The hooker in the tower block opposite me has replaced her red light-bulb with a set of tiki torches. Though no less visually impressive, the ominous element has been lost. Used to be that the tower next to me was just a sheer wall of lightless apertures, like some creepy humming hive, the denizens only emerging in the lighted hours to swoop down upon the seafront to rip an infant from a foolishly uncovered pram, hot tenderflesh for the larvae. But at the very top there shone a single crimson maw, like the deathgina of some Titan out of pre-history which passed the aeons doing handstands, hoping to scoop in a few seagulls for sustenance/pleasure.
From this lighted vantage point, Captain Hook saw down on all the sins of the Kemp Town reprobates, the view extending on past the atrophied Lanes, the drab Western Road, seeing out as far as the marbled banality of Saint Hove, houses carved from vanilla ice-cream blocks, featuring no chocolate-chips.
Whether the eye was seared or simply shut to be preserved for a more deserving species is uncertain. However, in its place stand several Tiki torches. Perhaps a cabal of learned tantric monks trojaned their way in there and did slay the beast. Childe Roland to the Whore’s Tower came, and she spent fucking hours scrubbing it up.
Shub-Niggurath placated, they put in place an altar of erogenous worship, the torches acting as a guiding signal for the minds with two backs. No longer would the light act as an angler-fish’s lure, an electric traplight for flies with heaving loins. Now instead appropriate worship could be practiced towards the spirit of Release. Help the kids swap Onan for orgones, self-pollution for mutual-satisfaction.
I miss that light. Yes, it had an ominous quality, that leering vagina in the sky, but it was a warm light, an enveloping radiance that regarded everything the same pitiless lack of malice, serving as the tractor-beam for those geared towards the Grot, the Lost Ones who had to look over the edge of the abyss because they though they heard a familiar heartbeat pulsing somewhere in there.
Yeah, you chained the beast, well done. Now the walls begin to crack and smoulder, vines reaching up, looking to dig around in there, wondering where the Warmth went. The womb is empty, torches put in place to celebrate the birth of nothing, ascendency of the Void-Child, and soon the placenta will follow, roaring out of the cored pinnacle, full of maternal rage for its stolen birthfruit. The fury will wash down the bricks, feeding the vines and filling them with Relish, whipping about to cleave man and machine in two without thought, the martyred fluids flowing down the streets to fill the oceans, like some birth-squash, gleaming hands of unknown and terrifying life reaching out to tear the slats of the pier, kind hands stretched upward to the pier-goers, many of whom wordlessly leaping into the new Womb. An army of shared-birth flowing out into the channel, hoping to catch a rip-tide to swing back and stain the Hove streets with something truly unwashable. Out, damned spot! they’ll cry. Futile.
Maybe the bulb burst.