Deux ex machine FIFTEEN

James Sheer Phaily

Last Exit For the Lost-Collag



It is mine I, this Lamp of Thoth. I reassemble the sacred pieces of this “divine temporality”-unto the Sabbath-Now!


The skies bluest, the Peacock’s tale-to whom is this double-chalice served?


-born out of rattlesnake hide, made out of human skulls, sweet nectar for a thousand young!


We landed at Dawn, through the archaic shade of Mother-Earth-Flight, guiding timbre of the Ancient one’s who traverse Styxx River Re-birth, whispered clandestinely ‘neath Hunter’s Moon, whence to the Dark Tower came, to ride on blessed, black wings ….


(I)mage –acolyte of the Dark Goddess and we are all in front of the sky….


It came out of the Don Valley, slow and cool, with a backbeat narrow and hard to master. I transmute the location of every door, left my anguish at each gate, guided light eternal, fascinating quest.


A claim too is aorizing insane blasphemies and all that should not be. The Willows of the Earth and the forests of the dark serpentine that make up my astral body (KA).


The Arachnean receptors and connectors thread and weave their wyrding ways as we drink from the cauldron of (re)birth….


As the Sun also rises we ride out to the borders. We did not feast before stratospheric battle, through and beyond time we emit. I, infinite space…




Io! The ice man cometh!

It is an auspicious entity, glacial, galactic and stratospheric, an alchemical suspiration of mine life-force. We plunge within, encapsulating these fallen hours, back beyond silent memory….


My Lord has set his stall, no libation shall be partook of before I take my place at the campfire of my people, this moot of sacred Al-Khem, “the storehouse of memories with an ever open door”? 


Heathen cosmic consciousness beneath Heavy –Metal Sky, complete with shit-eating motif of a diamond-tipped razor smile. Our incandescent zero-dark forboding , to rise from behind the light in infinite Slayerology….


-aided from (as) above and (so) below by the power of seven by seven, the purification of my “mind-stuff motion”, let us kindle a fire in honour of our true nature. It begat unification of momentum with sensitivity in fearless pleasure, riding the Kia of mine sharks desire….


At the gates a kindling fire has blown the doors on the fucker righteous like. As we stand in righteous fortitude, above the tree, within the bountiful hollowed cocoon of a honeycombed private mind , ecstatically joyous, herself, the ley of the land, the (inner) space time-emit of which i invocate. This I do in honour of my true will, to know myself not…


Infinite Space, we drink from the twin-chalice of the lugubrious possibilities and permutations of the Pan Daemon-Aeon. It is by definition a Silver Dusk, cradling the receptiveness of the arachnean connection.


She relentlessly regresses, re-emerging from the deep, dark waters of our unconscious mind., oroborous peacock’s tale, ridin’ on black cat cloak and furs of azure ….


We are somehow purified, traversing through this sublime and luminescent moment ,in the land of the young scopin’…


It chime (re)birth, resonating the solar temple bell of a circulian clandestine epiphany.


I his trusty Shaman and confidant, crawling.Universe ridin’-eye am the sky and can transmute from flesh to spirit, “swift and straight as an arrow”, wearing the skins of animals, never fails and is dangerous.



I scream, my consciousness projected (lives), a hand guiding this battle to resurrect our Sietch,. This power, this love of Oh! So sour! 7x7 fucked with –head, visage scarred from “neu aeon magick” and then she turned, speaking Harpocratic.


She who cannot be summoned, resurging through and from the chaosphere that we rise and form ecstatic, dwelling on the threshold adorned in the reified Shamanic playground.


Shrill,daemonic yaup and radiate (in)finite generations of the warrior soul, twist and turn “as scurmish” destroying all god-botherers and ignoring the worn lesson “in how to feed our addiction” –Go!


For “seven is the number of the young light” that which is for the benificience of the tribe, Ziarah of the Fire Angel….


Asleep, druidic mound , above us and also below, arachnean fulguration of connecting receptive connectors-familiarized in animations both within and without ,enchanted on the suspirations of the Dragon that showed which way to go!


Our name is legion!


- it do “form when darkness is increased by one.” I watch with a hundred, feathered, thousand eyes prepared with the use of gunpowder, we blow the flyin’ on cultured wings –(I)HEKT:(en)throned….


The Horned God who is our Warrior-King inspects fate and faith as I “astrally voyage” 7x 7 o’er the occupation. I begat the preparation of the potion, the chalice, the “Vinum Sabbathi”, a libation of luminescent truth and “Total Fucking Armageddon”….


We carry sabres, axes and scowling like wolves, “wanna puke jus’ lookin’ at it, saieth one of our creed that laugh through this crack as if something small had fallen out of my place at the campfire of my people-once, righteous for the soul….


So we set out on our Sky Chariot’s o’er the tempered love of the Gnomic cracks and hollow. We drink mead and speak of the luminescent shadow-time of our crimson shade ‘n the repulsive Cathedral citadel! 


The Master Therion step forth, adorned in battle, he laughing and splashing yet “one-pointed,” e’ery man and woman is a star.”


-instead we lay steadfast crossbow’s at our sides covered in Goat’s blood, the eyes of men our hands, a fleshly Cernunnos (who know’s everything and see nothing) for my brothers we are all the same, mine oaths in sanctifying solitude.


We drink and smoke, “assuming the position” we set our stall at the great “Pow-Wow”, the arboreal moot, Megalanian gathering of the tribes that knows no satiation-a righteous onslaught against the putrid, phallic monotheistic God-fodder-never fails and is dangerous….