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

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

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

There’s a strong urgency in masturbation.
The longing for there to be another human body
pressed up against your own, so much so you envision
it vividly in your mind, painting hundreds of
thousands of scenarios until you find one just right
for your hand,

for your body.

It’s not about pleasure, but about that momentary loss of place and time,
a further commitment to your imagination but
to your loneliness as well.

Tatiana Arredondo

My Beloved Sacred Masculine

October 14, 2017

there is a difference between the desire to fuck a women
and the desire to adorn her with your love
to shower her from head to toe with your kisses
to feel your tongue caress every curve and crevasses of her holy temple
to call out her wild woman
to suckle on her swollen breasts
to take your time to be sure no freckle gets left behind

a man who knows he is in the arms of a goddess
will ask permission before entering her sanctuary
will live to make her moan and shake
will, with his breath and presence, let her know she is safe to surrender all of her
as he holds the key to unlock her hidden chambers
he is a devotee to her sacred scriptures
one who knows how to bath in the waterfalls of her nectar
and awaken the songs of the ancestors in her bones

a man in his God nature knows how to use his wand
to call upon the Light
piercing through the veil of illusion
slaying the demons of her past
the sharp sword of Truth
leaving only the frequency of Love behind
and planting the seed of a new tomorrow

breath meets body
undulating to the pulse of one heart beat
snakes meet at the gate of the eternal
Soul, Sex, God – uniting
the holy trinity
we remember
remember union

no, this is not fucking, a way of the old paradigm
this is the rapture
the merging of souls
alchemical marriage

we are walking out of darkness
and embodying Light

Alila Sophia Grace

Masturbation

October 14, 2017

There is an image
Working to free my mind
From violent dawns
It probes at the backs of my eyes
It tells me I am prostituting myself
Here in my bedroom
In incestuous union with myself
I hallucinate and fantasise about
Doctors sons, butchers boys
Teenage thieves, deserters
Drug pushers, scandalous rent boys
Vagrants, pimps, prostitutes
And silk lingerie and don’t care.
I sit destitute of thought
An insane dissonance of macabre music
Playing out melodies of an image in my mind

Edgar Whitman Wilde

Planetarium

October 11, 2017

 

Thinking of Caroline Herschel (1750—1848)
astronomer, sister of William; and others.

 

A woman in the shape of a monster   

a monster in the shape of a woman   

the skies are full of them

a woman      ‘in the snow

among the Clocks and instruments   

or measuring the ground with poles’

in her 98 years to discover   

8 comets

she whom the moon ruled   

like us

levitating into the night sky   

riding the polished lenses

Galaxies of women, there

doing penance for impetuousness   

ribs chilled   

in those spaces    of the mind

An eye,

          ‘virile, precise and absolutely certain’

          from the mad webs of Uranusborg

                                                            encountering the NOVA   

every impulse of light exploding

from the core

as life flies out of us

             Tycho whispering at last

             ‘Let me not seem to have lived in vain’

What we see, we see   

and seeing is changing

the light that shrivels a mountain   

and leaves a man alive

Heartbeat of the pulsar

heart sweating through my body

The radio impulse   

pouring in from Taurus

         I am bombarded yet         I stand

I have been standing all my life in the   

direct path of a battery of signals

the most accurately transmitted most   

untranslatable language in the universe

I am a galactic cloud so deep      so invo-

luted that a light wave could take 15   

years to travel through me       And has   

taken      I am an instrument in the shape   

of a woman trying to translate pulsations   

into images    for the relief of the body   

and the reconstruction of the mind.

Adrienne Rich

 

Sorceress

October 10, 2017

She married the black
and white creating
gray, and took
the middle path
surpassing 50 shades.
She was death and life
light and dark
succubus and archangel.
She mastered
alchemical processes
in the laboratory
of self to bring
brightness forward
out of darkness
by putting her
best foot forward
controlling her right
brain, integrating
it with the left.
She is now Lilith
and Eve, Osun
and Meenakshi
part yogini part
fairy.
She is the
triple goddess
and the Black
Madonna the
definition of magician,
the beautiful sorceress.

Atiya Walker Dykes

Call of the Goddess

October 9, 2017

In the violet rays from the darkened moon
She dissipates blackness, birthing first light –
returning day to its fecund glory,
shimmering in the slivering of night.

Hear Her call

In the rising sweet dawn chorus
She heralds new day through sublimic symphony –
crescendoing cacophony of sumptuous
sounds, reminding us to love and be free.

Hear Her call

In the swirling dancing of the mist
She lightens hearts through the quickening of day –
beckoning with the song of souls,
summoning Her priestesses to serve and pray.

Heed Her call.

Lynne Sedgemore

The moon is always female

October 8, 2017

The moon is always female and so
am I although often in this vale
of razorblades I have wished I could
put on and take off my sex like a dress
and why not? Do men always wear their sex
always? The priest, the doctor, the teacher
all tell us they come to their professions
neuter as clams and the truth is
when I work I am pure as an angel
tiger and clear is my eye and hot
my brain and silent all the whining
grunting piglets of the appetites.
For we were priests to the goddesses
to whom were fashioned the first altars
of clumsy stone on stone and leaping animal
in the wombdark caves, long before men
put on skirts and masks to scare babies.
For we were healers with herbs and poultices
with our milk and careful fingers
long before they began learning to cut up
the living by making jokes at corpses.
For we were making sounds from our throats
and lips to warn and encourage the helpless
young long before schools were built
to teach boys to obey and be bored and kill.

I wake in a strange slack empty bed
of a motel, shaking like dry leaves
the wind rips loose, and in my head
is bound a girl of twelve whose female
organs all but the numb womb are being
cut from her with a knife. Clitoridectomy,
whatever Latin name you call it, in a quarter
of the world’s girl children are so maimed
and I think of her and I cannot stop.
And I think of her and I cannot stop.

If you are a woman you feel the knife in the words.
If you are a man, then at age four or else
at twelve you are seized and held down
and your penis is cut off. You are left
your testicles but they are sewed to your
crotch. When your spouse buys you, you
are torn or cut open so that your precious
semen can be siphoned out, but of course
you feel nothing. But pain. But pain.

For the uses of men we have been butchered
and crippled and shut up and carved open
under the moon that swells and shines
and shrinks again into nothingness, pregnant
and then waning toward its little monthly
death. The moon is always female but the sun
is female only in lands where females
are let into the sun to run and climb.

A woman is screaming and I hear her.
A woman is bleeding and I see her
bleeding from the mouth, the womb, the breasts
in a fountain of dark blood of dismal
daily tedious sorrow quite palatable
to the taste of the mighty and taken for granted
that the bread of domesticity be baked
of our flesh, that the hearth be built
of our bones of animals kept for meat and milk,
that we open and lie under and weep.
I want to say over the names of my mothers
like the stones of a path I am climbing
rock by slippery rock into the mists.
Never even at knife point have I wanted
or been willing to be or become a man.
I want only to be myself and free.

I am waiting for the moon to rise. Here
I squat, the whole country with its steel
mills and its coal mines and its prisons
at my back and the continent tilting
up into mountains and torn by shining lakes
all behind me on this scythe of straw,
a sand bar cast on the ocean waves, and I
wait for the moon to rise red and heavy
in my eyes. Chilled, cranky, fearful
in the dark I wait and I am all the time
climbing slippery rocks in a mist while
far below the waves crash in the sea caves;
I am descending a stairway under the groaning
sea while the black waters buffet me
like rockweed to and fro.

I have swum the upper waters leaping
in dolphin’s skin for joy equally into the nec-
cessary air and the tumult of the powerful wave.
I am entering the chambers I have visited.
I have floated through them sleeping and sleep-
walking and waking, drowning in passion
festooned with green bladderwrack of misery.
I have wandered these chambers in the rock
where the moon freezes the air and all hair
is black or silver. Now I will tell you
what I have learned lying under the moon
naked as women do: now I will tell you
the changes of the high and lower moon.
Out of necessity’s hard stones we suck
what water we can and so we have survived,
women born of women. There is knowing
with the teeth as well as knowing with
the tongue and knowing with the fingertips
as well as knowing with words and with all
the fine flickering hungers of the brain.

Marge Piercy