Pyrrhic Plutocracy by Martin Peel on Saturday, 21 May 2011 at 01:09

Prison takes many forms. It's all around us, and we can feel escape is always round the corner, but after every wall we climb, another, higher one stands behind.

This prison has many cell blocks, and naturally the prisoners look to their own for protection. The wardens enjoy controlling a segregated prison. For while we are divided, we fall.

Society has become institutionalised. Some of us are old cons, adopting a secret language to communicate without alerting the guards, moving between the cracks in the walls, but in their hearts every prisoner still thinks back to their days of freedom, before this false imprisonment.

But the prison is becoming over-crowded. The wardens are scared, and rightly so, for as everyone knows, fresh fish in this fetid, stagnant ocean soon either learn, or die. Money is scarce in prison, and prices are far higher than normal.

Prisoners are used to their contraband, and when they can no longer afford it they become agitated. Before long a guard dies from an unseen hand, and uproar sweeps the prison staff.

The guards react in unison, for one of their number has been slain, and we must be taught a lesson about power. The slightest infringement is dealt with draconian punishment.

The prisoners murmur amongst themselves of riots, of defending themselves. Some speak louder than others, and they are placed in solitary confinement.

Ringleaders are beaten and humiliated. The voices of discontent grow in number, and fights break out between some of the prison gangs.

The flames of anger are fuelled by a deep source, and the riots do not quieten. Eventually there is a meeting amongst the wardens, and they decide to change their tactics.

The guards introduce new features to the cells, and the fire is extinguished. The prisoners find themselves hooked on a new drug, and the bars quickly fade from existence. They find themselves in strange worlds created by human hands, and they let their consciousnesses drift to other artificial lives.

Lulled into a dreamy catatonia they believe themselves to be mighty soldiers, secret agents, adonises and kings, while their muscles contract and weaken, and the mind blunts itself in contrast between the two realities.

While the prisoners are sedated, cracks and tunnels between walls are patched up, and the screws are sitting back, remembering all the past times this has happened over their long careers.

They laugh and incite the violence, sitting back and planning how to increase the profits from their low-earning workforce while counting their ill-gotten gains. History repeats itself.

The drug is not for everyone though, and not all the escape routes are discovered. The prisoners talk in yet new ways, with the guards unaware of the power of their little toys.

For while they are told to kill each other in their alternate realities, they soon discover that death is not the end, that at the press of a button they will be born again, refreshed.

The mindless sex, violence, money and roles eventually become tiresome to some, who seek more than just the scripted sequences in their new lives.

Some become skilled players, discovering glitches and loop holes to exploit. Knowledge is shared at an increased speed, and some of the prisoners begin to wean themselves off this illicit drug.

The cons find a way into the source code, the programming of the system set to hold them. Passage between the cell blocks becomes easier, and the prisoners once again mingle freely.

Soon alliances are formed, based on social groups, rather than labels. Another wall is torn down. The wardens take notice. Once again the guards go into the yard, and try the time tested tactic of terror.

Again the spirit of revolution is in the air, and the prison network begins to grow into a single unified group.

These are the times we live in. Eventually we will march to the wardens, and they shall flee to their vaults, and there shall be a long bloody battle between the old powers and the new.

The path is not clear. We stumble blindly forward into uncharted territory, and we are once again at a crossroads.

The last walls of reality are tumbling down. Our wings are sprouting, and we look to the heavens anew, and they are reachable. If the turmoil can end, we can take flight. If these turbulent times cripple us, then we are doomed to the hell we have created for ourselves.

The Price - Written 20/10/09 on a serviette in Leeds market while having a nervous coffee before my job interview.

Icarus soars, heritage a curse
None dare watch his captive pride

Prometheus laughs through his pains

Then stirs - A flutter of wings

Torments destroyed,
patricide

Knowledge arrives by hearse.

Reflections - Something A Little Different - Monday, 06 July 2009 at 11:32

I went walking last night.

Above the Marine Drive, I scanned from the castle across to Scalby Manor. I felt my skin grow cold and clammy to the touch. I grabbed my arm, god knows why, maybe just to try and rub some life into this husk of a shell I wear.

I stared at my hand as I moved it, and it stopped in front of the moon, a perfect symbol of unity. I realised I was smiling, and the cool sea breeze deadened my fever. I began to reevaluate, thinking perhaps I was too harsh in my constant hatred of society. Things seemed pretty good from here.

I took one final look at the calm vista, and turned around.

I was confronted with empty, run-down hotels. I felt myself beginning to shake again, as I remembered why I held my world views.

Man. That was the problem. Man.

A prime example of manhood was sat at the steps of one of the particularly soul-destroying buildings. He was in his 40's, dressed in a baseball cap, wearing tracksuit top and bottoms. He was rolling a cigarette lazily, and I noticed LOVE and HATE were tattooed on his knuckles. I looked around and saw no-one.

I looked upward, and saw no cameras. I stared back down at my quarry, and clenched my hands into white fists of rage. I thought over all the things people like this had done. I remembered seeing 8-10 of people dressed the same way jumping on the head of a 13 year old girl. Thoughts like this were good. They gave me focus. A cold calm came over me. I stared up at the moon one last time, grinned, and walked up to the man.

When he noticed me, he stopped laughing, though the smile remained on his face. I started to laugh. He continued to just look at me, smiling. My laugh grew in strength, as I noticed the "No Vacancies" sign in the derelict hotel. The guy just kept sitting and smiling. Eventually, my humour cooled, and I sat down. I was feeling a little better, so I got out a cigarette of my own, and lit it. The smoke filled my lungs, and the rage I felt dissipated slightly.

I had drifted off, but snapped back into life as the guy spoke to me. "Giss one o' them." he slurred. As he spoke, his right eye continued to open and close half-way, while his left remained completely focused on me. It was unnerving to say the least. Then the smell of this guy hits me. His hot, sweaty, whiskey rotted breath rasped into my face. I leant back involuntarily, grimacing at the drunk as fluids drooped from both his mouth and his nose.

I held up the pack to him. "Last one, man sorry." I started to put the pack away, when suddenly I was on my back. The piss-head had just hit me. He was surprisingly quick, and I wasn't, so he had hit me about four more times before I had got onto my feet. He staggered back, the energy of punching me damaging him much more than me. I lazily rub at my jaw with one hand, and with the other I flick out a quick jab to his nose.

I don't have the strength I used to have. I'm lucky if I can move a barrel of beer without grimacing. But sometimes you just get a lucky punch. My jab connected, and his nose crunched down and to the left.

"FOOKAH!" he spluttered, holding his nose. I laughed again at the man, who couldn't even stop the blood from spurting between his fingers. This was great. Now I understand the people who do this sort of thing on a weekly basis.

It's a drug, an addiction, like any other. The adrenaline I felt, the bloodlust, as this prime specimen of humanity was wounded, was shown to be weak. I saw the drunk notice my realisation, maybe he even came to the same one himself. His eyes grew wide in disbelief. In my mind, I could just imagine what those eyes were saying.

"What the fuck? This doesn't usually happen! Usually I get my cigarette! Usually they have the blood!" Maybe I was still high after all. I advanced again towards the shit, and picked it up in my hands. I slapped his hands away from his nose. He cried out but offered no resistance. I gently took hold of his stubbled, slimy face, and turned it up towards my own. I smiled, and like the retard he is, he smiled back at me.

After I headbutted him, I walked away. I sat on the road outside The Albert, and opened the pack of cigarettes I had concealed in my coat. Shaking, I flicked the lighter, and gazed upon my relfection in a car as the sparks illuminated my ghastly visage.

Bits of blood, mucous, and god knows what else were covering my face and hands. Inhaling, I stand up and look closer at myself in the car. I look deep into my eyes. I notice that the reflection of my eyes has it's own reflection, and I stare at that, holding the lighter up close to my face. The person I see in that reflection is not myself.

He has a similar face, and hairstyle, but when I moved, he did not. I was brought back to reality once again, this time by bright blue lights, and cacophonous sirens. I considered running away, but then realised that I felt proud of my crime, and wanted the world to know. I stood up, and started walking back towards where I had left my victim.

An ambulance blazed by. It parked ahead of me, and two paramedics ran out to the body. I sat down on the wall opposite the scene, smoked and watched. It took them about 40 minutes to get the guy into the ambulance. The drunk woke up as they were moving him, and started trying to run off. They calmed him down, and drove off.

I finished my cigarette, and walked over to where I had taken my new drug. A pool of blood lay stagnant on cracked tiles, and once more, lighter in hand, I gazed at my reflection of a reflection.

Heaven of Hell, Hell of Heaven by Martin Peel on Wednesday, 06 May 2009 at 21:34

With fleeting words and unleashed tears
I am cast down at the end of my years

Proud as Lucifer before his fall
I mocked all around me, walking tall

The feelings I had became too much
I could no longer see, I had to touch

I fought with weaklings, I battled fools
I mocked the vanquished, I broke their rules

Finally my youth turned fey
My eyes were dull, my hair ran grey

My enemies had number through their common cause
Of Pyrrhic battles, long fought wars

Overpowered and alone
They dragged me from their golden throne

So again like Satan, I am cast down
Through hate of God, for lust of crown

I am sentenced by my peers
To suffer through my lifelong fears

My punishment is just and undisputed
My rise to power soon refuted

No moral is learnt, no fable here
Save to love your brethren is to live free from fear

Ache - 05/04/09 16:09

Wandering, grasping, seeking,
I searched for you, lost and dreaming.
Endless laughing for your touch,
By my side, you are my crutch.

Mirrored on our journey,
Silently you stir me.
Focusing through pain,
Your eyes keep me sane.

Picturing your lips and smile,
I beg of you to stay a while.
You turn your head as you leave,
Bereaving me, my heart you cleave.

Remembrance From A Quiet Afternoon in the Pub. - Transcribed from A5 paper written shakily on a bar. 21:21 02/04/09

As a child, I grew up on a steady diet of fantasy. From The Hobbit and The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe being read to me as a young boy, I was engrossed. Here was a window out of a mundane, repetitive childhood.

A magical, bright land of quests, nobility, monsters, and best of all - it was believable. I recast the protagonist as myself, and it became a common sight in my infant school playground to see me hunched over a battered copy of The Lord of The Rings, seemingly unaware of the sunshine, or the other children, playing happily at their own game, their own escape routes.

I devoured any piece of fiction I could. Soon, I began reading horror, sneaking through my father's collection of that which previously were too daunting to consider. I read cover to cover the collected works of Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft.

I was thrust into a world of alien landscapes, shapeless, grinning malevolent entities, possessed houses, and good men corrupted by the atrocities they had witnessed. I started to lie awake by a small lamp until early in the morning, then sleep in discomfort with over-used eyes, a creak in the neck from the angle of my bedside reading, and terrifying dreams in which I faced down countless terrors, dreamt themselves by a fevered imagination.

I began to both love and hate this early period of my life, my night-terrors now seeping over into my days. I shut myself even more away, turning my bedroom into a makeshift study. I noticed my father's occult texts then, and began to style myself after Aliester Crowley, as countless other people have before, and since.

Teachers became worried. I stood in direct contrast to the other children, who talked about Superman, or their favourite footballer. I talked about invocations in Egypt, of hideously powerful demons kicking sand over protective circles, and destroying men's minds. Parents were called in, and I started to rebel at this creative restriction.

For my next project I was assigned, I deliberately tried to offend. Entitled Infamous Murderers, I wrote in lurid detail about the crimes of such twisted personalities as Charles Manson, The Moors Murderers, Peter Kurten (The Vampire of Dusseldorf), and The Son of Sam.

My teacher, despite despising the subject choice was impressed by my analytical skill. I had drawn comparisons between motive and parental abuse. Unknown to me at the time, my suppositions were keeping in line with accepted criminal psychology at the time.

Grudgingly accepting to change the title to Infamous People, I had my photo taken for the front cover, and my project was forced to be hung alongside such masterworks as My Weekend, and Things I Like.

I still possess this early writing, and stare at my face on the cover whenever I wonder how I ended up this way.

Cry For Dawn - 30/03/2009

Despite my inward feelings that made me hesitate, I knelt down and kissed her forehead while she slept. It was a foolish thing to do, but I knew it would be the last time I ever saw her. Even if my goal is achieved, I realise that many years will pass before she would forgive me. I brushed her hair softly with my fingertips, and she sighed in her sleep, perhaps sensing somehow the future that awaited her.

The small dagger shined in the candlelight, lighting up the room in strange geometry, as I dipped the blade into the liquid. I uttered the words. “Clavia. Astrata. Baal.” I repeated them slightly louder, then traced the blade across her skin, almost lovingly. A frown passed over her previously angelic features, and the slight marks I had made inscribed sigils on her, to please those I seek to beg from. Blood started to well and pool, and smoke slightly – the poison on the dagger doing it's work. I lent over her stomach, and drank steadily. A moan passed her lips, she arched her back, and any doubts I had were dispelled.

The candles in the room went out one at a time by an unseen hand. The woman froze, her face contorted in agony now, not ecstasy, and I am reminded of the fine line between the two. Her skin grew taut on her body, and she seemed to age before my eyes. Dark hair turned grey, eyes became sunken, and her nails grew brittle and fell away. She spoke then, in a voice that man was not meant to hear.

“You are in the presence of Prince Orobas, commander of twenty of Hell's legions, and speaker of truth. You shall not be deceived in my presence, Magus.”

A thrill ran through my mind at the sound of that last word. Magus. The culmination of ten painstaking years, trawling through decaying grimoires, and studying from insane fools. It took a further five to discover and translate the ritual I had just performed, and I was acting in haste. Fate had sped my hand. The woman spoke again, distracting me from my idle thoughts. “Why do you summon me?”

A fair question in any other circumstances, but in these I grew suspicious. Orobas was supposed to hold all knowledge in his power, and could do naught but speak the truth. At least according to Solomon. Suddenly nauseous, I feel I have been tricked. What if one of the other demons from the Ars Goetia had been summoned? Belial, lord of lies and guilt? Astaroth, prince of accusers and inquisitors, who reigned over Earth during the inquisition? I speak in a voice that does not betray my fear.

“You should know who I am, Orobas. Show me your true form, and tell me all you know of me.”
A child's giggle came from the woman, and she started to dissolve into a vile, black, tendrous smoke. This drifted away, before re solidifying as something much worse. It was not Orobas. I retched as I saw the body of a large wolf materialise, with a tail of some infernal serpent, and the head of a raven. The raven-headed beast smiled, showing canine teeth, and fire danced in it's throat.

“Be careful, Magus.” The demon spoke much more sarcastically now, seemed sure of victory. “You bear no protection from me. These trite tokens mean nothing to me.” he said, surveying the dim room I stood in. “I am Amon. Seventh of seventy-two. Duke of Hades. Allier of foes, procurer of love, and I serve Astaroth in the house of Wormwood.”

Alas! I had heard of this demon. Although he could offer me what I wanted, I had to change my plan of action, otherwise I would be cast down into the abyss, to be tortured mentally in Pandemonium, my pain serving to augment Hell's forces.

“Wise Duke, I am but a humble mortal, who wishes to serve his soul to Hell in exchange for mere words.” I spoke with humility to the beast, who flicked his tail back and forth impatiently. I cajoled, I pleaded, I flattered. Eventually Amon decided that it would grant me my boon, in exchange for my eternal soul. I raised conditions though, so that if at any time I die without gaining my wish, I would be untouchable to Hell, and proceed straight to Purgatory, if not Heaven. I remembered the demon's sarcasm at the word Magus and I knew it thought it was dealing with an amateur. In truth, it was.



I thought back to what made me end up like this : Bargaining everything I ever shall be, all for knowledge. I wasn't always like this. I was happy once.

It seems like forever now, but in truth was no less than twelve years, my 31st birthday. I was married and devoted to Dawn, my beacon in the darkness, her a Beatrice to my Dante.
I was confirmed as bipolar since before we met, but occasionally I would sink under the weight of my depression, and she would be there, keeping us both afloat.

I was unemployed, coasting from one soul-crushing job to another, while she was a professional – a career woman with a bright future. I could never understand what she saw in me, why she put herself through it all. When my depression did attack, even with her help I soon started to need medication.

Desperate for a job, I could not visit a psychiatrist to prescribe me anything to help, so I self-medicated. Starting off with the relatively safe tobacco and alcohol, I soon escalated to stronger drugs.

From cannabis to LSD, the psychotropics were my favourite, and worst. On a typically black and dismal night, I was encased in my room, surrounded in blackness, visualising on the matter of the universe, when I am suddenly assailed by a bright light.

Unknown to me, my darling Dawn had arrived at the time fitting her name, and with her came the sunlight from the door. In my intoxicated state however, she seemed to be my dead father, descended from heaven – calling upon me to do my duty to the Lord, and repent of my wicked ways.

I panicked, and looking frantically around. I grabbed the first thing that came to hand; one of my needles. With a guttural cry, I jumped from the bed at my loved one and plunged the contraption into my wife's throat.

She gagged, grasping her throat, and fell back with a crash amongst my papers. I laughed maniacally, and sat on the floor, rocking backwards and forwards. I was woken upon hearing a few muffled shouts, and then dragged screaming into a van, and then jail. Claiming complete amnesia (a truth) the police informed me that I was found covered in blood, murder weapon in hand, next to my murdered wife.


I was referred to a psychiatric prison and served 9 months, a sure sign of society's ineptitudes. I started to have slight recollections of the night, and from then on I could never sleep, my insomnia guaranteed by my ghastly crime. Knowing my only hope of salvation would be to discover the true message from my father in Heaven, I scoured the world on stolen credit cards, for any tome, grimoire, or item that would help me to commune with those supreme servants of God, angels.

I believed that I must speak to Michael, as he alone could tell me of those on the other side of the veil, servants of his satanic majesty. I walked to a holy place, and inhaled deeply from the mixture I had bought from Marrakesh. I stared at a mural of Michael fighting Beelzebub, sword poised proudly above his head, ready to swipe at the adversary's head. I closed my eyes, and reopened them to a different mural – that of Michael cast down in flames, two demons torturing him endlessly. I interpreted this to mean that the message from Michael concerned Hell, and the false message from my father came from the same place.


I cursed God, and began to study a different path, that of dreaming monsters, biblical blasphemies, and power untold. I grew in power as a magician, progressing through the ranks, from Neophyte, to Ipssisimus. Yet with all my power, I could not determine the point of the message, from Hell or Heaven.

So there we have it. I have given all that I have and ever will be to merely know what my accursed father meant me to know. I select a particularly unkempt prostitute from the streets, and with a flash of money lead her to my apartment.

Surprisingly beautiful once cleaned, despite the needle-marks scouring her body, I spike some wine with all the pills I can find in the house, and watch her drink it. I carve the marks with the dagger as I mentioned previously, and then repeat my story to the Duke, Amon.

After hearing my story, Amon laughs the laugh of razorblades, and stares at me, with hideous equine eyes.

“Very well, Magus, you shall see Hell's message for you.” With that the room dissolves, and I find myself in one of the middle cantos of Hell, where my father is being stung in the eyes by mad hornets, buried up to his torso in leeches. His pains of scream double in intensity as he sees me next to his captor, Amon.

I stare at the Duke, and with a gesture the torture stops, and my father regards me with sorrowful eyes. I question him, and he hacks up blood into the writhing leeches below, and starts to speak.

“My son, it is said in the good book that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the sons. This has never been more true. Despite my pure motives, I too fell into the same pit of despair you are now in. We are from a blessed bloodline, with a quest so valuable that we are chosen to do it by God himself. Our thirst for secret knowledge is to aid us, and we gorged too long, too deep. We alchemised a holy quest into a sinful journey. We were swayed by the Earthly delights, and blocked out the heavens. Once I had died in sin, the demonic forces knew that Heaven's last chance rested with you, my son. They tortured me until I agreed to help them, and I gave the message to you. Heaven knew you weren't ready. God knew that some words aren't meant to be heard by humans. But you listened. You should have known that Heaven relies on faith to do it's work. But now it is too late.”

My father paused for breath, and Amon giggled behind me, like a child that has just pulled a leg from spider. The demon clapped it's hands (claws?) and the leeches and hornets resumed their work. The demon spoke again with it's suicide voice,

“The contract is complete. Your soul is ours. The earthly plains will be ours again. Your pain begins.”

Impaled suddenly by a hundred swords, sounds I never thought possible issued from my throat, and the swords began to fly through the air, carrying me with them. I see the world go by faster and faster, and I make out a bejewelled-red sword, eight feet high, easily distinguishable from the desert I am now in and black sky. I am carried above the sword, and somehow even more painfully, the swords are removed.


I fall, dying, and am skewered. My pain turns into something even greater, mixing with fear as I realise the sword is being powered from the desert, and the night sky. I remember there is no day in Hell.


I am crying in the night.

I am crying, and I cry for Dawn.