Purge the soul with self-flagellations, if you so desire.
Vanity finds no fulfilment by the power of conscience and the rhythm of Jazz rocks the intricate aspects of familiarity.
So, my brothers and sisters of our Great and Mighty Family, I urge you to relax and to abstain from your impulses.
Guilt is empowered by unsubstantiated perceptions of what we think is reality. But what is in it for you?
Freshly baked bread conveys a pleasing aroma that is not unfamiliar to the patriots of New England.
The Early Settlers understand.
I would recommend that you let it go. Do not rise to it. Simply feel the pulse.

I have travailed over the foresight of previous decades where we balanced upon the brink of trauma.
The end is just the beginning.
Coal fires emit a wonderful fragrance and they cast flickering shadows where thought-provoking sexuality displays her wanton brilliance across the walls of contemporary debauchery, don’t you think?
As snowflakes fall across strata’s of lost innocence, let us contemplate echelons of depravity where solitary existence is characterised by gallant company in the English countryside of Georgian extravagance.
The female servants flutter their extended eyelashes at ******* gentry, whilst social mores dictate the silence of rage.
Prepare the horses, oh sanguine being of unspeakable beauty. You and me: we need to talk.

I am truly vacant in the midnight hour of rock and roll nostalgia. If you flick the page from left to right, then you will find Celtic ruins of acoustic and electrical genius. I have personally borne witness to the black dog, as it runs down the country lanes of Kidderminster. It looked frightening over Brooklyn where hot-rod flamboyance yearned in historical yieldedness. Although the *** is boiling on the country stove, we must always be mindful of the children as they play in the bubbling brook of souls.

How disjointed is our formation, where the robes of the deceased are removed in the ancient catacombs of political espionage in the name of solidarity.
Are the concepts of “meaning” or “definition” limited to the unfathomable parameters of what we call “time”?
I need you to take the lead, where thermals amongst cirrus vertebratus formations generate a sense of lift in our seemingly jointed and articulated society.
Have you ever felt the power of a vice? If you have, then how fictitious is reality?
She is the Spirit of our Age, and the English countryside needs your dark and ghostly shadow.
As the vanity of composure is not dissimilar to a charismatic vortex, I bid you to release my lyrical heart into the stratosphere where proclamations of ambivalent identity understand the nature of sound.

Fragile projections of a delicate solar system are foretold behind the gates of the damp castle walls.
I recognise the commanding gentleness of the icy North Wind as it teases with advances of forthcoming brutality.
Chunks of freshly baked bread and thick wedges of cheese are stapled to history with the blessing of a contemporary Mother’s Pride.
We have travelled light years apart, yet we are inseparably joined at the metaphorical hip.

The blackened eyes of the distressed mare bulge from her cranial vortex, as she gallops through the darkened labyrinths of hades.
If you can cast your mind back like a fish on the end of a rod, to those earth-shattering moments where the sensitivity of our taste buds  in earlier childhood echoed across urban geographical contours.
Are you able to recollect the quality of those apostolic and culinary delights which were not divorced from the prints of contemporary issues which lay bare their scars upon our very hands?
It was all about the roll.
Yet, we have levitated and projected along secure boundaries where our silver chord has never failed us.
The sound of diesel locomotives are relatively hypnotic. Therefore, permit us to swear oaths upon this Celtic altar where the annals of history depict their runes upon the precipice of haunted equestrianism in "the back".
The beat of North America is mundane and predictable.
When we piece it altogether, we have a beautiful array of anthropological tragedy, with a subservient twang...if that makes any sense?

The altar of exactitude is as tedious as cooking a turkey by the flame of a matchstick.
Listen to the whispering spirits of the forest, as they echo in a beautifully haunting perpetuity.
Do you feel the chants of the ceremony as they flicker against your skin and penetrate your apprehensive soul?
Symbolic feasts abound in the turrets of the ancient and crenellated towers of gothic castles where gargoyles reign in masonry brilliance.
That which is assumed to be forgotten by contemporary presumption remains to be fully present, despite contemporary dismissals.

Please enlighten me in my utmost presumption, because I fall victim to the limitations of sense-datum.
However, I feel no conviction around my ambivalence because their truly is an ebb and flow of permissiveness.
Oh, the texture of Egyptian cotton is shameless within the spread of her luxurious, symmetrical and prestigious corners.
Please, do not open the door, for I suspect that the wolf will be at large. Let us not become so encapsulated by systems at the expense of metaphysics.

I am acquainted with the Keeper of the Gate, who stands at the centre of the labyrinth with royal authority.
Have you cast spells upon your destiny?
In wisdom, let us acknowledge that we receive less than the minimum wage for such prophetic dismissals.
Therefore, I radically accept connection to the unseen flow and venture beyond the realms of predictability.
So, I no longer make declarations or indicate anything in advance about the Great Circumference.
As we learn to reach an altered state of consciousness, we will then connect transcendental energy into what is deemed to be reality.
This is the essence of full-system psychological shamanism.

Oh, to be cradled in the arms of a stringed quartet, where ancient phantoms tickle forbidden structures and intertwine with my wandering spirit across baron regions of the netherworld.
As the fallacy of alleged progress warms the darkest graves with ambivalent laughter, I now ask for your permission to caress your slippery soul as it seeks to slide into cosmological inertia.
Articulation of the Algerian torso punctuates the pervasive sanctuary where seduction of the King resonates with my Arabic woodwind instruments.
Therefore, let us embrace under the canopy of Ashtoreth, as her velvet hours are forever shortening like the contemporary expressions of a wanton Eve.

If you were able to slice the moon, would you truly be able to consume it?
Those who wish to connect to the spirit-world must not be deluded by the presumed maintenance of an abhorrent character.
The essence of non-ordinary reality, where the personification of the unseen surrounds our material emptiness, requires a level of humility beyond the depths of Palus Putredinis.
Therefore, let us not scoff at exclusion, oh small fish, in an ocean which has eternal shores of teachings beyond the parameters of superior ignorance.
Egocentrism will not satiate the hunger of a lunatic who proclaims independence, yet who truly abides in slavery.
How can we demonstrate a happy medium without being consumed?
Trance is an open state where bias can be banished by gravitational collapse, if you believe it.
In my current solitary state, I can feel a host of sacred dynamics tugging my soul as the golden chord anchors my being to that which is considered to be “real.”

I can feel the wails of ancient ghosts, as their rancid breath slithers past my historical and misty perceptions.
The highlands have a story to tell, so please attend the ceilidh.
Anglican troops have brought violence through those who are possessed by the spirit of treason.
Therefore, let us now make haste to the dance and travel together beyond timeless rails, where austere mist hangs in the air like a Celtic obituary.
Can we at least discuss this repetitive yet hypnotic sound of linear rage?
My motives are sincere.
I am related to the True North, and I appreciate the resonating pulse of your entity.

Permit me to generate mass quantities of oxygen amidst this brazen harlot of political sophistication.
When we think about the metaphorical breath of fresh air, we are suggesting stagnancy at the very least.
I am not an arsonist, yet am firmly acquainted with those ****** impulses when they ignite the endless shreds of time.
So, my fiery spark of deviance, although arsenic is a metalloid which strengthens copper and lead, I give serious consideration to lemonade, marshmallows and pencils.
Flicker your glowing being around my place on this day of disgusting warmth.

As autumn leaves fall, they chant a ceremony of resignation. Can you feel the beat?
Savour the acoustic romance and acknowledge that the lion is the king of the jungle.
We simply cannot surf the parameters of sanity without emitting a scent.
Rest assured that the folly of foliage is profound in its wisdom.
Trees are our spiritual forefathers who have borne witness to what is concealed from us.
It truly is a mystery. But understand that no ghost will be at peace until it moves on.
Savour the rich and eternal aroma of seasonal variance.
History has not released her grip from the present and demands recompense.

As she perches upon the precipice of validation and despair, let us explore things at a deeper level where the surface sheds her scaly and silent veneer and ripples her catastrophic being within silent and societal expectations of silent rage and peristalsis.
Awareness and denial are ancient beings who collide in the face of legitimacy, as the rhythm of darkness has encapsulated my astral being.
Yet, I now have permission to roam plateaus which cast their geographical contours far beyond horizons of cosmological insight.
I love your texture.

Shake hands with the soul of my flickering shadow as it flitters around the confinement of paths which are visually observed by their myriad of sounds.
I can smell tragedy as it pervades the atmosphere, in the same manner as the keys of a grand piano echo their confident assertions with the resonating comfort of finality.
Can we have dinner together, and discuss those compensatory adaptations which are necessary to bridge the gap over crumbling cliff-top roads as they meander below our spirit with unnerving anticipation?
Let us continue to guide each other beyond superficial perceptions.
After all, we are allies.

Evidence may demand a verdict. But have you verified its credibility? What do you know? How do you know what you know? What are the parameters which have been set? Who has set these parameters? Many thoughts are nothing more than mere wishful thinking and flights of analytical fancy. But listen-up, my contemporary brothers and sisters of our planetary sibling beauty - epistemology is questionable. The world is full of non-believers, half-believers and make-believers. Is there another category which escapes my shallow attention? Please enlighten me. I humbly seek your wise counsel. I will defend you, despite the false allegations of your very personal prosecutions. Plausibility is not always as she may seem to appear.

The corridors of eternity are filled with a pungent black smoke, where seductive goats dance amidst the aroma of flickering shadows.
Regret and lost opportunity have forever lifted their elegant skirts with brazen mockery, and paraded their alluring nakedness with political and fornicatory statements.
From which Order do you harken, my brethren of unrestricted and universal boundaries?
Oh, ancient accomplice from unknown nether regions, venture into the underworld where spectres enforce their varying ranks of forgotten presence and renovate my dilapidated existence amidst this catalogue of brilliance, where simplicity and elegance collide.
It has been passed down to us by way of oral tradition.
My goblet has been raised along with the ceremonial blade in acknowledgement of sensual and procreative acts.
It’s a simple expression of gratitude to my Succubus.

Will history ever alter her ego across the seven seas of my swelling heart?
I love your unkempt hair, as it reminds me of a slippery ghost with unfathomable locks within the bounds of gender usurpation.
I must now make contact with my forefathers who hearken from ancient pastures of nether region mysteries.
As we balance freedom with permission, we can abandon ourselves to economic conundrums where we shake hands with our master.
I love your blackened pupils as they remind me of a casual vortex which seductively spirals into the abyss.
Lost authenticity has been retrieved.

Blues guitar has caught us in our transgressions, where the summer blossom splays her beauty like a New Orleans Madame amidst the afterglow of a musky and nocturnal vibrancy.
I have a fully loaded clip on my possession, and I am hungry.
So, shall we begin?
Your carotid artery is pulsating with tense anticipation within the sweet toxicities of a tragic and fretful solo.
There is such a responsibility of being a parent, and you owe me some money.
Let us purchase some Bourbon chicken on this eve of celebratory shame, because I have contemplated the chasm between the West and those who reside on the East coast of vice.
We have much to discuss.

Let us climb into the trenches of remembrance as we shore the sides within our millennial avenues of decorum.
Presumed freedom is perched on the edge of a crumbling cliff-top, despite our triumphalist vocalisations about historical purchases.
Someone may choose to place their hands to the side of their face, in an attempt to block traffic from peripheral vision, whilst marching across spiritual intersections. However, this does not reduce the reality of being impacted by oncoming traffic during the vain attempt to cross to the other side.
Five minutes to one is not a good time. As we soldier forward into deeper depths of decline in the name of advancement, let us position our hands at approximately twenty-five minutes to six.

The cushioned fabrics of early sensorimotor expression placate the salivating ghouls of formative destinations which lurk at the neurological gates of repulsive awareness - stripping our fragments and revealing the cellular walls of repelling invitation.
Unfortunately, each surpassing second dictates her significance across zones and frequencies, while we succumb to the arduous process of being ignorantly unwrapped and unleashed into the bountiful emptiness of insight.
That’s life.
In this crude and psychological pre-operational stage of misplaced trust, we are pressing against cosmological forces, into the realms of internalised experiences where the veneer is eventually understood to be characterised by utmost deception.
Let us become formal amidst this abstract projection into harsh environments where the donning of masks can no longer be undertaken with sincerity.
Here, my universal being of connected severance, is the gorgeous discovery of abhorrence.
Like I said: it is the beauty of our beast.

Pupils that were once constricted are not prohibited from running backwards towards the beginning of the end, where it is possible to rediscover the pathway which leads in a forward direction.
Have you ever received new shoes and permitted your attention to be captivated by the end of a desirable carriage as she meanders her way into the distance of nostalgic regret and bypassed opportunity?
How resentfully blissful is the reality of fantasy as she unfolds her callous plots and recommendations in the face of embryonic visions of legitimacy.
Let us take heed to our every step, as the clock mechanically communicates her loud reminders of presumption.
Incense may or may not have burned in our walls with glowing prohibition, whilst sorcery lays bare her blatant fornications.
As we engage in this dichotomous game of chess, let us now discuss the outcome, my toxic companion of allegiance.

There is such a conflict between ontology and task.
Being and doing collide in our ****** society where the earning of favour is diametrically opposed to cosmological principles.
Our identity is secure and is not to be ever found in what we think that we may do.
I really want to eat some bacon and eggs right now.
Do you know why?
Because olfactory memories trigger naïve preferences where footballs crash through open windows.
I have walked up spiralling stairwells, where moths flutter in ghastly avoidance.

Like a Victorian harlot who wears long-sleeved velvet gloves, her ghostly fingers tantalised the trigger of my ancient dreams, where vulnerability paraded herself with a boisterous demeanour.
However, my friend, the eyes are the window of our aching souls.
So, as we balance upon this verge of hypnotic entrancement, it is vital that we pay homage to the plants of the dark forests.
Just like the canopy parade of parental ambivalence where suppressions assert their course fumbling of contemporary controls, the atmospheric silence is deafening.
As I have already mentioned, the dichotomy of equality has slid herself up and down upon the phallus of historical expectations and self-abandonment, don’t you think?
Now, the frontier beckons us with her harsh legitimacies, so we must never forget the power of the diviner’s sage as she leads her flocks beyond the parameters of perception.
Can we now have an immediate discussion?

Your belief system can alter that which is considered to be reality.
Although vulnerability is a parade of commonality which adorns blissful blinkers, we must never forget that we are inseparably connected to parental validity and unequivocal yet treacherous insecurity.
I do not believe in gender stereotypes and embrace the promise that the taste of copulation is as beautiful and rebellious as teenage wanton prowess in possession of a ligature in a dense forest.
So, my darling, wear your crown.
It’s an acoustic romance where death has cultivated a harmonious melody with an essential bass.
How beautiful is a classical symphony of sadness which is enriched by a recent discharge from hospital?
The train meandered its way along distant tracks toward South-Eastern utopia.

It is always a pleasure to engage with the rich tapestry of life, even though the prognosis may be utterly questionable.
Are you able to articulate that in which you believe?
Whenever we examine the contours of this forbidden rush of ghetto adrenaline, the texture of sound flows like an estuary of hypnotic rhythm amidst our myriad of assumed identities.
Deoxyribonucleic acid is tasty, but only whenever it is spread on burnt toast, don’t you think?
Cast your mind to those dreamy recollections of the dual carriageway, where hip-hop bass resonates with eternal unravelling and the launch of a new vessel is applauded as it ventures across geographical ponds of progress.

There is something releasing about an expression of eclectic cynicism which is not divorced from an acoustic reality.
I have my PhD in testing times, and appreciate my role in helping to bring wisdom to the naïve.
However, we both know, that those from seemingly prestigious social echelons are also immersed in an oblivion of denial and Great Western dreams.

I am able to acknowledge the different seasons, where climate and vegetation are some of the various characteristics which are subject to unforeseen variation.
Our spirit is not divorced from scientifically defined Earthly parameters.
Have you ever heard of the wet and the dry seasons?
I must urge you to give thought to your position in this ever-changing climate of indigenous being.
The octaves of intense pizzicato are able to establish the facts with accuracy, where words are inadequate.

Let us run with lunar amazement whilst celestial beings bring bizarre revelations to our finite comprehension.
Can you hear the chanting of Celtic monks resound throughout the beeches of extraterrestrial seduction?
Footprints are powerful, as they leave eternal impressions which will never be unrecognised by the mighty collage of our spiritual predecessors.
I celebrate the continuation of what is deemed to be the future, simply because it is also a feature of the undefined end.
The texts and languages of malevolent souls are open to the advice of familiars.
Conjure my soul, oh forbidden mistress of ancient blasphemies.
We will always be connected to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

Wisdom of an Aged Ally

Carry my archaeological parchment around this historical site of future predictions, where the
tombs of Anubis are a scent of confusion amidst this welcomed display of harlotry.
Blues music may be ******, as she communicates her utmost intensities with sensual hatred.
However, I have driven through canyons of ****** and violent fantasy, where the abyss is shallow and neighbourly death is sold to huntsmen who are vagrants upon the rail-road tracks of collusion.
Just think about that for a second.
Who are the hunters among us in this echoing swampland of sophistication?

Latent are those transgressions which are gripped in the jaws of an icy-cold vendetta.
In the afterglow of a dusky duet, let us engage with those beings of undetected visibility.
As we balance upon this bright pasture of oblivion, let us detect the sophisticated scent of antiquity amidst a clockwork tragedy.
Many souls are tightly squeezed into a latex circuitry of ambivalence.
We are almost home.

The action of a stiff-upper-lipped sophistication hinges upon a fornicators conception where the intensity of lyrical articulation blinds her unwitting recipient with a spellbinding embracement of non-reality.
It is an aristocratic relinquishment where two barrels emit their projections with wilful intent as they posture themselves side-by-side amidst this gothic oasis of shimmering puddles which reflect light against the darkness of our ontological ambivalence.
It goes without saying: duplication is grievous to the creativity of a searching soul.
As death has been birthed into our lives, it is important to pay homage to our predecessors who began the end with conception.

The ancient future of a misbegotten conception is likened to a diametrically opposed depersonalisation of incarnate resilience, don’t you think?
Although the far reaching corners of the end resound her mystically alluring and pessimistic chords across galactical ponds of ecstatic connection which are currently unable to establish the depths of vocabulary; can we now consider the possibility of becoming mindful of our present moment of uncertain awareness, where forbidden dreams shed their lubricated skins in a mass ******* where consummated liberty is alleged to loose her bonds of socio-political confinement?
Nightfall has now dawned and cast her circle in this ignorant awakening of insulted intelligence.
Knowledge has perceptual degrees of boundless limitation, where regulation and relinquishment bow their soul in reverence to a spirit of learning beyond that which we have been taught, if this makes sense?

The haunting sound of medieval bells toll for those who travel the plains of astral execution,
whilst our chemical consistency is painted upon an easel of timeless rectitude.
Menacing is your gaze, oh mistress of death, yet also bewitching on this eve of eclectic consummation.
As blackness slowly consumes my fibres during this sensual dance of mortality, to the point of euphoric execution, I cannot help but think about the ****** *******, because she is a galactic mystery of anatomical predictability.
So, believe it or not, my friend - beauty is in the eye of the beholder, even though darkness may imprison you beyond the recitals of gothic prayer.
Do not pull my teeth out, while this artistic bass delivers resounding echoes throughout those wonderfully oblique plantations of our Mother Earth.

The limits of learning are determined by our character.
There is a collision between unconceivable worlds and we lack the criteria for differentiation.
The smoke of divination clearly reveals the crack between parallel universes.
Do you have an ally, oh spiritual conquistador of naturopathic roots.
Can I urge you to become introspective, as we engage with wonderful entheogens where we generate the divine from within?
Socially determined parameters of what is deemed to be usual are subject to fearful denials.
We would never experience twilight without dusk.

The horse and cart slowly meander along the cobbled village lane,
as smoke projects her pungent and spiraling emissions from thatched rooves - casting her grey contrast as she penetrates the menacing darkness and caresses the trees of the ancient forest, in her journey of elemental consummation.
Rotten teeth, debauchery and tankards of ale abound at the candle-lit inn, where the curvaceous ******* and buttocks of the wanton ***** are roughly groped in medieval lust.
Her shrieks of surprise are an expression of unleashed restraint, that release a shower of blazing embers of interconnectedness, which prohibitively fertilise the barren land of depleted social mores.
Let us now share explicit and superstitious tales around the crackling moonlight fire tonight, as the screech of the owl shatters the eerie silence of Olde English folklore.
Look at the children as they gaze wondrously with sleepy eyes and open mouths, in a state of nocturnal slumber.
The tension is tangible.
Long live the King.

The nomadic existence is paradoxical in its independent presentation.
Are you aware that a lot of good can evolve from a seemingly bad situation?
Let us applaud the Vulcan 1700 where Kings and Queens project through violent vistas of liquid-cooled destinations of voyage, where boldness lays bare the nuts and bolts of fragrant expression.
Take it or leave it. I am enveloped in the beautiful and seductive sound of acoustic death.
As they say in New Hampshire: Live Free or Die.

I exonerate your freedom of expression, as it reminds me of a grandiose display where extravaganza proudly flaunts herself to captivated masses, without shame.
The evidence permeates its way through our fallen souls.
If you were to caress the jagged edge of freedom and acknowledge the liberties of unequivocal slavery, then perhaps we could interact beyond the deepest and darkest hours of early morning recommendation?
Wanton lusts are irreligious as they parade themselves among the throngs of a murderous vindication.
Therefore, we must make haste to the throne of divinity and stand before the king, oh harlot of discrepancy, where we can give an accurate account of musical utopia.
Is there anything that you want from me?
A brief encounter is characterised by reckless youthfulness, and reveals itself before the parameters of respectability.
We hang on with vanity.
You can **** me now.

The malfunctioning soul is likened to a carefree catastrophe, where myriads of mechanics and technicians strive to direct inoperable machinery.
Are you aware, that I can see the depth of your pupils and feel the gyrating rhythm of inhibition as it cautiously lingers on the edge of an ophthalmic funeral?
It truly is possible to have sight, yet to have no vision.
However, if we legitimately manipulate the energy within our sphere of influence, then we shall fornicate with unfathomable depths of shaman sight.
Like a rock which bakes in the desert sun, we must remember those cold and starry nights where perception is personified by the nutrients of plants.
I love those goose bumps upon your skin.
Baroque is the fullness of sound, when the classical guitar strikes a chord with the folly of presumption.

Mescalito is around us.
He verges upon the release of inhibition, and stalks those who are willing to see.
Let us pursue oneness amongst these flickering flames of planetary and future nostalgia.
As I can taste your apprehension, it is wise to be aware that preconceived ideas break the flow of the sacred circle, my friend of genuine naivete.
In lunar amazement, I beckon you to join the dance of perception, where what is deemed to be reality is a mere mould of societal conformity.
The definition of fear is nothing less than False Expectations Appearing Real.
If you dare to acknowledge the force of a gentle breeze of the wind, then you will become aware that she is a directional voice in the wilderness.

It is an ancient tradition, and we cannot pull the cosmos apart.
Nightfall is upon us, and the spirits dance with sensual provocation.
Thank you for the scattering of seed, oh mistress of water, air, wind and fire.
Grant us inner insight and carry our prayers to the Goddess at each quarter of this explicit circle.
I am inspired by the elements.
But, please do not allow the gallows to prevail, because I am innocent.
Can we meet at dawn?

I have died many times in this short life.
But, I have to inform you:
I am not even a cat.