November 11, 2019

Take a deep breath and watch her –
the witch of old leaves
in the allotments –
how she sticks out her grey gnarly fingers
that wrap around you
and throw you back
to the land of campfires and songs

and there you are –
your dreamy purple orchid self
sitting on a half rotten log,
uncomfortable as hell,
your face burning and your back freezing,
your feet sore from walking.

Yet all you feel
(because you’re seventeen)
is that your badly tuned guitar and the unpredictable universe
sing in harmony,

pure beauty.
You’ll sleep under the sky tonight,
the wolves will stay away,
and tomorrow when you get home
your clothes will smell of

Renata Connors

Dark Tunnel

November 11, 2019

the friction of skin

November 11, 2019

in the friction of skin,
the throbbing rhythm
of joined bodies,


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