Poetry by Oli Johns

Warlock Feed

The Warlock crash lands at the house of
too many copycats
who do little but bathe him stretch him heal him stroke him show him pagan ring pagan cloak pagan dick pagan paint chop up faded veg hard tofu pork fat call out own plan for dungeon beneath annex gym feed him suck him drain him slowly of one dark idea ask him if ponytail is real and
what about life in the seventeenth century?

Ashamed, W writes again
this time about a macro part of his own life
then shifts it micro
micro within micro
mannerisms of a thought hiding a darker thought beyond an Id thought
that kind of micro
but when he reads back what he’s spluttered out
the form of it
it’s still quite macro.

Shooting everything save the glass on the wife’s head, the Warlock travels to a barn from present-past and sets up his typewriter.
Mistakes are common.
Smudges too.
At some point, he reasons, this thing will become something
Satanic ideally.

Trapped in the nowhere zone of inadvertently accomplishing his mission, W flees to a mawkish zone and in that zone attempts to
assume configurations which are complex, bizarre and unusual in relation to the derived
shit cover of their near future sci-fi script

Back in the barn, the Warlock floats down enraged from
fresh batch of rejection bots
conceived and propelled via anti-cap sci-fi rag anti in the sense that you must pay for the mo liu metaphors they print each month the forced pathos no material change superstructure adherent dog photo with bored dog can’t afford the rent no receipt rich kid costumed as close to being poor kid affection-image liars constant liars not that he wants to be published by them anyway why would he they hate him hate his work and pretend they don’t say yes please experimental please but clearly not that experimental not the cut-up dada satanist void type stuff that he
in seventeenth century slang
what is this place this process can’t I just float up and down here in this barn forever bleed out zaum when the light fades crib Deleuze Derrida other D type work does it all have to go somewhere progress like this in this exact way

Atrophied, W irons out the centipede, lets it crawl up onto his lap, informs it that
the vampire moves from maidservant to secretary to society scold to sickly sludge who can’t even put a glass on her head until we all just
hammer nails into footprints
any footprint
causing the Warlock the greatest pain inside a barn he doesn’t even want to float in anymore except
he is still there and will remain there until
the centipede is fully ironed out and understands with centipede glee the reality of the publishing industry in that you vye for one black spot that can only be filled by a
book carried onto hallowed ground and
if that is not you then

In McDonalds and hating it, the Warlock types a new piece about a Satanist incapable of watching the scene where he HIMSELF flays a young boy in order to fly without limb movement or an objective-real sense that he is truly in flight and
the boy was irritating
completely dismissive of the surrealist piece he tried to explain, the thing with Loach forced into Hellraiser IV meshed with the easier work of Baudrillard
constantly spitting in his face
mocking him, his ponytail, his archaic black suit
yet still

stabbed in the neck by his own sense of defeat, the Warlock tries in vain to
wave away Annexian border control
lock his wife in the barn
insist that pen and typewriter is evidence enough and
as they sublimate into a cold ordered mess of OUR type of orientalism, allowing the Warlock to finish his robot in the rustbelt drabble and demark
real birds, literally
not a symbol or sign or

unduly ignored, W buys an entire warehouse of insecticide and rations it out to all those who believed in him before the black meat debacle, instructing the more bug-like to
propel themselves forward in time to late 20th Century LA
rent a sexless chalet and
just wait

for HIM
the glass has unmistakable luminosity yet

tearing from a situation the question which it contains, the Warlock abandons all further attempts at child murder and that fucking Grimoire
get it yourself
risk your own red skin to stitch together dreck that according to reliable critics will hollow out all existent atom-muon goo and leave what?
Nothing in a suit?
A singularity back to being singular, incapable of it?

I’m going to keep writing, vows W, replacing the glass of luminous white milk with a bucket of the blackest meat, even if no one reads or cares or

ambushed by guilt residue, the Warlock heads to the kitchen and cooks dinner for his wife
a wife who
keeps the money coming in
puts glasses on the mannequin’s head
doesn’t steal as much insecticide as she used to
says nothing
praises nothing
is nowhere near as attached to his work as

out of the interzone, W binds himself with a pair of manacles that will stop him from using his power
before escaping on foot
an abstraction, god-willing
if not
a Tourneurian mirage.

I will NOT burst into flames, the Warlock decides as the grip pours lighter fluid onto his robes, but if I do, it shall be so bright that
God in reverse
Characters like windscreen wipers.


Oli Johns

Twitter: @altstartrek

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