Wrathful and Jealous

Depiction of hell, in the illuminated prayerbook, Très Riches Heures du duc de Berry, Folio 108, created between c. 1412 and 1416 by the Limbourg Brothers.

How did we get to where we are today, facing environmental catastrophe, species extinction, conflict, hatred, division and destruction on a grand scale?

A critical factor has been the way that human spirituality has changed over time, moving from animism through polytheism and henotheism to monotheism.

In theological terms, the movement has been from “immanence” to “transcendence”, from integration to separation. Immanent spirituality in belief systems such as pantheism and animism is based on the recognition that Life, Spirit, sacredness is “in-dwelling”, permeating everything, everywhere. There’s only one world in animism and pantheism. There are no other-worldly domains, no heavens or hells, for the administration of rewards and punishments respectively.

By contrast, belief systems based on transcendence – such as the monotheistic religions – feature entities/gods that transcend Reality, standing above and apart from the world and everything in it.

In psychological terms, the movement has been from a recognition of feminine and masculine on an equal footing towards a misogynistic psychology in which masculine characteristics predominate.

In cultural terms, the movement has been from nomadic hunter/gatherer societies towards more settled societies based initially on agriculture and subsequently on industry and commerce. In hunter/gatherer cultures, the focus is on avoiding waste. In agricultural/industrial cultures, the focus is on producing a surplus.

Twilight Zone

Haven't done a dark painting in a while. And thank Ahura Mazda for that! It's 45.5 cm x 35.5 cm, oils on board. Called Twilight Zone, ungodlily enough...

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Escapegoat

57 Chevy Goat Head limited giclee print. 5"x 7" on a black 8" x 10" matt board. By Zachary Prior.

His name was Godfrey. His prison nickname was “Goat”. He yearned for a normal life, but had never Toad the line for long enough to settle down.

He’d been arrested on a Poultry charge of Storking, which would have meant a non-custodial sentence had he not been caught Badgering a witness. Six months into his jail-time, Goat had taken the opportunity to escape. Since then he’d been on the Lamb, Pigs Dogging his every move.

It was raining heavily as Goat made his way to where his girlfriend Gwyneth lived. He knocked on the door. No response. Standing in the rain, he knocked again. Still nothing. He smelled a Rat. It was all very Fishy but what choice did he have?

Goat shouted himself Horse. Finally, the door opened.

Come in out of the Reindeer,” said Gwyneth.

“Hey Gwin, what kept ya?” said Goat, “I was starting to suspect Fowl play.”

Divine Masturbation

Long, long ago at the dawn of time
even before the primordial slime
when stretching ahead were all the millennia
in which quite a lot, if not more, even many a
tragic mistake or foul evil plot
lay in the future but not at year dot.

Right at the top of history’s first page
when many an era and aeon and age
loomed far ahead to the greatest extent
was writ a uniquely dramatic event
that some call the Bang that was huge if not big
(please pass me my drink and light me a cig).

It wasn’t just huge, the bang was gigantic
God had felt mellow and flirty, romantic
sultry and horny and steamy and loose
in the mood to create not just reproduce
it’s really not strange, unusual or odd
to find thoughts of love in the mind of a god.

The Legend of the Dog-faced Woman

Animation based on detail from Triptych of Earthly Vanity and Divine Salvation, painted by Hans Memling c. 1485

Every year there is a date
on which all parents hold a feast
they eat and drink and celebrate
a certain hairy, monstrous beast
who growls as bad kids meet their fate
so listen up as I relate...
the Legend of the Dog-faced Woman.

Once two kids of Satan's spawn
an evil boy, the girl a bitch
came upon a magic thorn
with which they pricked a sad old witch
and that was when the curse was sworn
and thus it was that then was born...
the Legend of the Dog-faced Woman.

When children disrespect their mums
or fail to listen to their dads
when kids forget to wipe their bums
or won't switch channels in the ads
or scream or sulk or suck their thumbs
tell them a tale, and here it comes...
The Legend of the Dog-faced Woman.

View from a shit-stained boulder

Lost, thirst-maddened, flyblown and with feet burnt black, the Seeker wondered the endless desert. Tongue grotesquely swollen, he climbed the highest mountain. Eyes horribly bulging, he swam the deepest sea.

For untold aeons he searched and looked hither and thither, high and low... driven by the primeval, urgent, elemental urge to Seek. Seek what? Doesn’t matter. Shaddup.

Lost, the Seeker sought.

Out of time, outside of time, high upon a craggy crag the Seeker encountered an elderly guru of dubious provenance, indeterminate gender and reproachable demeanour. Gnarled and nut-brown ze wast, perched cross-legged upon a shit-stained boulder, the smell of an oily rag emanating from zer ambiguous loins.

Jubilation rose within the Seeker’s throbberous heart. Humbly on chafed knees approached he the Nut-brown. Then eyes downcast spake he demurely, saying:

How eating dogshit can avert death

The male and female primordial buddhas Samantabhandra and Samantabhadri in union. Thangkas painted by Shawu Tsering and photographed by Jill Morley Smith are in the private collection of Gyurme Dorje.

If we were sitting on a mountaintop with the wind in our hair and the stars in our eyes and a mug of yak-buttered tea in our hands, maybe just maybe we could have a productive conversation about the Book.

I'm talking about The Tibetan Book of the Dead, deluxe edition, with introduction by the Dalai Lama, Penguin Books Ltd, 2005.

Much of the material is outrageously bizarre and peculiar (in my eyes, at the time of reading). For example, here's an excerpt from the Specific Rites for Averting Death:

“When the indication of protruding ankle bones appears, one should face westward towards the sun when it is close to setting and remove one's clothes. Then, placing a dog's tail under oneself, and some dog excrement in a heap in front, one should eat a mouthful and bark like a dog. This should be repeated three times...

“Also in cases where other people are afflicted by illness: if the roots of their teeth grow grimy and black, such a person should wear a goat's skin, face the sunrise, and bleat three times like a goat. Similarly, in cases where the nostrils sag inwards, it will be beneficial if one visualises the syllable A on the tip of the subject's nose, recites the syllable A twenty-one times, and bathes in various rivers...” (Number of rivers not specified.)

Loincloth of the Mastress

In her homely twig-built Hut, a girlwoman listened to the little birdies tweeting, and smiled her agreement. And why wouldn’t she?

Young she was, and strong. Her belly was full. Her stools were firm. Her hair was long, with no split ends. Her thighs were alabaster, and she clasped them a lot. Life was good. All her needs were supplied in ampleness and abunditude.

For sustenance she plucked the fruit off the trees and the roots from the ground.

For shelter she had her happy Hut, her twig-built. And for maintenance purposes, the surrounding woodland vale was a veritable House of Hardware.

For clothing and footwear, she had no need or want. Warm and clement was the clime, and the very ground kissed her soles and toes with lips of soft, hydroxylising meadow-wort. On special occasions she wore her hand-woven peat-yarn panties, which she kept in a bulrush basket by her bed.

For companionship she lacked not. There were few if any human peoples within a hundred miles of her twig-built, but all the beasts, bears, birds, bees and bugs were her associates, if not friends, in the most profound and pompous sense.

For conversation she only had to turn to the nearest deer-turd, the fleas within her bushy armpits, or even the very moss beneath her naked feats. For she had been born with the Gift of the Tongue — she could instantly and instinctively understand all the languages of human- and Barbarian-kind; as well as all the secret dialects and pidgins of creatures great and small, even of stones and bones and other inanimates; and of spirits, sparrows, auctioneers, town criers and gypsies, nanny goats, pilchards and sphagnum. Yes, and pigeons too.

The Plughole of Nothingness

Mastress, a gnarled and nut-brown guru of indeterminate gender

“Uncanny, Mastress is it not, how the processes of consciousness conspire to emerge unwittingly, unknowingly and unknowably behind the Curtains of Myness on the Stage of Solipsism in the Life Drama now playing at the Theatre of Self,” said the Novice to the Guru, a gnarled and nut-brown mendicant of indeterminate extraction and inherence, naked but for a dubious loincloth in the early years of retirement.

Having spoken informally, in a cringingly nervous and offputting attempt at the easy badinage of one learned colleague with another, the Novice flinched then winced then cowered behind the large laundry basket that doubled as a small laundry basket on top of another.

“If that’s what you’ve derived from the Teachings,” quoth the aged Guru, imperturbably eating a banana,” then you have derived yourself. Ex nihilo nihil fit. As it is written, so shall it be...”

“But Mastress, if I am not for myself, who is?” implored the Novice piteously, “and if not now, then when?”

“Nobody, never. Or everybody always. Now go sweep the stair. Perhaps you’ll meet a man who isn’t there. If only he were you,” grumbled the Nut-brown querulously, dugs flapping mysteriously in a windless breeze.

Le Club Nosferatu

It was 3:00 am and they were hungry. Where could they go in the City to feed? There were hardly any people about and all the restaurants and take-away joints were closed. So after some debate they decided to go clubbing instead.

When they got there the music was pounding loud enough to burst the eardrums of a beggar sleeping in the alley out back. He clutched his skull and wailed piteously. The blood ran down his cheeks.

"Well that's handy," said Armand, "we can have a quick snack before we go in!"

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Mysterious doctors treat peculiar diseases

The Reward of Cruelty, an engraving by William Hogarth, (1697–1764)

Oh, you’ll know them when you see them. Mysterious doctors have sinister laughs, and they rub their hands together in glee a lot. Sometimes they wear white coats, other times blue.

They say things like “mmmmm” and “tsk, tsk” and “tut, tut” and “say Ahh” and “what have we here”. They use words ending in “itis”.

They grow goatees to cover their pimply chins. Their eyes bulge. They have lots of hair growing in their nostrils. They have very bad breath.

Mysterious doctors treat mysterious ailments and peculiar diseases, including Housemaid’s Knee, Nutcracker’s Jaw, Wanker’s Wrist, Wondering Nipple, Quackenburger’s Dropsy, Hog-snout Syndrome, Thrush, Sparrow and of course virulent Monday-itis. Not to mention Ankylosing Spondylitis, Myasthenia Gravis and Sixth Nerve Palsy.

Mysterious doctors are adept at removing mysterious organs, and frequently recommend slicing the brain into disconnected halves (very callous, colossal corpses) — a sinister procedure requiring great dexterity.

For mysterious ailments mysterious doctors prescribe mysterious treatments, including but not limited to moxibustion, hirudotherapy and maggot debridement therapy (MDT).

Homo the sap pronks no more

Once upon a fatuous time, when dark desires eloped with virgin pixies, and antelopes no longer pronked stotted or sprinked upon the veldt... when no more cantaloupes in fruity embrace with swarthy greengrocers did entwine... when all the zombies in the world laid end to end---an undead chain twenty six thousand miles long---did girt the Earth, and werewolves with gingivitis growled and grimaced in a hundred thousand dentists' chairs across the land...

'Twas a time of sorrow, when all was lost or drawn and braggarts and liars and con-persons were the order of the day... A sorry time, I say, a sad and sordid time, when durance oppressive pressed and weighed upon the minds of most such that those on whom the pressure was the least, enslaved their fellow-jerkwads, thus kindly hastening the end...

In those times, in those ways, at that cost, a specious species egregiously declined; the will of the sapient ones was sapped, and personkind into the All was gathered, once and for all. Thank Christ!

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Many many tickle a parson

The Hand-Writing upon the Wall (1803), James Gillray's caricature of Napoleon as Belshazzar, King of Babylon. Napoleon, Josephine, French soldiers and women are at the feast-table. Napoleon looks in horror at Jehovah pointing to words in the sky. In the Biblical story, on a wall in Belshazzar's palace god's hand writes the message: mene, mene, tekel, upharsin. Daniel interprets for the King: "God has numbered the days of your kingdom and brought it to an end. You have been weighed and found wanting. The kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians." In 539 BCE the Persian conqueror Cyrus the Great invades Babylon.

In Babylon flowed the rivers of wine
'Til one fateful day god wrote up a sign

The anger of god was writ on a wall
But Belshazzar didn't get it at all

The King's main pursuits were eating and drinking
But the words on the wall really got him to thinking

He couldn't make sense of what god had in mind
So turning to Daniel said “please be so kind

as to look at that writing and try and explain
the words on the wall that are hurting my brain”

Now Daniel was sober, he had a clear head
He knew what to say and here's what he said:

“The finger that writes having writ then moves on
Here come the Medes and the Persians: you're gone!

”God's taken your measure, and weighed and divided
Regarding your fate, it's all been decided

“He's run out of patience, he really can't wait
He's given your kingdom to Cyrus the Great

“So don't ask a priest or even a parson
Too mene mene and tekel upharsin

“For as it is written and so shall it be
Jehovah is jealous and wrathful you see

“He'll smite you and bite you and strike without warning
So swallow ten tablets and call in the morning!”

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Not published in AWAREWOLF and Other Chrymes Against Humanity for kindle, tablet, smartphone or e-reader.

The Evil Sandwich

Once upon a brunch I bought a Sandwich from a gnarled and rustic seller ensconced quite gaily in a gaudy booth one inauspicious day.

‘Twas ham and cheese: I remember it well, as if ‘twere but this very toothsome morn itself that I reluctantly but expectantly forked over six clinking dollarim — sponduleks if you will — to that aged and curly purveyor within zir gaudy booth that foul and fractious day.

And though the absence of tomato hinted at the manifestation of dark forces as repulsive as a botched cosmological constant, still I remained initially at least unaware if not absent-minded as to the true and fundamental nature of the Sandwich.

Down the toilet of lost souls

The Same God So That He Obtained Of The Magus Was By Demons Be Pulled In Pieces: Engraving by Pieter Bruegel the Elder.

Around the Courtyard of Dispaire
The stony benches stare
their stony glares I’m sitting there
belittling where I’m splitting hairs
unpicking nits let’s call it quits
before my mind’s behind forgets
that most of all I’m feeling numb
the cold befriends my lonely bum
it all depends it never ends
it twists and bends
its weary way it wends...
around the Courtyard of Dispaire.

Along the Hallway of Tomorrow
All the tumours beg and borrow
bloated bags of pus and vinegar
shiver, quiver, quaver or deliver
punctuated full-length features
starring all pipe-smoking creatures
eponymous green-hatted leprechauns
strangelings taut and sinning blameless
well-known if not despised and nameless
unhinged, unhorsed and plump with sorrow
trotting comes my old friend Zorro...
along the Hallway of Tomorrow.

tell me who do i gotta kill today

Available at iTunes (99c), CD Baby (99c) and YouTube. Composed, performed and mixed by me some six or seven years ago. Sales to date: zero. ("And I wonder why... Why, why, why..."!)

Once I went walking but I lost my way
Then right up ahead was a little cafe
I walked right in, said "what's the special today?"
The waiter was a man of many years
He said "all you'll get is blood, sweat and tears."
I laughed as I shot that man in the face
Then I turned and I ran right out of that place.

hags to haggis

The Scottish war-chief McMac and his war-bud Lord Mildew were heading home after a long, hard day of slaughter and mayhem.

Behind them was the whiskey-soaked battlefield upon which their foul-breathed minions had totally vomited upon the enemy — the cowardly, beef-eating English — had thrown them crying into their warm beer back to their moustachioed mothers and pink-cheeked fathers.

Mounted upon their champing war-nags, bollocks bruised and battered, the noble haggis-lovers clip-clopped their weary way up and down a lonely stretch of heather-cursed witch-land, as mountainous and boring as this very tale itself.

Category Error

Category Error. It's 41 cm x 20.5 cm. Oils on stretched canvas. Painted over a number of years concluding March 2018.

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