CUT-UP: ALCHEMY & MYSTICISM &
PETER SOTOS’ LAZY
The place is decidedly run-down. A slum. The booths in the back draw you in like a magnet, since the bookstore section – what you walk directly into off the street where the sign outside lights up only ADULT BOOKS and PEEP SHOW – is virtually bare of magazines and videos. The stock really exists for the public health regulations of a retail license only. But the two early cocksuckers can waste time browsing and looking at pictures to try and calm themselves down while they wait for free time cocks to slink into the back. The north wind on the left corresponds to the element air (sanguis), the east wind at the top corresponds to the element fire. There’s only two glory holes. The first two booths on the left hand side as you enter have their own neatly carved holes. Sal ammoniac shines through all metals. Each door to each booth has a peephole. Magic seals are energy stations which have a certain similarity with that which the agent desires. The video screen is lodged behind a thick plexiglass cover that is always dirty. It has the ability to connect with every region of the three worlds through various, subtle, spiritual media. Monkeying pigs shoot their gross wads all over the screens. Directly aiming at the hog porno action. Having just jut out of some princess’s unskilled raw mouth, a vessel of all things, the ladder of creation: elemental, celestial and super-celestial. Everyone is there to suck cock. Even the younger faggots who pretend they’re there to be serviced. Or initiated. The hermaphrodite, lying in the dark like a corpse needs fire. Demands twisted from dreams get stomped flat to raging horny crunches. Monkeys suck cripples because they’re the only ones who’ll come close enough to cages. It is tight in these booths. The gate is bolted three times according to the sections of the Work. There’s no hiding and masturbating and imagining behind filthy sticky useful partitions. The points on the arch indicate that three different fires must rule within. What the homely paraphiliacs and selfish sensualists want, here, comes with a brutally honest low ball context of ugly on ugly give and take. Through friction and rotation, a flash or “Schrack” is produced in the fourth property, the twofold fire of light and darkness. This one assignation lends itself to a more conventional politeness. Once you’re in the booth. His dick will be standing up straight next to your thigh as he cups and learns your balls, just as the heart on the cross must exist in the fire of God. A long line of barbie dolls soaked in menstrual blood and hymen paint go through the dying magic fire and exist in it, enjoying some form of mystic sisterly flubbed out fantasy. Some Nazi Mexican offers sweaty steak meat, for without opposition nothing is revealed. Some thick middled bald father becomes the incarnation of destructive doubt and calculating reason. They squeeze in line to get what they can. Mongrels pumping in the air, sublimating the desire to cum blind into the great dark empty world. It is a hungry fire and must have being, otherwise it becomes a dark and hungry valley. And the future hear is violent. Ugly. Hateful, bitter, mean, sexually perverse. The booth is soaked in poppers. Gasoline bites every orifice. The Gnostic spark of light. The spread. The thickness. Actions collapse into reflections. Switched the mirror for a silver bromide plate to achieve a more powerful effect. The heat in the box circles between you and all the black paint and noisy video washes and buzz. Quite clearly the spirits, like we mortals, have become realists. Just suck some Mexican meat. Already wet. Spent. And hard again. Die a different way today. Energy, which acts as a stencil, becomes matter. Big burly flesh mass messy and sloppy and talking and slurping and hissing. Sound produces form as well as color. Give me that jizz. C’mon man cum. You can cum. Because he talked like a pigging mother. The nature of infinity is this: that everything has its own vortex. You lean back towards the wall and thrust out forward. Directly into his throat. Which stopped mowing and clamped tight. To take in your throb and spits, a symbol of everything left over, for which we seek neither words nor names. A wetback TV fuck whore with a face like an anvil, and the influence of an all-pervasive vital fluid. He nailed down more poppers and licked his lips, emerging with extended antennae into the spirit world.
His cock hung out of his pants and t-shirt and black belt. He yanked it and shook it, erasing the boundary between spirit and matter. Cleaning the last drops of underwear stain and stick. This dew is the manna on which the souls of the just nourish themselves. Let you burn in what just hogged you. The chosen hunger for it and collect it with full hands. Hard and wet and animal and seemed to want to get hard again. Our dew is celestial, spermatic, electric, universal. How many clean young men would let this pig eat them this way whole. Beside him the content of the flask previously entrusted to the secret vulcan fire is poured into a cooking vessel. How many desperates have shot their load into this gullet and walked away, fast. The result of the distillations is conjoined with the extract that has been concentrated by the secret, lunar fire. The floor is gummed and black with thickening sticking lumps from years of serious dereliction. As if the owners had decided, at various times, to just paint over the filth rather than pay for daily toxic upkeep. The flies degenerate into crawlers and diggers in the hot mist stench and buzzing dark and bad luck. The dew is now exposed to the cosmic fluid, further to enrich its cosmic force. Breathless, standing forward cock to cock, hands being the most sentient part of the program of debasement turning ritual, twisting natural, poured into six plates arranged in the form of a fiery triangle. May all be shattered back to scarred sunny reality by the indiscriminate flick of a tiny lightning fleck. Here the mercurial vessel of nature is prepared and sealed. The dew in the bowls vibrates, sated with nitric heavenly spirit. The sickness churning inside as his drug raged backwards into your lungs. The dumb stare trance of fantasy fleshing into declining tolerance clinging to the heels of Mercury. The hung mouth. Wet lips. Dull eyes. Zits and craters and wrinkles and skin oil. The blood of the Ancients. The moon-white water. The friendly acceptance of shit smeared, piss stained, tobacco nailed fingers and germs and lazy lolling stunted tongue whose weight drags it hither and thither. Transforming nature is nothing but driving the elements around in a circle. Centrifugal and centripetal forces of will and unwill. Videos of future wombs being paid small money to eat shit out of dogbowls. Close-ups of these absolute beasts vomiting and spitting and spewing out the last taste of backed up urine, sick faeces, and beer breakfasts. Cock after cock dropped into some sag’s chummed up rag mouth, an in- and out folding of the divine unground, the three-in-one, miraculous eye of eternity. All of this haphazardly scrawled in black marker in pidgin English and in smaller green marker underneath in probably perfect Spanish. The narcissism, the attention, the dalliance, the finger pushing inside your pained stinking cock head. The circumcircle is in the point, in the seed lies the fruit. Dragging out your piss and cum and burn. It is “the force of light” and “the eternal centre of life,” which, according to Böhme, is open everywhere in the darkness of this world as “a little seed.” He sucks you off. Down to the root and pull. What is sown in the earth as a perishable thing is raised imperishable. Taking in your throb and spits. Decay is a wonderful smith. His fingernails and that fucking scratch. You grease into his wet head and jawing slime and performing tongue in the subterranean distillation. The raw state of the lapis is being dug from the earth by miners. All black and video fuzz and warm desperation. Back and forth faster between long licks and ball sac tumbles and lava canals leading from the central fire. Your deposit shooting and sliding into human darkness and drug frenzy. The bodily fluids and the elemental qualities in man in relation to the zodiac. That’s it. As he slides off of you and drops wet in his work. Concentrated and resolved, the beginning and the end of all creatures. His fingers sticky in his cum and his palm and cock the exact same red, allowing the whole universe to run together and accumulate within this one circle.
Each gate opens into all the other gates towards the four compass points, so that all are contained in each. The city must constantly be recreated by us as a bulwark against the shadowy three-dimensional world. The colors of flesh and sets and fluids are washed and bled flat and compacted more from memory than vision. A circle divided into the pairs of opposites of the Aristotelian elements and qualities. The stupid fantasy echo play and all the cliches that seem acceptable only on stages. The Celestial Chicago is an eternal clarified, subtle, penetrating fixed corpse that can penetrate and perfect all other bodies.
The candidates of the Royal Arch are prepared in stages in search of this triangle with the unpronounceable name of God. Muscled marys that follow the dictates of demographics and tastes of dolts. Shady charlatans everywhere declared their desire to join this wonderful college. A hot steaming closet painted black to match the lack of light that ingeniously foreshadows every single move you slipped right down into. Visible world: To construct it from light and darkness; Or break it down into light and darkness. The underworld here, the illegality, exists most in just how often they clean the floors. The dividing artist stands surrounded by a forest of metal, separating along the verticals, in a powerful act, chaotic matter into sulpher and mercury, fire and water. The secrets are heavier; the self hatred and brain screaming epiphanies may be the highest price. A fire that consumes everything, and opens and closes everything. To moan and hope and change the study from the veil of his funeral and infirmary and worthlessness and failed promise. Chaotic night has withdrawn.
Controls are set long before digging is allowed to begin. The “sensitive world” is imagined in the first brain-chamber, by the transforming power of the soul, into a shadowy duplicate. Blank faces made blanker as the originals lose any definition that’s not explicit or overstated. Then transcended in the next chamber of the capacity for judgement and knowledge. What little these lives and representations might have meant, in some hideously fooled romantic anything, becomes, now, in withered desperation and willful implosion, something personally voyeuristic. The last chamber is the center of memory and movement. Your taste, your interest, like your access, is cheap and paltry and removed so far down as to depend on approximations as bad and stingy as this. Again and again replaces deeper and deeper.
The central chamber of reason is warm and moist. The slob that empties the steel boxes that collect sticky silver coins fed in there by sleazy street rats. It is the archive or reservoir from which the central chamber draws its material for new chains of thought. The shots aren’t explicit but neither are the concepts of nightmare scars, trauma eggs and repressed memory syndromes. The impressions of the sidereal, world spirit are imprinted on his upper body. These mouth whores eat themselves. Which is what one does when one laps at surrogates. Sensory information is shaped into glowing visual images and etched into the brain. The ascent of this “salnitric fire-crack” through the seven source spirits has often been compared to the awakening of the snake fire. By mid-afternoon the place burns with the heavy stench of a car garage and condemns spilling crabs and cum litter the floor in puddles and chewed gum and tissues.