I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
they will not
give her back to me.

Charles Bukowski


November 20, 2015


Purity depends on them and glass
the length of bodies with saints enclosed
or fables of shepherds and lambs.

Those hissing spitting gargoyles of Notre Dame
how, when you look up, they have spit ready
in their taut-muscled cheeks and drawn-back jaws

how they love to undo – in exact proportions –
all the good you thought you had accrued
by lighting candles for all your family

Elizabeth Smither

(Elizabeth Smither has published 17 collections of poetry as well as novels and short stories. She was New Zealand poet laureate (2001-3) and received the Prime Minister’s Award for Literary Achievement in Poetry in 2008. Her latest collection of poetry, ‘The Blue Coat’ was published by Auckland University Press in 2013.)


The black Lord of the Witches, the Dark God of the two Horns, is the archetypal initiator-psychopomp who separates the subtle essence of the soul from the coarse material image of the body and who grants the extasis of night-transvection in the ‘living death’ of magical trance. When darkness covers the world and all are asleep in their beds, he is the dark-robed Master who summons forth the Wise to go out of themselves, riding on the turbulent storms and tempests over brake and thicket, ditch and dale to the realms beyond. As the Great Sorcerer and Lord of the Dead, the Horned One enables such translations into the spirit and opens the Devil’s Road to the High Sabbat.

Nigel Jackson
Masks of Misrule: The Horned God and His Cult in Europe


I went into Coco de Mer, Covent Garden yesterday evening, a shop which has the most erotic scent I have ever known, and sprayed some kind of luxury perfume all over myself before leaving. From the moment I stepped out of that door, to the moment I removed my clothes, I thought of nothing but hot, dangerous fucking.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to remain stoically aloof on the London transport network, with a sweet throbbing at the apex of your thighs? Everything I looked at was phallic; every woman had breasts I wanted to suck and shove my face into. I wanted to grab the inner thigh of some poor, innocent male commuter and rub his cock through the fabric of his 9-5 office attire in a zealous frenzy. I became lust.

The scent of luxury had ebbed its way into my skin, relentless in its sensuality until I sat, utterly enthralled by a single, divine waft of fragrant sex, panting in my rush-hour seat; perfumed lubricants; leather and velvet, fur-lined paddles; horse-hair whips; patent crops and Gold Coque and Ostrich Feather ticklers; latex polish; Cire Trudon candles; Juniper; Sage; Pine… I could have died, but I didn’t. Instead I fondled the hem of my skirt and crossed my legs in the hope that I wasn’t radiating my arousal like a blaring siren.

Since then, I have yearned for that perfume. I had considered retracing my steps through the heated veins of our capital but, being bolstered roughly into a small portion of a 125MPH South-Eastern, I couldn’t survive the jump from one of the cracked windows.

But gods did I want to.

So, of course, the only option left for me was to prey with ardent fervor that the matte-purple Stronic Eins pulsator I’d recently bought from Coco de Mer was fully charged and waiting. It felt like my womb was being stroked by the heavy, throbbing shafts of Cupid’s henchmen.

Needless to say, it ended well on my part.

Source HERE

Relish my tears

November 20, 2015


Keep me rather in this cage, and feed me sparingly, if you dare. Anything that brings me closer to illness and the edge of death makes me more faithful. It is only when you make me suffer that I feel safe and secure. You should never have agreed to be a god for me if you were afraid to assume the duties of a god, and we all know that they are not as tender as all that. You have already seen me cry. Now you must learn to relish my tears.

Pauline Réage
The Story of O

Women in the act of reading

November 20, 2015


Witches are commonly depicted reading. This may not seem unusual today, however up until the eighteenth century artists rarely depicted women in the act of reading with two significant exceptions: women who are clearly studying devotional material and witches who study books of magic.

Judika Illes
The Encyclopaedia of Witchcraft