Tom Bradley, David Aronson and Nick Patterson

[After making careful preparations to ensure himself a proper reincarnation, the dying Aleister Crowley flubs one syllable of the magickal incantation and comes back as Elmer Fudd. Among the "mutants, beasties and therianthropes" of Looney Tunes Purgatory, he meets one spirit in particular who reveals the horrible future to him...]           

A spirit on pilgrimage toward yet another endometrial purgatory needs its way eased. Being lately disembodied, given a whiff of the bliss godhead eventually offers, the astral nomad requires some sort of tonic to get into the mood to be jammed yet again among intestines and "extruded between feces and urine," as Augustine of Hippo so tastefully put it. Obscene jokes and off-color doggerel and filthy songs are just the thing to get the raw meatiness stirred up in the mind again. A leer, a chuckle and a snicker are not unwelcome.

 

 

The quaint islanders who engendered delicious Aristophanes have provided a perfect helper in this rebirth rigmarole: a foul-mouthed usherette into the waiting world, a jolly headless dwarf whose face has migrated down to the front of her torso. (All great comediennes look odd.) Her brain has transmogrified to giblets, her eyes to nipples, nose to navel, mouth to cunt with hard palate serving the purpose of a calcified and steadfast hymen. For an anus she offers the world a quaintly cleft chin. This charmer happens to be none other than the demoness who materialized at the feet of the Eleusinian Cereal Goddess when the latter was descending into the fecundated belly of Hades to fetch her "daughter," i.e., her recycled self. (So many fine ladies wind up damned in this way, their heads pretzeled up their twats Ouroboros-wise--in my experience, at any rate.)

This diminutive humpbacked sprite (Baubo is her name) reifies nothing less than the hominid embryo, complete with the gill slits and piggy tail by which ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, all wadded-up and waiting to be ensouled. Miss Baubo's job is to distract the misgivings of the peregrine spirit before its irrevocable fall into matter, as it hesitates at the vestibule of the womb whose confines it's fixing to occupy...

She tells me the dirtiest joke imaginable. I, who through years of intense yogic discipline was given to see my previous existences, am now tormented with precognition: a vision of my pixillated future--rather, the future of the public me I made the mistake of leaving behind.

I will become atomized, sub-atomized, pulverized to mere electrons, and shot through the air like a radio signal--but, bizarrely, visible: a dissolution more thoroughgoing than that suffered by the worst karmic transgressors on the bottom-most grinding floor of Kama Loka, where spirits are rendered to smithereens, according to Madame Blavatsky.

The hell music, of course, won't let up, but will worsen. There'll be an intensification of the percussion, an even further Africanization, relentless and monotonous, and an idiotization and electrification of the other instruments, most of which are replaced by that mollifier of mongoloids, the guitar. Shaggy figures come forward and writhe and scream to this noise. They push too far my exhortation to expunge self-consciousness from ritual music. They print my picture on the slip covers of their gramophone disks and vainly take my name in verses that could be scribbled on a privy wall in snot by a dog-faced demon. I, who poured my blood and breath into so many volumes of the greatest poetry the British Isles have ever produced, am being conjured, rousted from my eternal repose with little more than chimpanzaic mouth flatulence.

This, if anything, is Kama Loka: the cheapening of a lifetime's careful self-cultivation into a popular toy, to be drooled over by millions, unwashed and illiterate. It's clear the Aeon I tried to usher in will be tardy.

Was old Blavvy right, after all? Is it the night of blotting out souls?

 

 

 
 
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