To the Benighted

November 10, 2016


A path unique to souls Benighted,
those whose blood-lamp is ignited
by moonpaled Gothic benediction
& by the Feast laid in Perdition.

This trod of Her black retinue
whose every Dream is shade-imbued.
The seeds here sown reap other sheaves;
anathema to the spawns of Eve.

Signs which burn in emerald light,
Reflect in Art!
Revere through Rite!

To goat-headed god with cloven hoof,
we offer up the gallows’ root.
To Hecate’s grim triple wold,
a coin set upon crossed roads.

By waxing moon
By ancient tomb
By the whispers from the well
By the shivering flames of Hell
By the jackal-headed pharaoh
By the psychopompic sparrow
By raven, bat, & baying hound
By corpse in sacred raiment bound

Inside the coffin
Deep in the cave
Upon the fornicating grave
Within the frigid river Styx,
where mingle both the dead & quick

By onyx mirror
By grotesque mask
by wordless, nameless taboo task
By wormwood star
By autumn gloom
By upturned flowers’ noxious bloom
By skull
By waxen effigy
By the shrines to liminality
By spider skein, by chthonic vault
By Night-Mare’s thundering tumult
By gargoyle’s rain-screaming head
By the sacred Gorgon’s lust & dread
By hooded robe
By silent lore
By Samhain & the fleshless horde

Come Witch-Sister!
Come Black Brother!
The lycanthropes run with the Hunt,
their chant concealed in bestial grunts –

The Dark Way is renewed!
The Dark Way is renewed!
The Dark Way is renewed!

Richard Gavin
The Benighted Path

howl of the sea

November 10, 2016


The roar of the wind and the howl of the sea surrounded me, and I wept in the salt water, in the rainwater, my tears mingling with all of the water, water everywhere.

Sarah Diemer
The Witch Sea

their black books

November 10, 2016


They keep records of their deeds and write them in their black books. No mere mortal can read their unnatural codes, for their words are for their kind alone.

Andrej Kwertowski
Hidden Evil (1708)

Book of the day

November 10, 2016


vulgar bestialized suffering

November 10, 2016


“We live in Rome,” he says, turning his face to the room again. “Caligula’s Rome, with a new circus of vulgar bestialized suffering in the newspapers every morning. The masses, the fetid masses, he says, bringing all his weight to his feet. How can they even suspect a self who can do more, when they live under absolutely no obligation. There are so few beautiful things in the world…”

William Gaddis
The Recognitions