Darkest Demon

October 20, 2017

The Vampire is the

Most supreme demon.
The Vampire takes life
Through an invited kiss,

And feels its victim
Slip into the night,
Terrified, collapsing,
As the demon experiences bliss.

Amy Perry

as if evil crept in

October 20, 2017

When he was dead I raised myself to my feet and I looked about me. Everything was still. A loneliness had come upon my soul.

There was darkness everywhere now but in the forest. And even here there were wisps of grey, as if evil crept in.

I lifted my head to the sky and I shook my fist. “Oh, I reject you. I reject your Heaven and I reject your Hell. Do as you wish with me, but know that your desires are petty and your ambitions have no meaning!”

I addressed no one. I addressed the universe. I addressed a void.

Michael Moorcock
The War Hound and the World’s Pain

demand blood sacrifice

October 20, 2017

“Oh honey, that’s just how old houses are. They settle. They sometimes creak or groan, or quietly weep, or demand blood sacrifice in voices that sounds like the fluttering wings of a thousand moths. It’s just the house settling. For whatever it can get. Go back to sleep…”

Monique M

Vampire

October 19, 2017

Your lips bleed
like the scarlet syrup of a
dark passion fondue;
two curly lines of red
peeking from behind
your hallowed veil,
and you,
you lay them upon
my neck,
my very body you hail
as your own.
This then, is like
a red petal falling on
alabaster
or a rose stained in blood
as I pull you closer to me
and together,
we drown in a pool of
crimson wine
you anoint
my lips with.
The taste of you
is like the tip of a sword
dipped in sparkling liquorice;
and our bondage becomes
the hypnotism
my tongue
slickly wrap around,
or perhaps,
the voyeur of this
eyeless world.
We’re just like
diamonds sleeping on their
velvet cushions,
or illuminating puppets
showing the way.
Love, may you claim me,
till death do us part.

Annabell Swift

Ghosts

October 19, 2017

The ghost of the last person buried keeps watch over the churchyard until another is buried, to whom he delivers his charge.

Encyclopaedia of Superstitions

Barry knew it wasn’t right what he did, but he couldn’t help himself. Ever since he and Brody Thurman discovered that loose vent cover in the girls bathroom in fifth grade, he’d been hooked, he’d been a peeper. The thrill he got, knowing he was witnessing someone else’s private moment, and committing a forbidden act, was better than any drug.

Dave Jaggers
Peeper

Black

October 18, 2017

It’s said you can’t walk
at midnight forever.
At some point,
you’re supposed to hit
dawn.
It’s said you can’t wander
in fog very long
before ambush
or mind snap,
you see ambush where no bush exists
and aim is very bad.
Tar slickens you like sweat.
Sexton went pretty fast.
Plath had to try.
Buk and Poe took eons.
In the end,
eight ball sweat
slit their breath.
Black lung suffocation without

benefits or acknowledgement.

Trina Stolec

hag of the mist

October 18, 2017

The “hag of the mist,” as she is called, is a wamer, who, by her shrieks, foretells death to those who see or hear her.

Encyclopaedia of Superstitions

Lost Highway - david-lynch

WITHIN THE PAST EIGHTY YEARS, the dialogue between American and European cinema gave birth to various interesting fusions of Hollywood’s ‘commercial aesthetic’ with the more European concept of ‘cinema as art’. While many European and then later also American independent film-makers turned away from their art-film origins in order to adjust their ability to a capitalistic comprehension of art, David Lynch, who had proven already to be capable of producing entertaining mainstream cinema, decided with Lost Highway (1997) again to turn his back on a successful goal-driven narrative conception; the conception that characterises Hollywood’s history, valid for its early films of the classical period and still present in most of todays blockbusters.

Lost Highway offers an impressive self-reflexive example of an American filmmaker implicitly questioning his own background and cultural basis. An attitude that would be more closely related to Jean Baudrillard’s post-modern discussion of America as a ‘hyperreality’ and supporting in parts perspectives of European scepticism towards America. In the independent filmmaking sector of the United States, the influence of British, French and German art-cinema is apparent. This short study is concerned with an interpretation of Lost Highway‘s non-linear elements and what I see as its cinematic critique of a fundamental contradiction at the heart of Western capitalist countries: on the one hand, the immaculate realm full of possibilities and, on the other hand, the ground for distorted existential nightmare and profound anxieties.

Its combination of both sceptical deconstruction and overcoming of scepticism, undermining and questioning the central notion of progress in America’s history and culture, is constructing the discourse of Lost Highway. David Lynch’s $15m production enjoyed more success in Europe than in his home country and one reason for that is definitely Lost Highway’s textual deconstruction of cinema as pure entertainment that can easily be consumed by the modern spectator. Lost Highway is offering ‘onto-logical’, European style art-cinema, questioning man’s existence itself, in presenting a pessimistic and much more challenging screen experience.

Manuel Dries
David Lynch’s Lost Highway: Perpetual Mystery or Visual Philosophy

Leyland watched it come crawling through the dirt towards him, making its way erratically around the edge of the dying campfire, shuddering unsteadily on the makeshift legs which had been attached to its flesh by whatever dark magic lay within the vagabond’s book.

As it rounded the last vestige of flame and placed one sharpened leg atop his outstretched thigh, Leyland stared down at the head and felt his brain go fuzzy. The wrinkled lump of pinkish filth suddenly seemed to him to resemble the shape of an unborn foetus, wrapped up tightly into a ball, slowly advancing unbidden towards him like the future he was not ready to accept.

Carl Baker
From Chatterton Hill