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

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

A Head

The wooden door burst open and a dark figure flew at them. The sword swung at Mike before he could turn, and it cut through the air toward his head.

Sarah screamed and froze to the spot. Everything funnelled in, like slow motion. The bearded man wearing a long black cloak turned to her. He leered, his manic eyes shining with glee. She looked at Mike and he staggered. His expression was fixed, wide-eyed. His head slowly slid from his neck and fell off onto the stone floor. It bounced, settled and he stared up at her, like a dead salmon. His jerking body crumpled beside her, blood spurting onto her legs from the gaping neck.

Catatonic, she couldn’t scream. Her legs wobbly, she turned to the stairs and clambered up. She instantly heard throaty laughter and felt sturdy hands gripping her ankles, as her bladder gave way. She was pulled back down, slowly, her chin buffeting the steps, one by one. At the bottom, he grabbed her by the hair and an excruciating pain ripped through her scalp as she was dragged past Mike’s head, those eyes still staring, helplessly…

Col Bury
The Writing on the Wall

Oh Barbie, not again…

February 5, 2017

one-of-those-days

Even Crows can Sing

November 23, 2016

breakfast-gin

Diary 23rd November

Pass me the breakfast gin…

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Ah, but to spot genuine relevance in this wide Sargasso Sea of possibilities. Can it be done, I ask? Surely the ravings of a blog-troll have no pertinence?

But then again…

Decisions made on a whim, an impulse grown from a passion for spontaneity, are not necessarily flawed or the “wrong” decisions to have been made. It is not as if I’ve suggested marriage to a moonbeam, or taking up residence with the Rooks in the churchyard trees, or playing a banjo in the garden past midnight. No, none of these. And yet while all the possibilities hold some attraction for me, I continue to write silences on the fragile skin of the night.

For myself, yes, but also for you.

Nothing more.

I am I. The truth of my own self. I dedicate myself to my art and my unique madness. I am my own Phoenix, and on slow burn…

So sing your rapturous love-song unto me!
Burn to me perfumes!
Wear to me jewels!
Drink to me, for I love you! I love you! I love you!

(with an apology to Aleister Crawley and his verse from Liber AL vel Legis; and to Nino who always says ‘I luvs you, I luvs you, I luvs you’ whenever he sees Dee)

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This rain! So much feckin’ rain! Even the owls have fallen silent during the night…Waterlogged most likely.

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A solitary sound while you were sleeping neatly dived the night into these two pure silences.

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Well the year pulls on – rain and more rain, and mornings of white thick mist. Soon be Christmas, of course. This year we’ll be away, and I’m looking forward to that.

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Because my blood is louder than light, I misheard your voice. But it doesn’t matter. Not really. My dreamy-head turned your words from words into pure music – a distortion not accomplished without effort, believe me. But that music floats in a circle above us now, as if crafted from the moonlight.

These things happen…

November 21, 2016

avictorianphoto-man-holding-head

He slipped in a pool of blood that had dripped from the severed head…

Oscar Cook
Piecemeal

autumn2

Diary 12th November

Oh, hey, hell, if you see me talking to myself, don’t be concerned. It’s just me getting expert advice…

I’m hoping this morning my breakfast gin kicks in before reality does. However, the one MAJOR problem I see around me nowadays is everyone listens, yeah, but not to UNDERSTAND. No, just to determine when it’s time to REPLY. Communication has become a competition between individuals. Understanding has no place in human interaction anymore. Or so it seems. Having said that, a lot of people can’t tell the truth to the face they see in the mirror each morning, let alone anyone else!

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The nights are so much colder now. If you want to see just how forceful your woman can be, try pulling the blankets off her and over to your side of the bed…!!!

Yeah, hurts doesn’t it!

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I love it when she comes to me in the early hours of morning, wakes me with whisper-kisses on the ear and her skin feels as if it’s permanently stained by the night. The taste of her spreads from my mouth to my body like liquid fire…

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In July 1951, Sylvia Plath wrote in her journals:
“Lying on my stomach on the flat warm rock, I let my arm hang over the side, and my hand caressed the rounded contours of the sun-hot stone, and felt the smooth undulations of it. Such a heat the rock had, such a rugged and comfortable warmth, that I felt it could be a human body. Burning through the material of my bathing suit, the great heat radiated through my body…”

She also wrote:

“I drink sherry and wine by myself because I like it and I get the sensuous feeling of indulgence…luxury, bliss, erotic-tinged.”

Drinking alone is so sad but many of us do it. In the final months of her short life, Plath used the colour red twenty-two times in the poetry she was writing. She mentions red in excess of one hundred times in her Journal, obviously a colour she was fixated on – the colour of blood and of fire and of the sun seen through closed eyelids.

Blood brings to mind Wilfred Owen’s lines:

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Plath’s voice in Wintering haunts me, too:

The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women –
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanish walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.

A poem of survival. Although not guaranteed, there is here a suggestion of reawakening, a hint of spring returning. A far cry from some of Plath’s earlier, ferocious and annihilating poems. Poems which no doubt reflected her long battle with mental illness, and her terrible bouts of depression and mania…

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Buzzard seen yesterday in one of the trees opposite our garden, huge, golden and magnificent, shrugging its great wings at my captivated gaze…