"Is that so important to you?" "My Satanic baptism?"

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With suitors and families like this, who wouldn't wish a turn to a darker side?  A shame, then, it does little more than stare from a mirror and think that the magnetism is attractive, that it lies in its power, not the basic repulsion of the reproductive social order as such, a shame that the supposed Satanic turn of the 70s was nothing new, not even a seedy underbelly or the going-mass of Kenneth Anger.  Just a searching mislocation of a mutual incapacity to hear anything anyone is saying, a sneaking suspicion that All This Liberation is for naught, that it may be in the name of Lucifer but that you, young lady, will still be the one getting knifed, that shifting a pinky ring from gold collegiate to occult design is, in fact, not an epochal transformation.  Her drowning it all out, her dulling, a stuffing up of the ears with black wax in the hopes that there exist first sirens, then rocks, then someone, anyone, able to navigate this ship to its end. 

In lieu of that, a leap from the foreground to the untouchable rear projection, then a hijacking, anything to opt out and steer between the mediocre shoals of tea time on the left, laughable evil on the right.

All that remains is the neurasthenist's unwept stare. 

 

[That, of course, and the pissiness of an angel of death summoned with no death to be had, the petulant disbelief: wait, it's 1968 and evil can't even conquer these jack-asses and their little chalk circle?  I thought this was the Age of Aquarius.  You dragged me from hell for this?]

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