THEE THROTTLE -- A HOLLOW COST. by Father Malachi No fear, except thee fear of leaving. Death is like each other. Life has only dreams to recommend it, and thee security of being inside. To be part of a group, to be INSIDE, is to enter thee body and partake of sex. We therefore thrive on violation. We attempt to recreate thee excitement of a first moment's intensity by deceptive means. Happiness can give you fear. Of course thee fear of it ending. Thee only real fear is fear of ending, and thee only joy is violation. Unhappiness gives insight cruelly, happiness makes a death threat. As time passes thee addiction dwindles. Always a jolt of steel. Always. Thee orchid and thee metal. Muscles, no longer as loose as childhood, ache in memorium, stiffening with age before beauty. Age before lust. Age before love. Demand outstrips supply, we congeal, fixed in parables and fantasies. Thee past controls through people. Little girls become young ladies. They attract by their lack of experience, unaware of thee spell, more concerned with being insidethan observation. They accept thee host. They create a ghost that haunts forever. Thee ache for reclamation. Perhaps, thee story goes, if you recreate that first moment, passed; you can travel back in time. Or by creating a stranger, replenish lust. Violation then is a form of breaking thee rules: a necessary act to exist. Conscious self- deception and threat of oneself and one's security affirms existence, makes real. Sexuality, getting inside, makes real, makes really real and once inside we can make anything happen. Eyes shut in a coffin, a world of darkness, we travel that darkness to reconvene our emotions and listening hard we see every detail of every sexual act. Little girls masturbating about tomorrow. Every second losing intensity, creating thee need forever to go back inside and feel safe, to travel back and feel alive. It really is so difficult. What we have creates our need. Restrictions are removed like school uniforms, we discover eroticism in both manners. And manners maketh man, and woman. We enter our bodies. Inside is quiet, scarcely a solution in sight. Sharing a body is nothing. Sharing insight is everything. A fine balance maintained by neurosis. When we break rules, we become fools, driven by a desperate grasping hope for ignorance. Thee rules are created by a wound. We never escape them. We descend into them. Rats in a trap. All paranoia comes from thee past. It takes us like a rape and damages. Like a rape and damages. Like a rape. Damages. But in thee morning, after thee night, we fall in love with thee light. The solution is, to touch skin, and stay safe, deep inside. Thee first step towards control is ownership. Thee foundation of ownership is meme-control. Ownership of information is thee real system of control. To know a thing is to possess it. To possess a thing is to be able to manipulate it. Search continues. Control needs time like a junkie needs junk. If only it were all a matter of time. Takes all kinds. Time is. Time is passed on. Turning over thee ancient symbols used to weigh gold in Egypt we terminate dreams. Regular trips to the undercurrent display confusion in precise detail. Thee effect is one of accuracy of purpose and description. Images sequenced to define thee exact nature of time and place. New York. Skeletal myth jaded and scarred. Know, self-respect breeds cynical self-abuse. Never never return to thee previous character. Always create a new one. What do you see from thee faded telephone box? Two sides of one street un-re- joining each other like worms? Visions convicted and betrayed. We become what we once wrote, thought better of, and since despised. We eat what starves us. We defecate what we once took to be our Selves, to be what we once were. A litany common to all, but Deities. Designed by spirits dead and erect. Projections making light of surface. The alternative is Endless, endless sadness. Thee consumption of guilt threatens guilt. Inside a shelter. Old men pissing on trees. Dogs turning 'circles of animals'. Thee black sickly powder of fear. Speaking thee incantations aloud trapped in a lump of skin. Instinct breeding the final moves, thee infinite lovers. We accept them on our shoulders and leave you for free. Then time ends. Eyes burn and close. Wounded. I wandered that land. Making plans. Building strange concoctions of hope. Thee charm. Thee TV. Thee whiskey. Thee fur cellar as indecent as a beard. From cool to indifference. Visions convicted and betrayed. Looking from zero point there's all kinds of illusions. Zero point. It takes all kinds of illusions, this, this, death. Thee pains don't ease as you get older. Thee hatred doesn't melt. E thought the hatred would melt. Thee brains get blocked. Thee drains stray across to bare flesh, groaning at Nature's tricks, and not even caring for thee moment. Some daze are like friendship. Routines pulling you away from thee burden of vision. Good friends that step in and destroy thee direction of youth. Thee apotheosis of desire is to outclass death. We are sentimental and quite capable of finding laughter. No iceberg this tension. Thee averted eyes of youth. And now it's finished. Process complete. Only thee corpse to sacrifice like a gangsta. Thee special forces where agape meets thelema. Nietsche never had a cushier berth. Here we see a principle, here we see a subject. Endless twigs on thee fire. Axle cracked by frost. Resting. Snow has crushed my camouflage. Snow has killed my garden. Thee shelter is still there. Time is. Time is passed on. Thee dogs are now dogs. Just dogs. Still turning circles. Thee eyes still burn. Choice as hard as tooth, as cold as knowing. And yet, against my will, another dream coming into focus. Ice on soil. Dog resting at my back. Daylight of friendship cracked with shadow. In this dream it begins and ends at the dogs fucking in circles park I remember from my childhood and now call zero point. Pointless passover. In heat, breathing as a bloody door shuts. (The deities must think I'm affirming my existence this way.) In they come. 23 visions of light. Thee small room. Memories of blood and urine by thee medical box. Links of old senses in rope.... (Do the dieties think I can't navigate the meanings here?) There were shadows pulling scales from young flesh. Quiet and hooded. Thee small hands played patterns on thee window. Fog in living rooms. Several old, old pages curling as dog barks spewed across night time light. Rope tightened making furrows. (I know what 's going on here.) No sound. In the essential nature of legends. Thee Dissident Watchers nefeling liquid secret distopias from long sought distant utopias. Like alchemists siphoning mind from chemical, for there once were stones in a sexual cathedral now drained of steel by the endless shadows of a Pyhrric cloister of bureaucracy. Down thee foockin' alley is where he went. Body shifting on wood, dog outside thee door. Is there only the smell of blood? There is both truth and history, projection and dream. Flickering memories as trains manoeuvre in old men's eyes. (Did they not think we'd know?) Rope lashing marks back hard. It's all a matter of counting, tic, tic. Betrayal of simple fertility. Tic. Thee lack of wild explosions a code to rebuild every life. Tic. This time tic thee victim is desired and wet. Tic. These lives are stones tic, assembled in ancient dreams of slick young flesh. Tic. Quiet and hooded. Tic. Rituals of male. Tic. Many shapes tattooed in old buildings. Tic. Tattoos. Tic. Old keys. Tic. Flesh. Resting. Slight shifting. Feet deepening red. No sound. Across thee way a boy was grinning. Hard-on obvious in old torn gray trousers. Inherited from an earlier victim of plague. Uniform remnants. Light of night filtering through where roof tiles slipped their tail and buggered old senile books across dreams. Nothing salvaging code. Tic. Thee same city we all used to pass away time in. Crippled compacts, flesh bound. Each ritual makes its demand. Slipping a wooden coil of expensive death under all those derelict lines. No engines anymore. No green and pleasant ghosts of death playing in thee grass. Just simple and banal. As you would expect. Terminus. Final flaw. If one could truly describe that light, of course it's gray, but, that light images tumble, only eyes hurt from lack of focus. No physical sensations here. Limbo of stone. Men separated from brickwork. No polarity visible. Similes of love from pitted carriages. Semen as thee corpse evolves into alchemy. (That was someone else.) Liquid sings of old religions. Hand smearing juice on cock, squeezing tight as it glides into, into, unfaithfulness. Vanity of accounting. Tic. Pride of hindsight. Tic. Crinkling of skin against worn eyes. There is no need for more light. Scanning ripples of boyish flesh used to pass away time in. Car crumpled, rain on moss. Crack of wood. Only a few see this code. Tic. Gray suit draped across street. Feet derelict. Looking from zero point there's all kinds of truth. Tic. In thee wrong camouflage. Not 1984. Taxi making waves from red lights and green visions. Tic. A green magician perhaps. Takes all kinds. So there it was. From school to outhouse to dream to thee boy's grin across thee line. Thee old theories. Many an alchemist died for less, or so they say. And we have thee fragments. Pillars and razors and comfortable settings. Takes all kinds. Leaves falling, sometimes snow. Collapsed my camouflage net this year. We sit with thee lights on, eyes closed. Thumbing through dictionaries. What makes this difficult? Is there madness in this method? There is no god where I am. Steroids lead to addictive joys and elective death. How the hell did we get to Bill Haley? Does shame lurk like physical weapons waiting to mug us no matter how late. It's AL a matter of time. Visions without affirmations destroy our guts. Thee irony of nature's game. Content without content. We play it both ways. Weighing up thee results on ancient Egyptian coin. Did you know you killed thee strongest boy with hopelessness alone? Old myths die soft. "Bad advice," says Father Jesse, always focussed on essence and suffering. Thee victim relaxes. Caring is blood. Thereby hangs a thread. This is not about one thing. Tic. Does not belong to one person. Tic. One subject. These words belong to anything we think. Tic. And it's not thee name anymore. No set piece battles. Tic. No solution turning acid. Tic. There is a system evolving whereby all these words apply to every situation. Tic. (Isn't that rather arrogant?) No. It takes all kinds of words, this life. "Is this thee white path?" asks Sister Sibyl. No. Don't be mistaken. Tic. All these marvelous words, teasing us close to existence. Then. Time ends. It's all a matter of time. Blurred self-image corrupting. Dangerous. "During a conference on tactics it was decided to terminate this mission with extreme prejudice," from when E was really young. It originates in thee dark side of history. This mission never existed. Getting thinner all thee time. Subject limited to a strip of one. A circle of animals. Motives replace products in our minds. Object d'art to camouflage our own commodification. It takes all kinds. Tic. Philosophy separates thee person from thee Mass. Exit all legends. Enter thee laws of magick. In this world we entertain not audiences but fantasies. We complete thee self-image, blurred or not. Tic. Search continues for correct process. "Proclaim present time over," says Father Robert, somewhere in thee secret cathedral of small stony movements. Old movies dream conflict. Thee old, old area in sheets of snow, reversible, lacking truth fades. Truth is a bad word to use. Breathing short as spunk coats the bloody arm. Part of thee text on thee wall. Whenever thee dog turned thee night trembled. Tremble died of auld lang syne. Shimmered like water moved by piss in a forest. Shadow moved in thee light. Peace of history. Marks of cold spray as thee material fades. Our appetite for miracles May King traps of time. Daze go by. Viciousness is not enough. Wooden pricks lubricated against dawn. Slow motion of exact formulae edging fear into spectres of old death. Tic. Key twists causing rivulets of blood and piss. Floor stained with patience and precision. Tic. Only animals remain. No focus. "What do you want next time?" thee dream whimpered. Who thee fuck was coming back? Back? Back? Back of hand on kidneys. No need to define victims. Tic. Where do you hide terminus? Routine dreaming. Mirages that exist. Affirmations wax of fur and bullet. In one dark corner thee exact dimensions were long ago concealed. And thee entrance danced to relive old histories, plunging through flesh to sore sore eyes. Lost in light of night, into that darkness. Always watched, all ways. Relying on thee slim movement of thee least action. Key. Always easy in this room. Tic. Small room. Chamber of conscience. Plaster flaking like love. (How Victorian; English Victorian at that.) Dreams contained in liquid. Sperm rages in formulas. Drinking rain even as trees cough out thee empty bairn of history. Thee way of thee formulas. Thee wisdom of breath. Thee temple of light. But he sees you. As he waits. He does not need thee light of night, thee serene dream of time, thee sweet flesh ideas are heir to. He is above you and in you. His joy is in your joy. When all movement and thought stops we are awake. We are awake because we are empty and Anything at all merely serves to fill us again. Did you hear us? E said we were awake. Sad, E saw that game. On one side near thee old house. Movement of rat in corner. Rustle of scales. Rubble crunching like snow, kicked aside like tin. He was grinning before he jumped. Oh, nothing in particular. Dog shifting and sleeping. Oxygen short in thee air. Sound of breathing louder than old stone. Light of night twisted fading. Sound playing across skin like fingers. Prickling hairs on thee cock. No way to identify. No key. Tic. Empty as flesh. Inside thee box papers inscribed with time. Several days past. Thee gate remained closed. Shadows at attention marking time. Tic. Orders to thee last as vigils of death ponder flesh and all thee dogs crawl away. Car passes. Tic. Phone rings. Glass cracks. Tic. Did you see that? Black fingernails strapped to linen. Sound of steel beneath flesh, perhaps not deep enough still. Tic. Direction gone. Mangle us. Tic. Septic from piss. Tic. Line around heel. Lack of nails cracked. Tic. Glass crimson as thee doctor fell. Hiding his face they say. Shame. A blunt instrument in surgeon's hands. Dry noise in throat washing across winter as trains drift by. Counting. Tic. Noise of dreams at thee door. Tic. Huge carved monoliths, ivory curved around thee illusory gates. "Open, open!" For know reason. For just a small map, an old routine frozen before. Before time passed on. Leaving spirals bouncing against spirals. Wherever we observe, it is all ways thee same place. Thee traces remain. To me. To me. Thee sex scene over for now. Last night thee flesh came. Open arms, strong, empty pale. A volunteer. Light behind in thee doorway. Fading fresco. Let dreams slide across thee floor of winter, splinters in foot. Gasps of little boy who didn't want to bleed. Blood. Feet stamping. Fingers jabbing in groin. Tic. Already empty. Drifting in story: no detail forgotten. No fact erased. No one watched. Trapped in small room. Tic. Looking up at thee ceiling there were thee usual number of tiles laid out. Tic. Gray as photographs. Thee same cathedral we all used to pass a way in. Small baby smiled. Kicked. Such simple structures cascade from box to corner. Kicked. Fear of lust of destruction. Kicked. Results not uncommon. Stolen trusts. Cold. Just a very, very small game. Lights of night twisted overhead. Tic. Exactly several days passed. Tic. Sick dogs slouch away. Tic. Knives flared in little boy hands. Tic. Fortunes slumping in corners wrestling. Tic. Thee car dumped near piles of earth. Tic. To flicker of moon on knife in stream of icy breath. Tic. Wondering. Tic. Wondering. Zero point. Responsibilities cracked like frostbitten flesh. (How Victorian.) A window slammed shut. Awake, all ways. Here we are. No thing recovers. Still drinking rain as patchwork leaves sleazily cover deep, deep, deep dreams. Eassau, e' did. Our favorite snow defined tree just peters away and is off or something. From thee window, just lumps of flesh moving near water. A section of wall flaking like thee bedbug-ridden plaster of "daath". (How very, very Victorian.) Ex-dreams contained in fertile liquid. Thee ectoplasmic thoughts made ritual gestures and parted with no messages spoken, an emptiness of this story. Thee serene time merely serves to spill, then dies like poison spiders stamped needfully underfoot. A spark of will before thee cold draught and damp "would" of future, placed near dying trees. Severe rot. Tic. Uncouth sounds playing across skin like light erotic fingers. Tic. Yes, odd steel needles buried in needy images. Tic. Hard, no sounds. Tic. Next ache is a continuation of the first ache. Tic or breath or pulse or waft. Tic. Begorah, always thee same numbers. Tic. Good dew ladels sweat on the body knowingly tensed. Tic. [sic] By night laced in stomach, expression traced in nails basked in victims blood. Tic. Choke, my Knight. Tic. Get her Inside thee boxed papers inscribed with meaningless maps, intersections. Remember? Eying sophisticates from under thee trees of guilt, of shame. Paralysing. Eyes useless. Regret useless. Heat of tracks counted like withered grass. Twisted in old hair. Throat washing across winter as an old routine drifts by. No dream forgotten. Links of old senses in rope. Knots of divinity. Aware of floor on flesh, tubes of water. Raging mud lightens it up. No thoughts, thee best type of mind. Empty vessels make thee most alchemically pure cathedral stones. Life is moving, Charlie. Time gripping tight like a lover's orgasm. Trees bending. Quiet and hooded. Thea sins while small noises of rats next door. Cable raw, celibate. Fur trembling like light. Pulling scales clear of rustling menses. In thee essential nature of legends shadows steal from endless counting. Thee rest left open. Not enough. Knot. Love is thee law. love under will. As It Is So Be It