Contentious Tales and the Wisdom of Insanity.

The Origin of the High Occultist - Part Three

Remer Blake was the only person Patrick Holness liaised with at Bachman Gardens Institute for the Criminally Insane. They had both been admitted on the same day and were made to share a room with one another. Remer had been admitted on charges of public indecency, verbal and physical abuse and being intoxicated with Phencyclidine. 

  After a suffering with an insufferable hangover on a Saturday morning, Remer Blake thought ‘smoking an Angel’s Wings’ would put his head to rest. The morning had been warm but as it metamorphosed into afternoon the heat had risen. The sweltering abyss of his bedroom had become too much to bear. After stripping naked to cool down his head swirled in an uncomfortable manner, dusk became darkness and dawn became insane. He was surrounded by Mongolian chiefs rising to their feet to engage him tales of elder traditions. Confusion rattled like a poisonous snake that has been triggered by a territorial intruder. He felt the blood flood his head, skin burning bright red and eagles swooped in masked terror. Remer’s head turned 360 degrees in paranoia, thinking family members would catch him masturbating to some sicko religion that binds its members in a tangled mess of wires and lies. Faulty wires that spark and blind.

  It’s a man who knows what thoughts are bold and digress into puddles of plasmatic bile. Senseless rhythms and cork screwing jizzum, why oh why can’t I die?

 What were those thoughts? Remer knew, he knew all too well. Remer had been running from Him since he was 6 years old. The Devil had finally come to collect his dues from when Remer had sold his soul to kiss little Becky Faunter outside the back gates of his school.

 He bolted out of his house like some kind of steroid crazed Olympic sprinter into the incandescent afternoon sun.

 2 hours later the Folk of Bachman Gardens were called out after Remer was found strutting up and down a main road accusing bystanders of being Beelzebub. He was seen furiously masturbating with his right hand while seeking to mock any poor Joe who crossed his path. He was first taken to a treatment facility and given 3 days to recover, on the 2^nd day he was found trying to chew out his wrists because he claimed to have seen a demon sitting at the foot of his bed offering him 3 wishes that must involve either incest or paedophilia. This had all been happening at around the same time Patrick’s neighbour reported the vile stench spewing from his apartment. Just as the Folk were carrying off a catatonic Patrick into their imposing red van, Remer was being sprayed with bleach and water. When that rigmarole was finished, he was pumped full of drugs and strapped to a bed.

Ancient Greek philosophers gathered around his helpless body and pondered the state of his mind. There seemed to be a moral void in this metaphysical realm. Dragons morphed from innocent lizards into majestic dinosaurs stomping the land with beastly force. Roman gladiators flashed weapons in his face, taunting him, bullying him until he pissed his pants. Tears flooded Remer’s eyes, sobs of agony escaped his mouth and urine flowed like a golden waterfall. For a moment everything became silent, and dark. Out of nowhere came a flash of UV light and he felt an immense pressure on his skull, he was sure his life would end then and there at the hands of some mysterious entity. He was wrong, the pain was quick and merciless but it had ended suddenly. There was no one. He was alone. Painfully alone. He passed out.

  When Remer Blake opened his eyes he was no longer restrained. He was staring at a faded bubble gum blue ceiling wrapped in white sheets. When he turned his head he saw another man was in the room, lying in a separate bed; staring at the ceiling.

  “Hello, friend.” The man said. Remer turned his head and smiled.

Bland. Dull. Uninspiring. Monotonous. Patrick could reel off a good number of synonyms to describe his room. Cell. Place of residence. It was the kind of clichéd psychiatric hospital room you saw in the movies when you were a child. A large window protected with a wire mesh in the centre that looked over an unclean lake. Two beds flanking the left and right of the window and a couple of shelves and bed side tables, and of course; the dirty white walls. A room like that was considered luxury; many of the inmates were locked in glass cages or iron boxes. Patrick and Remer were being groomed for something and they both had felt it from day one.

 The Aakmanu had always taken a fancy to insanity. Bachman Gardens was a way for them to quench their thirst. Prisons were humdrum places and putting criminals to death became tiresome after a while. The Gardens provided the Aakmanu a playground to ease their minds from inter-dimensional travel. The Halo Experiments were born.

 Patrick felt like an indigenous member of the Hyperborean landscapes, he shivered under his sheets and could feel his heart beating over time, to supply the body with enough warm blood to stay alive. He heard voices, familiar ones belonging to an orderly known as Kovic and a 66 year old resident named Hatley. Patrick heard the shuffle of flat sole shoes coming up the hallway and could picture these two beings surrounded by the burgundy walls, venturing to a room where Hatley would receive his midnight colonic.

  “Come, Hatter. I hate making this journey as much as you but it’s midnight, and that means you have a date with Tony Tube and Betty Broth.” Said Kovic.

  “I am afraid I’m going to have to decline dear sir, for the necessity of my birth has led me to believe I’m no longer fit for my duty.” Hatley said with a soothing, yet noticeably aged accent.

  “Okay, that may be so but you don’t really have a choice in the matter. So stop delaying me with your cryptic nonsense and get a move on.” Firm. Kovic was always firm. Patrick could imagine him squeezing Hatley’s frail arm listening to the grinding of brittle bone and crumbling cartilage. His face contorted in an insane smirk.

 Patrick turned his gaze away from the door, he stood up and stared out the window admiring nature’s art; the moon cast silver rays upon the lake and made the ripples look like tar.

  “He’d rather be seen in the temples cinching a noose around his neck while supple hounds lick his juicy parts.” He whispered to the lake.

For a while he gazed, sleeping with his eyes open, standing erect like Michelangelo’s David. Eventually, at the Devil’s hour, he slid back into bed and dreamt of obscenities. He dreamt of molesting 4 mature women, as he smiled in that depraved realm, so did he smile in reality. Patrick Holness had suffered from vivid dreams ever since Hilstrom departed all those years ago. While he was brutalising the women with his member, Patrick could hear himself whispering 3 words under his grunts and moans: Embittered old cunt. The face of his concubine was that of his Mother’s. When he woke the room was flooded with sunlight and Remer Blake was perched on the edge of his bed, staring with wide eyes.

 

Nursing Home Note

Stepping into a nursing home is like stepping into a time machine, photographs of musicians and film stars from bygone years stare from their glassy frames on cream walls. All around me were sauntering corpses, the place had the stench of death. Ancient relics were these people, lost in their dementia and arthritis. A man sings under his breath, hunched over the crimson chair. Slowly he prises himself off and staggers over to a high definition telly that plays On The Buses on repeat. He opens draws on the cabinet fumbling through items, what is he looking for? He picks up an empty cassette case and caresses it between his thumb and forefinger trying to remember…no he’s lost it. Can’t quite grasp the memory. It slips away like melting ice on warm skin. The nurses come and collect the elderly for dinner. They’re taken to “The Restaurant”, a place where old people are gathered to chow down on microwave meals. They’re rounded up like sheep, swaying as they walk. Taking careful steps and clinging to the walls. Wheelchairs squeaked and slippers shuffled. I said my goodbyes, muffled and stained with apathy.

The Corner

Here is another poem from my novella Underneath the Draconian Sky. Act 1 of the story is set in a town called Lament’s Corner. This was written by Carlin Burrow 3 weeks after the incident.

“Halla mershum katak boso!

Before the end there is only insanity.

Mahar katak krimpa anoto!

Only through insanity can we find true freedom.

The ancient and the youthful,

Which one takes your fancy?

Riding to your whoredom

On your Mormon steed.”

 

In the Corner demise is near,

Lamenting the cross you held so dear,

“Halla mershum katak boso!”

Ringing in your ears,

Insanity rides with Death

To consume your darkest fears.

 

The marble ivory citadel

Imposes on the town,

Religious chants enhance

The superstitions

Laid down by the foundations

At the Corner’s hall,

Innocents will drown

Askance in the mythological

Traditions

As preachers and Baptists

Ejaculate their verbal ammunition.

 

Lament’s Corner

It was once named,

A town left in shame

By indoctrinating Knaves,

Destroyed by Demons;

Ancient subterranean dwellers

Because occultists

Inquired with greedy curiosity

Thus emancipating Lamassu’s banner.

 

Twisted caricatures

Of obscure Chimeras

And amorphous reptiles

Flood the streets

In obscene orgies.

The cult of Aakmanu

Sought a biblical truce,

Their best laid plans

Was malice induced.

 

Within the towns borders

Blood curdling screams roared

With clangourous squalls

That would make the flesh crawl.

To the outside world

All was quiet,

The locals came to call it;

‘The Silent Treatment.’

 

World domination

Was not the Demon’s desire,

Instead they lay like spiders

In an intrepid web

Waiting for the sickly flies

To come and make their bed.

 

QUARANTINE

It was deemed

By the hierarchical powers

Of this jaded country,

Lament’s Corner

Walled off from civilisation

Because people were afraid

To enter Lamassu’s dominion.

By day the streets are empty,

By night they squirm with monstrosities,

Remember now dear child;

Stay away from the Corner’s boundaries.

The Origin of the High Occultist - Part Two

He stumbled to the apartment. Even though his body couldn’t take the pressure of forward momentum, the fact that he was drunk, stoned and high on speed pushed his semi-conscious corpse through time and space. Some inebriating force was propelling him towards his destiny. Patrick felt his gut tumble and slosh; like a half full washing machine of dirty underwear. The atmosphere was dank; his mouth was a rancid combination of salted meats and yeasty beverages. He began to think about the death of his parents. The evening was shrouded in a heavy darkness; he had been in the car with his father, mother and younger brother. Patrick had been 14 at the time, his brother only 5. They had been driving down opaque, meandering country lanes, the father at the wheel, when out of the anti-dexterous void came great gleaming, bewildering lights. Patrick remembers feeling his body jolt forward in the seat belt, then being thrust back into the leather seats of his dad’s BMW. He remembers slipping in and out of consciousness, first seeing his brother’s mangled, crimson contorted corpse in the child’s support chair.

Black out. He remembers mum & dad, only the back of their heads, smashed and bloodied. Black out. He remembers being grasped by strong arms and drawn to the safety of a stranger’s bosom. That’s when he passed out for real. Grandfather shock had scooped Patrick Holness into his merciless embrace and carried him away to a world of vile dreams, and horrific incestual images.  He dreamt about the last conversation he had with his mother, an argument that ended with him calling her an ‘embittered old cunt,’ which resulted in a palm print on his teenage face.

  Patrick remembered sobbing for hours.

  He entered the apartment with heavy thoughts, plodding through the endless corridors of his memories. His musings were soon broken by the sounds of diseased moans from females warming themselves up on tired, used mattresses. 19 minutes later they were all dead and Patrick was bathing in a scarlet spotlight, the sensations of violence and lust pulsating through his cock. He had no recollection of how he had killed them. Five women, blood spatters on the walls, skulls pulverized like lumpy mashed potato that had been dyed with beetroot juice. His guess was that he had bludgeoned them in a drugged up stupor.

  Patrick Holness stayed in the same seated position, on the same mattress, in the same apartment for 7 days. A neighbour had reported loathsome aromas emitting from the room. When the folks from Bachman Gardens Hospital for the Criminally Insane arrived on the scene, Patrick had been repeating a 3 worded line over and over, voice hoarse and shredded from days of repetition.

  “Embittered old cunt.”

 The only way they could cease his infernal incantation was by dosing him with Haloperidol.

The Origin of the High Occultist - Part One

“Hilstrom, where are you going?” Pat asked in despair.

  “I’m leaving, my dear friend. The fear has taken hold and I am no longer responsible for my reputation.” Hilstrom stared deeply into Patrick’s eyes.

  “Will I see you on the shores of realities fracture?” Pat wept with his head hung in undeniable anguish.

  “You will.” Hilstrom caressed Pat’s cheek, using his thumb to catch the tears that wandered, lost down his smooth skin. An obscure mist descended onto their world, Pat moved his head in confusion, looking this way and that. His eyes were wells that held salty lakes, the fleshy dam had ruptured and now the lake spilled forth down his face. When the mist dissipated, Hilstrom was no longer there. Pat remembered oil, ebony liquid flowing and rising slowly. He thought about drowning but reconsidered his position, one day he would be with Hilstrom again.

  There would always be oil, and flames, in Patrick Holness’ life. He became addicted to insomnia and sexual orgies, which could only be described as depraved and fiendish. His favourite animalistic act would be to bleed a male Caribou, then bathe in its luscious blood. He would make young prostitutes lose whatever dignity they still possessed. They would drink the beasts rouge haemoglobin, they would fornicate, and they would lust for every moment. On occasions, in an acidic state of mind, Patrick would believe there was someone watching him from the corner of whatever room he was using as a fuck pad. He soon realised that It was depiction of his astral self. A masochist, that’s what he had become and he accepted it. Welcomed it, in fact.

 The night Hilstrom Hartley dematerialised into the inter-dimensional chasm of AGZ, Patrick visited the local gay bar to pick up some young lads, for a “mucus and spunk orgy” as he liked to call them. It would be a one-time only treat for him, after that he used only women to fulfil his perverted needs. There was something about sexual encounters with men that sent quivering vibes running through his spine, turning his bones into the odd jelly you find in pork pies. Maybe it had something to do with the way it made Patrick reminisce about his intimate relationship with Hilstrom.

They had been lovers once, in some distant reality. Before Hilstrom took to working for the Amniotic Agency, he and Pat had shared moments that no other mortal mind could comprehend. For brief spouts of time they felt like the Gods. Many nights were spent entwined with serpents and humans, raw genitalia hanging loose on wilder beasts’ backs and taxidermy dreams, frothing rabid questions of formalities and loyalties.

 Ten nights since Hilstrom disappeared. Patrick Holness’ addiction to sleep deprivation had grown out of control, like poison ivy on the walls of an elderly widow’s house.  His penis throbbed with painful satisfaction from the lives and virginities he had taken. Pat was perched on a mattress in a squalid apartment, a rouge lamp, his only light source. The wallpaper bled with ferocity, breathing in sync with him. Insects appeared from cracks in the ceiling like demons from the void. Crooked, bastardized paintings heaved in venereal delight. Patrick had taken to painting, flesh was his canvas, blood and semen and excrement were his paints. A beetle scurried in excitement across the damp carpet.

  Hilstrom’s departure had taken its toll on Patrick Holness.

Eleven Days.

  Psychedelic smiles penetrate the deepest orifice. It’s all elementary in the vast expanse of the illusion. Pat knew all too well. Hilstrom knew too, that was one of the reasons why he had left. He had become resentful of the reality he found himself in. Like a whiff of bacon to the nose of a hung over zombie, he awakened. That is why Hilstrom built a nest with the Amniotic Agency, their company was involved in the colonisation of ‘empty’ dimensions and keeping relations with ‘active’ ones. Hilstrom applied for a position as chief geologist for the colonisation of Segment AGZ. Sadly, but with undertones of relief, Patrick could not accompany Hilstrom on this one way journey. The Agency didn’t allow ‘unqualified’ civilians on those endeavours.

What are memories?

Memories are a tapestry woven from the threads of vision. A skilled and sober minded weaver may create an intricate tapestry of memories; vivid, like a movie. However, if the weaver is inebriated or otherwise disabled mentally then the tapestry becomes broken. The threads fray and the seams are torn; the image is then rendered impossible to interpret.

Behind the Glassy Shadows.

The sun’s tendrils descended serpentine to the emerald lands; smiling as it cast warmth and hope to the civilisations beneath. There were pockets of trees in a vast field, they were all individual in appearance; the sculptures of nature. When the clouds passed in front of the sun they formed the shape of some demented pterodactyl spitting venomous fire from its mouth.
I stared out of the coach window in awe at this sight, I had front row seats for the cinema of life. The sun eventually disappeared behind a deep grey cloud; it was an iron skull with burning eyes, judging the world below. Are we worthy of such a beautiful scene? Nobody takes notice anymore. Wonderment passes the eyes of Humans unnoticed, they’re too busy nose deep inside their technology to pay heed.

Life behind the glassy shadows of modern civilisation.

The Bill of Rights Latrine.

The greasy aromas of a full English breakfast wafted up my nasal passages as I lay in bed. The temperature of my room was a bitter cold, likened only to the emotions of a heartbroken man. The sound of rainfall, pattering, moist feet marching off beat on my window.
Now there are volatile exchanges between human beings; thick Manchester accents. I’m perched on the living room couch. The voices are coming from the television in the kitchen. Jeremy Kyle is on. That self righteous, ego molesting whore.

Speaking of which: I heard the American government finally pissed away the Bill of Rights down the latrine. The National Defence Authorisation Act (NDAA) was signed by President Barack Obama, despite his promises to Vito the bill. What is the NDAA? Well dear reader it is a bill that allows the military to arrest, detain without trial, search without warrant ANY PERSON in the United States who may be suspected of terrorism. What is a terrorist? We don’t actually know, which makes it so eloquent; because there is no “definition” of what a terrorist is then it means anyone can be a terrorist, or at least be suspected of terrorism.

*round of applause inserted here*

Well done America, you’ve allowed all of your liberties to be stripped away. “Where were you Daddy when they burned the Bill of Rights at the stake like Joan of Arc?” Grace asked looking upon her father with innocent, tear filled eyes.
“I was at Mcdonald’s feeding from the corporate trough in my Police uniform laughing at the Death of America.” he replied with a sneer. Daddy then roasted little Grace on a spit and feasted on her flesh, cawing to his friends letting them know the banquet has begun.
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the taste!”

Goodnight America…what a tragic waste.

A Magical Tale about Santa.

Santa, a man of mystery. That’s not quite true, I did see him today sat in a car in the parking lot of Asda. At least I thought it was Santa, he appeared to be a big, jolly old man with a rotund belly and a long, thick white beard, he was also wearing one of those christmas knitted jumpers your 80 year old nan or aunty make for you every year. Maybe it was the mythical beast Santa. Maybe he he was getting some last minute shopping before the Xmas rush hour.

That little scene got me thinking. In this modern day & age would Santa bother to use his trademark sleigh and flying reindeer? With all the technology: cameras, satellites and military protection, would Santa use something so primitive and so detectable? He’s got to stay incognito right? Well I have a theory, and it may blow your mind to smithereens!

Santa has been working with a top secret team of scientists, engineers and technicians at Area 51 to help him build the Spunk Sleigh ‘11. A stream lined stealth jet that uses warp drive technology to help him travel around the world in one night. The reindeers finally got that retirement check! Why is it called the “Spunk Sleigh?” well as I can recall, Santa dropped into Area 51 one day in the summer of 2009 and said to the guys: “I need a new sleigh and it has to have spunk!”

Another interesting Santy Claws factoid.

We ALL know that Santa used to use a crystal ball to spy…I mean keep a careful eye on all the children. Well you can imagine how tough this must have been, watching all those kids, making sure they’re behaving themselves. Well now Santa has had an upgrade, yes what I forgot to mention earlier is that Apple & Steve Jobs helped fund and design the Spunk Sleigh ‘11 which sports an Apple logo. This means that Santa had access to as many Apple products as he wants. So instead of a crystal ball Santa now has a full “Child Survey Office” which is fully kitted out with the latest Apple Macs, MacBooks, iPads and iPhones, now he can watch the children and recieve alerts when kids are being naughty. In fact, Santa doesn’t even have to do any work, he can sit back while the innovative technology genius of Steve Jobs calculates and catalogues all of the naughty and nice kids into separate lists. He still likes to watch the children though, old habits die hard.

And that, dear reader, is the magical tale of Santa. He has been reborn into the modern age. Some reports say he’s losing the grey hair, beard and is losing all of his weight. He will be styling his hair and wearing a slight stubble, donning a pair of 3D glasses with the lenses popped out and wearing tight shirts with tweed jackets and chinos.

Thanks for reading!!

Here it goes.

My first post on tumbler. Let’s give this shit a whirl then.

On here you will witness:

Links to my YouTube videos, various rants, satirical pieces and episodes of my Bmovie Scrapbook.

Articles about things I observe in the world, political, humorous and depraved.

Wisdom of Insanity - my poetry and prose will also be included in this blog.

Ain’t you guys lucky! You get to enter the world of my inner thoughts. It’s a savage world. So let’s get down to brass tacks, how much for the ape?