Mars in Scorpio

Little virgin thighs #24112 is called into the grip room by a voice on a rusted prison announcer, enters and only recalls steel bars. Time for her DNA injection.. The room disappears and only doctor clown face remains with a stethoscope swinging overhead and a deadly cloud of black gas coming out of his previously rehearsed eyeholes, the voice on the other end of the speaker saying lethargically that he summoned Satan and sounds of screaming voices all in the background. She comes back standing in the middle of the street, handcuffed to a steering wheel on the left wrist, nothing but a tattered jean skirt on, blood running down her legs, thinking she knows what: gotta find that smug shithead and offer him up to the fucking beast. Then it’s all by the short splotchy black hair, finds him stretched out on a couch. She clocks him once on the head with the steering wheel; he seems indifferent to the pain, so she drags him off the couch by one arm, thud to the floor, drags him along like a limp five-year-old, North winds coming in through the front door. He’s looking up her skirt, no panties, says, “looks like someone popped your cherry.” But that’s it. They get to the street where the demon is tearing through crowds of people. They lift him up overhead and give a good toss... Nothing like you expect happens. They’ve all been visualizing the stupid shit being torn to pieces in a storm of blood and limbs. Instead, when they spring off the ground with a hut three, he’s gone and the girl is caught with that look of someone trying to not get hit in the face by a basketball that veered off in a completely different direction. Then everyone is gone and only an empty cracked street remains. Cricket legs tell you not to worry about demons or Christ or anti-Christ, but they aren’t either. They shall not harm you at all... Then a metal toaster bubbles up in the Akashic sea. Only problem is you don’t believe in toasters, wearing a black robe and holding an index finger between your lips like the silliest of Egyptian gods, standing before pyramids, even refusing to believe in old glass tracks chanted back across several Aeons. There is a literal sea following like a lead coat over an abandoned street, the Sun of Ra most certainly present, obscured by the tantrum of our own little Gaia. And it’s hard to adore something you can’t see (Jehovah such an impoverished god, not power to smite, not to be mistaken for Jove or Chronos), by the delightful rays of the sun I tip my hat. And it would most certainly be a Ra sun if only we could see, banished like that to the realm of the invisibles, oh what a world! But not to lament too long– certainly not indulge in self pity or pity of any kind– before the back of my hand reaches my forehead I cackle out loud and thank the observable but infinite Nuit (forever blessed Our Lady of Stars) for all of everything and drink this Soma called “coffee” to be myself firmly Hadit, though wondering even as I say it as to whether or not caffeine is such a strange drug, having introduced myself some years ago out of childhood curiosity about the things implicitly denied to non-adults. When can we say to know anything– the effect predictable of course. Must we drink wine? I do not desire this, having seen it all before, having done it all along, counting by the bottle by the hour what a sad boring story from beginning to end.