Monday, 13 January 2020

trickster





new: four tracks of winter misanthropy: 'voorish visions' by skullflower
at skullflower.bandcamp.com/



new collaboration with der blutharsch


Sunday, 5 January 2020

And his smoke will rise up forever...



or, nothing of him that does not suffer a sea change, into something Rich and Strange..
In memory of Simon Morris: what follows was the projected intro for the Timeless book,not used because we didn't want to drag 'real world' considerations into our sovereign realm of the senses, but now, amongst myriad tributes, it seems kind of fitting to just get this out there...
                                                                     
                                                                                                                
SUDDEN AND FRIGHTENING ESCALATION: A MORAL REMEDIATION CHARACTER MAP by Simon Morris

Contents of parcel received from sd and mb, late winter 2019:

1. Werecat Powers Of The Crossroads At Midnight
Cover painting by Ahmad Nosseir, on Nashazphone, dedicated to Baron Samedi. Shadow Stuff was the most revelatory teaching of that huge Bertiaux manual for me. Werecats I remember you mentioning on a sleevenote somewhere, alongside the startling mention of Carrefour. The Malaysian Airlines logo is very similar to Carrefour. I bought cheese and wine from there and we drank it in the remote Creuse woods and saw a red deer. The only other time this century I bought records from you was the MH370 day when you needed to raise money for Nemo.

2. Chester's Pennywise Blues Ceremonial Field Tea
You sat on the horse directing your Voltigeurs, hand in coat, and maybe that bourgeois Beethoven thing was in your head, and in a moment of puffed-up Toad the tea idea came. The packet has another Tenniel creature, but the contents turned out Humpty Dumpty. Like Summer Tempests Came His Tears. And surely now her tears will flow. Because they all saw that one, and it was cursed somehow, this tea, and you got the blues at the crossroads now alright, although you prefer the crossroads to the circle, and the tea didn't kill people but somehow many creatures began to quack in an outlandish and unnatural fashion and you tried to stay silent, alarmed at your involuntary ventriloquism, and many voices came and you slept not:  I think people closer to him should probably have had a quiet word about pulling the tiger's tail in this climate. For me this calls into question his competence as an occultist. If you conjure up demons and The Quietus knocks at your door, it's back to the drawing board, surely? The exclusivity of so-called inclusivity, the conveyor belt anti-capitalist propaganda music put through the mill to prop up already moneyed men at labels who further prop up the gentrification of London. He was considered to be very strong but dangerous, and strange. Out of every narrow shouldered berk I've had to argue with about Skullflower over the last seven days - this afternoon's trooper is my favourite. Three men in black said don't report this. Continue to advocate for optimism, diversity and a progressive future. I can’t stand another minute of the music scene, esp certain corner of scene I am involved in. We strongly believe that people can change, for the better, as well as for the worse. (Hicham especially aghast at that one).

3. Nazi Ponies
I had this already, the MH370 sales day. Made me laugh to see you'd included it, bearing in mind the circumstances. But listen, gizmosarmy: I remember talking about how I'd heard of Shane already and telling you the story of how Lord Thurston wouldn't send him any knickers. When he could get hold of any knickers he wants and that cunt's inside. Your already well-worn story of the four notes on Wish You Were Here. You've got such horrible taste in music. Sending me out to get you ten Marlboro like some lord to a fucking serf. What a fucking cunt. Chiefing me out too. Laughing about Leah being Sorted. Lancaster has a drugs problem. They can't get any. What that shit you were smoking had in it I don't know but I was hearing the aliens as we all lay there crashing. Some other time you uttering some drivel about becoming interested in contemporary dance. Like Hot Gossip. Loved her for saying that. Don't know what was with her weird letter and your phone call after that. We are stalking. I bumped into John after a break and he told me about the new Kermit and Fleetwood Mac loops and that he wasn't into that stuff. I can't believe you let that other smug two faced creep take so many tricks from you. Bridge could tell you a thing or two about his methods. Unwanted assgrab to impress the yanks with how they control their bitches, fuck sake. A story I hated to hear. What does any of it matter now. She did right by you with Algol. Night of the supposed unused Courage and Insanity text - which I loved - you had met the special needs lad by then, as bad as the lot you were with in the colonies before in his different way of course, nothing compares to you. A lot of your troops have been so substandard. If it was the smut angle you were interested in, rest assured she thinks you're dreadful anyway after that lowlands trip. You said something to me which I blacked out the night of the rock four piece alongside Richard. I'd love to know what that was. There is a trauma, a blocking. It might have been just you being a horrible rude bastard yet again. It might have been something else. I want to know. You looked such a miserable fucker munching that sausage butty in the field and I could see you'd clocked me a way off. Now that conversation I do remember. Tactics. You pumping me for information before I went to do Steve Reich in the afternoon. Next was when I told you the story about the kid on acid whose friend had died, and so you invited me and on that balcony you really were nervous before with your stupid topknot. What's with that mystic envelope of dimps anyway you fucking mong. Hope you got something from the book I gave you that night. Never thanked you for Ordeal back in '96, and I know you'd heard what had happened and it was really kind of you. And thank you again for the very vague walk directions. In the bookshop at the end I picked up Lautreamont. Didn't do much for me to be honest. Wish I coulda come to the manky hotel and seen that prison view but I wasn't fit. Silkie came and danced right in front of me to the feminist disco act and was looking good. Your last book was a comedy classic. It's all worked out just as planned I guess. There's a Murgatroyd on a bridge on CCTV walking home alone drunk 23 years ago. There's a lot more to see out there. As if you're not surrounded by love. Hob Coat Lane.

4. He Shall Come
Resulting in literal thousands of child sacrifices, happens every day, it's to be devoutly wished. Obscure split with a garlic muncher.

5. Small Painting
Orange/mauve like Malediction, a demon/goat face, upright pentagram, paper thick with fluids like a thickened and soiled Zena Whitehouse from the dawn of time in 1981. Zena visits a sex shop in Bradford. And Zina was Divine Invasion but here is another Zeena - all the years combine, they melt into a dream, so do the names mattyb: "Q: Was there a specific moment when you decided that everything your father had taught you was a lie, or was it more of a gradual realization?
A: It was much later on, likely due to the intervention of the god Seth, who awakens through harsh disillusionment or scorn or through the shattering of everything that you thought was real being torn from you"

6. Thread Cross Tibetan Dream Catcher 

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, 
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit 
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, 
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

Is a more apposite quote from that beautiful almost KJVesque and just as inaccurate Fitzgerald translation of Omar Khayyam than your chess pieces back in the closet suggestion. The niche market us Shakespeare cockroaches will all have to settle for now. Suck it up. Born to lose, right? That flag you saw in the market the day you hurt your finger.  Englishmen, do you remember cutting off the heads of praying Muslims with the cross sewn onto your battledress? Can you imagine it? Well, imagination is the same as memory. You and all Western Man killed and mutilated them and now they are reincarnated and they are going to repay you. They were praying, kneeling in the temple. They did not want war. And the white man came in the name of Christ and killed them all. Salman Abedi as new improved Ian Brady, he would have loved that one. Sudden and frightening escalation.

The orange Sainsbury's bag guarding parts of the parcel was investigated most thoroughly by Sox who could no doubt sense Chester and Nemo and the others, and that brought me much more even more joy than the customary disobedience and driving out innocence, or any of this worthless detritus we've left which will be utterly forgotten, be it scrawl, doodle, sigil or squall. Because I'm never going to forget: they have value higher than ours. See you on that mountain top in 5000 years.

 Simon with Nikolas Schreck



hints and glints and wrinkles and tears...


That's tears as in the fabric of reality....
Here it is, our gnosis in book-form
https://www.timeless-shop.com/category/timeless-ed-l-to-z/skullflower/
A stunningly sequenced symphony of our arte, where newly discovered echoes and leitmotifs, sympathies, correspondences and wild discords reverberate through the pages ...we are eternally grateful to Xavier and Timeless for seeing and amplifying our Vision...


Sunday, 8 December 2019

Purity

We stress test sound til it buckles, we burn off impurities and reduce it it to its essence, salt, fire, mercury, gold, ojas, its quintessence, its fivefold self. We are alchemists, seeking the stone and elixir, using music, but not musicians.

Purity is always relative, always suggests the opposing polarity. These days it seems no-one can be pure enough for the Purity Test, there is always some associative guilt from breathing this planets sickened air; Auschwitz dust, nano particles of killing fields infest lungs.

I was once in a band named Pure. Of our adoption of that name, a large loving portion of blame, can be ascribed to the brilliant cinematic feverdream, the Devils, and especially Vanessa Redgrave's beautiful flaming creature Mother Superior, whose hysterically repressed sexuality breeds monsters in flesh and mind. She is not evil, just spirit out of place, yearning for Oliver Reeds angelbeast. It is the Witch Hunters, like the hacks from the quietus, who embody soulless, cynical evil, using the witch trials to rob the populace of their freedom and independence.

And so from matters muddy and distasteful, back to the alchemy and its fruits, a new cd at last; entitled:
Purity  on the new Turgid Vermin label, a massive dose of the essence of traditional black psychedelia, its roots in the moors and valleys of Gondal.










same energies / elective affinities