Sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in a rut in our relationships, like there’s something that needs saying but no one is saying it. that’s where this spell comes in handy! the intention behind this spell is to break down the barriers that are keeping open and honest communication from happening between two people in a relationship and (hopefully) cause them to become closer. though it was designed specifically for romantic love, this spell can also be used for friendships, family ties, or other forms of platonic love. DO NOT cast this spell if you aren’t prepared for what might come to light as a result!

 a large yellow candle
 a pink candle
 a piece of thread/string/etc
 an object/picture that represents you
 an object/picture that represents the other person
 scissors

 take your candles and set them about 8″ apart in the middle of your altar (or whatever magic-working space you use). tie one end of the thread/string/whatever you’re using around each candle, about halfway down. this will act as your “barrier”.
 place the thing that symbolizes you on one side of the “barrier” and the thing that represents your loved one on the other side.
 light the each candle (the yellow then the pink) and, as they begin to melt down, imagine any barriers that are keeping you from expressing your feelings to the other melting down as well. visualize ideas, feelings, and thoughts flowing freely and lovingly between you and any obstacles becoming burned away.
 once the candles burn down to the place where the thread is tied, cut the thread. the barriers between you are now broken, and you will find it much easier to communicate openly with one another.

TIP: if you have any incense lying around, burn it while you are working this spell to give it an extra “boost” since air is an element that is strongly associated with communication (due to the fact that it carries things from one place to another). vanilla, jasmine, and rose are a few that i would recommend to focus on the “love” aspect of this spell.

Source HERE

Tattoo you

November 11, 2015


The first woman I ever encountered with a tattoo, it was in a very expensive, very unsavory club in Paris. She was a local piranha looking for a meal. I can’t remember her name now, but her tattoo was of a small bird on her left shoulder. L’oiseau bleu. I’d just turned eighteen going on twenty-five.

Ten years on in London I met another woman with tattoos…Well, slight correction to that: I met these incredibly intricate tattoos, and they happened to have a woman attached to them! She was with her husband, and our meeting had been by prior arrangement.

The club that evening was full of couples, singles, whatever, all looking for something…an exchange of hormones, or bodily fluids, perhaps. Pheromones were ricocheting wildly about, and likely to take your eye out – unless, like so many of the beautiful people there, you had on a decent pair of shatterproof shades. Husbands, wives, boyfriends, lovers…all in this half-lit arcade of pleasures, this hedonistic association of valueless affluence. All drinking reassuringly expensive vodka, whisky and gin…While I went the one better, almost drowning myself in neat bourbon.

And she of the tattoos kissed me so hard on the mouth, she left my lips bruised for a week. I wore that marking proudly, like a penance.

A younger woman approached me at one point, I remember, black hair like an unexpected fall of darkness, and delicious latte-skin. ‘He’s with me,’ said the tattoos. ‘Fuck off and find your own bloke, bitch.’

‘Oh, s’cuse me. Would you please just remove that stiletto blade from my spine?’ She tottered off on her fuck-me shoes. Shame. But I am spoken for, I s’pose…

There were three of us…Well, two of us now. Tattoos hubby had gone off to get a taxi. Good luck with that. It was pissing down outside. No shy smile when she leaned forward to tell me, ‘I’m going to fuck the arse off you tonight. Honest to God. Don’t worry about Den, he just likes to watch. He loves seeing me get it on with other blokes. Which is okay by me, ‘cause he’s no great shakes in the bedroom…Know what I mean?’

Can madness be forgiven? All I could feel was the damage to my lips inflicted by those deadly Tattoos.

‘I like it rough,’ she said in my ear. ‘I like it hard and fast.’ Obviously she prized sex highly; I didn’t say anything in return, of course, just nodded. Life goes on, doesn’t it. I put an arm round her waist. And a thousand and one blue-ink tattoos exhaled softly beside me…

Later that same night in their Battersea flat I lay in bed with her. Good old Den had packed himself off to the box room down the hall. His voyeuristic desires, apparently, satiated for now.

In the sultry darkness I could hear the slow tick of the alarm clock beside the bed. That and the sound of her phlegmy breathing.

But that was by no means all I could hear.

There was the disturbing sound of those thousand and one tattoos writhing in their wickedness on her sweaty-skin beside me. I lay there, eyes closed, a silent prayer on my tongue, listening to their inky-blue movements – they seemed to shift beneath the bedcovers like moonlight through cloud, and I knew they might be dripping like jet onto my own skin…an inky infection skewered with darkness.

It was disconcerting.

Sitting here now in my study, I remember that night as one of the longest of my life. I didn’t think it would ever end. The agonisingly slow approach of dawn, however, gave fresh hope. Those tattoos had finally fallen silent. I slipped out of the bed and dressed in the bathroom.

Was it discretion or disgust that led me to leave there without uttering a word of farewell?

Who now can say? My appetite for subtleties has long been blunted. While the mind hankers after final judgements, a definitive answer evades me. But I shall never, ever forget the soft susurration of those thousand and one tattoos that night.

Objects of My Affection

November 11, 2015


Your girlfriend’s rib cage cracks, bone against headboard, when you fuck her in my bed. In every poem she hits her head. Her small body breaks uncontrollably under your hot hand. A broken girl cannot cry. I am left here.

A tree house. Three new vines. Expired birthday party balloons. Raw cane sugar. Remnants are just that: reminders. My name is stamped with a stallion, the paper store, tiny icons remind me of you. Everything else small i Anna.

Your mouth on her makes you forget lyrics, the song you chose your name from. Makes you think about girls marked with black ink tattoos, thousands of miles down the coast. The song the radio played (the day you thought your life might be important) led to a crush on a deadly-wrong girl.

Your heart faltered over a dead dog.

When the song I loop tells me every little thing she does is magic, I think about older men and awards shows. We have an amicable conversation about pop songs and the girls who cover this one. It is stark, naked, and maimed. It is also Anna. The girlfriend who still wears your bruises after three and a half years. You stole her youth, though you are the same age.

I want Anna’s health insurance, to get me through the night. Her warm whiskey offerings. A prescription to cure me of her cold.

(Tara Michelle Ziniuk is a Montreal-born, Toronto-based author, performer and activist with an extensive background in community radio. She has been published in magazines and anthologies across North America and is a regular contributor to NOW, Broken Pencil Magazine, and Herizons as well as writing for This, $pread, HOUR and others. Her first book, Emergency Contact, was released with McGilligan Books in 2006 to wide critical acclaim.)


The men have come out of the ground again.
I have to tell you the successful distiller
of spirits has a seventh tall daughter.

Listen. They call me from under the street.
They lean on shovels, down under the awning
in the hole in the pavement, exposing the bright wires.

They wear hard-hats, and though not magicians
will restore to me my visibility –
green eye, breast, gangling leg, painted toe-nail.

Yes, they ease me back into view. And I, slipping
in and out of my most perfect of minds –
monster of my yellow psychiatrist – step down

into the sunlight. The sex is clean and necessary.
The orange awning, warmed from the inside, contains
the closest approximation of day.

Now that I can be seen, I am lethal. See –
my vividness. But will my six sisters and mother
and distillery-owning father deep into their storm

have the eyes, the twenty/twenty vision
against the old glaucoma, the eclipsed pupil?
Now there is a question for the red optometrist.

(Tim Liardet is a poet, a critic, and Professor of Poetry at Bath Spa University. He was born in London and has produced ten collections of poetry to date. His website HERE).

What’s Barbie doing now?

November 11, 2015