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"If You're Bored Of the Planet Earth" [Bottled Whispers |Engage Time Machine |Channeled Spirits|Magick Mirror]
Jack Babalon

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Parallel Earth Day! [Apr. 23rd, 2017|02:39 am]
Jack Babalon
Happy Parallel Earth Day, Citizens of the Internet!

Yes, it's April 23rd, the day after Earth Day, when we gaze and reflect upon all those manifestations of the possible spanning the infinite breadth of the Multiverse. For on this day alone, the veil between eigenstates becomes visible not just to those with Code Indigo clearance, the rank of Most Worshipful Oracle, or the owner of a casual drug addiction. No on this day the frequencies align, ley lines converge across possibilities, and all of us - with a teaspoon of willpower and a dash of imagination can access briefly That Which Could Have Been.

It is on this day that a higher than normal number of failed science-fiction writers go missing along with many "crackpot" scientists who've been ostracized by their peers into obscurity. Where have they gone? They have used this thinning of the walls between realities to slip away into their own private Schrödinger's Box. Once inside they vanish into a puff of conjecture and reappear in a world more closely aligned to their desires. Not just them either. On this day many a mentally ill patient disappears from their room or homeless psychotics stagger into a new universe. These souls however have little say over what world they enter, some find themselves revered as emissaries of the gods others hunted by flesh eating nanobot swarms. It is a little known fact that many of the crazy guys you see shouting, cursing, and praying at the same time, are in fact arrivals from a parallel earth they can no longer return to.

But for the rest of us, Parallel Earth Day allows us to be psychic tourists of That Which Could Have Been. We are free to gaze upon a Rome that never fell or one that fell to Hannibal for both are empires whose reach remains interstellar. A favorite is one where a certain fluke of astrophysics meant a certain asteroid missed a certain dinosaur populated planet. But, narcissism being a part of the human condition, the most popular of course are those countless universes where our No's were Yes's. A high school romance that bloomed into marriage, the whim of curiosity nourished into an unfathomable career, a love one still alive or a glimpse of your grave confirming that you had made the right choice.

All of it yours to see for this one day only.

Sort of like the way you can see ghosts on All Hallows Eve only or airship fleets on Saint Tesla Day only with, you know, parallel universes.

Now how exactly does one go about psychically traipsing across the Multiverse? Glad you asked. The trick is to remember that there's a reason that parallel earths are designated by numbers in the comic books. For example if you're a DC fan (or just a Batman fan as many fanboys of all genders are) then you know those adventures take place on Earth-1. If you're a diehard Marvel Zombie (or even an enthusiastic casual) then you're probably aware that what's considered proper continuity takes place on Earth-616 (a number designated by Alan Moore when he was working on Captain Britain back in the day and across the Pond. That's because there's a certain Gematria involved here, where as the sacred numerical value isn't assigned to the letter or word but acts per your basic Kaballah 101 but to a plane of existence.

Now with infinite earths comes infinite number assignations which is where your typical brainiac fails in their calculations to open a gate to another world or worse opens the wrong one. This is exactly how you get invaded by gun wielding simians or tentacle spewing abysses.

What's needed here is intuition and a bit of improvised sigil work.
Step 1: Meditate on the universe you wish to visit and then write down the first five numbers that pop into your head. You can light incense or candles, do banishings or invoke into some avatar drag, solve a series of complex math equations while naked in the blood of a dolphin, whatever it takes to set the mood per the individuals chosen ritualistic dogma. So long as you write five numbers down after meditating on the universe you're trying to book.

Step 2: Scratch out all repeating integers.

Step 3: Now combine the remaining integers into a unified symbol.
This symbol is your own personal 'Magic Number' for accessing the parallel universe you've been focusing on.

Step 4: Now we get all Genesis P-Orridge and rub one out while meditating on the sigil. There are many methods that can be involved and I recollect working the door at a Sigil-Bukkake Party at Spring 4th, where some rookie magus painted his sigil on the forehead of some poor Ukrainian Raver while a bunch of members of the Skeeve Lodge did the sort of invocation no amount can erase the memory of having to mop up later. Still as the kids say nowadays... You Do You Shall Be The Hole in the Law.

Step 5: Now burn or eat the paper on which the sigil has been created. If burned be sure to inhale the smoke of the flames and also to not like do this anywhere near flammable objects or near whatever other shit some asshole might sue me over.

Step 6: Cannot be spoken of here... know only that it will become clear in a lightning flash of intuition upon completion of the first five steps. That or howling Math-Demons from the Many-Angled Dimensions will descend upon you (a sign that perhaps your mind wandered during Step 4 allowing the terrible things between possibilities into our world).

But keep in mind that many of us across the Multiverse are content to spend April 23rd in contemplation of That Which Could Be. Many do not engage in the Integer Sigil to access visions into the "universe next door." Some are content to spend the day Cosplaying as the person they could have been for 24 hours - choosing to look at life through the perspective of another world, another history, another gender, another life form. Others just get drunk and watch Sliders reruns.

In the end though Parallel Earth Day is really about when we look outward to those possibilities unreachable, not with shame at what we are not, but in wonder of what we could be.

Hope it's a good one, Citizens of the Internet.


4-20 to Life [Apr. 20th, 2017|10:58 pm]
Jack Babalon
The closest I'll ever come to understanding the embarrassment and mute rage Gaelic Americans suffer during Saint Patrick's Day is going through any given April 20th in the last decade or so. As marijuana consumption becomes normalized in the Western society the Secret Partaker has become a safe cultural stereotype to milk for a few laughs. All day you'll hear radio DJs and TV anchors and late night host after late night host doing that old 'Stoner Voice'. You know the one. It's a pinched croak in the throat uttering in the ethereal tones of those just roused from vivid dream. When they use it it's to summon absurd conjectures bookended between amnesia and hunger - "Oh, what, was I sayin'? Shit, man, what if animals were, like able to read our minds, would they like, be you know, stoned when they read our minds when we're stoned? Fuck it, let's order a pizza, man."

Cue: Laugh track.

Smiling Host: In other news...

... and no mention that according to the Drug Policy Alliance the number of Americans arrested in 2015 for possession of narcotics was 1,249,025. That's a lot of savings accounts wiped out for lawyers and fees. That's a lot of scholarships denied for a dime bag. That's a lot of jobs lost with the prospect of finding another one much more difficult than before. That's a lot of young men and women thrown into the Rape Zoo to serve a hard 20. 1,249,025 Americans who had their lives ruined or made much worse. And how much of your taxes on that other dreaded day in April - the 15th did we spend arresting, convicting, trying, incarcerating, paroling those million plus citizens? Enough to fix a fallen bridge maybe? Enough to fix a VA system that been dilapidated through bipartisan neglect? Maybe a bit left over to put some kids in school maybe or failing that at least not have them drinking lead poisoned water out of the faucet?

But please... do your spacey-trippy voice for us one more time. Tell us how we all don't wake up until well past noon. How none of us can hold down a job much less a memory of what just happened five minutes ago. How we're basically what zombies would be if zombies could talk and were ravenous vegans. So c'mon, it's 4-20! Let's hear your tight fucking five with the punch line that ends in Munchies or a surfer elongated Dude. Show us your Stoner Black Face for a few laughs and let's ignore there's been a war waged against those you mock for the last half century.

Oh, and that's War as in Literal. Tanks. Body Armor. Swarming helicopters. Military Grade Firepower. Surveillance and espionage. Night raids. Stun grenades. Paramilitary tactics enforced by masked men in all black. Citizens gunned down in the crossfire. War in the dwindling ghettoes of the city, War in the economic ravaged towns of Middle America. War where ever people have been taught that their poverty is not because of automation or outsourcing but from an inherent laziness of character. War, on all those who can neither escape nor conform to the reality around them.

Don't get me wrong. I've seen drugs fuck some good people up bad. I've seen scumbags who left their baby crawling around a floor littered with trash, knives, and guns while they did bumps off the pamper box. I've seen friends at parties or shows then never see them again because they never woke up the next day. No doubt this sort of thing can't go unchecked. Help is needed. Education is needed. But we all know that if the drugs don't destroy your life, the law will do it for you. That's the truth of it, from the casual smoker who hits a bowl on special occasions to the shivering junkie you try to pretend you don't see asking you for a little help.

I guess it gets me because I'm pretty damn close to the stereotype. I'm a passive go lucky soul, who wants to sleep late without a care for work or cash in the world. Just get baked, write crazy shit in hopes of snatching the melody in the ear, make love with abandon, and then eat a lot of processed sugars while binge watching anime in a state of post-coital bliss.

But the other Stoners, the other Narco-Americans I know?

They get up before dawn. Get families fed and delivered to school before hitting the job. They pay bills and taxes on time. Balance checkbooks. Monitor their credit rating and blood pressure. Vote - Democrat and Republican and Neither. They attend PTA meetings, board meetings, city council meetings. They make money and buy new cars and big screen TVs and get the new phone every other year that gives jobs to the robots and third world children. They have served honorably in our armed forces as well as their communities and not one person they love has ever gone without or suffered at the hands of their casual habits.

Yet all it would take for them to lose it all is a random cop pulling them over for the slightest of infractions or a nosey neighbor reporting to 911 the funny smell coming out their window.

So maybe here on 4-20 we could take a moment from our memes and recycled Willie Nelson quotes to remember that while the Stoner has been normalized through pop-culture they remain criminalized in the eyes of the laws of this land.

Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist [Apr. 19th, 2017|01:20 am]
Jack Babalon
[Tags|, ]

It's hot enough again that I can trade out yard work for weed like some sort of deranged teenager, trapped, broke, looking to exchange sweat for kicks here in E-I-E-I-OTP Land. What choice do I have? Uncle Sam wants his cut of 2016's haul and I don't exactly feel like going all Lysander Spooner over the situation. So yard work for the Good Green it is.

My first assignment tear down the cascades of English Ivy strangling a small forest squared off in a remote suburban backyard tucked behind a Shag Blue Mid Century A-Frame.

Beaten up work gloves hang off the arms cartoon sized, machete freshly sharpened, faded Black Flag tee tearing up at the pits, a three day hangover lamprey coiled around the inner-narrative. This is what I have to work with.

Step One: praise Ogun offering the machete, along with its god, the respect of a loaded gun.

Step Two: Chop-Chop, Mother-Fucker, Chop-Chop.

Step Three: Tear, yank, uproot Hentai thick tendrils until your growling and covered in sweat.

Step Four: Repeat Steps 2 through 4... only this time put a little back into it.

Which is what I do for a good thirty minutes, wrapping vines around gloved fists, tugging them off the bark, ripping open the earth still damp with an earlier thunder shower. Petrichor memories of preteen days running through the wilds of Van Cortland Park, climbing trees, scaling walls of the 19th century aqueduct getting lost through the Bronx-Yonkers border. Orange and amber of dusk flickering through leaves as I ran around with the dogs playing. The persistent sense that somebody, or something, was watching you deep in the verdant foliage. Unseen, but close enough that the gaze heats up the back of the neck, scaring you while making you feel special at the same time.

Focus, I got both hands wrapped around a root thick enough to make a sailor blush, and while I've managed to peel it off the tree with minimal damage, it's tangled up deep in the dark soil. No matter how hard I pull it won't budge. It almost feels as if something is pulling back...

I was fourteen and found that I liked the idea of being watched by whatever it was in the woods. My witness was neither human nor beast, this much intuition ascertained.
There was a place literally off the beaten path. Through a small animal trail winding through bushes of pure thorn, there was a place where a creek ran between stones large enough for me to lay spread eagle on. Which is what I did after taking my clothes off with coy shyness to my invisible witness. The trickle of the creek's waters, dying sunlight sparking off the water's surface, the wind sighs across ancient oaks, the stone's cold press against my bare skin, and excited in ways
I couldn't fully comprehend much less articulate, found myself pleasuring myself for my invisible witness.

The root won't budge, the vines are growing around my arms, up my legs, the tendrils not just pulling back, but trying to drag me down into the soil...

... and 31 years ago splayed across that stone, masturbating furiously to the shadows growing out of the brush and between the branches, gathering in silent witness to my performance, to my confession...

... knee and elbow deep in vines now, feeling the fat black bugs crawling under my shirt, as the roots drag me deeper into...

... the shadows grew closer with the dying light and moaned their satisfaction. I closed my eyes wanting not to see what they were but rather bask in the radiance of their attention. Thunder rumbled...

... thunder rumbles and I focus all my strength on plucking my right arm free. There's a wet, ugly pop in my elbow that comes with a whimper instead of a growl. But it's enough to let me reach for the machete. Son of a Ogun, Orisha Combat Chant muttered, and the vines on the left arm are reaching for across the shoulder, up the neck, towards...

... shadow lips kiss across my body as the first omen-spasms of the little death tremble, with the wind groaning the treetops and all the birds silent...

... and if I don't strike soon the vines will have buried me and if I strike the vines in the wrong spot I risk severing a limb...

... and lightning flashes against closed eyes as rain splatters across the stone and I open my mouth feeling shadow fingers trace the words I'm mouthing...

... and I open my eyes after a quick guestimate of a prayer to pull back on my left arm with the last of my dying momentum and strike with the machete...

... YES, I hiss, shudder, and convulse into laughter as the seed of my effort drowns in the pouring rain while the watching shadows withdraw back into the woods to sleep in satisfaction...

... the blade cuts inches above the fingers managing not to sever completely the growing vines but damage them enough that I can tear my arm free. I hack next at the roots around legs, carefully but not without a certain rage behind the blows. For the next ten minutes I slice away at the root until I'm staggering and huffing for a cigarette.

I look up and it's the last tree.

Darkness soon, bus to catch, train to catch, another bus to catch after that and maybe some dinner in between. The vision of that dusk on the stone in the woods echoes behind blinks and rubbed eyes. Shake it off. Pack up the machete after thanking it and its owner. Slap on the headphones. Smoke half a joint tucked in the cigarette pack. Wait to stop trembling. Gather your fee, an eighth of Lemon Kush wrapped in a lunch sized potato chip bag. Head home and realize that at last Saturday's hangover is gone.

Get on the Bus to Beelzebub [Apr. 12th, 2017|01:17 am]
Jack Babalon
This whole city's completely traffucked now that 85 has been taken down by what diligent authorities assure us was only a crack-head with a Bic and a little time to kill. Others of course believe the fire to be a literal manifestation of the socioeconomic razing of the old neighborhoods that once defined Terminus. Of course it must be said that this town does have a history of playing with fire and hell what'd you expect would happen when you make of your city's seal a mythical bird rising out of flames. Resurgens, say it enough times and something's bound to get burnt. Still, it's better than neighboring Agnes Town's symbol of a man bowing to another man who is holding a feather. I have zero clue what that shit's all about and zero intention of finding any. It's their freak flag and that's good enough for me.

Point is there's a sudden epidemic of cluelessness jamming the MARTA stations as society deteriorates into one where its citizens must occasionally ride a bus or a train. Now normally an unexpected caste collision of oblivious privilege and starved insanity crammed into the same aging transit system at rush hour offers no dearth of teachable moments for the lay anthropologist. But for the rest of us who are just trying to get home after a Fuck-You of a day MARTA offers an experience best described as the movie the Warriors if it was directed by the people running your local DMV. Now throw in a few hundred MARTA Noobs acting like entitled cattle who demand first class seats on the trip to the charnel house and it's enough to crack even the most seasoned commuter.

Therefore it is to you, new MARTA passenger, that I propose a few guidelines to follow in order that your public transit experience ends with as little blood, sweat, and tears as possible.

1. White people, remember that you're new urban adventure isn't the Wire, it's closer to Oz or The Night Of. So practice everything you've ever learned about prison from HBO and apply it to your northbound jaunt across the city. You want to look in a manner that is neither directly at a person or one that averts their gaze. Carry yourself with respect but respect those around you and if you don't act the fool you'll get home without getting shanked. Also, if you find a cinnamon roll on the empty seat next to you and eat it then you are contractually obligated to be the provider of said cinnamon roll's bitch for the duration of the commute.

2. If musical comedies have taught us anything it's that the world is a more magical place when complete strangers burst into song. Remember this when randos start shrieking "The Greatest Love of All" in your ear after a long day.

3. Did your backpack or grocery bags pay a fare? If the answer's no, then they don't get their own fucking seat. Your precious rucksack will be just fine on the floor and while none of us want to have to engage with the other blocking up a whole seat because you don't want to deal with anyone doesn't make you a quirky introvert but an insensitive cunt.

4. If you see something then... keep it to yourself, okay? Yeah, we all see the guy screaming about how Jesus was a CIA agent or the dude jerking off between the train cars but it doesn't mean you have to get involved in a conversation with them, or even worse with me about what they're doing.

5. Always remember to bring a book with you, but preferably an ancient grimoire that you'll need to banish the demons and ghosts lurking on the station platforms with. Audibly(tm) Books on Stream offers a wide selection of ancient Sumerian and Hyperborean texts read by some of today's biggest stars. The Necronomicon as read by Steve Buscemi or the Book of the Law as chanted by Gilbert Godfrey are big hits.

6. No, don't touch that.

7. That either. Jesus, what are you thinking?

8. Should you fall asleep only to awaken to an abandoned train that keeps riding endlessly through impossible tunnels while through the windows you glance creatures made out of impossible angles while the lights flicker on and off and there's a shadow approaching , just remember this. You really should have given that homeless man the dollar he needed.

9. It is a known fact that pickpockets, vagrants, and undercover police will avoid you if you dress up as Santa Clause even if you do so in early April. It's just generally bad karma to fuck with a Santa. Also effective is dressing as Mark Twain or a cardboard robot though this will attract the rats that live in the stations for reasons unknown at this time.

10. While eating on the trains is forbidden open weeping is not only allowed but encouraged.

Battle Womb America [Apr. 7th, 2017|12:57 am]
Jack Babalon
Watching battle cruisers launch Tomahawks on the news and the nervous system's jolting me into a level of awareness not known since quitting cocaine. Here's the situation from my corner of PTSD (Perpetual Trump Stress Disorder) America. One part of me feels like my TV is broadcasting from the Gulf back in '91 allowing me to watch my ship even while huddled within her. The other part is waiting for a voice to crackle over the speakers barking in monotone authority - "General Quarters, General Quarters, All Hands Man Your Battle Stations." Zen Panic, that's what I used to call it when I'd jump out of whatever I was doing to hit the deck. Never felt so alive really scrambling like that through the corridors and down the hatches and everyone telling me to slow down and lighting up a cigarette in the hole alone in my little corner of the ship. But I wasn't a soldier, a marine, the Navy SEAL I signed up but psyched out of becoming. I was Navy and the Navy doesn't come to fight, it comes to destroy. It comes to launch millions of dollars of raw death from the sea, straight through the sky, to engulf in flames the sleeping earth until nothing remains but rubble. In this all four elements are alchemically invoked to call down the Angel of Death upon distant lands.

For I was Navy and the Navy in the late 20th/ early 21st Century is not War but rather her Herald.

After the ordinance, after the barrage, after the Navy's Black Metal Fourth of July Murder Party, comes the War along with the sons and daughters who will have to fight a Peace out of it. They will come to butcher, they will come to save, they will come to protect and patrol and do the work of them ordered by those not there to see it done much less its cost and not a one of them will come back the same. I was Navy and we did not see the faces we killed, in that we are blessed as it didn't fuck us up like it does those who did, do, and will. But in not seeing those faces I often wonder if it meant we didn't have to sacrifice that part of ourselves that keeps us from doing it in the first place.

The faces I have seen though are those who have had to deliver what we only heralded and what's in them is enough to let the rest of us understand all there is to know of War. Most of us have seen that face at the airport, on the train, on the streets, at the bar or the job or the family reunion or waiting in the mirror. There is something sharp in their countenance where ours is soft and intuitively we sense the cut behind that sharpness never heals completely. It's a face everyone seems to know... except those responsible for making them.

I was Navy and tonight I'm there in the bilges with some poor dumb kid who maybe found out too late that they'd rather be a poet than whatever they wanted to be before Basic. Strength and love, unknown shipmate , with wounded prayers to those that will suffer what we have heralded.
link1 Summoned|Invoke

Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist [Mar. 31st, 2017|01:19 am]
Jack Babalon
The day ends in flames as night rumbles the earth with thunder and even an armchair occultist could tell you a lot more is at work here than just a collapsed bridge over a highway. It's Bad Magick 101, it's Necronomicon Karaoke, and Tarot shuffling with a deck full of Towers. Mainly though it's something that shouldn't be on this side of Hell waking up in the rainy shadows outside your window. Here's the situation from close to the front line. As you may have read in previous dispatches filed to Kether Command, Terminus is a lot more than the economic engine of the Confederate States of Appalachia. It is in actuality a city rebuilt from ashes where all that was Strange and Untamed in the South came to find freedom or fortune or oblivion. What the Strange and Untamed didn't realize however was that the City was a trap/cage set by those undying antebellum/antediluvian powers that rule Southeast unseen. Terminus is sealed by the 285 loop and within the perimeter the intersection of highways into I-85 create a binding sigil that ensures the madness that lives there doesn't spread out to infect the rest of the region.

Over the decades though a vibrant culture grew inside the binding sigil - it's madness had a rhythm that pulsed out of strip bars and nightclubs to reverberate across the nation. It's vision was bohemian infested brick walls lit up with graffiti runes and streets where dogwoods bloomed Samurai weather in spring. It's blood was the rail-lines, it's heart was a Dream of her greatest prophet slain. It was a city unlike any other and it drew the Strange and the Untamed from further and further across this land. The dark magicks that bound the city began to buckle under the strain of the population overload but Terminus thrived and her voice became a roar and her vision became a testimony and her Dream became, briefly, a Possibility instead.

I was one of those pilgrims who came here in search of mastering the Narromantic Arts, completely unaware of the binding sigil that caged the city. Just another 80's suburban casualty trying to escape their white privilege not out of some noble pursuit of equanimity but rather to flee the soul negating anti-culture that came with said privilege. The city's were magick circles that protected us from the slave-god morality of the lands outside them. A place where the weird can get wild and the wild can get weird without anyone having to wake up to the Lynch Squad waiting outside your front door. We came to make music, we came to tell stories, we came to a place that only through great Will or great Tragedy can one truly ever escape its magick seal.

Such was the deal, we lived sealed away in the city with the outside world safe from our madness and our madness safe from their conformity.

Until the suburban boredom and small town values got a whiff of our revelries and followed us into the cities to make it theirs. The day-traders, the developers, the yawning khaki masses flooded into Terminus and in doing so began to strain the dark binding magicks of the highway sigil. Then our national shit storm of an election goes down. Once again nation divided cannot stand... especially when they can't stand each other. The zeitgeist soured, a second Civil War brews, the artist-shaman of the cities we relied on to channel the collective dread out of our subconscious have been priced into banishment. The weight of daily horrorshow doubling with each glimpse on the internet, with each piece of history gutted into a Starbucks, with each old neighborhood appropriated by the viciously affluent.

Cracks show, outbursts rumble, the center buckles.

Until a bridge on the highway in the sigil collapses and all that energy to keep the Strange and Untamed bound here is released into the Red Wilds of the Confederate States of Appalachia. All our starved yearnings, all our marginalized terrors, all our muted screams, released in a ball of flames as traffic grinds to a halt the day before the big new baseball stadium opens up in Ty Cobb County. Too much bullshit squeezing the Strange and Untamed to the edges of the sigil but unable to escape it strain the system and...

... snap, crumble, and bang!

The seal is broken, the sigil shattered, the genii awakened and the three wishes she grants are given to the Angel of Death without hesitation. The streets will soon flow riot with gunshots and doomsday fucking and once again flames will herald what Terminus is to become.

Reporting live from the crumbling rune, this is Jack Babalon, over and...

85 North 3/30/17
link1 Summoned|Invoke

Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist [Mar. 9th, 2017|01:23 am]
Jack Babalon
[Tags|, , , ]
[Current Location |Agnes Town ]
[Psychic Weather |Drunkish]
[Aural Atmosphere |Weird Creepy Ambient Shit As Usual]

You could speak of Terminus without speaking of her trains, but to do so is to speak of the Sahara without mention of her dunes, or to offer London without reference to her streets, to promise New York City minus the ghosts of Old Times Square. No, that will not do and we both know it. Terminus, with her iron streams of commerce pulsing with wail and rumble that serve as spectral Greek Choir to the Dharma, Drama, and the Dream of our city's heritage. For Terminus isn't like the other metropolises of the East Coast. Hatched from a nest/nexus of rail lines converging southeast of a future empire. Raised from iron, blood nourished, wild sister to neighboring Agnes Town, rail-wise beyond her years, Fortress of the Pax Confederate, burnt down to roaring ashes off a spark lit off the very tracks from which she was born, and with a phoenix disposition rises up. Harlem South of the Bible Belt, Southern Fried Gotham, Engine Town, Cemetery Mill, Mechanicsville, Five Points Greater, Five Points Lesser (aka Vampire Country), Snake Nation, the Wilds of Techwood, the East Side Drag, the Buckhead Mating Crawl, and through it all the steel banshee roar of the rails pierce the Great Appalachian Veil to launch her song out across the vast American night.

And it's almost midnight, meandering home from Write Club, where suddenly I'm standing under the tunnel of US 23, just a long block shy of Vampire Country (where I passed in pleasant inebriation amongst her ghosts remembering kisses and threats dearly). Above me the boxcars are rattling out, clanging, grinding, shaking the concrete tunnel walls, dispatched to haul west nocturnal, and I raise my arms (Sign of Typhon Triumphant) , and I just scream.

I scream at the quarter-million dollar lofts perched on the edge of Seaborn Avenue the way relatives perch on the bed of a rich aunt who can't die soon enough. I scream at the shopping center where junkies once shuffled promising oracles for spare change. I scream at the burnt down house where once gutter punks offered swigs from 40s and hits off blunts. I scream at the ghost of my brother suicide-lost who once ruled the ragged of these streets with charm and violence. I scream up at that train now picking up escape velocity, thunder chugging until the walls tremble, and it doesn't disperse my scream but rather absorb it. Makes it a part of her song, a sample slipped into the mix, and later tonight - when that CSX comes wailing down the predawn streets to waft through window open on early spring where it will wake you from a dream forgotten and you will hear faintly beneath the cry of her haunted whistle my scream and you will know that scream as your own when back to sleep you slip.

Last steam of the bourbon alchemy fading with work early in the morning and this is where I leave you alone but not unique.

Word on the Street

(no subject) [Feb. 17th, 2017|01:11 am]
Jack Babalon
The Invisible College in flames, the Library Alexandria burning, tinderbox now our Rome ambitions, and we the last adepts bare witness to the teachings of our sacred masters now in the unseen hand of an undying enemy. Once we proudly snarled at the Normies and the Straights declaring R.A.W.'s maxim - "Reality is what you can get away with." In a world where our schools, our churches, our commercials, kept trying to mold us into a herd we didn't want or simply couldn't fit in with, there was something revolutionary in those words - "Reality is what you can get away with."

But now, now 'Reality is what you can get away with' is the Mission Statement for the Administration presiding over what's shaping up to be the Last Days of United State's Democracy. 'Reality is what you can get away with' is the underlying message of the Trump Regime and who knows that better than a real estate mogul turned reality star?

Everything we learned in the appendices of the Illuminatus, that we used to navigate rough psychedelic voyages, to confront the worst aspects of our character imprinted into our nervous system, or just ponder naked in a bed filled with books, pets, lover and/or lovers, they used to turn the Great Experiment of our nation into a Plutocratic Empire. The conditions were right, the ravages of globalization were felt hardest by a segment of the population unable to accept the social ramifications of the 1960s and heard exactly what they've been wanting to hear. Now, what they don't hear simply isn't true. It's Fake News. What agrees with their narrative of a America for Americans (by which we mean a certain flavor of American) is Gospel and everything else is Fake News.

So, that which does not agree with Emperor Trump is false and all else then is superficial.


"Invoke often!"that's how. The trick we learned in our robes, in our secret temples, in our sacred stoned headspaces. It was a trick we stole from Madison Avenue and we used it to become ubran shaman, mortal vampires, postapocalyptic industrial warriors. Now it's the mantra of an Insurgent Nation within our own - one armed, drugged, and scared of what don't act like them. Just keep listening to the President, to Fox News, to the fat, angry white man on the AM radio, and they keep repeating over and over a doomsday America. Opiate ravaged ex-coal miners and forgotten vets of the Oil Crusades scrounging through ghost towns under the shadow of rusted heavy machinery. Meanwhile, out yonder in the city, faceless immigrants who gibber in strange tongues simultaneously steal jobs while collecting fat welfare checks for their anchor babies or next jihad all at the expense of honest, real, Americans that have very strong opinions about who pees where and ensuring unlimited access to a wide arrange of firearms. Tell them otherwise and they'll paraphrase Crowley's Book of the Law - " Enough of Because! Be he damned for a dog! But ye, o my people, rise up & awake!”

The power of stories is no longer solely the domain of the esoteric shaman pondering their tomes, but is now an incantation of serious level black magick that has been used to weaponize the mob to install the Iron Empire into power.

So maybe it's high time we learned that reality is no longer what you can get away with. No it's the Weapon and Battle-Field in which the War for the American 21st Century shall be fought.

Leonard - General Master of Sabbaths [Feb. 15th, 2017|01:01 am]
Jack Babalon
Despite what it says on my LinkedIn account my knowledge of demonology and the ways of the Left Hand Path is primarily derived from old comic books and Penthouse forum letters. So maybe I'm missing something in the Gematria but it seems someone on this list of the Damned's High Command got screwed when they were handing out names to the Fallen. I refer of course to Leonard - General Master of Sabbaths.

I mean seriously how exactly does a "Leonard" find himself hanging out with the whole Paradise Lost gang in the first place?

SCENE: Lucifer on his burning throne summons his Rebel Angels to gather before him, where they will be named and given rank in his new kingdom.

Lucifer: Alright, let's make this quick people, I ain't got forever here...

Infernal Attendant leans over to whisper in Lucifer's ear

Lucifer:... okay, yes technically I DO have forever here but that ain't the point. The point is I'm a busy guy with a lot on his plate. I gotta invent language, bury a bunch of fake dinosaur bones, win a fiddling contest, and plot to overthrow the Almighty. Which means in order to keep things running smoothly I'm going to have to delegate some of my responsibilities. That's where you mooks come in. I mean look, I can't just be appearing out of a puff of smoke whenever some asshole utters some butchered Latin and Hebrew expecting me to pop out of a cloud of smoke and make them invincible with X amount of wishes.

Well, I'll tell you this for free. I sure as shit didn't become the boss of Hell so I could do shit-work for the mortals and I sure as fuck didn't bring you all along with me for the company so here's the deal. When I call out your name you step up, receive your ranking sigil, do a little bow, and then get your ass to making this organization ready for Armageddon Time. Okay?

Rebel Angels murmur discontent.

Lucifer: I said 'OKAY'?

Rebel Angels through fakes smiles answer OKAY as one.

Lucifer: There we go... now who's up first? You, dude with the head of a cow.

Moloch: Mmmmeerrrroooooo

Lucifer: I like your attitude, you're gonna be my Prince of the Land of Tears.

Moloch: MMmmmmmooooooo...

Lucifer (laughing): This fucking guy over here. You're killing me, okay... next we got... you the dog with wings.

Marchocias: S'up?

Lucifer: Marquis of Hell. Next... uh, you naked dude with the head of a cat.

Nickar: I am NICKAR!

Lucifer: Right, uh, I'm gonna make you...

Nickar: NICKAR!

Lucifer: Ohhhhkay, Nickar... you're, shit, you're just Nickar. Think you can handle that?

Nickar: NICKAR!

Lucifer: Great, let's see naked guy on a bear playing the trombone you're a Prince. Viking guy riding an alligator...

Sallos: Crocodile, m'lord.

Lucifer: What?

Sallos: It's a crocodile not a...

Lucifer: Hey! I didn't invent language so you could get pedantic with me. I was going to make you the General Master of Sabbaths, which is only the sweetest job on the list, but you had to go and run your mouth. Now you get to be just a Great Duke of Hell, while the Master of Sabbaths title goes to the guy next you... you, yeah, fancy pants with the coat-hanger horns.

Leonard: Yes, Your Royal Infernalness.

Lucifer: What's your name...

Leonard: Leonard.

Lucifer: What?

Leonard: My friends call me Lenny... well if I had any friends that is. Funny thing was I didn't even know you fellows were going to overthrow the Almighty. I thought the whole rebellion was just a support group for angels with self-confidence. Next thing I know... here I am. One of you guys.

Lucifer: Yeah, that's... great. Okay, Leonard, you're my General Master of Sabbaths. Your job is going to be to lead the witch orgies and help future rock stars get their hands on fatal amounts of cocaine.

Sallos: Aw, man...

Lucifer: Well... 'Lenny' think you can handle that?

Leonard: Actually I was really hoping for something in accounting.

Lucifer: Sorry but I already got a numbers guy. So what's it gonna be 'Lenny'? You my Sabbath guy or are you going to be Leonard General Master of Cleaning out Hell's Shithouse?

Leonard: Fine...

Lucifer: Alright, now what we got next? You ostrich face...

Leonard - General Master of Sabbaths & his friends

As Long As It Takes [Feb. 14th, 2017|10:42 pm]
Jack Babalon
Every Valentine's Day my ex-girlfriend leaves a dead bird stuffed with candy hearts on my doorstep that she wraps tenderly in gold painted barbwire. Usually there's a note attached and written in a collage of letters normally reserved for a ransom note she enlightens me to her blessings. How the husband finally got that big promotion at that local publisher. How her daughter was turning out to be quite the budding scientist. Also about how she burns a stack of my social media posts she's printed out in a state of the art grill out on the patio whenever she's been drinking a little too much wine. She ends each letter the same, sans signature with only the phrase - "As long as it takes" - to let me know it was her.

Last year it was a Red Breasted Nuthatch whose eyes were replaced with two chalk candy hearts reading "I LUV YOU" & "Be Mine" and along with it the note spoke of a lost night between us. We hopped the wall at Oakland Cemetery after she got kicked out of Masquerade for snorting a little blow in the Lady's Room of Hell. She still wanted to dance though and specifically at a graveyard. Oakland would have to do. Lacking music we sang old Sisters of Mercy songs and danced around the graves of the Confederate Dead. Later, beneath a statue of a weeping lion, we fucked on the dirt and beneath me she flipped off the Terminus skyline segueing out of the mausoleum rooftops. Back at our apartment we got drunk and she cried until dawn and asked me how long we had as people who weren't completely boring.

As long as it takes, I promised holding her against me while we watched cartoons on cable TV hotwired through the VCR.

Promise me something though, I whispered to her feeling the warmth of her tears on my chest, promise me you'll never forget me. Remember me as... I dunno... an uncaged bird filled with poems and love but sharp as barbwire. I didn't think much of it. Figured it for the wine and the weed and the post-coital bliss and the no-cocaine jitters and the children that lived upstairs from her getting ready for school.

She raised her face from my chest, her eyes blazed with the reflection of an unknown flame, smeared black lipstick curls into a break-all-hearts smile and she promises. Promises the way the good guy in the movie promises to avenge the death of a friend or true love.

Seven months later we were broken up. She caught me cheating on her with a nasty little Klingon at Con. I hadn't been working as I had gotten fired from a steady customer service gig after a random quality-assurance recording caught me on tape threatening to fist fuck some douche out in Fly-Over Country, USA. The lack of money I was bringing in was just enough to put the financial burden on her secretary gig. Instead of looking for a job I spent my days writing bad poetry and hanging out with an old shipmate. Well, when said ex-shipmate was able to score me a free pass to the Con (just me though not her) I couldn't say no. And feeling drunk and feeling like the real victim I allowed myself to be seduced in the name of intergalactic diplomacy. Don't ask me how but by the time I woke up covered in scratches and regrets my ex had already found out about my indiscretion. When I came back from Con it was to find my shit tossed all down our apartment's hallway. With my shitty credit it was just her name on the lease and that was that. Well except the getting screamed at and slapped and kicked in the balls.

But since then, every Valentine's Day, she shows me that she's kept her promise. That she'll always remember me with wings of flight and magick words.

Happy Valentine's Day, REDACTED... I whisper and stuff the red breasted nuthatch in a plastic grocery bag that I gently dump into the trash.
link1 Summoned|Invoke

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