The pope is dead, all hail the goddess

The pope is dead bitches.

God his funeral was boring. And Grinder had a meltdown in the Vatican walls. Dealers ran out of coke and the bodies in hotel rooms mounted. God the funeral was boring. 

How many Patrick Bateman’s dressed in priest outfits could there be? a pope funeral full. (No one ever thinks the end of that novel could be the psychosis…) But we are not here to talk about them, oh no, Helen of Simon Magus fame, but fuck Simon (a pastiche of Solomon anyway),  it’s all about Helen… NOW. 

But we have to start with Simon just to outline Helen in his portrait in the writings of the church fathers to find Helen and her own writing, that strange text, Thunder: Perfect Mind…

(ah no scholars would say she wrote that… maybe… but that’s not the point of esoterica though, is it? Occultists revel in grimoire as imagined practice, how did King Solomon invoke such beings? Let’s take some opium, corrupt some exorcist rituals and whip out some animal guts to make it all happen…)

(in Cunt Ups, Dodie Bellamy cuts up erotica with Jeffrey Dahmer’s interviews to kill the daddy figures in porn and to feminise Dahmer into the act of cutting paper… into craft… no not taxidermy… CRAFT…)

(<<<<<wordimages>>>>>birthday cards<<<<<wormimages>>>>>Cunt Ups really a text of literary birthday cards?)(made by a goth girl version of Beverly Sutphin?)(her daughter? passing on the death gene… in on through paper <<<tunnels of set>>> killing him dead.) 

(mother… dead… dead… dead…) (WHO IS LEFT…) But Helen… who is Helen? (who such a numbskull question what constitutes Helen makes more Dahmer sense…case…we are cases after all… 

what do you hide inside?) (organs will always be an incorrect answer) (in this sugar coated mannequin…) of words… (books of cunt ups of being born through cunts…) (when men are cunts, they really are cunts… but the other souls… Judas knew… know… that tree of Simon Magus… but not his, Helen’s… her tree.)

But that’s the point isn’t it? The poisonous abusive poet, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, weaved the poems he wrote to his wife, Lizzie Siddel, into her beautiful red locks when she was in the coffin dead from her opium intoxication to escape her husband in the painless dreamland turned to <.......... d e a t h ………>

even in death, he imprisoned her in language, his babel in her hair, he 

regretted losing his WORDS so enclosed, she haunted him to break his hold. The body was exhumed, she was perfection, a sight to behold, a vampire made by twisting (tearing) language, to burn his soul.

So Simon Magus is caught in the language of the church fathers and Helen is even further in hell, she has no voice at all except for Simon through the church fathers until we see Thunder: Perfect Mind as her language, her words, escaped from damnation in the Nag Hammadi texts by chance or design… 

SAND burns the eyes : saves papyrus… to read again. (Oedipus cut out his eyes to love again. In the desert where Jesus met Satan, i.e. Oedipus raving in the fire of the pit of Jesus. They never tell you that in Sunday school… the tyranny of the child Jesus was the ravings of Oedipus to break free of fate!) 

So the church fathers say of Helen through Simon,

[Simon made] magic wonders by the art of the daemons who possessed him, and was considered a god in your imperial city of Rome, and as a god was honoured with a statue by you, which statue was erected in the river Tiber, between the two bridges… the Samaritans… confess him to be the first god and worship him. And they speak of a certain Helen, who went round with him at that time, and who had formerly prostituted herself, but was made by him his first Thought.

… wherefore those who believed on him and his Helen paid no further attention to them, and followed their own pleasure as though free; for men were saved by his grace, and not by righteous works. For righteous actions are not according to nature, but from accident, in the manner that the Angels who made the world have laid it down, by such precepts enslaving men. Wherefore also he gave new promises that the world should be dissolved and that they who were his should be freed from the rule of those who made the world.

Wherefore their initiated priests live immorally. And every one of them practises magic arts to the best of his ability. They use exorcisms and incantations. Love philtres also and spells and what are called “familiars” and “dream-senders,” and the rest of the curious arts are assiduously cultivated by them. They have also an image of Simon made in the likeness of Jupiter, and of Helen in that of Minerva; and they worship the (statues); and they have a designation from their most impiously minded founder, being called Simonians, from whom the Gnōsis, falsely so-called, derives its origins, as one can learn from their own assertions.

I think you more or less get the whole jist of Helen

                                         from this, at least in their eyes, the evil eyes of those condemning her witchcraft, the fucking idiots! (

witches! 

                              sweet lovelies! foxes with razor sharp teeth, but a wolf you are!) Grandma! (let’s not get into Spare and his aged flesh fetish! who doesn’t love rotten meat Mr Bacon?!)

But that is the thing isn’t it? The myth Simon killed the boy and made him into a familiar via a statue: the myth holds Oedipus in his construction : the Freudian dream of breaking free of puberty. Into Helen. To find Helen, the warrior woman! (Or man! not one trapped in crying over his 

failed youth! but what youth is complete anyway, it’s all transition… into what? I don’t know, why would I know?!) D E M O N S they make us the 

( there ISN’T a past to fail! but memory, the devil of regret, even Jesus got reborn by a hairy man (moon) in a lake ! what a fool believes in drowning (drowning without death no end! fuck you eternity! I’ll die to spite you! as you should, Jesus says winking!) in an ocean of sharks (I love sharks) they bite history to draw out the marrow of the bone! they are that good! )

warriors (well not me, just a poet with wild hair!) of the First Thought… (to be fair, I don’t know, it’s just reverie ain’t it?) (no one gives a shit, not even if you’re published by Penguin, seriously, no one gives a shit…:)

or if a failure to become… paralysis… the great sin. the only sin. according to Crowley… but I don’t wanna be an arsehole like him… I have met too many arseholes, I know their cruelty,

but my love of Artaud is a mistaken love… 

because I deny cruelty in loving his cruelty… in his toothless folly. of gardening the rats! of astral interrogation of his own motherfucking pain… pretending it is killing god to be his own daddy in hiding! FUCK YOU ARTAUD YOU PRICK! (Did you just cum over your white chinos?!)

(Aleister Crowley’s father died when he was young and it left a hole… every hole is a blackhole drawing in all the hatred and resentment and bitterness and fear hiding it in its strange burning obsidian hold… how can you transform what blinds you? Oedipus ripped out his own eyes to see again… I cut myself to see again, blood has eyes and so do burns… to shape the eyes to feel again… and somehow sexuality hides there… that soil of the tree… to grow into a face… another face of the beloved… not the dead or absent… not those cunts… an other) (the blackhole uses sexuality as its energy to make the swirl of oblivion happen, even when every layer is passed through, brought back from the abyss to be experienced in the full raging crisis of pathos and tenderness, still it turns… is there no hope but to loose? in the meltdown… of ecstasy… what about the other?) (Where is the reality of  flesh? other flesh? other? other? other? other? other? other? other? other? other? other? dead flesh. other flesh. breathing flesh. the cross of paralysis is death. but what flesh is other? to move me, to be me, to be apart from me, to exist… when all I feel is the swirl of the death machine biting my loves… biting me…)

(I CAN HEAR CROWLEY SHOUTING at meeeeeeeeeeee)(not at as instinct………… beastlybitch…………….Alice……………..)

but it was not Artaud’s mother who died but his sister. He tried to find his sister in every woman… in his visions of perfection, and he denied sex because of that. And heroin. Limp dick. He wasn’t mad, his mind was just fucked. I just wanna hug him. He was obsessed with his anus as the  

god. a cruel 

brutal god where he was utterly constipated and he had to find a way to get it out. 

THE PAIN <no better description of this than in 

Shane Levene’s The Void Ratio but what other way to find the ecstasy of the anus except trying to shit???????>

 JESUS ANUS ECSTASY

(Killing the dead by shitting after weeks of a burning bloated gut.)

And we read in the church fathers (those bastards again),

… a great Tree… from which all flesh is nourished. And he considers the manifested side of the Fire to be the trunk, branches, leaves, and the bark surrounding it on the outside. All these parts of the great Tree, he says, are set on fire from the all-devouring flame of the Fire and destroyed. But the fruit of the Tree, if its imaging has been perfected and it takes the shape of itself, is placed in the storehouse, and not cast into the Fire. For the fruit, he says, is produced to be placed in the storehouse, but the husk to be committed to the Fire; that is to say, the trunk, which is generated not for its own sake but for that of the fruit.

                                     I’ll say this now, in making Helen his First Thought, all of his genealogy comes out of her… there is no thought without her… the assumption is, he is the 

pleroma, but also he isn’t, he’s the dreadful demiurge drawing the flesh of this disastrous world (ah the need of spirit as pure!), but ? then 

              , who the fuck doesn’t like S E N S A T I O N? 

                                                             O R G A S M? Who doesn’t like cumming into Being? even Heraclitus, who may have been a woman, couldn’t put his vulva away?! Clit lick! tongue 

cuddle!

And now! for the first time! I’m just gonna propose this without evidence but evidence enough in Sigmund Freud’s obsession with antiquity and trying to find polytheism through his denial ( a worthwhile pursuit ) of (but drawing so much inspiration from) Christ ( in the lying down confessional he lined with statues of pre-Christian gods : their shadows overlooking them through the cigar smoke and most also smoked : in oil lamp light ), his wish-fulfillment dream theory he stole from Helen. And we can see this as he blatantly stole the death drive from Sabina Spielrein, and she 

was a genius : a radiant star, like no other!

To quote Spielrein,

I was led to believe that the main characteristic of the individual consists in being a “dividual”. The closer we get to conscious thinking, the more differentiated our mental representations; the deeper we enter into the unconscious, the more general, more [arche]typal they become. The depth of our psyche knows no “I,” it only knows its summation, the “We”; or the current “I,” viewed as an object, becomes subordinate to other similar objects.

And here I see Spielrein as Helen whom that evil parent spirit Freud stole from. 

(That’s the great Christian problem, that denial of evil, that denial of gnosticism, that evil can’t exist, only suffering, and more the suffering, the absent god is, not an evil god 

but an absent god, obviously from that Psalm verse Christ proclaims of his absent father in the crucifixion… but it has a deeper root, the denial of the evil of women! the idea women are 

pure from sin… because evil can’t make us children, despite Hitler (he was always evil!) or whatever… it gets so stupid and continues for so long, even Hitchcock couldn’t say it plainly, a man 

had to dress up as his mother to show the evil of his mother! (nothing to do with our beloved genderfluidity but a metaphor to unveil the potential for mother to be evil in a way middleclass Christian America could barely cope with but maybe digest!) what a twisted fucked up universe we love in, everyone has the capacity for evil, it’s in the 

flesh, to be, involves being cruel, to murder that mouse that comes under the door or whatever… purity is the fucking lie! for fuck sake!) (CHRIST IS THE FUCKING LIE (as wholesome purity but when he turns to flesh) he (his beautiful androgynous flesh mirroring my own) looked cute in a dress, oh my, my cock in his arse, me Judas, my cock, not just a kiss, in that garden of delights, he

                               gave me 333 gold pieces to sell him to the Romans for the ultimate orgasm, like the porn star,  Shinichiro Kaneko, who convinced the rites of crucifixion pracade to crucify him during their Easter parade in the Philippines and the video made it onto the Japanese VHS BD/ SM market, 

                                                                              but more true to Christ than any Christ after Christ.

And in John, we find the great revolutionary of Christ as the sex bomb!

When the woman accused of adultery was brought to Jesus, they asked him if he would stone her, and he wrote in the dirt with his finger (ah that phallus of language like 

                                  pissing in the snow but they knew no snow! but they knew the cum of their cum filled beds of their adultery to be a man!

) and with his finger (or whatever) he defied Moses (the demiurge law of false morality of sinning against liberation! and in gnosticism Moses is confused sometimes obeying the demiurge and sometimes pleroma : that dude’s lost in trance) with all his hypocritical morality, Helen (Mary) the prostitute, the beloved of Jesus (Simon)... full of demons but not demons,  the hypocrisy of men who stone her for their lust (her lust) SEX IN SEXUALITY. She was the most of souls, the first thought of germination, of life. I spit on men! for 

denying sexuality (including their own!) in their unconscious lust and deny on waking to kill women! for sharing in lust! to be lust! Jesus too in his honesty knows her flesh… and there isn't an ounce of sin except pretence to make it all dirty and beautiful. And he speaks of the tree, 

I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.

I think it is quite clear what he is saying here, do not be murderous weaklings, but be honest, be the light in the world that brings sexuality into the world, that surging orgone energy of sensation.

Spielrein writes,

As long as the still present feeling, i.e., the need for an ego-relation, allows the patient to perceive the disintegration of his ego (alien power), fear and anxiety will persist.

The woman here becomes that alien power that threatens the hierarchy of themselves (the men!) of society (that brain structured as over breed male society) so they attempt to castrate themselves (while keeping their own vitality intact) by stoning 

the woman! they are so afraid of her, of her gnosis (oh yes hidden knowledge) (gnosis of a pragmatic kind) (never to be spoken) there are no accusers except the accusation because they all fucking guilty of denial of their own lust enacted. They want to kill her (maybe the child inside of her) to preserve

their stupid hierarchical fuckwit moralism of being proper gentlemen even though we all fucking know, we all full of fucking lust! and of need and want and reflection and belonging of whatever I don’t fucking know id. or eros or eris as id as chaos. 

AndthewordsofJesusaresoobvioustheyareinvisible. unsaid. not hypocrisy, but yes that, but lust, in all of us. Spielrein writes,

… and here we find that the collective wishes that are alive in us do not at all correspond with the ego-wishes; that the collective psyche strives to assimilate the existing ego-psyche while the ego - every little part of it - possesses the determination to preserve the species in its current form (perseverance).

H THE TR E L EE OF E N

Why don’t we experience the same and keep reproducing it? Obviously, the wish for perseverance goes along with a wish for transformation, the latter of which means that a singular-representational content might be dissolved into similar material stemming from the past, and so, at the expense of the individual wish, the representational content becomes an [arche] typal – that is, collective – wish, which the individual projects into the external world as a work of art. We seek what is similar to us (parents, ancestors), we seek to dissolve our own ego-particle, because the act of dissolving into what is similar is not brutal destruction but a process that goes almost unnoticed. And yet, what does this dissolution mean for the ego-particle, if not death? It returns, of course, in a new, perhaps more beautiful form, but it is not the same; it returns as an Other that came into being at the expense of that particle. Just like a tree growing tall from its seed is the same in relation to the species, but is not the same in relation to the individual; and it is really more a matter of taste where we want to put the emphasis in the new creation (which came into being at the expense of the old): on its existence, or on the disappearance of the old life.

But we have gone way over time, no questions this week, but we’ll continue next time…