Liam vomiting ectoplasm

Puking up ghosts (Liam)

The ghost's hands

Puking up ghosts 2

Love Spell

from William S. Burroughs' The Ticket That Exploded:

The young monk led Bradly to a cubicle-On a stone table was a tape recorder-The monk switched on the recorder and sounds of lovemaking filled the room-The monk took off his robe and stood naked with an erection-He danced around the table caressing a shadowy figure out of the air above the recorder-A tentative shape flickering in and out of focus to the sound track-The figure floated free of the recorder and followed the monk to a pallet on the floor-He went through a pantomime of pleading with the phantom who sat on the bed with legs crossed and arms folded-Finally the phantom nodded reluctant consent and the monk twisted through a parody of lovemaking as the tape speeded up: "Oh darling i love you oh oh deeper oh oh fuck the shit out of me oh darling do it again"-Bradly rolled on the floor, a vibrating air hammer of laughter shaking flesh from the bones-Scalding urine spurted from his penis-The Other Half swirled in the air above him screaming, face contorted in suffocation as he laughed the sex words from throat gristle in bloody crystal blobs-His bones were shaking, vibrated to neon-Waves of laughter through his rectum and prostate and testicles giggling out spurts of semen as he rolled with his knees up to his chin-

All the tunes and sound effects of "Love" spit from the recorder permutating sex whine of a sick picture planet: Do you love me?- ...

All the ghosts came to that party ...

From Derek Jarman's Kicking the Pricks:

AND THE SHIP SAILED ON

Adam and Eve (that's you),

And Pinch-Me-Not (that's us),

Went down to the sea to bathe,

Adam and Eve were drowned,

Who do you think was saved?

PINCH-ME-NOT.

What was Pinch-Me-Not up to? Well, years ago he danced to a wind-up gramophone on the deck of HMS Invincible with his mates. Afterwards the lads went below decks, stripped off, and fucked so hard they forgot the war. The ship sailed on and on, and reached a desert island. Was it the Isle of the Dead? I'm not certain.  It could have been Easter Island with its giant statues, or Stromboli, where in the sulphurous smoke of the volcano, he discovered a wild flower growing 'essence'. He picked it, and pressed it, and sent it home, to the neat little back-tobacks which he had left far behind.  His mates were pirates now, deserters, they fucked each other all night; no one came less than eight times; in the dawn they were like a clean room, minds opened.  The fucking burnt away the cobwebs, and broke their manacles.

One day, as the sun came up, they reached the very edge of the horizon. They lay in the dawn, crushed in each other's arms, satiated, but still erect. Who made love to whom that night? All the ghosts came to that party: Alexander the Great threw himself to the battalions that died for him, Socrates pronounced a blessing. Many were there secretly, but I'll not give them away. There was Richard Coeur de Lion with Lord Kitchener, who pointed at us and said 'Your country needs YOU'; Gaveston had his cock up Edward's arse; they had minstrels-Tchaikovsky was blowing Britten-and painters to record them: Michaelangelo, Leonardo, Caravaggio.  The guest-list was endless and they built their own world far away from yours, with doctors and dentists, bricklayers and ploughmen. The authorities never caught up with them because they were wizards and witches and faeries.  It was a queer old world; you can stamp on a fairy ring, but it will bring you terrible luck, and neither you, or your children, who know how sweet the faeries are, will sleep soundly ever again.

Imperfect Futures

Ghost Vomit

The name of this blog is borrowed from a favorite song of mine called "Heartworms" by the late and beloved Coil. Over a lurching, churning pattern of electronic noises, Jhon Balance chants, Magus-like, "There's too much blood in my alcohol," and then further on, after moaning about demons entering in through his ears: "Ghosts vomit over me." More on Coil: www.thresholdhouse.com

I intend this as an experiment, a hybrid journal, sketchbook, and archive. Experiences, enthusiasms, and exorcisms are game. How do myriad threads of thought combine into a full-throttle idea? I might tear this down. I don't know what its supposed to do. I don't know if it will violate tacit protocol (of discretion? maintenance of illusions?) - and, if that were the case, would that constitute a reason itself?