Usual greeting….

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL

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Malleus Maleficarum

The practice of my Craft is skilled, acute;
sharp as the needle of fear that my presence
instils. Evil I divine: the sick twitch
of its fork within me tells me its ilk,
and I heed that call, suffering no witch
to escape the hell of my tools. With fire I root
out matter for my Masters: they all talk –
Satan, icy, carnal – other such unpleasance.

Sometimes it takes a touch of pain to stir
their tongues – to prompt into the cold naked light
that dark complicity I see and feel –
but what of that? My instruments are mete.
I too am instrumental, and the weal
I sear into their flesh serves only to deter
– I take no pleasure in it – merely treat
it as my work, a painful duty, Godly, Right.

Scrupulously I seek out Deviance,
pick unerringly the unprotected freak
to stoke the fear that is my Power,
the fire that is your communal desire
(secret, sacrificial, at last – the hour
come – alight), and this my iron obedience:
to prune the human tree of what is weak,
consume it in the crucible of God’s fierce ire.

Such coin as, incidental, comes my way
I palm for my pains and take as rightful tithe,
but property I pass on whole, intact,
to increment my status in the Church;
rumour may accrue me rich, but the fact
is I account my wealth for naught but fuel – my pay
is what I see in peasant eyes – the Search
goes on, and my Gift one to make your dark heart writhe.

Simon Harrison

I like…

I like stilettos
I like high-heels
I like patent leather
The way that it feels
I like peep-toes
They give me the chills
I like sling-backs
And I love espadrilles

But there’s one thing I’ve learned
While I’ve been around
It’s that you can’t love a girl
From the ankles down…

The boys

Thank you for flirting with me,
it’s really made my day.
I’ve got a wife and kids at home.
Better be on my way.

Obayifo

His hand floated gently too rest on hers. Her skin exploded with goosebumps, her senses thrilling with vibrations. His breath was soft, but cold on her cheek.

“A moment of paradise in your presence – any man would endure a thousand years of torture for that,” he said.

His eyes had the passion of a mad-man, and no doubt when the moon was right he produced scatterings of death over the land. He could blight her very soul. But what did she care? With her hair cropped close to her skull, nose, ears, lips and eyebrows pierced with silver rings. She looked a wild and pagan beauty.

They lay on the shabby bed and, as twilight thickened to purple, exchanged sweet kisses and caresses which burned the very fabric of the world.

There is power in murder. Performed correctly, like any true art, it is a liberating and empowering act. In the planned, calculated killing there is always exhilaration and uplifting joy. There is pleasure, too, in the initial urge; in the conception; in the meticulous planning and in the beauty of the act. He knows this. He relishes what is to come –

Her beauty shrank to a pale glow beneath his animal ferocity. Fear now, finally, deep within her jewelled eyes. His cock, corpse-cold, enters her like an assassin’s knife. He is cruel and hard with a bite that would never be forgotten. Never. She senses more than feels the now slack gash swilled with cream. Here, she thinks, bite my fruit. Crunch its soft juicy flesh between your teeth. Damn me forever…

And she arched her back, threw her face to the sky as that final pulse filled her. And the scream echoed in her skull and the surrounding darkness…

Thus the obayifo drinks the blood of a fresh victim, causing slow and painful death. The Ashanti people living on the Gold Coast in West Africa rightly fear this creature, which can be male or female, and which flies the night winds sowing death across the land.

They are virtually unstoppable, boys and girls. Their appetites voracious to a point beyond human comprehension. Raw meat will cause a feeding frenzy in any obayifo. Be warned.

Pants

I’d found these pants
behind a bin, had them
cleaned and returned
to a bedroom floor, thanks
to a friend. She’s known
I’ve operated this way
ever since she met me.
She doesn’t know it’s her
who turns me on
when I know she’s wiggling
her little butt into my pants.
I like to find them
slightly torn so I can work
a little stitching of my own
into the lace. This way
she compliments me too
as she takes my gifts
away, inspecting the place
my fingers worked all day.

So she sits with one of her
little friends, talking
I suppose, until the time
arrives to climb the stairs.
Stripped of clothes, she wears
only my little pants, nicely
prepared for her. I guess
her friend eases them away,
steals them perhaps, tomorrow
when she’ll wear them herself.
There on the bedroom floor
lie my little friends, washed
pressed and stitched for another
day when they’ll return
in another form. My friend
returns the same. Bare
bottom raised as she lies
with her face down, ready
as my inspection’s taking place.

Linda Kemp

Sign

Pretended pain…

And even though people try to pretend that pain doesn’t do anything to them, none of us can really handle it. Everything bad we do in our life is because of pain of some kind.

James Frey

Skyclad….

Have you ever danced skyclad on the moor at midnight…?