Satanskin

  credits

  SATANSKIN

  BY JAMES HAVOC

  AN EBOOK

  ISBN 978-1-908694-27-0

  PUBLISHED BY ELEKTRON EBOOKS

  COPYRIGHT 2011 ELEKTRON EBOOKS

  www.elektron-ebooks.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a database or retrieval system, posted on any internet site, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holders. Any such copyright infringement of this publication may result in civil prosecution

  I : SATAN'S SKIN

  On a night like tonight, I can believe that this moment, this elliptic index in which all possibility and impossibility merge, will never end. I can believe that the dawn will never come.

  Reality is a neural raiment we shed beneath the counterpane of fast dissolving daylight; reverting to our formative amnesia, we may live a thousand years as an insect or god in each allusive millisecond.

  An illustrated gloom draws in. The norse, turbinal rain brings a succession of bestial faces; old, familiar glances, merely one flashing sequence in an unfathomable retinal spool of burnt out frames. By an almost metastatic transference we once more attain the lodge of our infancy, that broken weft as untenable as the duration of an undercurrent dream; a wasteland of erupting graves reclaimed.

  On a night like tonight, I believe that mud is nobler, more sexual, than flesh. It holds in its memory the upheavals of planetary birth, the very statutes of consciousness. The rocks, the trees, the shadows them selves are in collusion; every atom of every substance boasts its own irresistible force.

  Tonight, they are begging to be loosed.

  Lightning, hold my hand. Show me your face in black water.

  Tonight, someone bad is wearing Satan's skin.

  II : HAVOC

  In the beginning, there was cocksucking evil. Then came Havoc.

  Havoc rising, retromingent, flanked by her two excoriating hounds Leatherface and Teatcleaver, coated in vixen turmoil, fangs ranging at the sun. She had perfected the art of coagulating, becoming as petrified as the reflection of a goat in obsidian or, again, gushing like carious starlight over the spires of primitive, hymnal bone that sheltered mankind. Mastiff fodder. Their raving lips pulped the fruits of sin – Death with three depraved heads.

  Remorseless, they poured in through meshed doors and windows, through hairline cracks in sanity and through the centuries; like an impulse, or a coiled curse flecked by the cinders of hope.

  Collared in high preacher metal, gorging at the ancient trough, her hounds. And Havoc, she vampyre stalking an Earth illuminated only from below.

  Pent sexual violence and mutilating thought wax eternal; yet polar zones contract, meridians are latticed together like dragnets. Time is a cycle during which all stars are exiled. Now, like tumbling dice, the harvesters have come to haunt my humble attic. Havoc, languishing amid blood and black dahlias; Leatherface and Teatcleaver baleful in their nest of mudlit femurs. And I alone must feed them.

  I am the first keeper, and the last. Beyond these attic walls, superstition is moribund; without me, the hunters become the hunted.

  We persist. The hounds are content to lick and crunch fresh cadavers exhumed from the churchyard, or the occasional treat of abortion slops from hospital bins. But she – she thrives only on canned heat.

  For months, I have brought Havoc adolescent playmates, boys and girls alike. She enchants them at once. I watch their fate through a grimy skylight: stripped nude and tethered to her strange bed with black leather thongs, eager, at first, for the lascivious torture to commence.

  For days, relentlessly, she preys upon them, arousing them with sickly caresses, tinglers of her long tongue, the whispered promise of obscene trysts; again and again to the brink of orgasm, yet never beyond.

  Mocking their screams for release, their hideously contorted bodies, she devours their boiling sexual ectoplasm. Soon enough, the victim's heart caves in. Mastiff fodder. I replenish the vampyre's catafalque.

  Midsummer night.

  The moon is in eclipse; the young have deserted the streets.

  Havoc is starving. Just for tonight, I must let her feed from me.

  I go to her naked. The room resembles a perfumed slaughterhouse. Leatherface idly watches me, licking out a skull. Havoc is cramped in her resting place; her eyes seem drugged, remote, like a reptile doll. She slowly rises, and bids me don the mask of a wolf. I fasten it about my head and lie back amongst the decay. No need for bondage; the keeper goes unfettered. Havoc disrobes.

  Her skin is bluish white, and as she sits astride me the touch of it shocks like ice. Then I feel her tongue curl around and around my penis, which hardens at once, and at my arousal a warmth and colour starts to seep into her thighs. Through lupine sockets I can see her buttocks close to my face; her fingers, tipped with cherry nails, reach behind and pull apart these voluptuous cheeks, displaying the hole of her anus which has been heavily rouged. Seized at once by an epileptic desire to plunge my tongue deep inside this orifice, I dash aside the mask; just as my fingers clutch her hips, she shoots back a jet of scalding urine over my mouth, followed closely by gouts of a heavy liquid that stinks like old ambergris. I fall back, nearly choked, and Havoc turns to face me, steaming. A buzzing of trapped flies sounds behind her teeth. Her hounds begin to whine, shifting in the manger; the sound of my wayward heart completes this putrefied symphony.

  In laying mortal hands on the predator, I have transgressed, broken unwritten laws; yet the fire of anal lust, a furnace in which we sacrifice the flowers of our repugnance, destroys all fear of damnation.

  I grasp her pubic mound. Instead of recoiling or striking out, Havoc seems transfixed by this violation, the termination of a centuries old fascination. In that one instant, the maniac circles of her endless night puke their entrails across my psychic canvas: blood filled lunar prints, tombstones plated with baby teeth that refract the abysmal solitude of the stars, lakes of hot meat stretching to the horizon where reapers and tragic archangels agitate golden vats of dung, flowers and tongues, winged skulls hovering luminously overhead, and wormy, poisonous hearts threaded on sea serpents hung like funeral necklaces about eternity. Havoc is lost; we proceed in fugue.

  Her shallow breath reeks like a grave for the living, yet the juices soaking her inner thighs have the attraction of nectar. I begin to stroke her swollen clitoris. The distressed hounds are up on their hind legs now, starting to bark and howl as they test their leashes. The heavy carpet of human debris stirs into life, mannikin shaped excrements shrieking and dancing about the attic, bones exploding like firecrackers; the air dense with swirling, black rotten petals buffeted by nymphomaniac molecules. The catatonia returns to Havoc's eyes, colour and heat ebbing away from her flesh and into mine, a euphoric lesion, the rush of some pure, arcane narcotic. Craving the desolate ecstasy of the feast, I feel further along her labia, which are clotted with thick cold juice, until my finger finds her anus, lubricating its gaping rim. She sits back automatically, and the savagery of the hounds reaches a crescendo as I penetrate her frosted rectum. Havoc stiffens, impaled, like a stone carcass; the last of her energy suffuses me. I hear her final breath, an ancient noise like the knell from a fur chapel, and then the mastiffs crash from their tethers.

  I await dismemberment. Yet the betrayed beasts fasten straight away onto the corpse of their mistress, Teatcleaver gobbling up the sweet fat from her breasts while Leatherface shears off her fleshy deathmask with foaming, millennial incisors. Abandoning madness to its last cannibal supper, I slam shut and forever bolt the door to that attic sarcophagus.

  Come. Play with me.

  III : EGG CEMETERY

  Ashton's
brain was mudsick, with a meat shack dead centre. A quintet of waxen underlords held him strung on venus loops, refracting his withered lusts through this pane of innards. For centuries he hung by his hair above vesuvial vats, eyes tossed, the furrows in his face opening and closing like the gnarls of a gallows tree raped nightly by some whoreless headsman.

  Deep in the shack, visions of eggs coalesced. Ashton began to perceive a glory in his evolution, likening his thoughts to those surges of novane splendour that peel from the surface of the Sun, splashing irrevocably, the gaseous, red and shifting black turmoils of automimesis. Like a fecund rain he irrigated the planets, whipping soils into undulant mud, a protoplasm through which he could yelp his quintessential miseries. His other self hung in an egg, and from fissures in the eggshell came the most hideous chants; hymns to the abomination and annihilation of the female gender, hymns to the exaltation of pigs and porcine fornication, hot sties and slop brimming troughs; hymns, above all, to the high holy Ovum – matrix of his insane justices and predilections, nucleus of the kingdom of Mud.

  And thus did Ashton escape himself, becoming reborn – a brooding, psychopathic embryo in his egg all leprous and sunken in scalding mire, its vast interior sac noded with the stumps of sexual desire and other dismal fruits indigenous to that humid, bubonic delta.

  In the manner of all crushed kings deformed by the torque of time, his each and every thought turned to extinction and global prejudice.

  The day of his coronation comes. No sooner is Ashton installed upon his cascading throne of sour silt than he launches a vile, malevolent crusade against womankind, projecting forth a conundrum of greedy little boys and things that came across Hell on a spider's web; knights of the oval dawn, lashing the She race with a new kind of tentacle. They construct a spiralling garrison from carnage, a folly of pubic pelts and sawn scalps, the juice of exploded sexes, succulent stools speckled with tapeworms, spines rippled by the hand of rabies, crab lice in patterns, nipples punctured by greedy flowers, all rigged tight with gelatinous hawsers of head integument and packed in ice.

  Insulated by his muddy cocoon, Ashton orchestrates genocide in perpetual, palatial winter.

  From the ovary he conducts all manner of base atrocity, stamping his feet in joy as maidens are nailed to windmills, girls turned into garments, hags pumped full of pinecones, and widows forced to masturbate with the spike ridden tibias of their disinterred spouses.

  While the frozen catacombs still resound with their torment, victims are immersed in clay, baked and glazed. These ornamental effigies are hung on cords throughout the land. Their ghosts cry out to the living.

  Circe was a prostitute who heard voices. The butchering of her fellow women began to stir up inside her visions of a religious eroticism. One day, she just bundled up her bones and hacked out from the snake. No longer a slave to tongue pressure, she hung her men in strips and made them bleed, just as she was forced to at the whim of the wanton moon. By haemal telepathy, Circe was able to home in on auras of sexual violence. In her coat of peeled steeples, she repelled.

  In bleakest December, her faith was rewarded by a holy vision: her mother, cooked and dangling from a deciduous gibbet. After this revelation, Circe travailed in barbed wire sandals and sackcloth smeared with her own excrement, cut away to display her blossoming rectal stigmata.

  Canonised by the brides of Ashton, she led them as an army, trailing the alluvial runt through pleasure paved sewers, her passing commemorated by pyramids of male teeth. Her legend was depicted by runes traced in gibbet dust, boding the advent of a harridan in her chariot of boy bones. Word came to Ashton. Concentration Camp Cunt was riding into the heart of the Egg on a frothy, scarlet surf of slivered penises.

  The nightscape suffers many strange creatures. Ashton squirms around rocks in the mask of Mudboy, marking out with diamantine droppings the borders of his lands; haunting the cankered crossroads. As the crackling of testicular gauntlets announces Circe, Mudboy rises slow, a deathly Jack in the Box striping the loaded sky with his anamorphic pussywhip. The heavens close like a black book.

  Torrential fictions assail every inch of Circe's skin, latching limpet tight to each hair, burrowing into abrasions. Bad creeds spring up in the shadow of her breasts, sheening her belly, and between her buttocks genocidal doctrines trample the soft flesh, tattooing a heavy manifesto of colonisation. Sentinels of biblical wrath appear, oscillating within a complex of topaz palpers; jewels shake haphazardly through an unclean lens. Ashton plucks an ocean from the pearl and Circe recoils with a bolus of electrified tissue between her legs, her womb discharging clots of matter in which terrified faces twist.

  Ashton is preaching from the testaments of Mud, evoking eidolons of dirt from dormant streptococci just as wolf lies down with lambkin; twisting the whicker blade that sings of cross legged Eros in a whaleskin barque, mirrored by mocking briny as he muses on mermaid clitoris and the machinations of telepathic prawns.

  The Concentration Camp Cunt sprays out hot geysers of man offal, creating lagoons amid the dunes of some dream tropic whose inhabitants dwell in hives. They lay their eggs in Circe's brain and wait for Summer.

  IV : TROPIC OF SCORPIO

  Shadow – feaster at premature burial!

  In dreams, Julian saw morning as a goat, opaque and oriental, sunburst hooves steeped in human woes, storming in to devour the veil from his tulpa heaven. Molars crunched the jasper pall, dribbling topaz like a waterspout; nuggets from the high galaxy burning slow inside the sleeper's skull. Then, as laminas peeled away, showing a Deathshead on the seventh face of the dice, he would feel the abrasion of bestial hair, dragging him into light like a swimmer half drowned in infected treacle pools that welled from the craters of ingrown antlers; bare feet slipping and sliding on a ramp of evil golden showers. Even on the cusp of the full moon of May, the Billy beast came in curds, butting him into lucid desolation. Sick from vertigo, Julian staggered once more to the mirror.

  It was plumed in his pellet eyes – the beast must die!

  That night, Julian slept in the garden, ringed with lachrymose violets, and dreamt of festival. He at head of table, and opposite, ten leagues yonder, his tulpa, old Nutcracker, faintly signalling through petal palisades like a ship lost to the very buttocks of the sea. All manner of fodder graces the gleaming expanse of mahogany between them; choice tangerines handsomely mounted in excised simian sphincters, huge vats of mind bending porridge, mulled flagons of rabbit drool, deep fried wasps as big as milk breasts, Babylonian beef, chine of python fritters piled into hives that sizzle with barbecued larvae, coriander pods stuffed with whippet eyes, shuddering insectile custards; all set to frame the centrepiece, elevated on jade tiers: the birthday cake of bellicose, Saturnine scorpions.

  Directly above, the full moon of May, pendent like a Christmas tree bauble, silver blue cosmic spew bubbling from her star graven nipplehead; the chilly, voluptuous curve of her lacunose rind almost within arm's reach, precipitating perpetual flower storms. Julian, convulsed by laughter, declares to Nutcracker his avowed intent to cripple the wind with hammers, searching for enigmas on stilts and the colour of treason as he goes; wiping his brow with sheets of torn out sky. The reason, he insists, is to better comprehend the squawking rags of a beggar's stump; to see in them the means to grow shit on trees. In turn Nutcracker, pants tugged down about his ankles as he braves an orchid vortex to sample each and every dish at table, proclaims his vocation to be the ensnaring of a ginger haired rascal, whom he would promptly drive head first into the fire place in order to facilitate the stuffing of the wretch's pale skinned arse with countless hard boiled eggs. Cramming fodder into his mouth with one hand, with the other he mimes this perverse taxidermy, pausing only to polish his bloated belly as if it were some arabesque, pregnant lamp. Fired by the tulpa's fantasy, young Julian starts jacking off beneath the table, face fixed in an idiotic rictus, one eyelid half closed. Nutcracker continues his bawdy antics, attempting to cork his own breech with a fat tangerine.

/>   The moon hangs.

  All at once, Julian ejaculates over a swastika of hovering rose heads; old Nutcracker's tangerine explodes out of his fundament and arcs towards a Venus fly trap, propelled by the emergent head not of some genie, but of a slick grey tapeworm, uncooked and puling, peppered with retractile stingers; and, from the East, a derelict monsoon stabs in.

  Next comes a razor sharp crack of lightning; it brings to mind the splintering of some celestial paddock gate. The luminous fall out seems to linger. Julian feels himself drowning in ureic rain, semen, and burgeoning light. Nutcracker appears transparent. Defined only by the lengths of coprophagic worm still hooked in his colon, he quakes beneath a dining chair as Billy boy comes thundering across the foam flecked sky, in gruff and bearded person.

  Bucking and huffing, the dawn bringer smashes his septic horns against the full moon of May, hooves threatening to stave in the festive table. With each blow, soft sparks fly out, not dying but multiplying, intensifying. Julian is prostrate, blinded, bound to night by a merest thread; sad Nutcracker disintegrating by the minute. Billy boy backs off, readies for a massive charge. His split eyes radiate pure beacons of light as he rushes in and delivers the ignoble strike. The moon's crust peels asunder; then, like quicksilver, it coalesces again, immersing the goat's horns. Billy boy rages, shaking his head from side to side, snorting and gnashing his teeth, yet try as he might, he cannot dislodge himself from the trap. His back hoof, kicking blindly, bursts open the birthday cake.

  Mad, red, in deadly unison, the scorpions within teem forth and start to march in single file, claw to tail, towards their attacker.

  Clinging to the rank, matted hairs, they proceed up the stamping hind legs; finally, one by one, they disappear up Billy boy's backside. Soon the goat is bleating with pain as the invaders snip around his intestines, planting stings in veins and tender membranes. Some begin to gnaw his solar gonads, forging a new nest, while others emerge from the tip of his sparkling pizzle, cutting their way out like claw bearing syphilides; filling their host with agony right down to the roots of his Billy bones.