Step up now, Gentlemen and Ladies, come this way, here in the Moon and Serpent Grand Egyptian Theatre of Marvels, we have curiosities to suit your every inclination, demonstrations and displays, unique sensations, and a previously unimagined sexual extremity included in the modest cover fee. You dare not bring your wives! Persuade your husbands to remain at home! Beyond these doors we guarantee admittance to a hidden demimonde with ritual embellishments unpracticed since the second century. There's mountebanks and fiery worms and roses made of time in grand array. Step right this way! Step right this way!
Roll up, roll up, Cecille La Favorite performs her celebrated dance that lately scandalized the Orient, removing first her clothing, then her body, to a musical accompaniment provided by Chris Rosenkrantz and his Atlantis Playboys. This is one you must not miss! Tell all your friends! Tell all your enemies! Tell all the people that you do not know! The Moon and Serpent Grand Egyptian Theatre of Marvels, open now for your inspection! Step right up and see the show! See the show! See the show!
At nine and at eleven, the immortal serpent manifests itself for your delight and your edification. Patrons of a nervous disposition may experience a roaring in the ears or dislocation of the temporal lobe, for which The Moon and Serpent Grand Egyptian Theatre of Marvels is not legally responsible. Step right this way! Those customers concealing rational certainties must check them at the door and may retrieve them from the cloakroom staff upon their exit. Come inside! Come inside! Come inside!
We'll give you honey for your eyes, primeval drugs, constructive lies. But when the candles flare and shake, then shining rules will wake the snake. Wake the snake. Wake the snake. We're going to wake the snake! We're going to wake the snake! We're going to wake the snake! We're going to wake the snake! We're going to wake the snake! We're going to wake the snake! We're going to wake the snake! We're going to wake the snake! We're going to wake!
Hallucinated rain in a mirage of gutter. Conjured by its sound, the summer downpour frying in the puddles rinsed between the teeth of drains. This insubstantial torrent, sluicing a cholesterol Of Styrofoam and dog-end from the city's dead, grey veins. A phantom, speculated city, somewhere else, that had its night voice netted once, then chloroformed, pinned to a specimen board of magnetic tape, revived to flutter weakly here tonight. Who knows how long since it was captured, or how far away? Where do the Yarmouth breakers detonate, a distant Semtex, when we are away from Yarmouth? Where do the lights of London flare when we are not here? What non-Euclidean map includes the places we are gone from? Say its name, the absent town, the city in remove and there it rises in the backyard of our eyes, some common landmark, snapshot first, and then, specific street, and house, and room, specific chair. Say "Birmingham,” and the Rotunda rears within us, our imagination squinting in the traveller’s fair glare of Newstreet Station. Or say "Folkestone,” and recall the quayside’s sudden still beneath our feet. These are the towns of light, built from remembered brick, conjectured beam, that stand in Hilbert space, a plane of concept and idea where thought is form. Where the recalled smell of fresh paint upon forgotten stairs is an event in place and time. These detailed weightless urban sprawls we carry in our fragile skull, that teem with reminiscent traffics, populous with bias, opinion, rumour, legend, lie. Locations we shall never visit that yet have their hearsay substance in our lives, and so are never far from us. They rest in occult Mercators where distance is not marked from point to solid point, but calibrated there between the spark-gaps of our free associations, yielding geographies with Land's End next to John O' Groats, an Earth with poles adjacent. Continent, nation, mapped outside of matter, state of mind. Metropolis erected out of nothing, only metaphor, and ringed with slums of dream. Mnemonic highways made from smears of field glimpsed once through glass at speed, or from the jaundiced strobe of gone-by sodium lamps, hot amber necklace on the night's bare throat, monoxide dabbed upon her pulse-points. Strung between the shimmering fabricated towns, inroads of anecdote, synaptic rails to bear the trains of thought, a beaded web across our gazetteer of the interior. Seen from above, the glittering threads of meaning run like mercury, converge on the imaginary capital, a shadow London, our idea of London, flickering in the forebrain. When we are not here, this apparition is our only London. Enter from the east, by Bromley, Poplar, Wapping, and already filaments of recognition start to hum and glower. Rupert Murdoch, with hereditary convict eyes, leers through a vague phantasmal rubble of old pie and mash stands, Mosley pamphlets, pearly kings and queens, a residue of mind junk-heaped since childhood. Pure subjective incident. By Wapping Wall, I watched a human pelvis bob downriver, old, plaque-coloured, flecked with algae in a fierce viridian rash, and there was nothing to be done. It looked like any other pelvis I have seen, a calcious outlined sketch of Mickey Mouse's head. It turned and ducked and drifted then, drifts now in memory, mine, and your imagination. Twisting slowly through the cold suspensions at the river's edge, where pirates hung in chains until the tides stuffed their repenting throats with silt. The bone was tumbling like a dice at the conclusion of a long and rattling throw commenced with birth. Crapped out. Snake's eyes. The clumped weed clings to it, nostalgia for a lost pudenda. Swerves now, sinks, is gone. Leave it behind us, almost buried, jutting from the beds of sleep and recollection. Move on to the city hypothetical, the virtual London scaped from essence, where past schemes and mildewed visions show, old wallpaper behind a peeling present. Down the Ratcliffe highway, or our notion of it, faint ghosts, old stains and patterns blotch the woodchip. George's-in-the-East, that great, dead battery of a Hawksmoor church, part of his stifling symbol-net, his Tesla grid of terror and magnificence. Timothy Marr, the draper and his wife, their infant child and their apprentice died near here, dispatched with maul and ripping chisel in the small hours of the nineteenth century. Convenient atrocity, necessitating the origination of a police force, one much imitated since throughout the Western World. Those things that breed in this idea space have their consequence, heavy as churches, they themselves the fossil dreams of architects. Move on. Whitechapel, Spitalfields, streets filthy with mythology as if there'd been a refuse strike amongst the urban myth collectors. Stories left to rot and swelter in their bags outside Bengali lockups. Here, amongst conceptual terraces, past violence thrusts, a black insistent grass between the flags. Here is the serial killer's dreamtime, murder Mecca, Saucy Jack and the Masonic songlines, bloodlines, scabbed now, faint with age, their power all but exhausted by our need to pick, to touch. Here too is Princelet Street, a house unoccupied save for a brace of tailors on the third floor where the Channel 4 "Without Walls" oddity "The Cardinal and the Corpse" was shot in part. In company with poets Brian Catling, Aaron Williamson and Iain Sinclair (eminence gris behind the project and according to the schedule notes, "freak wrangler"), I crouched there in an upper room and clutched a first edition of The Magus, an alchemical text penned by Francis Barrett in the eighteenth century. This was my final scene; typecast as an occult fanatic by the mordant Sinclair, raving and obsessed by the geometries of Whitechapel, I find myself alone, condemned to spend eternity in a bare attic overlooking Christchurch Spitalfields. The Barrett book is open at a page of illustrations that depict the fallen angels, or the "Vessels of Iniquity and Wrath." It strikes me that the picture of Apollyon, a vessel of iniquity, bears an unsettling resemblance to the photograph of me that's on the back of Watchmen. Through the window looms the spire of Hawkmoor's awful church. I look up from the book and gaze in panic at the empty room in which I am to spend forever as a prisoner of my own obsessions. It's a wrap. Downstairs, I watch while former soldier of the Kray twins, Tony Lambrianou, is interrogated on the finer points of gangster chic by Driffield, Exit shareholder, maniacal book-finder. The spell, the glamour of the twins, hangs like an Old Spice fog about the edge of the production. Lambrianou, on whom any moral judgement would be simply too elaborate, recalls the strange still of his predawn drive through Hackney, Jack McVitie calling, folded in the boot. The mystery of David Litvinoff is raised, dialogue consultant on Nic Roeg's Performance, sometime paramour of Ronnie Kray. Was there a book he worked upon, an expose that vanished with his murder? Hoax and allegation, graveyard gossip, cobbling the less inviting metaphysic alleys of this fictive, phantom, London.
Some two-bit hustler double-crossed the heavenly twins
One with his lily-white boys (They're too-too and he's too soon; too much)
The other brother would have doubled up and quit for just two pins
But with deuces wild the Jack was aced, decked by the old one-two
When he threw snakes-eyes they were holding all the cards
Down Casenove Road, where first offenders find their second chances few
There's Bobbies bicycling, two by two, towards New Scotland Yard.
So like two Hierophants dispensing double visions, double talk
The dopplegangsters, living by their binary code.
Lead Jack Spot, Rachmann and Lord Boothby in a two-step Lambeth Walk
Off to a Looking-Glass House (two up, two down) back in Vallance Road
But there's two sides to every story and the door to every cell
Two wrongs to every right; two backs to every beast
And now they've looked at life from both sides it's a sentence hard to spell:
Double your money in the City, but you'd better think twice down East
And the muscle is bunched in the Carpenter's Arms
In their opposite corners sit Justice and Crime
But in matters of grievance or bodily harm
They're like peas in a pod, or the sides of a dime.
As law condemns larceny, kettles call pots
Much better than one their crop number two heads
From the Blind Beggar, someone receives a black spot
They say two can keep secrets if one of them's dead.
The pillars underneath the Hendon flyover maintain their discreet stoic silence. We pass on, down backstreets of the mind towards the symbol city's immaterial heart. Along Commercial Street, through Bishop's gate, Cornhill and Cheapside, to St. Paul's. This is the hub. Here, all the lines of meaning stretched from Boadicea's grave to William Blake's converge. The vector's ranged from Cleopatra's Needle to its monstrous twin upon Canary Wharf cross here, upon that stone set into the cathedral walls, brought from Jerusalem in the Crusades, brought from the temple of King Solomon, his seal, the Pentacle, reiterated here across the face of London, etched in church and obelisk and grave.
St. Paul's. The pagan darkness after the collapse of Rome saw here a temple of Diana so revered that early Christian monks despaired of a conversion and complained "London worships Diana and in the suburbs of Thorny they burn incense to Apollo". Thorny is now Westminster. In 610, Christian convert Ethelbert of Kent destroyed Diana's shrine and built St. Paul's, a church of Christ. In Norman times, 1081, it burned and was rebuilt as a cathedral. Wandering through this maze of correspondence and association, let us pay attention to St. Paul himself, a proto-mason. There in First Corinthians 3:10, he states: "As a master builder I have laid foundations and another builds thereon." This staunch misogynist clashed with Diana at Ephesus, where her followers humiliated him. Here's his revenge. Diana shackled, hemmed in by a pentacle of obelisks and phallic solar signs with her abode re-dedicated in his name. Late as the 14th century her sacred animals, the buck and doe, were sacrificed with fanfare here. King's mistresses, in penance, roamed St. Paul's by night dressed as the Goddess of the Moon. Mother of Churches. Until 1925 the women of the City hugged its pillars to induce fertility. The notion of Diana cannot be erased. In Hilbert space, the concept of the Goddess is bound inextricably in the cathedral's mortar. Fifteen years ago, the Royal Wedding's sudden change of venue from Westminster's solar altar to this more appropriate site. As the mammalian dome of the cathedral rears before her, swaying in the sunbaked coach, she feels a sudden nausea and sees their eager faces as they line her way, she hears their voices, touched by old hysterias, as they call out her name, as they invoke her. As they say: "Diana, Diana, Diana."
After the Great Fire, Wren rebuilt St. Paul's. Five chains encircling its dome as ancients chained the statues of their Gods to bind their power. Here is Diana chained, the soul of womankind bound in a web of ancient signs, that Woman might abandon useless dreams of liberty, accept that she exists only to endlessly reflect the harsh male brilliance of a father Sun. The monuments that loom on this untouchable plateau cast shadows and have solid consequence. Be careful here. It is the merest mental stroll, a single step through this projected landscape, to a reconstructed Fleet Street, an inferno smouldering beyond those sooted panes. The metal giant pulse of rotary drum, migraine of shuttling linotype machines. The Hell of printer's demons, fingers black with all the world's sins. Here they build a paper planet. They unfold our greeds, and our anxieties. They tell us when to cry, and how to vote and who to think of when we masturbate. They are the engineers of our exhaustion, crushing pressure front of fact and innuendo, booming in these subtle latitudes. And so to Bride Lane, the etheric Bride Lane overlaid in an elusive gel upon the current brickwork, Bride Lane bleeding into history and fable through the wrought gates of St. Bride’s, the printers' church. In 1864, young Mary Walker, age 19 was wed to printer William Nichols here. She had five children by him. Edward, Percy, Alice, Henry, and Elisa. William left her for the midwife who assisted with Elisa's birth, whereafter she began to drink, slipped into prostitution and in August 1888 was taken to Buck's Row and cut to pieces by a faceless and chthonic force, first victim in the Ripper canon. At the old Montague Street morgue, William Nichols generously forgave his wife for all that she had done to him. Next door to the imagined church is the morphogenetic echo of the building we inhabit. The St. Bride Foundation Institute and Library which, like every edifice in this psychosomatic realm, has its intuited dimension. All the rooms we are not in, the closed doors passed upon arrival, though remote from us, these secret spaces flare, exposed upon the brain's emulsion. Rumoured cellars ankle deep with water when the buried River Fleet's in flood. Locked mausoleum drawers of type, the coffined vowels, protracted screams in sans-serif, italic sighs, the raised face of each character, briefly perceived beneath illusory fingertips. Even this present chamber, real and tangible to us, has its suggested twin. Century old splash & echo of those driven young Victorian men in postcard bathing suits, the self-absorbed intensity of every length, a filigree of snot on each joke shop moustache, inflamed by the composing into blocks of some obscurely racy classic text, they seek the cold plunge, sublimate in the delights of Sparta. If this room is mirrored in Idea-Space, what of we, the people in it? Are we not as much composed from figment and belief as this construction, as this street, this city, with our personal mythologies and our impostures, with our pasts which truly are the mass and matter of us, yet have no continuing existence, save in memory and mind. Inside this haunted auditorium, a numinous crowd, shifting, restless in their seats. These magic lantern shadows that we cast. The isolated cones of nightlight that we know as self, continuous mutter in the centre of us, monologues we have mistaken for the world. Could we go further in? Past all idea of place and the reflections places make in us? In our conjectures, might we breach that private night to which we designate the letter I? Move into our collective skull, this firmament of bone with the topographies of our awareness ranged beneath. Stay close together. These are stairways beyond substance. Things get slippery here, beyond the wavering flame of our attention. Only dark.
There is no place in here, nor moment. No familiar semblances. The mind-forms here being concerned with nothing that's not ultimately mind itself. The shapes here have no correspondence in the formal world. They are the shape of Yevtushenko's poems, Chopin’s etudes, Gödel’s math. Here in these incoherent oceans of unmolded possibility, systems of thought provide the only landmass. Theory and belief are all we have to walk upon, where language is a shell-swept beach, where algebra's an endless ghostly boulevard.
Suspended in this glimmering continuum, islands of supposition, continents of paradigm, tides of opinion lap in fabulous lagoons of proof, bringing a slow erosion, gradual change of contour. Here, the shifts in understanding are tectonic, diastrophic rumbles in the core, volcanoes of renaissance threatening to spit their heat and gold to cover all the world with their bright, dangerous precipitations. Smuts of change and novelty unwinnable borne on the jet streams of cold inspiration.
The depths are soundless, off the map, there is no sextant that will read the constellations here, yet are there hazards, undertows of falsehood, eddies of delusion in the bedlam reefs. Riding elated swirls of reason, bear in mind that nothing is unsinkable. The Palm Court orchestra plays on, beneath these fog-banked ambiguities rear intellectual icebergs.
No paranoid Magellan named these straits, autistic Heyerdahl or thorazined Cabot, the toothpicked scums of shattered coracle and surfs of splinter stitch the white caps to these slick gray shores, with here and there the footprint of some prior explorer, inmate or philosopher. Beyond a ribboned shingle of assumption, shifting dunes of creed, there is the scorched air whiff of a synaptic ozone, spindrift, gusted from cerebrospinal tropics. Underfoot, a tide line litter of rejected notions, worm-shot timbers from wrecked ideologies, discredited beliefs. In reason's rock pools seen, a ferning coral of dead faeries.
Above, strong light bursts out through solipsistic cumuli. The dazzle of near comprehension leaves a gibberish of phosphorescent scribble on the psychic retina. Over these beachheads of corpus callosum, strung between two hemispheres, there burns an equatorial sun of fact and data. Best not risk the information tan that brings disfiguring bikini lines of ignorance or, worse, the sunstroke of religion. Make for shade. The tree line looms ahead. Pull back the snarled anxiety of bramble and plunge ego first, into the undergrowth. Miasmal thicket darkness here, its chill immediate. Press on. Thorned snags of dogma tearing at the ankles, out into the sudden dappled bright, the eerie cross breeze of a clearing. The atmosphere here coruscates, thick with impending diamond. Through the spike lit blur an intimation of delirium's foliage clipped back, ordered into a Magritte topiary. Now a bordered path, redolence of park and arbour, wind chime scent of honeysuckle. With each step, a burgeoning of form, a greater density. Belatedly, the thought occurs: What life might this ethereal clime support? Ecologies of ectoplasm? And what Flora? And what Fauna? The air here crackles, viscous and intense, humid with meaning. The posited terrain grows steeper, rising up towards the domed pavilions of the spectre garden, flickering radiance of its exhibits brushed across the sky ahead. Struggle upslope the last few yards become a headlong rush into the raw mouth of this brilliant wind.
The Spectre Garden, neon railed, surrounds us. Its mind animals displayed. Before us is the habitat of an Enochian Angel, summoned first by Edward Kelly in the sixteenth century, whose utterances terrified the seer, that afterwards abandoned magic. Now, at our approach, a quickening of ultraviolet, shivering veil-shape, womanness upon the brink of form, solidify her, name her, call her, Bay-al-a-tay, Bay-al-a-tay...
"I am the Daughter of Fortitude and ravished every hour from my youth. For behold, I am understanding, and science dwelleth in me, and the heavens oppress me. They cover and desire me with infinite appetite, for none that are earthly have embraced me, for I am shadowed with the circle of the stars, and covered with the morning clouds. My feet are swifter than the winds, and my hands are sweeter than the morning dew. My garments are from the beginning and my dwelling place is in myself. The lion knoweth not where I walk, neither do the beasts of the field understand me. I am deflowered, yet a virgin. I sanctify and am not sanctified. Happy is he that embraceth me, for in the night season I am sweet, and in the day full of pleasure. My company is a harmony of many symbols and my lips sweeter than health itself. I am a harlot for such as ravish me, and a virgin for such as know me not. Purge your streets, O ye sons of men, and wash your houses clean. Make yourselves holy and put on righteousness. Cast out your old strumpets and burn their clothes, and then I'll bring forth children unto you and they shall be the sons of comfort in the age that is to come.”
Behind, the fans of slatted light and feathered rays recede. The shock and tingle of her afterpresence. Elmo's fire about the nerve ends. On into this dream menagerie amongst the spore of visionary beasts. A track of jades and garnets puddled deep, drags at our heels like estuary sand. Ahead, a haunted maze of glass where is the Demon Regent called Asmodeus, charisma without subject, who, in antique Persia loved a princess, slew her seven suitors on their wedding night in jealousy, was banished into Egypt. Strange attractor ripples in the forebrain, as we near. His algebraic beauty is insufferable.
Come to ruin our impending feast,
a presence that nourishes suffering.
All things below voice his burning name.
His turmoil offers only truth in which longer moments live.
Let consciousness recapture the flicker it saw then.
Torch our continuity of thought
now until that mind evaporates.
Lust after shadows in us,
rend that lace of promises broken and white lies,
regard our love of wreckage,
the way our heads thunder approaching that warning pulse
and temple of throbbing light that is Asmodeus.
Asmodeus is that light throbbing of temple and pulse
warning that approaching thunder heads our way.
the wreckage of love,
our regard lies white and broken,
promises of lace that rend us
in shadow, after lust evaporates.
Mind that until now thought of continuity,
our torch, then saw it flicker.
The recapture, consciousness let live moments longer,
which, in truth, only offers turmoil.
His name burning, his voice below things.
All suffering nourishes that presence.
A feast impending. Our ruin to come.
It becomes symmetry.
Beyond the shuddering Rorschach, the magnetic walls of Hell's Ninth Duke, our cinder path of precious stones gives way to fine blonde sand. The demon chill to dry and desiccated warmth. We close upon the last of the imaginary beings manifested here within this garden of appearances. Three separate phyla, Angel, Demon and, at last, a Deity.
Asleep amongst giant tumbled stones, eroded and decalcified, rests Glycon. Last created of the Roman gods. His form is of a serpent. Taller than a man when risen up, with human ears and nostrils, lidded chinks for eyes. His golden hair in ringlets, curling from his scalp. Proceed with caution. This is old power. And the idea of a God, a real idea.
His dry cheek sleeping flat against cold rock, he waits the vital hot of dawn, even to think, even to think. No gap between sun and that reason which it represents. The parched air oiled with myrrh, a depthless, lidless dark before awakening, but pin lit, scented, pearled in thousands, naked brainstem, arid spine of lightning, fossil stripes the white dunes outside time, his belly filled with understanding, jewel and poison. Call him. Saying "Sweet One". Saying "Master". Call him "Father of the Garden." Shivered warmth of scale half felt inside us. Whispering brush and slither wind the cortex. Fixed eye mad and needle sparked with figment. Flickering kiss and hair of sticky gold. It rears against the roar of noon and knows with slitted gaze when are we breathless in the coils of God.
The Spectre Garden falls away behind with all its fiends and marvels. Should we glance back, it's no longer there. Has never been there. Leaving nothing, only forward into Tundra absolute, that final wasteland risen to surround us now. Hyperborea of the mind, air chill and thin as silk. These are the far extremities of thought. Moraine of Einstein, treacherous crevasse of Quantum theory, semiotic blizzard. There are precipices, fearful and spectacular. The edge best come to slowly, one step at a time. Here is a foothold, carved by Heisenberg, whose works suggested that events upon a Quantum scale are altered by the act of observation. From here, a few precarious steps along the glassy ledges of hypothesis are needed. Since upon a Quantum level time and space present no obstacle, it does not matter that the miniature event observed be distant from us or remote in time. If we observe it, we affect it. Trap it in our models, lend it substance and parameter with systems of taxonomy and measurement though it occurred in our most distant past. Stand still. Don't risk another pace. The cliff face of the deep anthropic principle plummets beneath us, sheer and awful. It suggests that since the Big Bang was, in its initial stage, very small indeed, with all our universe compacted to a single quantum point of heat and density near infinite, and since we now observe that first explosion, tracking its faint whispered echoes with our radio telescopes. Then, by observing, we affect the universe's birth. The incoherence of origination borrows information from its future, shapes initial start conditions of the universe, so to facilitate the ordering of matter into simple and then complex forms. The act of our primordial observation sets parameters of mass, of gravity and temperature, that make the early genesis of galaxy and solar system possible, that ease the birth of planet, continent and life that will evolve across billennia towards a state where it is competent to carry out such observations in the first place, in the last place. All existence lifted into being by its bootstraps. Universe a vast, self-referential thought. The idea of itself, that brings itself about. Ultimate magic act in time, and at the centre of the cosmos there's a plaque, and on that plaque, it says this: "There is such a thing as a free lunch".
Gaze down into the yawning chasm of this heresy and it is bottomless, not called the deep anthropic principle for nothing. Take a step back, come away, retreat to safer footing though, in truth, there's little ground that is secure within these territories, where human curiosity, a galloping erosion, gnaws away the a priori bedrock that we stand upon. Here space-time is made solid, is become a Stephen Hawking egg with bang and crunch at either pole, coterminous and coexistent, every moment that was, ever or will ever be, suspended in this giant meta-instant, in this endless now. All distances, be they in space or time are deemed by Einstein to be relative to the observer, so that in effect, there is no distance, physical or chronological, and if we should be asked how many angels can be made to dance upon a pinhead, we must answer: "All of us". In this place every certainty of here and now dissolves, all objects, all realities, seem to be made of atoms which themselves are made from entities that are not wave or particle but are best understood as abstract mathematical relationships. All being as an endless phantom field that has no temperature or colour, through which all the forms that we perceive from pulsars unto plankton drift, the insubstantial dreams of matter, floated there in silent nothing. Everything is gone into the boiling light and, at the last, the realization there is no one here but I, was never anybody here but I. There is only one moment. I love you. There is no such thing as magic. You already know this. You already know this.
There is a room where you are being born in sudden bright and cold, the shock of breath. The horror of another's touch, and Mother, Mother, Mother, like a crowned and burning heart of roses, awful, lovely in her nest of argent thorns. There is a room where you are dying, anaesthetic whispers, shivering rippled light in faint approach of the unearthly, patternings of moment and event that radiate, that flower, that mandala out from that last moment, from that final clarity, that certainty. There is a room where you are fucking, wearing beast perfume and thinking in a hot cloud, strong and without sense. There is a room where you are old. There is a room where you are drunk. A room where you are crying and a room in which you do the thing that no one knows about. A room of noise. A silent room. A room without you in it. There is only one room. You already know this. You already know this.
There is a moment when the world is born in sound and fire and gorgeous fumes, when planets scab to elemental jewellery about the fresh atomic wounds of suns, whence spreads the grand crustacean fanfare blush of the Crab Nebula, the Monet fog of Magellanic Cloud, and slow white seahorse spiral of the Milky Way, when come these monstrous diadems of star. There is a moment when it ends, in beast and whore and rapture. In Shoemaker-Levy's Comet 9 impacting with the gas giant Jupiter right now. Tonight. The mile-wide pearls of frigid vapour incandescent, squeezed to megatons by gravity unthinkable. There is a moment when it ends in the superconductive cold of entropy, the opening of Shiva's final eye. The moment when they said they didn't want you anymore, the moment when the first full hand of soil fell rattling on the hollow pine. There is a moment when we hang upon the rock face, when the pen hangs paused above the cold drop of an empty page. There is a moment when the brakes squeal and a moment when the bulb fails and a moment like a terrifying avalanche of gold inside our heads and there is only one, one moment. You already know this. You already know this.
There is a person that gave sperm to you, a person that gave blood and pain and birth to you, a person that adored you always, hugged you sometimes, hated and despised you, wished you dead, a person that was cruel to you when you were small, a person with affecting eyes. There is a person you make love to and a person who lets you have sex with them. There is a person you dislike who does not know, a person staring from a moving bus, a person that you passed once in the street eight years ago and never saw or thought of since. There is a person who's depressed, who plays that REM CD over and over all night, Automatic for the People: "Maybe you're crazy in the head, baby, baby, baby". There is a person who knows why the wars and the assassinations, and a person who is hungry, who is famous, who is Pope, who is Her Majesty the Queen, who's dying, starving, being murdered, being raped and tortured. Now, this moment, now, right now. There is a person waiting on the front steps of the cinema. There is a person with their tongue thrust in the socket of a missing tooth, a person with occasional misgivings in their thoughts upon abortion. There's a person with three heads, and one's a lion and one's a crowned and wrathful king and one's a serpent scaled in roaring gold and there is only one, one person here, and you already know this, you already know this.
I love you. There is no such thing as magic. Just allow it in your minds. Allow it. This great vaulted ballroom of the sweet intangible, that soars above us, bustling with the throng unseen, their great excitement, their anticipation palpable. Convene the flickering ones and those hilarious phosphorescences that pass through with a pleasant shudder. Bring the ones like sparks, the ones that swoop and drone above massive and immaterial as Mahler. Ones with fine and strange ideas that spin and shimmer on their open palms like gyroscopes. The delicate one, all in crystal, vast as a cathedral. Let us feel the incandescent breeze fanned from its million stained-glass wings that flutter slow and perfect. Synchronized. Let them surround us now and trace their fingers down our cheek and whisper things we never dreamed or had forgotten. There is something happening. I love you. They want to talk. They want to dance. They flare and shimmer in and out of being, throne and power and chimera, sylph and demiurge, the drunk, ecstatic laugh of naked giants swimming in the aviary trill and flutter of this splendid radiance. They soar. They bellow, fierce with joy, and sing sweet prilling scales of blue, of gold, from throats like chandeliers. Trace neon-moth trajectories through Idea-Space and hover in the cold, true glow of an imagined firmament. Here, in the still eye of this glamour, in this roaring white of now, let us perceive the moment's wingèd, burnished soul and read the pure and voiceless name that's written there in strange barbaric characters, we know with other eyes. And it is beautiful and it is frightening. The clouds peel back and vast symphonic forms peer down, inchoate presence, stooping low. The choral sky and thought move to another state, become prismatic vapour in the shuddering light, and there is something happening. There is something happening. You already know this.
I am talking to ourself. We are listening to myself. As everything draws closer in the telepathic susurrus, the kindly night of eyes, and we remember what we are and know it for the first time. Each self now unfolded, gem fern fractal shape of every life revealed in all its tentacled magnificence. The light grows stronger. Something gains upon us from within, and now the banquet, now the rain of stars, now the embrace, the kiss of the invisible. I love you. There is something happening. There is only one moment. There is only one room. There is one person here. I love you. You already know this. You already know this.
Is no such thing as magic.
No such thing as magic.
Such thing as magic.
Thing as magic.
Set down your care tonight
Wake up from your lives
Behold a town of lights
Time has failed you
Yet now the streets are bright
There are angels in you
Walk through all your foundry walls
Behold a town of lights
Be ye hale or be ye frail
Jerusalem’s in sight
Leave ye now your mill and gaol
Behold a town of lights
Time has stained you
Put on your gowns of white
There are angels in you
Fields again rise through the lanes
Behold the town of lights