I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went – and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires – and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings – the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain’d;
Forests were set on fire – but hour by hour
They fell and faded – and the crackling trunks
Extinguish’d with a crash – and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d
And twin’d themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour’d,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer’d not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak’d up,
And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other’s aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before;
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

Lord Byron

As relevant today as it was in 1816.

To Hell and Back Again

April 21, 2015


Now that, at last,
you seem to have found yourself
you often long to be lost again,
to drift down a throbbing street
in the thick of the afternoon
at the centre of your own solar system,
to shillyshally for hours
over a mug of tea and a slice of toast
in some greasy-spoon,
where no-one would even dream
of asking for a cappuccino or a latté,
or, better still, not to bother
leaving your filthy flat all day at all,
but, when the last ray of sun has, finally, gone away,
to shamble down to the kebab house
for a pickled onion and a portion of chips
because you don’t have the cash
to use the brothel around the back.
But if you slip from these shackles,
your future which opens up
like a new continent which, of course,
must be conquered,
this clean living which sometimes
fits you like a collar and tie on a boiling hot day
at one of those awkward family occasions,
if you go back to all that liberty, to all that Hell,
you might not make it back again this time.

Kevin Higgins

“the Magic Wand”

April 21, 2015

lovemagic solo

Fittingly enough my most personally empowered ritual sex toy is called “the Magic Wand”! It is actually a back and neck massager, but when its between my legs, it produces a particularly lovely and magickal result. The orgasms I conjure using this sacred tool are very potent, and I can direct them with great force and intent towards my intended goal – whether that be to find new love, enhance a new love, or even send unwanted love away. It all depends on what I’m thinking as I orgasm.

Unlike a lot of other books on sex and love magick you may have read, I am not suggesting you go out and try to procure exotic herbs and statues of ancient phallic and vulvic totems. No way. Just go out and procure a vast selection of exotic, ritual sex toys for your personal pleasure!

Fiona Horne
Bewitch a Man: Simple Ways to Add a Little Magic to Your Love Life

Sex in magic…

April 21, 2015


If this secret [of sexual magic], which is a scientific secret, were perfectly understood, as it is not by me after more than twelve years’ almost constant study and experiment, there would be nothing which the human imagination can conceive that could not be realized in practice.

Aleister Crowley
The Confessions of Aleister Crowley: An Autobiography

Needing a friend…

April 21, 2015


What are you reading…?

April 21, 2015


young tchaikovsky


In the headphones: David Oistrakh, Violin Concerto in D Major, op 35. Tchaikovsky rules, okay.

Memories of Ray when we were writing together. His saying how much Tchaikovsky looked like me as a young man. ‘You could be bloody twins, mate. Saw his picture in that book, and, well, there you were looking out at me. Like a bloody reincarnation…’

Perish the thought. My genius is for flesh, not music.

Ray and I were going to go live and work in Spain for a year. Fifty-two weeks of non-stop writing. Make or break time. Days alive with sun and flamenco. I expected more hesitancy from our women, Sal and Aide. But no, they were up for it. Living hand-to-mouth on my words…and his.

Frightening, but full of possibilities.

But, ultimately, it wasn’t to be. Passport problems meant Aide had to return to Australia, and Ray, of course, went with her. Both, abruptly, swallowed by space and time.

Last Saturday our conversation touched on early sexual encounters. This was in the afternoon when strong drink was raging…Three or four of the women present described sexual encounters at a very early age. Not full intercourse, but a serious touching of parts.

I was surprised (but shouldn’t have been), because what was described was “sexual abuse”; it was non-consensual on their part, and in every case the male was older. The girl (victim) went along with it because, “well, it’s what happens isn’t it? Boys are like that.”

In Holland the schools teach girls from an early age to say “NO! In the classroom they roll- play these situations with boys. They are taught to “manage” the boys demands, and protect themselves. In these session the boys learn what constitutes “abuse” and are told they MUST avoid it at all costs. Empathy is everything.

I don’t know what we do in UK schools to confront this sort of problem? Nothing too radical, I suspect. We Angelo-Saxons are besotted with tradition and the status quo. Look at our parliament – an eighteenth century boys club (heavily reminiscent of a public school end-of-term assembly), here in the twenty-first century!

I remember the violence (non-sexual) in my own childhood. It seemed normal then – a not very pleasant part of life, it’s true, but one to be gotten through like a trip to the dentist for a filling. It happened and was over quickly. Afterwards there might be some regret, but no words were spoken about it, no apology. It went unremarked.

It began to change when I hit age twelve or thirteen. One evening my father came home bringing his Mercurial temper with him. His mistress, a woman know to me only as Mrs Gibson, had probably declined him; refused, for whatever reason, her sexual favours that night. And he, restless as a half-starved bear, came home in search of a flaming row.

I don’t remember now what sparked the violence. My mother and father were constantly arguing at that time. Huge rows with lots of screaming and shouting. But this time my father ripped open her white blouse, sending buttons pinging round the room like shot from a shotgun. He’d torn out one of the cups of her brassiere in the process. She staggered one breast exposed. And he hit her in the head, a powerful open handed slap, and yelled, ‘WHORE…!’ at her.

It was too much for me. I screamed like the banshee. A wild ululation that could probably have been heard a mile away. And I came out of my armchair in the corner like a feckin’ rocket. I slammed head-first into him and knocked him backwards; he’d not been expecting this attack. I swung my fists. Knocked his spectacles from his face, split his lip badly. But then he recovered and delivered a roundhouse right to the side of my head that dumped me into the open fireplace.

It was winter, the fire was a light, but well banked up with coal. Semi-conscious I rolled from the fire to the hearth. My mother, like a lioness defending an injured cub, grabbed up a poker as a weapon, and stood astride me cursing and swearing at my father. Taken aback, he retreated. Abject, mouth bleeding, a cur with its tail between its legs. Up to his bedroom he went, where, after a great slamming of doors, music hammered out at an impossible volume…

Terrible. But the last time I think that he used violence in the home…He departed for good shortly afterwards.

Come seven o’clock this morning the usual workaday chaos. Dee getting ready. Rushing round like a headless chicken. Gasping, ‘I’m too hot.’ The morning is close, muggy. Switching on the electric fan, Dee sends this arctic blast of frigid air through the bedroom, while she brushes her hair in front of the mirror.

I keep her topped up with cups of tea. Ever her Jeeves.

She has a day’s leave on Wednesday. If the weather remains nice, we plan to go to our favorite cove on the coast. If we can, we’ll make love there…

“She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.”

Then a walk on the coastal path around the headland. Followed by a pub lunch, no doubt. Followed, hopefully, by more lovemaking.

“I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky…”

Roll on Wednesday, I say. Let it all be so…