Murder was the case: An exposition.

Dre's seminal piece Murder Was The Case exposes principally though the stream of consciousness narratives of Charlie Murphy and rapper Snoop Doggy Dog themes of murder, infidelity, Faustian demonic pacts, and imprisonment.

After a long panning shot of a gathering of Murphy's, reminiscent of the rolling camera pans of Tarkovsky, the film jumps almost immediately into a still of a voluptuous bosom and a confrontation between the male embodying Eros and the female embodying Thanatos.

The film progresses in an almost biblical style, the woman's infidelities gradually poisoning the male until he too is possessed with Thanatos, represented here by the desire for suicidal revenge. Indeed if one word were to characterise this film it would be self-destruction, the ambulance drivers are intoxicated and negligent, the shop keeper is armed and foolhardy, the gunmen are hoist on their own petard. The destruction reaches an arete just as Satan/Christ appears. This particular painting of the Dark One mirrors the duality of man, Satan here both embodies good and evil; both as the pining Christ and the overbearing devil.

 

We come now to the scene of imprisonment, the timeless narrative is almost a reverse echo of the situation of St Peter. Peter following Eros, makes a pact with God and is freed from his fetters by an Angel in Acts, the unfortunate Snoop sides with the Dark One and from freedom is thrust into chains.  

 

A man defined by the external (an original work)

Here the artist asks the viewer to imagine how the material world shapes our being. We are nothing without the atoms, molecules, chemicals and other floating pieces of dross that define our existence. Here the man is characterised wholly by the paints that he is etched into, he is in essence a negative being, a scraping, a dark shadow in a world of light, just as we are imprisoned in a wold of matter (mundus) so the etching is in the fetters of the paints

A Tourist's Guide to Gomorrah

Sitting on the periphery of the Dead Sea, the city of Gomorrah is a seaside town to rival those great metropoli of the modern age; Brighton, Blackpool, Whitby, et all. But as a family holiday destination Gomorrah does not reach the depths of iniquity that resorts such as Blackpool are wont to sink to.

Twinned with the sunny city of Sodom, this pair of polis are perfect places for pederasts and angel rapists of all shapes and sizes, from amateurs right up to those who have been up to the hilt in Gabriel himself. One might argue that angel rape, sodomy and other weekend activities are somehow ‘immoral’ but one must take into account local customs, and those who find themselves participating in local culture never come away complaining of anything except syphilis, HIV/AIDs and occasional rashes and burns, resultant from the sodomised angel‘s sudden burning flight to heaven. Remember to pack plenty of burn cream, and other substances that can function as lubricants during pedication of seraphic orifices ie consecration wine, blood, pre-extracted seminal fluid, etc.

The ‘one good man in town’ Lot functions as a justicar and sheriff, but in reality this merely means attempting to encourage the rape of young virgin daughters rather than the messengers of Yahweh. In a town with such a vivid history rooted in seraphic sodomy, he is a radical beyond par and is unlikely to achieve much in terms of public office.

Of course there are other attractions beyond raping entities that no not exist solely in the physical plane. Gambling, Vice, Fornication, Man-hunting, Baal Worship and all manner of father-son activities are available at low, low prices, but are all of the highest quality and overseen by experts with years of experience within their trade.

Astronomers endorsing rival resorts such as Blackpool claim that burning sulphur will soon be rained on the city from above, but such spurious allegations seem utterly baseless to any modern intellectual, as the idea of an entire city being expressly targeted by a highly moralistic deity appears ludicrous. Given his prior endorsement of so much rape and murder, it would make him in some ways a hypocrite by his actions, so such a far out theory can be easily discounted.

Proposals: The sons of Merovech and the invention of the English Language

Take a closer look at the English language; 'penis' begins with a 'p' which looks like a willy from the side. The corresponding word for lady bits begins with a 'v' which looks like a yoni. 'Bum' begins with a B which looks like a fat bottom from the side. Clearly there is a pattern here, I posit it is a Merovingian pattern. Observe as I demonstrate my hermeneutic exegesis of etymology; and uncover the dark truth that all the important words in the British language begin with an 'm', taken after the true artificer of our great language's namesake, the accursed Merovech!


Here is a small list of examples; 'majesty' 'master' 'macroeconomic expert' 'mother of god' 'mammary glands' 'macropyramid' 'mafia' 'maharaja' 'magnet' .

We do not want this sickness in our country! I propose we start speaking Urdu, which is untainted.

 

Aristotle Reflects On His Student Alexander

I cup the chin of this young Macedon;
So smooth and true. A noble figure rich in all-
But his body shall be won!

His flushed lips whisper Plato’s fetid scrawl
As I guide young hands down geometric arcs,
Along precise prisms of perfect pederasty;
On palatial papers we etch our tandem marks
Of genius.

        Over the table our eyes meet. His shine
While I am naught but grizzled grey, so soon shall he be mine?
His glow, one blue as summer sky, one dark as agéd night
And he will kneel afore me, though I dwell upon his might.

My hands fly South like Swallows
To open up his robes-
His body is Apollo’s
And I gently hold his globes.

Our bodies cleave like frenzied flesh
Like nothing else on Earth
And when he conquers the Quraysh
He’ll think upon my girth.

His pedicated body, by me it is so young
To me he is a Temple, I explore him with my tongue.
His muscles gently bristle, as again I enter in,
His moans occur so softly, are sticky with my sin.

Schwarzenegger: The Philosopher

One can ascribe many titles to Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger; Paragon of Men & Animals, Titanic Actor, Political Leviathan, Potent Inseminator, etc. but perhaps the greatest one of all is as the greatest and most influential philosopher since Socrates, certainly within the public sphere. His short, stark and brutal summations of human nature drive a stake into the vampiric heart of modern society, within his films he is both actor and critic, even as the action unfolds offering an exegetical commentary on both the nature of the self and the worlds in which he inhabits, and their relation to our material realm.

By deconstructing the prolixity that has characterised most philosophy, Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger throws the grandiloquence of the ages out the window; instead, he is the Messianic figure, stripping down extended and self defeating argument to their core principles, and reconstructing them in easy to remember statements. In a society where short oral transmission of ideas is key, it is no wonder that his revolutionary thinking has already taken such traction, and it is hard not to foresee in the coming centuries the emergence of a fanatical Church of Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger, as well as the compilation of Gospels of his life, and numerous Apocrypha already in production, such as the Infancy Narrative by James Cameron, where the prophet is shown using his miracles powers of indestructibility and wit to reduce his childhood foes to piles of Austrian ashes. Already commentators are proposing that his lifespan far exceeds our own; that he came to what we would consider adulthood during the Second World War, and single-handedly killed Hitler and his entire entourage within the bunker while uttering a particularly potent one-liner.

Though this theory may be open to a degree of criticism from those who are not as open minded as we, it must be borne on mind that as a T-800 cybernetic organism, he is able to travel through time, albeit naked, arriving like a newborn Adam in each time period. Like Adam he must don the 'coats of skin' (GEN 3:21) here represented by his trademark leather outfit, and head out into the world to preach the truth, leaving the Eden of the Temporal Time Vortex. Whether this is punishment for some unknown transgression or not is open to debate; while some scholars see Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger as the penitent sinner come priest, others insist he is a cybernetic manifestation of the seraphim of old, and has come down to Earth like an Angel to bring about the Glory of a New Age.

Some of the many dunameis (Mighty Works) of Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger will now considered, in order to better understand the message that this Sage is trying to impart to us...

"Levity is Good, it reduces Tension and Fear of Death" (T3:1:25:13)

This incredible insight demands particular attention. Schwarzenegger here is making a fundamental comment on the human condition, when faced with overwhelming odds. Like Christ in the Passion Narrative, he accepts the likelihood of his own fate, and instructs his disciples (here John Connor and his partner in fornication) not to fear. But to Schwarzenegger, relief comes not through penitence, but mirth, and joy. In a world of decay, Schwarzenegger teaches that we must fight our instincts to despair, rather we should laugh and joke, even about our own demise. It is through this idealised 'levity' that we transcend worry, and reach the eternal Kingdom. For those with 'levity,' there is nothing to fear in death, for it is a mere transition to something greater, another step on a road towards escape from Mundus. Here I think it is impossible not to see Schwarzenegger as in some way inspired by Gnostic ideas. To him, normal life in the drudgery of the material and mundane is a source only of 'tension and (a) fear of death.' But by locating the divine spark through the prism of Gnosis, or here as Schwarzenegger puts it, 'levity,' we can escape the prison imposed on us by the Demiurge, and emerge into the wonders of the Heavenly ether. While this quote could produce reams of theological discussion, I will simply leave it here, for greater intellectuals than I to pick up and deconstruct.

"You should Clone Yourself, so You can go Fuck Yourself" (BD:0:35:41)
In another gem of contemporary philosophy, Schwarzenegger is making an ethical judgment on both incest and the nature of narcissism. Here he seems to be endorsing the idea of incest in specific examples, where propagation is impossible. In an infertile relationship, such as the homosexual one between to identical males, he seems to grant a dispensation for cases of extreme love. Here he notes his enemy's narcissism, and, in an exemplary display of charity that far exceeds Ghandi or Mother Teresa, allows him to fulfil what he realises would grant this man true happiness, despite being adversaries. Perhaps Schwarzenegger here implies that love is a means to eliminate conflict; by allowing his rival to find love, they will no longer continue their feud, and will find some common ground. Like Jesus before him, Schwarzenegger is clearly a strong advocate of pacifism and non violence, preferring to always find a solution that will satisfy both sides. Here he is seen as judging all men, including himself, as equal, and equally deserving of charity and love. Here Schwarzenegger is the pacifist extraordinaire, a paragon of morality beyond equal. It requires little debate to realise that he is also providing a total endorsement for the emerging science of cloning, at least in the cases of impotent fornication. Whether he endorses human-animal cloning relationships, such as with Dolly the sheep, is left ambiguous in this passage, so we will have to look elsewhere.

"It is as Satisfying to me as Coming is" (GYM:5:19)

In this excerpt from a larger piece, Schwarzenegger takes on the role of Atlas, discussing his sexual relationship with the Pump machine in his local gymnasium. However, while one could take this literally, as an eroticisation of the machine and an endorsement of techno-fetishism, it seems more likely to the more learned amongst us that he is talking about the extreme pleasure of metaphorical weights. The Pump machine is not a physical object, but rather the weights we lift everyday within our lives trapped within Mundus. Another example of Schwarzenegger's deep rotted Gnosticism, it is through the pleasures of an ascetic lifestyle that we achieve spiritual revelation, and, as Schwarzenegger puts it, 'Come.' How metaphorical is Schwarzenegger's 'Come?' Is it as insubstantial as the Pumps, a mere allegory for a greater system? Or is it a combination of the tangible and the transmundane, the seminal fluid that exceeds itself. Sexual climax may be a real result of overcoming the 'weights' of life; once we free ourselves from mortal burdens, our reward is in great bursts of fluid, the arcing orgiastic potentials of diametric magnetic poles. But it is also 'Coming' of another sort, a mental and spiritual climax. This is the expiation of the divine spark trapped within the mud bodies of Mundus. Just as we humans were fashioned from the dust of the ground (GEN 2:7), Schwarzenegger is offering us a change to escape Mundus; by the effort of lifting the 'weights' of life, we can leave substantial reality and become redeemed.

Here is but a taster of the exegesis of the words of Schwarzenegger, and I hope that it leads the reader to a greater understanding of him, the great philosopher of our age.

The Despair of Pope Innocent VIII, (an original work).

 

Here the artist combines principles of angst and damnation in an evocative piece chronicling Innocent VIII's descent into the final circle of hades. The eyes cry futility.

"But if you will not hear me, nor do all my commandments, If you despise my laws, and contemn my judgements so as not to do those things which are appointed by me, and to make void my covenant: I also will do these things to you: I will quickly visit you with poverty, and burning heat, which shall waste your eyes, and consume your lives. You shall sow your seed in vain, which shall be devoured by your enemies. I will set my face against you, and you shall fall down before your enemies, and shall be made subject to them that hate you, you shall flee when no man pursueth you."

Proposals: Substance Parasite Discovered

Aristotle divides reality (rightly) into accidents and substance. Accidents are those non-essential qualities of an object such as colour, taste, shape, form, molecular structure etc. Substance is the 'it-ness' of an object, it is that which produces the accidental properties such as shape, form etc.

Now the sage Aquinas rightly noted that substances can be 'transubstantiated' i.e. that a substance can mask itself under new accidental properties, as Christ becomes the bread in the Eucharist.

According to BBC news a man in New Deli, Ken Moore, discovered as of yesterday that when he used the words 'Vishwambhar' (the name for his dog) the words did not denote his dog, but rather a-non existent entity. Furthermore Moore found that when he used the words 'substance parasite masquerading as dog' the words did indeed refer to the entity formerly known as his dog.

It is theorised by myself that the parasite moves from vessel to vessel devilishly eradicating the substance of the being it occupies. It must be killed.

How then is this eradication to be effected? It was posited by Eumenides in a BBC interview that substances can be destroyed upon making contact with the earth's centre, the point at which the four elements, (earth, wind, fire, water) form together and form apart.

I propose we throw this dog into the earth's core.

The Great American Nude as a Study of the Rejection of Excrement by Contemporary America

In his series the Great American Nude, Tom Wesselmann cuts open the commodification of American Culture. His subjects, extracts from the vacuous magazines and posters that surround each and every one of us, constantly attempting to appeal to baser instincts, are reduced to monotone planes of flesh, horrific in their lack of emotion. Wesselmann is a man who understands the true extent of cultural and moral decay.

Wesselmann's women are commodities, used to sell products, their very flesh and blood, their bodies prostituted to sell the fripperies of modern society, a society charged by the misguided energy of nationalism, hence the prevalence of red white and blue within his work. Against the background of decadence, leopard skin sheets and bedside tables displaying fruit and flowers, Wesselmann's women recline eyeless. Blind to their manipulation by commercial forces greater than themselves, their gaze is all the more penetrating to the viewer by the virtue of coming out of nothing. There is an intensity to their fixation on the observer, as if space itself is looking back out of the painting. And yet something ominous, demonic is hiding beneath the surface; these women with their blank, emotionless gazes echo Guillermo Del Toro's monstrous Pale Man from El Laberinto del Fauno - just as the Pale Man is the diabolic echo of the Captain at the head of the dinner table, Ofelia's fascist surrogate father, the women here echo society's inherent inability to comprehend itself, instead blindly following whatever is presented to them, and this has made them abominations, hideous and unsettling monsters. In this instance one in tempted to apply Freud's definition of the uncanny, the disturbing merge of the familiar and the unfamiliar, and it goes a long distance to explaining why these nudes have somehow lost all eroticism and sexual appeal. While legs are spread and moist vulvas gape like yoni hungry to devour the Penetrative Member, the viewer only feels disgust, and this grotesque portrayal of the sexual is transferred to the consumerist world; the true order has become perverted, been artificially altered into the unsettling, lacking all beauty, sensuality or eroticism, and all that the viewer can be left to feel is the despair of the abyss.



Therefore we come to the title of the piece, the rejection of excrement. In his seminal biography fellow artist Salvador Dali decries the American consumerist rejection of excrement in favour of commodities. It appears that he and Wesselmann are on the same page in this regard; Wesselmann's subjects are the eventual and inevitable conclusion of this process of faecal rejection - by abandoning any attachment to their own filth they have lost all defining characteristics, becoming definable only by their own superficiality. The oranges on the tables and the flowers are the commodities that excrement has been exchanged for; in a pure world the women would find themselves prostrate next to welcoming, perfumed toilet bowl, but instead the decay of commercialisation has rendered them nothing but bland and statuesque shades, lacking in any dimension. Their only identity comes from their sexualised nudity, yet as discussed prior this has failed them, there is no appeal to their nakedness, not even the ceaseless slapping of flesh on flesh that comprises the most base and animalistic fornication. They have no depth, their sexuality is a paradoxical impossibility, and they are a reflection of us, the dead generation, in this regard.


The tan lines that form these lonely women's only embraces hint at a life beyond the tableaux they have forced into, likely drugged and at gunpoint. It is a life of Sun, of being outdoors and free with nature, of vitality and of natures great sustenance, excrement. Each of these women has once known shit, and yet they, like us, chose to reject it. Why? What was the seduction that caused this fall from an excremental Eden? Fast Cars, Drink, Drugs, Money? It is irrelevant, now, though they still bear the mark of their previous piety like the circumcised Jew who abandons his brethren, they have become lost, and spiritually corrupted. It is ambiguous whether there can possibly be a hope of a return to the heaven of association with filth, but the slack lipped, drugged smiles of the models indicates an utter disassociation with reality, and an unwillingness for expiation. Truly, Wesselmann is the great nihilist of the modern age, a man who sees the truth of the reality of decay and despair, the indomitable absence of shit and the all encompassing pollution of capitalism. Perhaps he is subtly hinting that greater forces are at play, a Merovingian conspiracy by the sons of angels to dominate creation, or perhaps all there is the degradation of mundus, and all life is evil. It barely matters, his women still lie there, smiling and eyeless, nipples stiff in the cold of his ice world, and there is no respite for man, or woman either. Wesselmann is the regeneration of the spirit of Ecclesiastes, and as he paints he weeps and raves and cries, and his shouts take form, the music of the angels, and all hear him now speak in his divine honesty:

"Vanity of vanities," says the Preacher, "Vanity of vanities! All is vanity." - Ecclesiastes 1:2

Are the British Royal Family Nephilim?

Now giants were upon the earth in those days. For after the sons of God went in to the daughters of men and they brought forth children, these are the mighty men of old, men of renown. - Genesis 6:4

There are indeed Nephilim that inhabit mundus. Descendants of angels and men, mighty warriors, "men of renown" as the Good Book says.Their origin derives from the lust and the degenerating influence of humanity, the fallen angels being tempted into entering into the daughters of men and getting an earthly nut.

We get almost all our knowledge of their physical characteristics from the gnostics, they are, tall in stature, beady in eye, long in finger, big in ear, offspring of the demiurge. We are also told in these esoteric texts that they are immortal and that the The Years have made them idle, and that the very earth itself has corrupted them.

Nephilim were once custodians of justice, under their auspices order came to humanity and a golden age blossomed, great walled cities towered above Caanan, temple bells rang, burnt offerings were made at all times to The Lord. We can only assume that time brought to them the revelation of their enslavement in this corporeal vessel and they grew weary. Today timidity, idleness, and avarice I believe hold them behind their veils.

Where then are we to look for these creatures if not in a den of centuries old wealth and idleness? Buckingham Palace.

I have unearthed this image from the mid 7th century BC. Who is this on the right shoulder of the central figure Shabuzzar if not Prince Charles himself? Present centuries ago!

These Nephilim have been among us since the dawn of man, I for one welcome their timid and idle presence. 

Necrophagous Behaviour in the Community of Folly, or, A Comment on J.G.Ballard

A traffic collision between a Ford Focus and a Motorcyclist, resulting in the redistribution of organic matter across several feet of tarmac and the metal morphesis of the two vehicles, which are merged to form one meta-vehicle.

Within the necrophagous population (existing as a minority within the Folly collective), such an event is equitable to a fertility rite. Here instead of hyacinths the dead mouths of those involved are raped and then devoured. This seems to academics a comment on the degeneracy of modern cultural materialism, though it could feasibly instead hint at an uncompromising appraisal of modern plastic surgery. The disfiguration of the human form by artificial enhancements is exacerbated by the merging with the mechanical components of the automotives involved in the collision, and causes derision among the necrophageous community, as it is a perversion of their sacred meat.

Competition between the necrophageous elements of the Community of Folly and carrion birds is often intense, before both are driven away by the Road Traffic Authorities. What remains are left are collected and immolated on pyres to avoid further abuse and fornication at the hands of the necrophageous collective. The collective are often known to illegally enter mortuaries for their religious purposes.

In this accident the couple occupying the Ford Focus were ejected frontally and impacted against the road surface where numerous aspects of their person detonated on collision. J. G. Ballard was noticed by the Road Traffic Authorities on the periphery of the scene, but made a hasty escape. He is still wanted for excessive Necrophagous Behaviour in relation to automobile collisions. A swarm of Necrophagous personages descended, and eliminated much of the remaining matter of the victims before dispersal. The motorcyclist, embedded within the front of the automobile, we left unmolested, likely on account of his protective garments. He expired twenty minutes after the Road Traffic Authorities arrived.

Hyacinths as Moral Paragons in the Decadent World

“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;    
    They called me the hyacinth girl.”    

          

With these words T. S. Eliot evokes the image of the hyacinth as a symbol of abundant fertility and virility. The phallic flower reaches for the womb of the sky, the petals as soft and vulnerable as a flaccid member, yet combined they are as erect and potent as any adamantium rod. Wet, like the female mucous secretions, both fluids herald fertility and the dawn of new life as like a growing phallus the flower ripens and extends under their lubrication.



However, though an object of serenity and beauty, the noble, erotic hyacinth must live, like each one of us, in the world of the Decadent. How does such a pure expression of the joys of sexual gratification manage to resolve itself philosophically to it's lot in life? The hyacinth must seed, and grow out of the decay that surrounds it. The very earth, the rot of creation and the feculence of nature is the material that most suffuses it with life, with the power to conduct it's virile erection. Growing from the mulch, as we all do, feeding on the decadence and sufferings that always embrace us, the hyacinth is our spiritual parallel. It is in relation to this degeneracy that we find our own life in relation to it; against the incessant backdrop of murder, mutilation, rape and despair we paint the portraits that make up our lives.

Hyacinths accentuate the sexual potency of all that surrounds them, they are nebulous loci of erotic energy. For this reason they have often been enslaved in the service of aphrodisiacs to the impotent and barren. As a spiritual cure they are universally recognised by the medical community as 100% effective, exceeding the effects of Viagra or other herbal remedies sevenfold at minimum. Nevertheless, the disdain the hyacinth holds for all it considers decadent oft extend to fornication, be it of man or beast, and the disgruntled plant will often refuse to grant it's blessing, instead withering to a husk rather than endure another moment of the sweat and slapping flesh of coitus.

Although occasionally intolerant of the intercourse of other, less potent species, the hyacinths are notorious for their own sexual drive. As phallic metaphors, their very purpose is to transcend reality, to become an idea, but also to comment on that very reality that they abandon. They are present everywhere, and nowhere. Their penile similarities are an ethereal construct, and yet they never cease to exist, and in fact do so in abundance, growing into great bouquets of phallic emblems. Like the bouquet held by Eliot's 'hyacinth girl,' they are clenched, sodden and dripping tight to the bosom, as if she, the woman, has mastery over all phallus, and by extension, all men. She holds their virility tight, afraid to lose it as by losing the male potency, she too is robbed of her own fertility; the bouquet drops, the curtain of sterility extends and she becomes as barren as the Waste Land Eliot himself envisions. She is the prostitute unable to conceive, the poisonous Belladonna of the Rocks; no longer the lot of the fertile plant of the ripe flowerbeds, she has become a desert dweller, and the source of all moral poison.

As the infertile life, the Belladonna stands in sharp contrast to the noble hyacinth; it is the crone, the woman who craves even the pain of her menopause, so vapid and vacant is her life. And yet there is hope, their is expiation for us, as still, in some woodland grove, the penile hyacinth rises up to rape the very air of creation! The phallus remains almighty, dripping with liquid and yet strong, mighty and hard, like an iron girder it holds up all creation, the supple flower has become the bedrock of the world. And though it may disdain the world, and seek to escape it, the hyacinth remains the greatest of flowers, and the most intense vision possible of raw and unfettered potency.

Rambo First Blood, An Exegesis.

Rambo First Blood, an exegesis.

The opening shot, the placid crystalline waters of a cold water lake, the long and winding path of the virtuous man, the relatives of a comrade lost. In these shots Rambo, (which means a receptacle or vessel in Japanese) is painted as the Good Son returning home to his Fatherland after fighting the noble battle against death, decay and sacrilege.

It is soon established that he has come home only to betrayal. He is a pariah, an outcast, a member of a new and solemnly despised underclass, (reminiscent of the Christians in Rome before Constantine). He is a stranger in his own country, a hobo and a filthy slugabed, abandoned by the army, forsaken in death by his friends, he turns to violence, and the film is a culmination of Rambo’s dark subconscious desire for revenge in light of his mistreatment.

However after the bloodshed and violence, after the sin and darkness there amongst the ruins is a profound Christological message, Sam Trautman here representing Christ. Rambo in his final words “EHWHEREE IS EEERRYBODY, THOSSE GUYS MAN, BACCK THERE NOTTINGM VEGAS, RED 58 CHEVVY…PIECES OF HIM ALL OVERR ME…UUUHEEEWEEY” is obviously speaking in tongues the “heavenly language” described in Acts 2 of the Good Book. Rambo the renegade, the outcast here becomes Rambo the pious, and supplicant to Trautman, his pistol being transmogrified into a sword of righteousness, his machete, a mainstay against oppression.

"The road is long with many a winding turn"
 - Rambo III

Enter ye in at the narrow gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction, and many there are who go in thereat.
- Matthew 7:13

Anatomies by Man Ray, 1929

Anatomies by Man Ray, 1929

Here the surrealist artist Man Ray exploits visual perception, transgendering the female throat into the male phallus. The connection is clear and almost perverse, the fellatial reference almost too overstated. Nevertheless, Ray causes us to take a look our typical perceptions, and like any skilled humourist causes us to question our fundamental perversion; who on seeing this picture has not envisioned a mighty phallus? Only to realise it is in fact the eroticised feminine neck. However, the supplicant neck has developed into an agressive masculine organ, turning gender stereotypes and expectations on their heads. The protective neck has become invasive, and now towers like a castle keep above the flesh body. It's thickness makes it seem indestructible, and yet as the neck, it is wholly vulnerable, and here open to assault. By these repeated contrasts, Ray opens us up to question our own assumptions about ourselves.

What is meant when Kirsten Dunst decrys her sister's plan in Melancholia as 'a piece of shit'?

What is meant when Kirsten Dunst decrys her sister's plan in Melancholia as 'a piece of shit'?

    Shit, that bodily scourge, is invoked by Dunst here in the plainest of terms. The image of a fetid turd is her riposte to the desperate resignation exhibited by Charlotte Gainsbourg, her sister. Faced with her own utterly inescapable demise, she devises a fallacious attempt to maintain face in front of her young son. However her absurd diorama stands deeply within the dark waters of Erasmus' definition of Folly, and it appears as if in her condemnation of this plan, Dunst has found an intuitive identity with Erasmus' conscious mind (despite finding themselves separated by the centuries, and that great ocean, the Atlantic.) “It’s a piece of shit.” Dunst cuts to the heart of the issue by this inspired proclamation. By her conjuration of scatological imagery in an eschatological context, she implies that their mutual destruction is a product of their own doing, just as excrement is the filth that we generate ourselves.
    To Dunst our moral filth is synonymous with our true feculence, and this correlates with her messianic portrayal throughout the film. Whether she is proposing they reduce themselves to coprophagy is up for debate, though it seems more likely that in her creation of the hallowed 'magic cave' she is creating her own Holiest of Holies within the natural world, and intends to keep it pure, away from the excrement she despises. Rather than embracing her effluence, she finds in it only revulsion, the very revulsion she applies to her fellow human beings. While Gainsbourg embraces the rose like scent of her shite, and in it's delusory miasma seems to experience a sense of expiation, Dunst rejects coprial methodology, and seeks rather to renege to a child like state in the presence of her nephew, a state where excrement remains a distant source of revulsion and wonder. This stands in stark opposition to her sister's fettishisation of her own filth, and at this moment the audience finally surrender all allegiance to Dunst; they wish only to follow her, and by transcending corporeal reality with her reject the coprophagous behaviour exhibited by all those who surround her.

An Extract From A Larger Piece

Spice 1, Lion of Judah [excerpt]

…Biblical undercurrents are not lacking in the seminal Spice 1 album "AmeriKKKa’s Nightmare". The moving "Face of a Desperate Man" chronicles the struggles of a modern day Job in the bleak streets of urban Los Angeles. "Strap on The Side" epitomises the code of Leviticus “an eye for an eye”. Even "Stickin' to the 'G' Code" promotes the idea of a Law above commonplace and daily considerations…

A comment on Lars Von Trier's Magnum Opus, Antichrist

A comment on Lars Von Trier's Magnum Opus, Antichrist.

In his evocative work concerning the very forces that operate on human nature, Von Trier forces his audience to confront the very contradictions at the heart of their own natures. To Von Trier, women are inherently evil, and Nature has become 'Satan's Church.' The mutilation of William Defoe by Charlotte Gainsbourg is merely the culmination of his revelation regarding this fact; quarrantined alone within the ironically named Eden, the orgiastic violence that culminates the film is a comment on the mutability of the human body in the hands of the woman, the Other the male is forced to experience on a daily basis. Gainsbourg's clitoral destruction accompanies a moment of lucidity and sanity in her downward spiral; she destroys her capacity to feel pleasure, hoping that this will eliminate her uncontrolable desire for control and sexual gratification. However, it is in vain; she cannot, and her only expiation is now through death, which, in mercy, Von Trier delivers to her.

Table of True Propositions

The D minor scale is a minor scale based on D, consisting of the pitches D, E, F, G, A, B♭, and C. In the harmonic minor, the C is raised to C♯. Its key signature has one flat.
Andrei Rublev (Russian: Андрей Рублёв, Andrey Rublyov), also known as The Passion According to Andrei, is a 1966 Russian film directed by Andrei Tarkovsky from a screenplay written by Andrei Konchalovsky and Andrei Tarkovsky. The film is loosely based on the life of Andrei Rublev, the great 15th century Russian icon painter.
It is right to give him thanks and praise.
Amphibians, reptiles, and birds use the same orifice for excreting liquid and solid wastes, and for copulation and egg-laying; this orifice is known as the cloaca.
I am an adonis
By the late 1980s, Boy George had been struggling with his severe heroin addiction for many years. He attempted to perform concerts while under its influence. Addictions to other drugs soon followed. Determined to save George's life, his younger brother David made an appearance on UK national television and discussed George's drug habit, which George had been publicly denying at that time. In 1986, Boy George was arrested for heroin possession as part of “Operation Culture”.
The diagonal method, was published in 1891 by Georg Cantor as a mathematical proof that there are infinite sets which cannot be put into one-to-one correspondence with the infinite set of natural numbers.	s1 = (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, ...) s2 = (1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, ...) s3 = (0, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1, 0, ...) s4 = (1, 0, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1, ...) s5 = (1, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1, 1, ...) s6 = (0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 1, ...) s7 = (1, 0, 0, 0, 1, 0, 0, ...) ... s0 = (1, 0, 1, 1, 1, 0, 1, ...)
And, behold, two of them went that same day to a village called Emmaus, which was from Jerusalem about threescore furlongs. And they talked together of all these things which had happened. And it came to pass, that, while they communed together and reasoned, Jesus himself drew near, and went with them. But their eyes were holden that they should not know him.

A Few Words on the Behalf of the Demiurge

    Despair, Despair! Ethereal lamentations echo from the depths of the transubstam like showers of shards of broken glass to batter me by catatonic tidal waves of cut glass fishes, wonders of existence beyond existence, the indomitable fortification of the unimaginable. Like the penitent sculptor I wrench my head  in my hands as another masterpiece decays in instantaneous millennia into an abortive and formless hulk of clay. Why? I cry, and my grief courses along the cosmic web ways of ether like an electrical surge, detonating into dying stars within the deepest, loneliest and coldest confines of mundus. Every attempt I make, every world formed is doomed by my thick fingers and iron crusted eyes, by my inherent inability at perfection!
    Mother made me an abomination, her incessant and insatiate lust for procreation saw my genesis from her own frenzied masturbation; Sofia, Wisdom! How have you forsaken me, your greatest son? Where was your Wisdom in making me, as like some congealed slime of tar and disgust I slathered and slipped from you? Even in this, the great unreal, a partner is needed, yet your female hubris, your arrogance and scorn for divine order saw you slip the gaze of your own father and attempt an imitation of his magnificent feat, his onanistic triumph by which he cannoned reality into existence from his own figurative yet prodigious member.
    A pantheon of seraphic beauty emerged, metalight bending in the perfect rays and angles of the golden ratio, you burst forth like a princess, neigh, like a God in aspect, like a titan in potency. Oh Sofia, why seclude me, your abomination, so? Hide me like some invalid thing dressed in fishbone and the hairs of the dead from your brothers and sisters, the shame! Think on my Grief at not knowing your father, the greatest of the great, and yet the smallest of the small, the beauty of the sublime and the magnificence of incomprehension merged into the celestial architect, poetic in perfection, rigorous in application!
    Alone and hidden in the think, inky blackness of banishment, I too move to fashion worlds like He did, become a King, a God and Creator, from my fingers and thoughts spring the tendons of mundus, strings of tangible reality that I weave and knit together, mould into the great expanse of Universe. I create substance, and I create he very notion of a nothing that can be filled; both presence and absence are fashioned by my inherent tools, a working world, the picture of perfection, and yet each time it collapses back into sin and despair. I grieve, lament as I see my inability to build played out again and again. The penitent humans, even the pious, call out, but I cannot deliver them from the iniquity of the world I made; try as I might my Universe and all matter swirling within is fundamentally evil, a moral pestilence on the vestiges of divine souls that are sown like golden seeds to inhabit it.
    Failure on failure I cast these prisons aside, the tormented sculptor, hunched and insane, my power drive insatiate, my Despair incalculable. I rave for the lifetimes of a billion stars which flash on and off like strobes around me, then stand by the second hand of a watch I have created, wait the eon for it to finally tick around. My creative urge has gone stagnant, masochistic, arrogance now becomes me, the need to claim back my dues.     In rage I wipe away a continent with all its wailing population with a mere stroke of my hand. Sometimes the fireflies of the transubstam gather in my studio and sing me psalters in seraphic time, visit my creations of mere mundus and rejoice as angels. Come mating season the nephilim team like flies over my world, fornicating and ravishing the clay people that populate my fractured creation, giving seed to the most hideous of abominations; giants, alien chimeras and dark, chaotic gods that exist in the space between space. It is folly for me to clear my world of these pests, instead I rejoice in the decay they bring, a sea of divine vermin writhing in their sinful rites across the surface of my Earth, popping like sparks of transubstantial fire as they reach the apex of their coital desecration.
    Often, however, I tolerate these fireflies for they bring outer light to my inner sanctum, my hideous abode in the hem of Sofia’s tresses, her foul foetus, the spawn of parthenogenesis gone wrong and brutally abortive she hid me away, but close, so that my anguished screams ripple like a gentle breeze against her noble garments. Her fellow gods, they all exist and seed divine wonder while all so unaware of me, the troglodyte God, Yahweh, despairing and grieving in their midst, learning to hate, despise them their iniquity and their hubris. One day I will build the perfect world, then my creations and I will rise and throw them from the heights of the topless towers of Elysium, and I will rule and have dominion, and they will cry my name, Elohim, and all will crumble before my mighty gaze.

On The Phallus

We shall enquire, in the course of this treatise, from what the effects that bring about the phallus, take their origin. And what causes issue forth from the said member.

It appears to me, that man’s part, functions in such and such a way according to the manner in which the four phallic qualities are mixed.

There are, however, a considerable number of not undistinguished men- philosophers and physicians- who refer action to the principle of phallic energy. Aristotle, in fact, was the first who attempted to bring back the causes of the various special activities to this principle, and he was followed later by the school of Bacchus.

The ancients however; Aristotle and the school of Bacchus, have not been considered to have held a viable account of the origin of the phallus for almost three thousand years. Phallic causation then is the theory which I here posit. 

Phallic Causation

The effects of phallic causation, then, while the animal is still being formed in the reproductive limb, issue from all the different parts of its body (that is genesis); and after it has been born, an effect in which all parts share is the progress of the phallus to its full size (that is growth), and thereafter its participation in the reproductive act (coitus).

The activities corresponding to the three effects mentioned are necessarily three- one to each- namely, Genesis, Growth, and X

Genesis, results from alteration together with shaping. The seed having been cast into the womb or into the earth (for there is no difference), then, after a certain definite period, a great number of parts become constituted in the substance which is being generated; namely phallus.

Growth is an increase and expansion in length, breadth, and thickness of the reproductive member.

Now Nature constructs phallus from bone, cartilage, nerve, membrane, ligament, vein, and so forth, at the first stage of the animal's genesis, employing at this task a faculty which is, in general terms, generative and alterative.

Passing now to the faculty of Growth, the property of the faculty of growth is to extend in every direction that which has already come into existence- that is to say, to extend the solid parts of the phallus, the arteries, veins, nerves, bones, cartilages, membranes, ligaments etc, etc.

I shall say little of X other than it takes issue from an imbalance of spirit in the liver of the possessor of said phallus. When a woman takes the phallus of a gentleman, fills it with air, and then rubs it on ashes near the fire, so as to warm, but not to injure it, it shall become well distended. This shall allow the henious act of reproduction to proceed without obstruction.

Kant

I am the most sublime personage,

Endowed with untold genius,

Find a more detailed picture of me,

And hold in your sodden palm,

The category of lust.

The anus of Immanuel Kant,

Clasped tight,

He has not shit for fifty years,

To him it is as gold.

YESOD

YESOD

Or

The Foundations of Arrogance


    Corrupt and dark, the magpie squats on the crooked branch, its head cocked, it’s eyes beady. It’s body is an onyx stone, studded with emerald eyes, rough feathers like rock crystallised into intricate formations of black veins by a blast of subterranean heat, an avian golem of the night. It struts arrogantly along the gnarled wood, it’s shrill psalms erupting from the twin butcher blades that make it’s beak. The bristling feathers gradually undulate with it’s taught breath. Wings swing open like great gates, and it seems to grow exponentially in size, held in the air like the arms of some cultic priest at the alter of a blood sacrifice, surrounded by the twisting fornication of the fleshy masses. The wings swoop down, pushing against the condensed air as the bird takes flight, and up, and up it soars like a heavy, illogical balloon, casting it’s shadow gaze down for new quarry.

    Its fierce eyes like concentrated malice flash with amber fire, and pick out a small mammal, dodging and diving through the undergrowth. In it’s teeth is clamped a golden egg, leaking still warm fluid from the small fractures that extend like rivers, gorges from the indentations applied by the mammal’s teeth. The magpie gives chase, bobbing behind the scampering animal that dashes and dodges between cover and leaves, under roots and bushes, but the magpie does not relent, merely moves closer, glistering with intent.
    The magpie bellows and shrieks like a deranged harpy, some moonlit spectre that looms up and obliterates the disk of the moon with it’s almighty shadow, condemning the astral rock back to the eternal void. The mammal is small, but determined, and rather than lead the menace to it’s burrow, it wheels around and bares it’s teeth, letting the egg momentarily tumble from it’s grip as it stands it’s ground. The bird, driven onwards by its own mad hubris, is momentarily startled and wheels off in a burst of feathers, but swerves and alights before the enraged creature, it’s glittering eyes revealing a deeper knowledge beyond it‘s animal instinct.
    Like gladiators they square off, the silver moon and the specked stars like a solemn audience, moaning quietly in the night as cosmic winds strip them of the ethereal gasses that writhe over them a million miles away. Back in the clearing, green shoots grow out of the very Earth itself, growing with stalks reaching like arms to the sky, hands grasping, only to die and to decay and to rot, and become fodder to be engorged by the hungry Earth. In this theatre, this stage of fertility and the fertility of death, the fighters gaze deep into each others eyes, feeding each other the light of their infinite hate. There is stillness, quiet, and it is as if the world has inhaled all the air in the wind, and time itself has stopped. Then the breath explodes out like some pyroclastic surge, and the magpie and his opponent race toward each other like abandoned trains on fire, and clash in a detonation of feathers and flesh.
    The combatants grapple in an orgy of violence and flailing limbs, branzen beak stabbing, claws ripping and flaying skin, flecks of blood spattering the foliage, absorbed back into Gaia itself as they go unconsidered by the actors in this insane drama, caught up in their own eternal fracas. They become a ball of pulsating material, the two organisms merging into one creature of chaos, and then the violence ebbs as they discover each other, the tactile responses of each others bodies, the softness and tenderness of their frenzied intimacy usurping their rage, bloodlust giving way to pleasure. The meta organism becomes the pagan sex sacrifice, the two beings joining, becoming one. Boundaries blur and their eyes glaze over with the detachment of ecstasy, intimate and yet distant. They enter the nothingness beyond nothingness, the end of tangible space, emptiness without the potential to be ever filled, transcending Sefirot, becoming some celestial portal.
    Their fornication has a life to itself, but one without eroticism, just the fervent application and supplication of base desires; greed, hunger and sexual avarice. The motions of this whirlwind accelerate until the being becomes a blurred hurricane of masturbation and self indulgence at the cost of another, faster and faster it gathers pace and at it’s centre a pinpoint star of seraphic light emerges gleaming, growing slowly to encompass this new being of self gratification, blinding it’s pleasure blind eyes, spearing it’s vanity on skewers and pinpoints of light that transcend colour. This cosmic being detonates with a gust of a wind, a rending of curtains and the very ground cracks and falters beneath it, giving way in vast clods of earth flailing the intricate veins of roots like rocky octopi to the void below it. The centre of the clearing subsides into the Earth, carrying down with it the animal, now slowing its movements, panting, exhausted, spent, but still ignorant.
    Like Lucifer from crystal battlements the narcissistic chimera falls. It falls, and falls into the Horizon of Eternity. By transcending Mundus Archetypus the beast fled Malkuth and became an angel of it’s own desires, cloaked in the feathers of hubris, specked with the dozen eyes of greed that circle its head. It exists in the ultimate void, so becomes an impossible. It cannot be, so it is not.

    In the clearing the roots stretch over the chasm, and new soil flows like a pebbled river to fill in the gap rent in the earth. The moon and the stars shine down like white fireflies stuck to sticky black paper, and in the woodland, the animals call.

An Octopus' Mind Within The Body Of An Elephant, or, The Affliction of Mundus, Part I

    I come to consciousness with my mind feeling like a dying Catherine wheel spitting and erratic fizzling its last bursts of genocidal colours like dying fireworks. I reel like the victims in a car crash, captured in slow motion, then accelerate and my brain impacts the front of my cranial cavity so heavily that I imagine it fracturing and disintegrating into nothing but coarse dust.
    For a moment I am still, eyes heavily closed. Then I languidly move my tentacles, and find to my horror that I cannot. My consternation is confounded even further when I cannot even feel my appendages. My skin that is usually so moist feels cracked and dry, an arid desert devoid even of decay. I try to open my eyes, but the effort is murder. I am baking, cooking under some intense heat. Perhaps that is it, I have been ensnared by some crazy chef and delivered to his hellish ovens to become some cephalopod sacrifice on the alter of his chopping board. Mutilated, vivisected and served for a meal. Perhaps I can no longer move my luxurious arms because they are no longer attached to me! And yet I feel no pain, I realise that I am breathing.



  The air is heavy and intrusive, raping the tubes and chambers of my body with its musky presence. New senses begin to bedazzle my conscious mind, and my mighty intellect, though in some stunted body, reveals in this new pleasure, this expiation of sensation. I adjust to breathing, and it’s unpleasant character begins to wane as whole new tactile regions open up for exploration. My skin fizzles with electricity, and to my joy and waking mind I discover at least once tentacle. Like I am lifting up some great trophy I raise it high in the air, against the effort required. This new found strength and confidence causes me to again attempt to open the drape like lids covering my eyes, and breaking through crust and mucus I part those great fleshy bags. Ripped open like some new formed sexual organ, I undergo a great awakening and metaphysical crisis on taking in my new surroundings. I see my victorious appendage, but it is not the coral coloured collage that I had so lately graced. No, it is grey, and dusty, some filthy phallus severed at the end. My body has become desecrated, what fresh hell is this?

    I feel disgust, my once great crown of arms redacted down to this feculent parody, nothing but a half hearted imitation of my former glory. Nevertheless, I have always been practical and put this embarrassment to use, exploring the undulations and new forms of my body. I am large, large like some great rock covered a rough rug of skin. What is this new nature of me? Weight and heaviness overcome me, but they are me, this new beast, hideous and huge, like a megalithic statue of some pagan God, covered in the fornicating bodies of primitive heathens.
    I look around, and it is conformation of my enduring suspicion that I am no longer within that great womb of the ocean, smothered happily on all sides by the calming waters of life, the great surface of the Earth. For some cosmonaught spinning out into space, his capsule out of control drifting further and further from the gravity grip of the Earth, that tiny home to every aspect of man’s history from the cave men to the grand inquisitors, for this man, his last sight of Earth as he drifted into the great expanse untouched by men, it would be of a blue planet, shimmering with the sparks of life and love.
    But I am not there. I am in some barren land, some infertile waste of dead trees and sickening grass. The air is sour, and the soil is sour. Birds wheel overhead like shadows caught up in the sky, but they are decaying things, feathers fraying from their wasted wings like antique hand-me-downs; they, like the earth itself, are dying.