first the year dawns in bloody wolfsmoon climbing to hang over valley
a rite performed in old Europa, the spoils returned
Valley of Fear
the horse rune: ehwaz
the resolve becomes real, a token given, a horse received. a piebald runtish colt, half skittish, half full of crazy ancient wisdom, the mad eye of fugly, playboys mentor in his old life of rutting and stable, quieting him while the moor wind screams in the pylons. chesters veiled and distant eye, roaming the winds.
18, the vase, and as I trudge over field, sometimes the storm behind me, cloaking first the moors, flowing into the valleys, I see the familiar transformed, light and mist playing tricks inventing new peaks valleys trees, gondalian landscapes, fragile lost and eternal.
the moon over the valley, the thinnest sickle and the Great Bear poised like cleaver on one side of the sky, and Orion in the other, the eye slipping as if on a sagging skein til it alights on the too bright liquid sapphire sparkle of Sirius
and in the time it took that moon to be half of the blue rose monster wolf moon
he is mine, us, ours.... Domino.
checking him out time, the herds lead mare, Mia, gives him a good huff
come mid jan and we'll be in the lowlands, conjuring, on a dream bill with frater jkflesh
but as I cast my eye down the bill I spy....
'a new soundtrack for Lucifer rising...'
yeah, right. and new pictures for a marriage of heaven and hell, and a disco beat for Tristan and Isolde...
I don't choose this fight. We are essentially loveable, easygoing critters... but occasionally you can propose a crime so vile and pointless, that we must, like Blake, arise from our ease and call down eternal shame hate and damnation on a musical group/entity too worthless to name, who think in their boundless entitled stupidity that it would be 'o.k.' to 'compose' a new score for that mighty filmic grimoire that is LUCIFER RISING, a don't mess with, one of a kind masterpiece that already possesses not one, but two perfect soundtracks. But really, only, ONE, by Bobby Beausoleil, a deeply spiritual artist, who is incarcerated, way beyond when he should be released. hell i'm actually typing this, everyone knows this (btw please take the time to google and grok B.B.'s fantastic art, and music (even a bandcamp presence) and support, and petition for the release he DESERVES).
Lucifer is one of those rare, possessed celluloid artworks, (others offhand: Performance, Eureka, Possession) which contain/project real magick, and whereas those others are talkies, in Lucifer it is the marriage, the way it moves (the centripetal widdershins dance, the spiral)
and it takes a special kind of offensive idiocy to actually want to mess with it.
I would like to propose an everlasting anathema upon the perpetrators of this pathetic blasphemy (why would they do it? art? godsfuck|! art! pathetic, wheedling, 'interesting' art, I am so sick of 'modern' art with it's 'questions' and arts councils and grants and committees........... and even its luminaries: banksy, 'sonic' 'youth' et al)
I know i'm insane like Jack Smith. I want to pick fights and bite the hand that feeds. But Jack was RIGHT about uncle fishhook, and he was a GIFT, and when one comes along, you wade right in, anything else is bad manners.
Now the cat and horse pictures. love under will, MB