The Flower

November 10, 2019

I think I grow tensions
like flowers
in a wood where
nobody goes.
Each wound is perfect,
encloses itself in a tiny
imperceptible blossom,
making pain.
Pain is a flower like that one,
like this one,
like that one,
like this one.

Robert Creeley


November 10, 2019

The sky is very near to me to-night:
It breathes, as from a throat of molten lead,
A damnèd effluence about my head,
An effluence of hell, a fœtid blight:
Dark visions break on my distorted sight
Of bloody lust and cruelty and dread,
Devils unnamed in their own likeness tread
The ways of earth, and are not put to flight.
In rifts of voiceless lightning, such as breaks
This goitrous firmament, have stood revealed
Over the dead in some old battlefield
The ghastly dogs of death, and bloated snakes
Dripping the slime of Acherontian lakes
On some dead sovereign’s blood-emblazoned shield.



November 10, 2019

I need you
with me: inside me
penetrating my soul
not with romantic or melancholic airs
but with your cock and fingers
suffocating the cold
with your bodily heat
healing my anxiety –
I want to have you anywhere
and everywhere:
a lift
a park
the office
an alleyway
touching my breasts
your cock stiffening
guided by our wildest desires
touching paradise
despite our cloak of sin –
I need you


The Power of the Witch

November 10, 2019

Naked Poetry

November 10, 2019

poetry is a naked woman, a naked man, and the distance between them.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Poetry as Insurgent Art

All night

November 10, 2019

We spoke all night in tongues,
in fingertips, in teeth.

Robert Hass

the commonplace

November 10, 2019

The mystery religions were instituted in order to protect the marvels of the commonplace from those who would devalue them.

Peter Redgrove
The Black Goddess and the Unseen Real: Our Uncommon Senses and Their Common Sense


November 10, 2019

Magick is the process by which various parts of the God/dess are transformed or rearranged into new manifestations or arrangements.

Wicca study group UK

you’re what I need

November 10, 2019

I’m saying that I’m a moody, insecure, narrow-minded, jealous, borderline homicidal bitch, and I want you to promise me that you’re okay with that, because it’s who I am, and you’re what I need.

Jeaniene Frost
Halfway to the Grave

I absolutely love the idea of teasing a boy with a paintbrush.

Nothing large. I imagine the size of a Chinese calligraphy brush, with the natural bristles tapering to an elegant point. Conditioned so they’re impossibly soft to the touch, then dipped in the finest, silkiest oil.

After trussing him up to prevent any wandering hands, I approach him: his naked skin already trembling for my touch.

With the brush, I’d paint patterns. Circles. Caressing the contours of him. Lingering on the most sensitive places with feather-light pressure. For I’m Michelangelo, and he’s my Sistine Chapel. He might even sing for me like the angels.

Never enough to push him over.

Just enough to keep him in absolute rapture.

By the end of it, he’d know he’s my masterpiece.

Gentle FemDom