Category: Artwork



This is for all those two-faced interfering Guardians-of-Democracy gits wot live in glasshouses and persist in throwing stones. May you all get shingles!

Buddy you’re a boy make a big noise
Playin’ in the street gonna be a big man some day
You got mud on yo’ face
You big disgrace
Kickin’ your can all over the place
We will we will rock you
We will we will rock you

Buddy you’re a young man hard man
Shoutin’ in the street gonna take on the world some day
You got blood on yo’ face
You big disgrace
Wavin’ your banner all over the place
We will we will rock you
(Sing it out!)
We will we will rock you

Buddy you’re an old man poor man
Pleadin’ with your eyes gonna make you some peace some day
You got mud on your face
Big disgrace
Somebody better put you back into your place
We will we will rock you
(Sing it!)

We will we will rock you
We will we will rock you
We will we will rock you


Mass Madness

Mediated Madness. A long, long time ago, around the time of the frenzy-whipping/consensus-engineering/war-dancing for the brain-sick, unjustified and thoroughly illegal invasion of Iraq, I was listening to the Today program (just to see what the enemy was up to, you understand) and a Big PunditMan (can’t remember who, nor do I want to remember…) said that hypocrisy was a wonderful thing. Imagine, he said, what a mess would it be if everybody went around saying precisely what they thought!
And so, here we are again. It’s no longer so much that we seem to be unable to learn from history, no matter how recent it may be, it’s that we are wilfully unwilling to even consider that the sky might have another side, that we (that is our masters and their interests) are NOT the “good guys” and that every US-promoted and/or backed “intervention”, either direct or by proxies, has brought nothing but unimaginable destruction and misery to the wretched intervenees.
Or perhaps this capacity to see the whole picture, the details, the fine particles, the nuances, the gradients and the subtleties, the rights and the wrongs, has already been bred out of the species. It certainly has from the MSM and its peripheral fauna. Instead, what rules the world now is the vapid, fatuous clear-cut dichotomy of the “either or”, the “you are with us or you are with the enemy”, the “us good, you bad” protocols. That and the Nixon Paradigm, of course: ‘If the president does it then is not a crime’ aka “Caesar can do no wrong”.
And don’t even get me started on the hysteria. If the MSM’s “coverage” of the Pantomic was hysterical (as well as intentionally inaccurate), the almost universal “reporting” of this caper has gone from hysteria to rabid frenzy. If the witch-hunt pushed by the MSM in the last Exercise in Terror was neurotic and shameful, this time the utterly one-sided harassment is beyond language. Oh, well…
And here’s good old Scott Adams, father of Dilbert and Dogbert and Catberg and all sort on groovy Bergs, on the subject of hysteria (back in 2017, no less!).

Have a spiffing, sane life…if you can get it. Love and blinis from The Wilderness.


Siamese Trees. aka Cada uno en su casa y Dios en la de todos. For Ukraine 3.0, of course. And for Yemen and for Syria and for all the other wretched counties afflicted by the Masters of the Universe’s thirst for power and domination and meddling and demented delusions of ‘democracy’ exporting. Plague take them all! (The MotU, that is.)

Cada mochuleo a su olivo & Cada uno en su casa y Dios en la de todos. Old Spanish proverbs. Each owl to his olive tree & Each in his own house and God in all of them.


Twin Hearts. AntiValentine 2022. And here we are again, my friends, taking the piss of that goofy invented tradition that’s Valentine’s Day. Just like last year, though, it’s hardly worth the effort to mock it, so somnolently it’s being pushed by the Holy Markets. Why, going by what I see on the idiot-box, only the greeting cards sphere and a couple of jewellery retailers are making any effort to encourage the congregation to part with their lolly. Even the chocolate mafia is being oddly apathetic. Could it be because the so-called “social” distancing and the masquerade flimflam are having some pretty lousy effect on folks? After all, who can (or even wants to) snog through a sodding mask or hold a hand that smells of disinfectant gel? Will lovers refuse to make love to their darlings unless they can show a triple vax certificate? Is there life before death?

Anyways. We are being pretty low-key ourselves, as we are deeply engaged in more essential stuff. Like surviving the new tricks & wiles and the general chicanery of our local Idiocracies. Still, you’re all very welcome to pop in to my garden party, from Friday 11th to Monday 14th until 7pm. The Shoggies have promised to stage a new tableau mourant and with a bit of luck you might even get a goody bag or a souvenir if I can persuade the Mi-Go to do their magic. The Bach concert will have to come from my CD collection and you can bring your own poetry, si le cœur vous en dit. Have a spiffing life. And keep trucking…:-)

PS. This will have to serve as the obituary for the divine Lata Mangeshkar, who died recently, aged 92 (well done, girl) after a lifetime of giving enormous pleasure to us poor wretched lovers of what used to be known as Bombay Talkies playback music. Bumba speed, my darling and thanks for the audio memories. XXX

Big Truths

Messengers. For the lovely (and ineffable) Premila, Da (of the Desert), Eric Fromm and, for the pure hell of it and because he got the ball rolling, for poor old dead Terenci Moix. The caption is not a pun, not really; or not only. Meet Eleuterio, the free & easy clairvoyant, emissary to the Fringe Badlands Numina. He reports stuff as and when has been decreed by said High Spirits. He has a girlfriend called Cassandra whom nobody likes because she goes around saying things like ‘Dooooom’d we be! Doooooom’d! I’ve got a touch of the dooooms!.’ But Eleuterio loves her dearly because she’s kind and sweet and funny and in between gloomy prophecies she mixes the meanest bullshots this side of the Delta (of the Mighty Urook). Have a sponditious week.

The Tempest?

Winds of Change.

Strong wind destroy our home
Many dead, tonight it could be you
Strong wind, strong wind
Many dead, tonight it could be you

Ah, if only! But, but! Hope springs eternal.

Not Only…

Take Two. And here be another, slightly less gloomy version. You may vote if you have nothing better to do.

Now Travellers

The Navigators. aka A Shot in the Dark. You know what it’s like. You’re plodding along the selva oscura that your life has become, the via diritta having been blurred out of the picture some time back. But you don’t mind. You’re still able to hack a trail through it and deal with the ambushes and the attacks by the marauders and strike the odd alliance with the occasional fellow traveller, few and far between though they may be. So all in all the journey, if not exactly tickety-boo, is at least bearable. And suddenly you find yourself in a pitch-black spot. No prelude. No warning. You know that it’s not a black hole because you still have your integrity (both physical and metaphysical), but you simply can’t see shit-on-a-stick ahead of you. Dearie me! What a bummer. Well let’s hope that it’s only a temporary aberration, a passing stupid state state or a random psychic storm soon to subside. Quite often these things sort themselves out, especially with a little help from friends, allies and the odd accomplice. Have a resplendent weekend. May the light of luminous dissent shine upon you and yours.

Private Thoughts

Leeee & Leeloo. (For domestic consumption and selected friends only). Here be Leelee and Leeloo, the dancing Voodoo Poppets. They bring you the Sacred Crikkitt Bat for to smite the miasmas of End Days Crapitalism and clobber in the bud any attempts by the Forces of Pap to discourage you from your task of rebelling. And resisting and biting and generally making a nuisance of yourself. Enjoy!

Resting Rants

Ranting Bear. In these dreams, I would always be in what I can only describe as a multi-level bazaar, a marketplace without borders that was filled with what seemed an infinite number of crumbling structures of all shapes, many of them with odd, unnamable objects arranged behind warped windowpanes.”contorted blobs and twisted figurines contrived and aligned to forbidding effect. And everywhere there were carts with grotesque merchandise dangling from canopies with a leathery appearance, a dried and cracked material that I knew to be human flesh. Both above and below me were dark expanses of jagged stairways and corridors, fragile walkways between tilting towers, and undulating ramps that spiraled down into shadowy depths and upwards into shadowy heights.

Thomas Ligotti. The Spectral Link