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Lee Richard Kirsten (email)


The 24 Hr Freak-Out (Forward)

Dawn’s early rays: withdrawing from the clubs and after-parties
tired and wired, I made my lost ways to a distant corner cafe,
to heal on tobacco and coffee, longing to find what can bind a
broken soul and secretly lament what it means to be brave and
free: sinking sinking sinking sinking sin king Sin King ...

Born to be made-up of better things, to ride wild horses and slow
down time by gunning toward a glorious death, is to depict
something heart-rendering, something never to be forgotten,
something to raise the spirits of mankind - that is the buzz.

But again - the madness it sneaks up slow and surreal, and one
day you think you’ve survived it, only to find it has barely begun.

I am divided when I cannot close what I have opened up: this
time stolen from God and put into the Devil’s hands, time offered
as a burnt offering to the gates of hell ...

At the dear age of 17 I was culled and my mind broken for their
purpose: my whole being made to rig-out their Shadow Plan:
a walking-breathing-poetic-bomb that exploded and killed the
voice of God.

Now I am the irreverent poet, the shot dead gunslinger, the kid
who outgrew the town of his upbringing, who limped away from
heart, mind and soul in search of the tool forged in the fires of
the dragons den, to express what truly happened back then:

“In my soul peddling-act I took the tabernacle pill. In my rite of
passage I cheeked the kiss of the Devil and in my affirmation I
saw it, the most magnificent concept of a hallucination wielded
by my warlock-eye ...

I saw it, my eyes feasting on its brilliance and the unbelievable
tangible appearance, for there before me in all its satanic glory,
glowed the magic circle; the sign; the seal; the dream symbol
and window to the Self ...

In my new enhanced dimension I felt reborn by my accursed
anointment, disturbed and overwhelmed by the wizardry and
craft that the pill had drove me to witness ...
The drug had rounded up all my inspired powers, offering a kind
of demonic survival-pack, the ideal asset for the typical artist-
beast-man, soon to be hurled into a long and hideous poetry
campaign: a bottled backwater no other man should have to
stomach ...
And so this was the selling point ...
The Devil took my soul and I used his words. The poems: an
infernal madness and secret ally: the real muster behind my
leading protagonist tough-guy-poet alter ego, a full-on reason to
be held back by this ball-buster, this sin.”



Letters In Faded Ink (Four)

Do you have love for the prey eerie palace, where the Birds of
Paradise flock around the nomadic pasture, in the chamber
massive and continuous.

Do you tourist the rooms and doorways, obscure places and nod
with satisfaction.

If not go deeper.


See moustaches and grins as you are swept up in a dance,
surrounded by a crowd of naked young girls.

Festival climax or ancient religion?

And you convert, increasing your complications, lessened by the
circle of dancers and dragon-like embers, adding to the joyous

And with fondness to wine, ancestors and graveyards, the goat
ritual tribes a population to furniture at your celebration hooves.
And you are infidel and cousin, neighbour and outlaw, beckoned
and offered baskets of berries, nuts and dried fruit in the harvest
of the glowing spirit.
And as a slave, block-by-block you entertain the gods, playing
a harsh journey, building up structure and evidence of your
creative capture.
And it is all sunlight and turquoise, corn and stone as galaxies
import plumage to help you fly further, into dark fields of
ingenious darker destinies.



Occult Motel


The Originals, are those who are 6 feet under.


"It is both an honour and a sacrifice that I stand amongst

my esteemed bad influences, people who sped up the

evolution of mankind - people who left impact craters,

because they dropped hard reality like fallen angels."


The Originals incite people to hear, incite people to see,

but it is up to the people to believe.


The Originals incite not with guns, but creative power

and the way to get a generation open-minded to your

ideology, is to draw them in young.


The young are soldiers.  The young are truth - let the

young prosper into perfect weapons - this is the gun, this

is the fun, this is the way how to run the human race

into the arms of The New World.


The young are Culture Gas:


The tribe of The Panic, the restless-impatient-solution,

tried and tested by The Relic-Angel - The Dragon Child...


And so as a true heart of wisdom, be a builder of people.


Evolvers is what we are.


Moving in droves of two with my Bitchess at my side, the

fantasy be true:


"My self-destructive streak my defining moment."


And I think it's cute. when everyday people tell me, that

I am as dangerous as a pack of cigarettes.


Be an unraveling being, an evolving wild thing, be one

of The Originals and dance at the funeral of past culture

and religion.


To be one of The Originals...


To be aware, to be alert, to be confident, to be deceptive,

to be decisive, to be ready and if death comes, take

comfort in the knowledge that you are not alone, or the

first to cross this bridge, for above all, don't give up and

you will make it inside...there are a few ways to

get inside...but this guide will take you through the door:


The dream is all about killing yourself, for the dream.


Be An Outstanding Individual