming I’ve lost my peace. One milli-moment of frustration, and it’s oh there goes his joy. My harassers, after many years of hard work (as they call it, ruining lives), have done nothing but embellish in their target a spirit full of peace and joy. Not hanging off a bridge, but peace and joy. Let’s have a lol minute.

I’m so buzzing. I’m learning about narcissism, to work out who I’m dealing with. I feel so anciently intelligent around them, as if they are all children. It’s true, in a way, they are so immature and silly. They set out to destroy my life. Because I fight back it’s suddenly a war to them, as if my spiritual fortitude makes them soldiers. It wasn’t a war a while ago when you were trampling over mamma’s little boy in big lead wellies, but now, just because he’s on his feet and manning up for the glory of God, you feel inclined to call it a war, just to grant yourselves some merit of valour.

I’m the warrior here. Not a cowardly bunch of voyeurs. Just to get it understood. And to the execution guy who I cried about, well, I send you a kiss over the horizon as well.

AI On The Rip

±  [,.,-08.1/#1.<19>75 ________________

±  -(^!,/,^!)-13.0@1.2(~⁰~13)(~₀~17)(~⁰~21)

±  -(^!,/,^!)-25.0/#5.20<33->,.,]___________

∏∑∏∑∏∑∏∑∏∑∏∑    ∂√∫∂√∫∂√∫∂√∫∂√∫

I thought I was well above gettin’ ripped by AI but I’m now havin’ tonnes of doubt about it. To be dead honest about the thing, I think it would find me a piece of cake to imitate. Maybe it could write sequels to my works and sell rights around the world. I wouldn’t mind Bollywood for a change, instead of Hollywood. Does India have a rip-roaring AI program? I know they have a space program. If someone were to take the Michael out of my lifestyle, I would prefer it to be Bollywood.

Why not China and Bollywood take over this blog and write something like I am doing here now, about someone having his head done in by AI? I write about doing my own head in with booze and sex and drugs, can’t AI pretend to write about having itself off, and doing its own head in, by copying itself? Does anyone understand what I mean here?

I’ll simplify it. In the future, will AI be writing about other AI programs copying it? I want the thingymajig totally aware and wiping its nuts on my curtains after porking my wife when I’m busy being out buying economy A4 printing paper at the Post Office, not just slipping in with a new title suggestion here and there.

I want it as a cop, an AI cop, sleeping in my bed, taking my kids away, burning all my books, then declaring what he’s doing on my Twitter account. Wassup, have you never seen an AI cop out n about in China? I was calling the police ‘robots’ back in ’96, and getting arrested for it too.

“You’re nothing but a robot of Tony Blair,” I said to the [pig] (sorry) back then, and he nicked me for D&D (drunk and disorderly). We used to say this about Duncan Ferguson, that Scottish striker for Everton. He was known as Big Dunc. We named him Big Dump. Then it was simply Dump and Disorderly. Hope he’s reading.

If you are, you’re dump. Excuse me, I’m a red shite. But I loved the way you strangled Martin Keown! And your celebrations after headin’ the ball weren’t that bad either.

I thought I had too much in the locker for AI. Look back over some of my works, for example, which are always under threat from being ripped off (no lie there). They are about parallel dimensions, wormholes, psychological warfare, World War III, and all the rest of it. Should see me when I’m writing on ketamine with a spliff, I swear, its game over, or doing art under the same influence. That’s why I get mind-hacked day to day, and 'corroded' (what ze Germans called it) because my thoughts and mental activity are pure master class to be a part of. They say they are wicked and do it to hurt me, and that’s a part of it I suppose, but I’m known in people’s craniums as far as my aura extends to as THE DANCE and I am pure ‘visionary’ at times, in-A-divided-duel, if you don’t mind me inflating my own none-too-often-massaged ego for once in my life, and flexing my self-descriptive muscles. The dance. That's who I identify as.

More about The Dance later. I might even take you there. if you ask me nicely. and pay me adequately.

Ultra Awakenings (5)

My little hellfire soon got underway without any hindrances. I plopped back on a deck chair with a non-alcoholic beveragino to enjoy proceedings. I was dressed in my slippers and my nightgown, all snug, nobody to impress, relaxed without a point to prove now that the nearest threat to my downfall was now being destroyed. I was worried about the fumes getting all the neighbours stoned. I was worried about a fire engine spoiling the party. Between these concerns, and the medley of horrible faces emanating from the smoke, I couldn’t relax like I wanted to. I was fidgety, nervous, and on edge.

One of the faces wafted over to me on the breeze and took a bite at my shoulder. It looked like a mixture of several ugly people I used to know. The ill will was plain in its features, nothing but bitter foulness transparent there. I didn’t flinch. Whatever evil forces lurked over me in this world, I didn’t think much of them. The only thing that scared me was my own sense of reckless abandonment. Everything was a bluff to my knowledge, based on something else, with some unclear ulterior motive, there was nothing genuine, noble, honourable or true anymore. Apart from me and my angelico. Who was all smiles and pleasantry. Which was what all evil pretended to be, in my experience, happy. When they looked like bulldogs chewing on wasps.

My education, my two-faced friends, back-stabbers and gossipers, the state…even the powerful evil cabals at the top of the tree, who were supposed to be fearsome leaders and formidable rulers, were nothing but shitbag perverts who were addicted to other people’s children. At least in my opinion, if you believed that kind of thing. Nothing but a bunch of fearmongers the lot of them, into depression, oppression, and suppression. Trust me, I knew about it. I’d taken a lot of shit over the years, from my vulnerable perch, all from pieces of nothing who were nowhere near my equal, hiding in the shadows while administering cruel cowardly punishment. And now look at them, wanting me back in the world of drugs, probably overdosed or on the streets after a week or two, who knows, in the gutter somewhere, that’s for sure, no low was low enough for my abusive handlers.

I had another deckchair set out for my angelico, next to me on the porch. To my surprise she was a tiny winged fairy hovering with a magic wand underneath the roof beams, in the corner of my eye. I know what you are thinking, that this might be a brain projection from someone, but I trusted in the Holy Spirit and I had faith in the purpose of my own suffering. I was not a lost cause who needed something external to govern his own happiness, like a bully picking on a victim, or a stalker obsessed with his prey, I had my own internal core and my strict set of hopes and aspirations and my shining too, or my giftings, as you like. My giftings carried me in the light and caste me as a survivor all these years. It was just the way I saw the world. My perception made me a very valued individual. So much so that I had to be studied all my life in a limited scope of base invasiveness, by tyrants who didn’t have the decency or courage to show their own faces from time to time. My cuts and bruises were vast but I saw it all as the biggest of compliments, and despite my extensive trials and tribulations, I am pleased to announce that I never turned to devil worshipping. At least. I am not. A devil worshipper. Praise the Lord for that one.

And on that note, with my lively sprightly angelico, who bounds me up in heaven with forgiveness for sins and makes me feel indebted with never-failing love, I declare that my life is an insincere hoax but I myself am the real deal, with a rosy future free in Christ full of freedom and liberation.

So there, Ultra. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it. 

_∟,m~k^{┐.⸎ↈU..🧠💫}

smile with the gift of living well

Ultra Awakenings (4)

I wanted the fire set in front of the porch, on the patch of dry muddy ground at the top of the path. In better days it might have served as a vegetable patch. I never quite got around to looking into how to do that. A tray full of soil with some tomato seeds in, was that all there was to it? Or did you plant them in the ground? I had an allotment somewhere, as part of the main property, abandoned, unattended and derelict. Only now did I wonder how it was faring. I don’t think I’d ever trodden foot inside the thing.

The whole rigmarole of destroying the contraband felt like a marathon. Lugging it onto the front of the cabin wouldn’t take much muscle, it wasn’t all that very heavy, but as far as I knew, firestarting needed a flammable agent. Under the kitchen sink was a decent starting place to look for something like turpentine. In truth, I could testify there was no petrol on the premises. Did I have a jerry can, to fill up with some at the garage? Hmm. Somewhere, perhaps, maybe, yeah, correct. Probably under the sink, next to the turps. Both standing together, as two rather unique objects. Then again, probably not.

What else filled my checklist, for [un]controlled fire? Because so far, if I was relying on what lay under the kitchen U-Bend pipe, I might be running into problemos i.e., having nothing there. Surely there was something there. Had to be. Everyone had stuff under the kitchen sink. Mostly cleaning products, I bet. I seem to recall the meagre beginnings of a humble jumble sale down inside mine. I once found a bottle of vodka I can’t remember purchasing stashed within. Wrapped inside a hoover bag. Of course I necked it. Didn’t doubt it for a second. But I was absolutely certain I did not buy it. Or hide it. Why would I hide it, if I bought it?

Now, did I possess any firelighters? Firelighter was a strange term for a firelighter. Firelighter indicates a matchstick, or an actual gas lighter, something that ignites an opening spark to a flame. Firelighters are actually more like different versions of mini logburners. They should be called firecatchers, not firelighters. The ones I was familiar with resemble tiny squares of hardened foam or sponge, or cardboard, or little pillows. They burned independently for quite some time. On their own, they were a small fire. I suppose they started bigger fires. Ideal for barbecues, that kind of stuff. Even bonfires.

This fire, this one soon to be belonging to me, the special penultimate one on my mind at the moment, was set to be grand. I was drinking to it, yes drinking (!) in the presence of my chummy amicable angelico. I was sure there was an easy way to get it lighted. Once burning, we could both watch together whomever plans it was to seriously thwart my life go up in trippy smoke. And trippy the smoke would be! Wow. Best not stand too close! Part 5 due shortly

∟^,m~k┐.⸎ↈU..🧠

JUST ANOTHER WALK IN THE PARK

                          🧨🔥🧯

Ultra Awakenings (3)

Memories of my childhood abuse flared up while working out the conundrum of what to do with the contraband. I knew that the recollection, if stimulated with aphrodisiac narcotics, would place me in a sexually receptive state of consciousness. My abusers recorded proceedings with me; I possessed the sound files as part of evidence in an overdrawn court case. I think they were handed to me on purpose to turn me on one day. Seriously. I have always considered listening to the recordings they made of me being raped and knocking one out over them. I know it sounds sick but the idea was even more prevalent now with so many substances around.

I remembered how sexy coke and ecstasy used to make me feel. My abusers dosed me up on that good stuff before they played with me. It was an old aunty mainly, and her friend from the local River Island store. They used to take turns penetrating me with a wearable plastic penis. Honestly! I was only a wee boy, I didn’t know what was going on, apart from the fact that my legs seemed to be always in the air. I hated everything about it, but as I matured into adulthood I fantasised about the pair of them frequently. When I saw them in court during the case, my aunty had enormous maroon inflatable botox lips. Her mate had a brown tanned plunging wrinkly cleavage.

My aunt had gone on to own a nursery named Wind In The Willows Childcare. I was equally repulsed and attracted to her all over again. I half wished she would come around and rape me again, now that I was all grown up. Part of me would have loved it. I thought about secretly writing her a letter, making the proposition legitimate in print. I was only pressing charges because the CPS were twisting my arm about it. I didn’t much care whether they got away with it or not. Like I was saying, I became convinced it was all about getting those recordings into my possession somehow, a sly excuse to enslave me to the memories all over again, if I dared replay them in my ear, which I always thought about, but never did.

Hearing my abuser’s voice instantly set my loins alight. My head sighed with shame and my heart sagged with embarrassment but the excitement of my nether regions didn’t lie. Her cruel dominant lispy accent sent me absolutely crazy. There was a hurried impatient nuance to her clipped military tones, an expedient urge, which put me on heat quickly. Remembering her body, and her attire, and all the little characteristic details I’d forgotten over the years, made me crave for her on some deep level I hadn’t noticed about myself before. The longing was still there after all this time and it was not only uncomfortable, but almost impossible to deal with. What exactly did I do with this sexual need suddenly alive and alive well and truly within my members? I’d adored her as a little lad, and perceived the perversion as genuine consensual love.

The recordings…the drugs…I could have a tug. But when would it end? I’d be down there for days and days if not a week. I was diagnosed with masturbatory psychosis in my youth. That was when I was involved with another woman. This one used to undermine and ridicule everything I said or did. She would abuse me too, but in subtler, harder-to-prove ways, it was more verbal, she had a thing about stripping down to her expensive lingerie, she was only 25 but she had a breast implant jobbie. I think she had hurts like I did. She was weird and eccentric but she would never strap one on with a minor. That takes a particular degenerate breed of woman, wouldn’t you agree?

The psychosis had me seeing her mind projections in my abode. She would think something into my home with her brain from a bunker underneath and my eye would physically see it. She would spend all day doing this, layering the floor with snakes and having flying rats congregate around the lampshade. That was at the beginning, to get me back for finishing her. She bought a How To Draw Anything book and started making her own creatures up. Worse than anything, they could touch me on a physical level as well. I thought this was special technology from the program handlers but it turns out to be a perfectly natural phenomenon which close emotionally conjoined brains can do if in spitting distance proximity. Now I believe she has a brain-computer-interface, to enhance the signalling.

The wider community now bounce their zany mind projections around my home. I’m on a list for extra-judicial justice. That means vigilante punishment outside of the courts. It’s something I’ve learned to live with. Try the projection stuff one day. Attempt to put a slimy monster in your neighbour’s bedroom. You never know, he might just be able to see it. And feel it.

Hold it a moment. It’s my dear beloved angelico speaking. She wants the contraband burned on the porch asap. She fears both the scared and demonic energy of my feverish desire, not knowing where it will lead to. I hang my head and stare at my feet with lipstick and nipples in the back of my mind; in the front I am swinging in the sunshine in a bushy park about to be burnt up by a solar flare, or a nuclear bomb, like a scene in Armageddon or Terminator. I don’t know what’s with the dystopian aspect, but everything feels very end of days like to me, as if the final decision I have to make has monumental consequences on a cosmic level.

When you’re abused in such a way, and you have both divine and heretic lingering foes to distract yourself with for day to day company, and you have pure ULTRA blood running thru n thru your flexing veins, life seems to pan out in such epic ways. There’s no such thing as normal anymore. Even a pen and paper looks outstanding. Or a whisk. Or any old household object. In fact, all objects are fascinating. The creatures that girl used to make were always holding at least two. That was her one unique stylish trait she did when bombarding me with projections – have them holding at least two random objects. Anything. Didn’t matter what. As long they were always fresh and new and novel. It was her thing at the time. I didn’t understand it. She just had a thing for objects. Now I’m beginning to, in a way. You should see the state of the monstrosities she flings indoors with me now. Anything to pass the time.

My angelico wants that fire blazing. I’m gunna have to obey. See ya in a bit. Don't miss the next installment.

∟^,M₭┐...🧠