WENNEFER

 

Seth had the hots for Isis.

Why else he go stiff his own Flesh & Bro’?

 

We 3 fetcht up in the Last Days

south of the river: “In London at the Temple…”

dedicated to I beautiful Sis,

 

The Nile Delta

London

SE1

 

I Sis likes her old haunts.

 

w/Seth looking to shift some hard-core skin-flicks

(me & I Sis doin’ what come naturally)

SETH: “Vice is nice but Incest… (heh heh)

& bestest is Twins, but not ID

-entical (heh heh heh)”

(true, I Sis & me is at it in the wOMb).

 

Seth worm his way into South London Outlaw Club Culture

(like specifically CLUB LUXOR, in the caverns under London Bridge railway-arches: cowboy car-park reclaimed refurbished reinvented for The Party At The End of Time

(and can’t you just see Seth’s beady little red eyes light up at the prospect of all those Astral Vampires let loose on all these rookie sorcerers loved-up and plump for the suckin’? – not to mention the dungeon potential for just about every variety taboo-bustin’ LIVE SHOW

(crank up me & my Girl

let we do what we do best))).

 

 

 

Trouble is, Seth has the hots for Isis.

And the one thing standing between Seth and Sis

is I, O, Osiris Wennefer, Heir to the Wereret Crown, the Crook and the Flail.

 

so, 2.30 am, The Party in full swing

Seth shows up Here @ the LUXOR with like a litre of juice.

 

“Hey, Osiris! Wennefer! Hey, Wenn! Wanna shoot for it?”

Sis I shoulda seen it coming, looming in Seth’s slick fluorescent grin:

“Snort it? Snortin’s for pussies! Wassmatter, Wenn. Scared of a little anthrax? (heh heh)

Joking, Wenn! Chill out, Bro! Sealed bottles. Pakistani pharmaceuticals! Snot like I’m asking you t’share m’needle! (wheedle wheedle) See? Unopened pack o’ brand-new microfine spritzas! Only skin-poppin’! Snot smack, Wenny! You won’t get a habit – though it is very MOREish (heh heh). Vitamin K (no it is NOT a horse tranquilliser!) ’s a battlefield anaesthetic – as test-driven in Nam, the buddy shot. Here, buddy, what say we step into this convenient unisex ahem convenience…”

 

Knowing I could never resist

this near-death Out-Of-Body Astral shtick

like I got something to prove to Sis

 

only when I pop the first flight

a fat crimson blood-line oozes & tracks down

from the puncture

(Nile mud)

& I catch her Eye that

“Wennefer watch your back”

look

 

I know Sis I shoulda known but O

 

now O going down down deep

down into the musk moss dark root of the skull

4 minute warning then the peripheral nervous

system shut down touch gone feathery

phat

prismatic

reflections

shatter

the face of the penitent

Magdalen

 

“Wenn?”

 

gone down deep in reptilian

mind tracking back to the

swamp sumping &

sluicing raw psychic sewage

 

& this must be done Eternally made Real in New Flesh

seeding the Spirit though Death & Resurrection again &

again Wennefer mangled & maimed in his Quest to ransom

redeem & reawake Her

as if She needed reminding She

the Daughter not of this Earth but

Sky

Sky come down to Earth to sport

to bask & frolic in its own reflection

 

& Wennefer always want-for weedy faggoty farer-of-ways

no match for lean mean machine-tooled brick shit-house Seth

 

& so like Now Wenn flat-

lined only his fingers faintly

twitching gone foetal

 

groping at some infinitely entrancing

sphere whose dimensions you can never quite

grasp because you can’t write yourself out of the equation

 

& shoulda seen it comin’ the ten-ton sucker punch

 

here when Wenn guard down

Seth whack me at the cross-roads

packing a red double-decker bus no. 343

 

SPLAT

on Borough High Street

scatter Wenn for Dead Meat.

 

“Then they wrapped him up in a winding sheet,

And they laid him on a lily-white bed,

With a bucket of acid at his feet

And a bottle of ketamine at his head.

Whack to the bass-line, twitch them feets now

To the beats your bodies shake

Party at the End of Time (warp)

Thrills and chills at Wennefer’s Wake.”

 

O dISmembeRed I partS strewn in ditches in lock-ups in ashtrays in back-alleys in biodegradable black plastic bin-bags

 

So now Seth got I (O) schmucked-up

 

in some twilit half-life limbo

hooked-up to a ketamine drip

E Ternal Waking Nightmare

 

where I Wenn be all too lucidly aware

among the painted wooden effigies

the Stiff in the box

 

hearing  Seth cantin’ & humbuggin’

through I (O) eulogium

Seth the murderer-mortician gets to sing

 

I Oratorio

 

 

>><<

 

 

Seth’s Oration* at the state funeral of his brother His Divine Highness Osiris Wennefer (O .I.V.), Lord of Eternity, First-born son of Nut, Begotten of Geb, Brother & Husband to Isis, Heir to the Wereret Crown, the Crook & the Flail, Sovereign of Gods & Men

* commentary by O.

 

Southwark Cathedral, 2.30pm

 

“We are gathered here to honour the Life, and to mourn the untimely Death, of our late lamented Lord and Sovereign, Osiris Wennefer, Lord of Eternity, Heir to the Wereret Crown, the Crook and the Flail…”

The Cathedral is packed to the gilded rafters. Front-pews are reserved for the immediate family, grieving Father Geb, Mother Nut, Isis, Nepthys, the women veiled. Behind them, the lesser gods and representatives of the great mystery schools. The remaining pews are taken by the High Priests and putative Pharoahs, the Great & the Good.

“And, in passing, I would like to take this opportunity to state on the record, that there is absolutely no truth in reports of a dispute between My Self and My Sister Isis, or any other interested party, as to the dispersal of the aforesaid Crown, Crook and Flail, nor any other parts of our late Brother’s Corporeal Estate…”

An area has been cordoned off for a delegation from THE LUXOR, with  representatives of its diverse shamanic, tantric and pagan traditions, in recognition of His Divine Highness’ special interest in Club Culture.

Only, as ever with the LUXOR crew, you got like another 500+ turn up at the Cathedral, claiming to be on the Guest List, and eventually blagging their way in and spilling down the nave and the cloistered aisles, to the consternation of the vergers, who, if you could read their minds (which yrstruly can, and does) are seriously preoccupied w/ Health and Safety issues.

So, anyway, the vergers have finally got them seated. The Cathedral Choir has sung Qui tollis peccata mundi from Mozart’s Mass in C Minor (K. 427), as specifically requested by the Widow Isis as being like the all-time No 1 desert-island disc of her late Brother-Husband.

For yes, it is I, O, yrs truly, Osiris, the mummified corpse on display at the High Altar, in my open Natural-Death-approved biodegradable cardboard casket – providing this commentary upon this self-same funeral oration, as delivered by mine own Brother-Killer Seth:

“The Lady Isis has authorised me to act on her behalf, as our late brother’s sole Executor, during what is, inevitably, a difficult and painful time, for all of us – though we can only guess, and tremble, at the darkness in the heart of the Widow Isis.”

Everyone listens in respectful silence to Seth’s disclaimer:

“The entire matter is now in the hands of our lawyers. I have no further comment, except to repeat our request that The Family be allowed to mourn its loss, in privacy, and with a… modicum of dignity.”

The silence deepens. True, Seth is laying it on a bit thick, making a meal of the supposed controversy surrounding my Last Will & Testament.

Everyone’s read the scandalous allegation, as reported in last Friday’s edition of The Ra:

That His late Divine Highness had left the Crook & the Flail to the Widow Isis, and his Crown to any Son & Heir she might one day bear him by virtue of IVF, out of his own cryogenically preserved DNA. And that Isis had specifically requested that said Crook & Flail be placed in the casket, to escort and protect her beloved O. on his journey to The Western Lands, and like when he ultimately assumes his Judgement Seat as undisputed Lord of the Underworld.

Only like how Seth had blocked her, insisting that said Crook & Flail were Instruments of Earthly Power, to be wielded on This Side of the Great Divide, in This Dimension, to maintain the succession, the Divine Kingship. And specifically to be wielded by Seth, in his capacity as Living Heir to His Divine Highness (not to mention aforesaid Wereret Crown to which, in the absence of any living tissue thus far having issued from O’s personal ante-mortem deposits in the sperm-bank, Seth has surely the strongest claim in loco filio).

Only those in The Know, and specifically the LUXOR crew, suspect that this whole story might be a plant, a diversionary tactic to throw the hacks off the scent, distract them from inquiring too deeply into the precise details of O’s untimely demise.

Because Those in The Know know how the entire Ennead have come together, and thus far with remarkable success, to kill the Real Story, keep it out of the Papers, like all the sordid details surrounding the Wearer of the Wereret Crown’s unscheduled exit in the wee hours.

Some have heard rumours of a certain unedifying photograph, allegedly going the rounds, graphically depicting said W. of the W.C. in rigor mortis et delicto flagrante, in the suppression of which image no less than six contract killings are said to have been executed in the vicinity of the Old Kent Road in the past seven days.

“And while we’re setting the record straight, I would just like to reiterate – speaking both as a man of the cloth and, specifically, as a Doctor (Universal Life Church) – that, contrary to what you may have heard, and even contrary to evidence of both physiological and psychological deterioration in the outward appearance of certain long-term (ahem!) devotees…”

The congregation, numbed by grief, is slow to catch his drift.

Only our late lamented Stiff-in-a-box, hearing every fork-tongued, wheedling word, sees where Seth is headed.

“That, paradoxical as it may seem when speaking of an anaesthetic (strictly speaking, a tranquilliser, though NO IT IS NOT a horse tranquilliser), preferably administered by intra-muscular injection, producing a simulated “Near-Death” or Out-of-Body-Experience…”

The silence is still absolute, but the Grieving Group Mind is now subtly fractured and divided. Those in the Know are now almost exclusively in the LUXOR camp, many of whom witnessed the arrival of the police and paramedics at 02.30 hours on the fateful night in question. Some even claim to have peaked into the Unisex Convenience in question and  witnessed the ghoulish sight of the God in his, already infamous, Death Posture. They know exactly where Seth is headed.

“That, used responsibly, therapeutically (and preferably under medical supervision) Ketamine… is both a Healing Sacrament and an invaluable tool to be used in navigating the Spirit World, not so say effecting certain (heh! heh!) magical alterations in the fabric of Reality…”

The other mourners are puzzled as to why Seth is using the occasion of his brother’s funeral to deliver a medical lecture on some obscure anaesthetic – or is it a tranquilliser? Obviously one has to make allowances. He’s still in shock for the loss of his brother. Maybe he’s got his dates confused, thinks he’s speaking at a Medical Ethics Symposia.

“Let’s get this straight, we’re not talking dodgy Es cooked up on some home chemistry set. Vitamin K. is manufactured under license, in Pakistan. OK so they decant it into like Rose Water bottles, the mules, but hey, 30 seconds in the microwave, nuke any unwanted micro-organisms…”

The immediate family are, of course, privy to some of His Divine Highness the W. of the W. C.’s less savoury, habits. And Isis, who knows him better than His own self, can see exactly where all this is headed, but still can’t believe Seth would really do the unmentionable (the skeletons in the cupboard, all the dirty washing (he wouldn’t!!!)) – not at his own brother’s funeral!

The first sign that something is seriously amiss comes from The Gods officiating at the High Altar. We see Thoth anxiously conferring with Anubis. At one point Great Grandfather Ra himself rises and makes as if to stop Seth, only to be gently but firmly restrained by Hathor. But it all happens in slow-motion. They move sluggishly, like ineffectual sleepwalkers.

It’s as if The Gods themselves have lost their power. Like Seth has got them all hypnotised.

So now, having primed his bomb-shell, though not yet detonated, Seth adroitly switches track, reverts to sanctimonious wheedling.

“And may I say, on behalf of The Family, how very gratifying it is to see so many representatives of the World’s Great Faiths, not to mention one or two cranky, some would say frankly deranged, Belief Systems, gathered here today, to honour and pay tribute to our Lord of Eternity, whom some might, quite legitimately, object is a minor Egyptian fertility god recently departed under (ahem) something of a cloud, who deserves to be ditched in the unhallowed Crossbones Graveyard with the rest of the Whores and Witches!

And yet, and yet… What a magnificent symbol of multi-faith communion, as we boldly enter this, the Third Millennium of the (ahem) Common Era, as we must learn to call it…”

(bow. scrape. wheedle wheedle.)

He’s got them all under his spell. He can’t resist milking it.

“But I Seth, also born of Nut, Begotten of Geb, Brother to Isis, Heir to the Wereret Crown, the Crook & the Flail, Sovereign of Gods & Men, yes, I loved him, not only as my Lord of etcetera etcetera… but as a Brother!”

(Yeah yeah…  My Brother, the old ham radio.)

“Now my Brother was no plaster Saint Patrick all over the walls in the House of the Snake!  I, more than anyone, know he could be all too human! Yet, for all his many warts and all, he was still my… m-m-my… I’m sorry… Excuse me…”

Fishes out a big red handkerchief, dabs at his streaming eyes, blows his snotty little drug-fiend nose.

“Me just likem say how much me Big Bruvver Wenny be wery touch to see how many pee-pee lives he touchy-feely…”

(wheedle wheedle)

Seth can’t keep it up (too much needle: scritch! scratch! chomp! wheedle!)

reverts to tweedle-dee dum retro-tweedle:

“Normals, I don’t do Sex or Politix in Church…”

The silence is now unmistakably English, like speechless with embarrassment, and bristling w/ suppressed tension.

“But the sight of all yous prissy puss pussy peepholes…”

Like already he’s lost the riff and he’s off w/ he pee-pee-pip-pop-pip-pette finnegan’s watouretting:

“And all this Beatification & O wakey-wakey Thou Lord of The Underworld and wasn’t he a Wise & Juiced Ruler of Upper Egyptology and I am the only one here thinking:

Have I come to the right Burning Ghat?

Are we talking the same Brother Wenn? Osiris Wennefer?”

The silence deader than Wenn-in-a-box.

“Because the Wenn I knew was found dead in the khazi @ THE LUXOR w/ arms like pin-cushions stuck w/ like 23 microfine disposable spritzas!”

The silence now punctured, punctuated by little popping gasps.

“Of which unedifying spectacle, I happened to take a polaroid – the which, having mysteriously vanished, will, I am reliably informed, be published in tomorrow’s edition of The Ra.”

He’s dying up there. What does he care? He never came here to win a popularity contest, or like seriously believing that he was just going to walk in and assume his Brother’s Crook, Flail & W.C., or his mantle as The People’s Pharaoh.

What does he care? The damage is done. In one fell swoop he’s desecrated his brother’s State Funeral, committed the ultimate, the Mortal Sin, defiling the Name of the Deceased at the precise moment of his embarkation for The Western Lands.

“Can’t say I never worm him! Wenn yuh pussy look at the State you’re in your arms black & blue Jack it in the butt like a man why doncha?”

Mourners fidgeting, muttering under their breaths. A pagan priestess shouts “Shame!” Others in THE LUXOR camp take up the cry.

Seth knows he’s lost it. What does he care? It’s done, plus he’s still got the PA System to carry him over the hissing, growling Mob.

“Some blame the drugs. I say fuck that! I wuz shooting three flights to Wenn’s one & look at me! The difference is I took precautions! I came prepared! When you come down to it Wenn wuz just anudder K-freak got sloppy & these Last Days We can’t none of us afford to get sloppy not with all these Neo-Darwinian Nazis looking to take out any quasi-Divine Entity what is stupid and careless enough to spike up in The LUXOR shitter…”

 

& before you can say Apoca-diddle-diddle-die-dum…

 

The Borough Mob rush the High Altar, carry off the Mummy, out the West Door, switch-backing through Borough Market & down to the old Crossbones Graveyard, hotly pursued by Seth & his bodyguards & We All Go Out in a jerky grainy monochrome newsreel FADE OUT

 

>><< 

 

Seth’s Big Mistake:

 

take Sis for granted (Think:

She weep She wail She rend She veil

She boo hoo hoo She soon blow over. (Sez:

“Don’t worry cup-cakes

We go give our Big Bruvs a cool

granite obelisk. Hell! He can have

his own goddam Necropolis!”

(wheedle wheedle

chomp chomp chomp

(Thinks:

only a matter of Time

Me gets to hump The Widow.))))

 

>><<

 

So how come I’m standing here, larger than Life, giving you Chapter & Verse on my own funeral (replete w/ sordid details of ensuing débâcle), consequent to my untimely demise in the aforesaid W.C.

Come to that, given my report of how I like stopped a 343 bus on Borough High Street, got whacked & smacked & splattered, how come there was even a Mummy, or anything remotely resembling a body, in any fit state to be displayed in an open coffin in Southwark Cathedral, let alone briefly hijacked by the Borough Boys, before being forcibly retrieved by Seth’s goons, and now, if current reports are to be believed, in the cold-store at the stiff-house?

See, for us Immortals, We Dwellers in Eternity, Time is not set fixed bounded or otherwise circumscribed. It expands and contracts according to our will.

So in the five minutes I’m locked with Seth in said W.C., we create the SpaceTime needed not only to sink like 23 flights in rapid succession, but also to create like 23 potential parallel universes and then lock ourselves into each (in sequence, though to your eyes, assuming you could see it, it’d seem to be happening simultaneously), to do battle, to determine the eschatological Endgames and outcomes of each possible world.

(Surfing the Multiverse, Sis calls it).

The 343 bus? The accident? Mere holograms, constructs, closed Worlds.

The bus scenario Seth had already pretty much abandoned, as unsustainable, by the time he delivered my Funeral Oration, wherein, you may recall, he explicitly states that I was found dead in the LUXOR khazi, having allegedly ODed on K.

So, this funeral of mine you’ve just witnessed (w/ live subliminal commentary by the deceased) is nothing more nor less than an intricate, holographic representation, deceptively solid yet ultimately insubstantial as a K-Vision, a putative World dreamed up by Seth with the sole object of destroying me.

Utterly.

Only Seth fucked up, lost control of his own Endgame. O sure, he did some… collateral damage… scarred my aura… to say nothing of my Good Name! But the Curse, the definitive, final desecration of my Immortal Soul? Wasted! Ha ha! He blew it!

The Name & Form of HDH Osiris Wennefer (his Ba & Ka & Shadow & Secret Parts with this etheric field binding it all together protected by divers spells & charms & amulets & blue shields & demon gatekeepers is not about to be dismembered or otherwise disposed of that easily!

He’d even gone and temporarily mislaid the Mummy, which – lucky for him! – his creeps had (w/ liberal application of cricket-bats to Borough Boy heads) retrieved. So now, while he figures out what to do with me, he’s got me in cold storage at Guy’s Hospital, the mortuary round the back, by the site of the old Tabard Inn, whence the ghosts of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Pilgrims are forever setting out on their Canterbury Pilgrimage.

 

>><<

 

(& so like unencumbered as I am & dis-com

bom-bom-bom-bom-bom-bollated by Seth

having by Now dumped O knows how many

litres of battlefield anaesthetic into Wenn’s basic ecosystem

 

(in cold

storage this last six aeons

 

(but Sis

w/ her idiosyncratic admixture of sympathetic

 

magic

& state-of-the-art in vitro

fertilization

is about to work wonders w/ a glass dildo))

 

>><<

 

Isis knows she has to conceive the Child Horus, Son & Heir & Avenger to yrstruly Osiris Wennefer, like in the old books, where she uses magic spells to raise O.’s cock and then flutters above him in the form of a bird, a swallow, and gets like A.I.-ed & w/ Child.

Sis’ problem: how to get at my Body, which Seth has got under lock and key (in the deep-freeze, in the mortuary, back of Guy’s Hospital)…

… and is not about to invite Sis to spend the night in my vault for the sole purpose of conceiving his nemesis. He’s already raided the cryonic tanks at the sperm-bank and defrosted my er… deposits before unceremoniously flushing them down the khazi.

So then Sis puts it into his mind that, sure, brainwashing the ravers w/ subliminal skinflix mixed into the nerdy VJ’s Mandelbrot sets is all very juicy lucy, but just think what we could do with a LIVE WEBCAM TRANSMISSION!

And Seth bites: “Hehheh! Vice is nice and incest etcetera, but LIVE NECROPHILIA? Sis working miracles on her own Twin Brother? Wenn the Stiff get a stiffy? Hehhehheh!”

 

>><<

 

Seth the Pornomancer

screening his furtive key-hole spycams

 

Seth don’t get it

Seth don’t spot the switch

 

how Sis get feathery

how she flutter above Osiris

 

(Acid is Sis’s medium

like she’s dropped some like industrial mind-

warping

dose

 

(She Was A BIRD

Man

 

(& Seth’s spycams can’t record the

fluttering handbell

u-lu-

lations

 

(initiations Seth can only dream & render

in Meat Cartoon

 

(what Seth never got was the glyphs

the secret signs the subliminal codes (the Flesh

 

was only a cover we not just making babies here

we here to sex the Spirit

 

>><<

 

        The Ra

 

HELL, NO! “O” WON’T GO!

 

SETH the FRAT-SPLATTER, the self-styled PRINCE OF PSYCHOPORN, has dorked again!

Not content with sticking THE KNIFE IN his own brother, Osiris Wennefer (R.I.P.) – and turning His State Funeral into a SORDID TRAVESTY – the Bad Boy of Lower Egypt has now attempted to NIX His Divine Highness’ Eternal existence.

The MUTANT GODMAN had taken over London’s south bank mudflats. He had the Thames foreshore and riverside walkway rigged-up as the Holy Burning Ghat in Benares, India. Eyewitnesses reported how SLEAZY SETH doused the MUMMY in KEROSENE, then THRUST a flaming torch into the BANDAGED CARRION, evidently HELL-BENT on carrying out an UNLICENSED CREMATION.

Yet – try as he might – the fiendish frat-splatter could not get the fire to light! The SORRY SPECTACLE was abruptly ended by the arrival of a small but determined band of NAKED WITCHES (cont. full story and picture page 3)

 

>><<

 

So, cut to the chase, the witches make off with my Mummy, ferry it away.

And Seth knows it’s not enough to stiff my flesh. He has to Nix O. Destroy. Terminate my Immortal Soul. Like definitively Waste Me with no hope of Resurrection in This World or The Next. Cut my connection to the physical plane. Annihilate all trace of me.

And specifically my Mummy.

Only now he’s gone and lost it, not once, but twice, which is beginning to look very much like carelessness. Seth knows, if he doesn’t get it back, and quick, and do the dirty, he’s fucked!

For now, he’s left holding bits of my Ba & my Ka, and sure he can still do a lot of damage (and the pain! You wouldn’t believe…) but even so…

Seth knows, until he finds the corpse, finishes the job, he’ll never be safe.

See, I’m not totally defenceless, I can still cast the odd spell from the Other Side, fuck with his programmes…

Though we’re talking, at best, like damage limitation. Depleted as I am from my recent close encounter w/ Grim Reaper, no way could I have broken his spell, unless…

Isis.

Has to be.

My hunch is she was using Acid to surf the Astral, repeatedly breaking in on Seth’s K-Worlds, creating interference patterns to break up his holographic Chamber of Horrors.

The Burning Ghat fiasco? Who else could summon up a Tribe of Naked Witches to put a hex on the funeral pyre, so it won’t light, even when Seth douses the lot in Ketamine?

 

>><<

 

When Isis found out she was pregnant by her late husband, she knew she had to make herself scarce.

And how! It was like she’d just vanished off the face of the Earth. No-one, but nobody, not Thoth or Nephthys, not even Hathor knew where she’d gone. She didn’t leave a note. She couldn’t risk it, not with Seth’s bloodhounds on her trail.

She knew Seth would stop at nothing to kill the child. Because he knew the story as well as she did. How she would give birth to O’s child Horus, and raise him in the Delta, the babe in the bulrushes. And that Horus would grow up to defeat Seth, avenging his father’s death, before bandaging him back together, Opening The Mouth and restoring the eye of Eternal Life, then helping Old Father Osiris up the white ladder to Heaven, thereafter to rule as Lord of Eternity, with the White Crown, the Crook and the Flail.

Unlike Seth, Horus will have no designs on the Divine Fetishes.

Unless Seth can stop him first.

He knows Isis will have to play it by The Book, the basic template, howsoever she may give it her own like contemporary twist and spin. She has to. We all do. The glyphs, sigils, rituals, the portals and pathways, the tracks are laid down and we have to follow, walk them, though not blindly like in some predestined monoverse. We’re free to reinvent, switch costumes, improvise our own little song and dance routines. Once in a while we’ll trick it up so well, you wouldn’t know it was there, but it is, always there, the imprint of our Myth.

Seth knows she’s out there somewhere, nursing his nemesis, breast-feeding the Child of Certain Judgement.

He rounds up all the rough-sleepers in the Borough, gives them a bag of smack or crack, each according to their poison, sends them out to scour the mudflats.

“And it’s a life-time’s supply to the Happy Jack or Jill who brings me definitive news – we’re not talking street-gossip and rumour – but like a hot lead, hard evidence leading to a positive ID of my poor lost, and perhaps emotionally disturbed Sister, and her res-titi-tution to the bosom of her still grieving Family… I’m sorry…”

And here Seth does a pretty good impression of the distraught next-of-kin, sobbing and sniffling and snotting, until an old Bag Lady like takes pity on him, offering him a dirty rag to blow his nose and a swig from her can of Tennants (both of which kind offers of help Seth politely, but firmly, refuses).

But if the street-people know anything about Sis’ whereabouts, they’re not about to tell Seth, not for all the smack and crack in the Ennead Family Vault. Some things are Sacred.

And all the time, Sis was right there under his nose. She never left The Liberty. Nor did she shut herself away in some dingy attic with the curtains drawn. She went out and about in broad daylight, consorting with the street-people, sharing their cans of Tennants outside London Bridge Post Office, swerving and staggering across the road to Cathedral Yard. You’d see her there, most days, ranting and roaring and touretting, howling curses at the timid passers-by.

Isis was that old Bag Lady, dabbing at Seth’s tears with her filthy rag and pushing cans of Tennants in his face. And he didn’t know her! His own Sister!

Seth’s big mistake. He didn’t know just how low Isis would stoop to protect her own.

 

>><<

 

Even so, as a God, of sorts, sharing the Blood Royal w/ Sis and yrstruly, a Divine Being, however degenerate, he did have a highly developed Sixth Sense, which kept nagging and niggling away in the back of his mind and keeping him awake at night.

One night, when he’s finally managed to catch a couple of hours shut-eye, he has this dark, prophetic dream:

It’s after hours @ The LUXOR. Seth as usual sniffing around, dropping clunky hints to the crew like how he (Seth) would do just about anything to get his Big Sissy back where she belongs in the bosom of her Family, up to and including writing off all the LUXOR’s outstanding debts. Now he’s going into his standard waterworks routine, sobbing & snotting &c.

When the old Bag Lady appears out of nowhere, proffering her can of Tennants:

“There, there, dear…”

And, without warning, shakes the can, spraying beer all over Seth’s face.

Only it’s not beer – it’s concentrated sulphuric acid, scalding and scorching and like permanently disfiguring his face, and before he can stop her, she’s dabbing at it with her filthy, blood- and shit-stained rag, and it sticks, like it’s stuck on w/ superglue, so he has to literally rip his own face off and his brains come sluicing out through the hole in his head and…

 

>><<

 

Now, having finally smoked Sis out, and once again failed to apprehend her – the actual Bag Lady having likewise vanished without trace – it plays on Seth’s mind: how she was there all along, right under his nose, and he couldn’t see her, until it was too late.

Slowly, dimly, some vague rumour is forming in a dark tunnel, gathering definition as it hurtles towards consciousness, to burst upon him with the blinding clarity of absolute certainty: that it’s all here, right before his eyes!

That the Temple of Isis is concealed somewhere within the seven caverns of The LUXOR.

And that that’s where she stashed My Mummy!

Seth gets some of his creepy, bent undercover Drug-squad cronies to bust The LUXOR, on the pretext of searching for hard drugs in the wake of O.’s alleged O.D. in the W.C.

They take the place apart, find the Mummy bricked-up in a wall in the Deep Blue cavern, like the old psi-trance room.

They wheel out their saddest, most craven junkie  – do anything for a shot or a hit on a crack-pipe. They let him smoke the crack now – get him like horny psychotic – hold back the shot for later, when the job’s done.

Then they rig up one those giant Mother of All Extractor Fans, remove the safety grille, switch on – the now-unshielded blades a whirring blur – get him to use it on me like a chain-saw.

They cut me up into fourteen pieces and put each piece in a black plastic biodegradable bin-bag. Then Seth gives thirteen of his goons one bag each to dispose of, as follows:

 

1. Right hand. Deposited in storm-drain on St. Thomas St. (subsequently contributing to problems of flash-flooding @ THE LUXOR, but what does Seth care?)
2. Left foot. Dumped on refuse-barge bound for the tips of Essex.
3. Left arm. Weighted, dropped from Dover-Calais ferry into the English Channel.
4. Right leg. Abandoned in left-luggage locker in Berlin.
5. Left hand. Fed to the crows on a high Himalayan pass, Nepal.
6.  Right arm. Ditto to the crocodiles, Northern Territory, Australia.
7.  Left leg. Tossed from an open window of the Trans-Siberian Express.
8.  Right foot. er… lost in transit en route to Timbuktu.
9. Intestines. Jerusalem, buried in the sand on the disputed West Bank.

10. Lungs. Donated to the Shibuto Tribe, Peru, for use in “vegetalis” healing ceremonies.

11. Head (including brain, eyes &c.). Ditto to “George”, tour guide, Temple@Abydos. (Seth playing safe, playing one at least completely by The Book.)

12. Torso (& miscellaneous splatter scraped off the walls of Deep Blue). Ditto to the Museum of Modern Art NY, briefly exhibited as a lost Damien Hirst, then removed when its provenance was called into doubt.

13. Heart. Upper Egypt, Philae, Temple at Isis, as once long ago (The Temple having since been nearly lost beneath the waters of Lake Nasser, then raised, restored and recreated on a purpose-built replica island in the shape of a bird (Sis’ mating form for conceiving Horus, and complete with its own Mammisi (Birth Chamber. (Once again, according to the Book)))).

 

no body nose fore shore what be came of I cock

& balls Seth sez he slung ’em in the river

 

???????

 

>><< 

 

O let’s not beat about the burning

bush We’re Egyptian for I Sis and I sake

 

We wrote The Book of The Dead

the original guide to the Other Side

 

Our entire Paradigm

predicated on Name & Form the Secret

Name & passwords for Gatekeepers the funeral

rites & hieroglyphic cartoon journeys to The Western Lands

 

done Eternally and solely to preserve

the ID of the Human Entity

keep Ba & Ka & Shadow & Ra-Force & Life-

Source together w/ IsIsOsIrIs4ever

 

see this is a cautionary tale in more ways than three

when one is: “K. is not a party drug, dickhead!”

two: “Honour thy Isis, thy Eternal Female, thy sakti”

 

then three is: “Who am I to judge? I am the God who comes

before The God who comes to turn the judgement on Himself.”

See, from Seth’s Point Of View:

 

Seth get to do the dirty job some god’s dogsbody

got to do. True. We in it together even when

I Sis give birth to Horus the Child

 

in the bulrushes who is Justice and Restoration. & yes –

by now you must’ve guessed – I in it up to Here w/ my own Flesh

& Bro: Seth my Shadow, Seth my Adversary, Seth my Ally.

 

yet somehow Seth still don’t get it:

 

Time is only linear when viewed

from any point within & circumscribed

by it. If you could get outside it you’d

see for yourself the future & past is eternally

present

 

(only not like SET(h) in stone

 

so this future has already happened where my kid

Horus gets to beat the shit out of Seth for what he done to Horus’

poor old Pa.

 

Time for Prophesy? So… I pre-see that 12 hours from now having somehow survived

this seeming fucking endless Seth-shuttered night I walk west upriver along the South

Bank into the infinite lucid & at long last bearable

lightness of being

into The Western Lands…

 

& mebbe I just go on walking crossing over Hungerford Bridge & up to The Mall w/ The Fairground & one of the rides is called CHAOS & it’s a dead ringer replica of some unresolved part of the human circuitry I observed on my recent K-fuelled Vision Quest & the sign sez: WARNING! DO NOT RIDE UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF DRUGS OR ALCOHOL

 

& it hits me. This is not only London at the End of Time. This is Eternity, All Time & Space present and, if not entirely correct, then at least, more or less intact and complete. & The Mall & Buck House are like a stage set… & We see through the rig, through the flapping flats…

The alleys & courtyards & billowing sails…

The Pleasure Dome @ Heliopolis

 

& We’re Home At Last.

 

& so but it goes without saying Sis has already tracked down & gathered my scattered parts connected up the Head to the Heart.

doing like She done in Upper Egypt to reactivate the Nile current down from the Heart@PHILAE (Bird Island) to the Head@Abydos.

with Horus and Thoth and Anubis to sew me back together, restore the Eye what Seth stoled from yrstruly.

(& so no I’m not about to spill the graphic beans on the mummifuckation rites the canopic jar the natron & linen packs & how Horus fed me the Eye & the Ankh & how Thoth & Sis Nephthys & half-Sis Hathor helpt w/ the loosing & the binding & The Opening of The Mouth.

It’s all in The Books. The Profs & The Docs, the Egyptographers’ve cracked the basic codes. O sure you got to read between the glyphs, but if you need it you’ll know where to find it. Writ between the lines of History. & if you in my crew you don’t have to go looking for it.

IT come lookin’ for you.

 

as once upon an Astral IT come lookin’ for me & I Sis & Seth who went

DOWN 4 YOU

 

& cleansed the channels & the portals & pathways

w/ frankincense & white feathers

& scratched on walls glyphs pointers arrows

passwords for gatekeepers

 

& here’s what to say

when you’re up before the Judges &

 

they ask have you ever

profaned the Name of Thy God or Goddess

coveted Thy Neighbour’s Porshe or his

trophy bride with the blow-job lips

stolen killed or borne false witness?

 

(or other mortal sin that flesh is grist to)

 

tell ‘em straight

no no no no no no

& no

 

not guilty

 

O they won’t buy it

you don’t get to worm out that eggs-

over-easy & winding-sheet white

 

then when your best

friend with the sad jackal eyes

leads you in to

 

The Weighing of The Heart

 

when any excess baggage ‘d

tip the balance & you’d plummet

into endless night

 

then let your heart

beat your heart

beat

 

feather-

light.

 

>><<

 

O sure there’s always Time

for Seth to fuck once more with the past

some proto-Nazi Apocalypse & we all go down

in tsunamis of bullets & bombs & plagues & poisons &

melted icecaps & not light but WHITE WHITE WHITE HEAT

 

but you can all rest

easy in your beds at night

my Girl She’s out there sifting the mudflats the slag-

heaps the stacks of stone cold skin-flick for love the golden

elixir the Immortal flight

 

rest assured I Sis already gathered 13 of my

14 parts & my Kid Horus got a team of crack surgeons

working 24/7 w/ Dr Thoth in Guy’s w/ the Ghost of St Thomas

where I am stitched together taped & bandaged – sweet bondage –

dripped and wired to their State of the Art Life Support Machine

 

only for reasons best known to Seth

Isis couldn’t find my cock

 

some say Seth done

fed it to a Great Whale

swam up from Greenwich

in the Last Days

 

so Sis

go shape me a

spanking new trick-a-dick-a-

DING-

DONG

strap-on

& I got to say it works a treat

 

& sure it would be kind of neat to get ye olde pecker

back in he rightful pack but you know

how it works

 

you works

with what you got & strap-on

does the job just fine & like

 

Isis always say:

Hey!
Nothing’s Perfect.

 

 

 

 

John Crow 2000 / 2009 / 2012