Black Peter (2001/2002).

"Blessed be the men of almighty minds, for the winds shall lift them (...)" — A.S. LaVey

And from the east, in the glow of the morning star and the warm summer breeze, came Black Peter. No one knew who this man truly was. Some said he was a common vagabond, while others, attributing supernatural deeds to him, feared his diamond eyes. Peasants stepped aside, and those who considered themselves enlightened insisted on speaking with him. Yet Black Peter always dismissed them with the same distaste and contempt. He alone decided whether the conversation would take place. He judged it was still too early, caressed his beloved rose for a moment, cursed under his breath, and went on his way.

And all living things hummed: "Peter reigns, clothed in majesty, Peter girded himself with power..."

A long-haired, half-naked man in leather trousers and serpent boots stood atop the mountain. Sideburns joined with a mustache and a long, pointed beard lent him a touch of the demonic. His face was laughing, his arms spread wide in a gesture of triumph. Black Peter had transformed. He was a foundling.

And he came from the east, as I have already said. He walked straight ahead, and when he passed a small wooden church, he stopped before it. He studied the cleverly conceived, though primitive construction for a long time. Without hesitation he opened the door and entered. Unnoticed by anyone, he sat at the organ and, shouting loudly “Lord of the Harvest”, began to play. Two priests, awakened by the dreadful sounds, listened intently. The piece was played in Diabolus in Musica — the scale forbidden by the Church. Black Peter left, and the sound lingered long behind him. He walked on, westward. He was returning home. Another such journey was only a matter of time. Like a ride down the Avenue of Damnation.

"Quanto altius ascendit homo, lapsus tanto altius cadet"? — bullshit. He flew truly high and had no intention of falling. The blackness of obscene wings dimmed the sun; there was no light upon the Earth. Gegen Peter ist kein Kraut gewachsen. Indeed, the only truth.

So Black Peter went to the cemetery to summon the Cemetery Rose, also called Polly Adams. And Black Peter created a woman — his little, private Lilith. Only she made him realize what magic meant and who the sorcerer was. And Peter’s eyes were opened. A honey tongue, a heart of gall. He waited until Lilith revealed to him all the secrets of all worlds. And then he bought a weapon... The Cemetery Rose withered, and Black Peter moved on. Any woman could be his. That was no longer the slightest problem. He had greater matters on his mind — he pondered: (He must reach the Lord of the Abyss. Power over man — he must rule god/gods. He must know the Lord of the Abyss.)

To start the engine he had to kick it (don’t ask where he got the motorcycle — that’s one of the dogmas of faith). He rode straight into the setting sun. The Steel Cowboy.

And Black Peter arrived at the Mountain of Fools to hear the sermon. And Peter saw on the Mountain a group of elders, a chrome triumvirate, and three archangels. A lively discussion cut through the heavens — the eternal quarrel continued. The elders babbled, spitting out scraps of half-chewed meat, the chrome triumvirate feverishly exhaled clouds of silver smoke, the archangels whispered in quiet minarets. The mountain’s name was just. (I take the riders.)

Four silver shadows pierce the dying, purple ashes of the newborn sky. The last metal knights circle granite stars amid the agony of mercury. The first children conceived from pale-pink tendrils of arms cry into the void. Walls of Dream Unmoved.

Men are obedient — one must know which switch to activate — St. John the Impaler, have mercy on the glass eye of Yahweh. Yet remember — I, Peter, your god, am a jealous god, so let not your mercy turn into adoration. Like a crucifix. Neon church.

I look at the sky, which suddenly becomes blacker than the densest tar, though the sun still shines. Suddenly it goes out (too quickly!) like a pitiful fluorescent lamp. It is still light, nonetheless. The moon appears in the sky, then shrinks and vanishes. A solitary cloud. The Earth spins faster and faster, a row of trees blurs into a single graphite streak. Our eight minutes are gone. Painless death in dreamy suicide or eternal agony (slow inhaling of the last scraps of air). Is suicide a sin in such a case?

Definitely not, for behold, four horsemen appear on their chrome machines, illuminating the darkness. They bring no salvation. They have just established a new order. From beyond the horizon rushes Thunderbird Polly Adams — the end of the Avenue of Damnation. New hours of creation. The idyll is over. They came from the east, a new star flared. The world ceased to turn, and the new sun begot new children. And the Word of Peter was fulfilled. Error. Loop...

The vagabond looked to the sky, the bright blue sky, and laughed, and all the birds answered: "He who dwells in heaven laughs, Peter mocks us..." The vagabond laughed again.

(notes: August 2001, notes arranged: March/April 2002)