November 20, 2016
October 12, 2016
Diary 11th / 12th October
Here I sit surrounded by a world full of poverty and ‘consumer egoism’, the all-powerful media, ineffectual or misused state power, increasing ethnic hatred, and an almost total lack of vision on the part of politicians and their advisors everywhere. I think I’d be forgiven for calling this uninspiring epoch exhausting and somewhat joyless.
Ours is a time of mindless squandering of resources, impoverishing rhetoric and ideological corruption – especially in the USA, where upper and middle class youth take on the clothes, music and language of the urban poor. And a plump demigod, with the wealth of a junior Croesus, is vying bitterly for the Imperial thrown in Washington DC, a man who would be Emperor/President, and who will probably live in memory as the greatest wall builder since the Emperor Hadrian.
And if that wasn’t enough, the local Chinese takeaway have upped all their feckin’ prices!
‘Why,’ I asked. ‘Why when inflation is so damn low, do you wallop ten percent on your prices?’
‘Ah,’ came the inscrutable response, ‘Britexit! Everything go up! Big expert say so on teevee!’
D’you think Donald Trump should be the first man on the Sun?
You are supposed to eat pussy until she tries pushing your face away because she’s cum too many times…And that’s when you’re s’posed to hold her hands away and continue eating until you see her soul leave her body – or until the neighbours complain about those loud orgasmic screams.
After that you can buy her a takeaway…Maybe pizza or an Indian because the Chinese has gone up in price? You’ve got to budget carefully…
Watched the second Trump and Clinton debate (Yeah, I should get a life, I really should) on TV. Not really a debate. Very little about policy. When Trump talked about scrapping Obama care, he got lost on what he’d replace it with…Basically nothing. It’d be a case of market forces rule. Okay.
Trump could be renamed Mr. Pecksniff (after the Dickens’ character). It’s what he does all the time: peck and sniff. He gave me the impression of a writhing, scheming man almost at the end of his tether. He appologised for his ill-considered remarks about his multiple sexual assaults on women. It was ‘locker room’ banter, he said. He was lying then, but he’s telling the truth now. Yeah, right. He’s a great respecter of women, he claimed. Then spent the rest of the evening denigrating Clinton, a woman.
Wouldn’t want him to get lonely on that trip to the Sun. Kim Jong-un (affectionately known as ‘Little Fat Fuck’ by the people around him) could keep Donald company on his star trip. Between them they could share the honour of being the first men on the Sun!
June 19, 2016
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016
May 4, 2016
Dream, now, that which makes murderers awaken, that which makes them masturbate with ferocity. Dream worse. Beneath Lilith, your head and heart filled with wicked fetish and fixation, with fantasies like the secret desires that are harboured in ruined hearts.
Unto you, in dreams and venom, does Lilith unlock the secrets of a sadist satyr’s pleasures – shows that which you are to be. Unto you is revealed the hidden aphrodisiac of suffering, the enigma of the sacred clay, the indulgence of lust and hurt at once…
…Dream, and become other than you are. Be forever bewitched, remade, and reborn. You are bewitched indulging in rape, and worse. You are bewitched sadistic, incapable of mercy, void of empathy. You are being rewritten in Lilith’s image of predation, etched anew with acidic venom. You are becoming a passage in Lilith’s wicked epic. You are becoming learned in the secret beauty of suffering!
Dream the secret of blood. It is a secret that envenoms you now. Dream it. It is a song of beauty, a flowing and red erotica that is sung in the veins and heart. It is an aria upon the skin when spilt freely. It is an ode in compliment of skin, a chorus of woman, which she sings with every heartbeat. It is a secret coquetry in harmony with your sadistic arousal.
Woman is a siren singing of the flower of her heart, drawing you in, beckoning you to partake. Dream the secret of her blood. It is a river vaulted and tombed in womanhood. It is kept in her halls and chambers to nourish her garden of being. Spill and loose the river as it wishes. Hear the river’s song, its harmony erotic. Let the river deluge to greet you. Obsess to let it, this that is so crimson and feminine. Bloodlet and let it pool like vermilion gems, like rubies and a gift to yourself displayed upon her skin. Bloodlet and know that it is a spell in red of your passion and lust, an enchantment whose potency is secret even to her, an enchantment to your very virility.
This is writ upon the sacred clay in secret. It is deciphered unto you by the venom of Lilith.
It is written also in secrecy: the beauty of bruises. It is an art of erotica, and hidden but to the black eye. Man’s understanding of it is limited. You are given the black mind’s eye that you may discern it, that you may have appreciation of it in your stiff phallus, that you may feel its beauty in your erection, that you may be stirred to dark passion by it. It has potent influence over your lust. Ecstasy: this subtlety of the ruby made amethyst and kept, rather than bloodlet. Erotic: the alchemy upon the heart’s gem, the muting of the tombed river from vivid vermilion to violet and amaranth, to black and cadaveric, from glistening crimson to stark contusions of heliotrope strokes impacted over a blanched canvas.
Know that bruises are of a woman’s beauty. They are sensual emphases of her complexion, accents of her suffering and effective in sustaining your erection. They are a visual companion to your orgasm, and are always to be of your doing. Know to tattoo woman with your presence. Tattoo her with the bruises of your lust, with mural and opus inspired by the very secrets of her sacred clay. Articulate your wisdom upon her skin.
Know the allure of woman’s hurt. Her suffering adorns her beauty. She is exquisite in a black necklace of ligation, in dark jewels of choke and smother, in the gray and lilac gems of gag and strangle. Bite down on her. Let her bear the beauty from your violent mouth. Let your maw be a ghost that haunts her skin darkly. Let there be black halos from your jaws upon the fields and meadows of her.
These are as gifts, from her skin to you. She bears these adornments by your hand and mouth, for you. As woman perfumes her body to enchant, so does she bear her skin to be bejewelled by you, to enchant you…
…Dream, dreamer of Lilith. Dream, and become of Lilith. Learn of your Goddess. She has wisdom to impart. Know that earthly woman does abound with the sexuality of suffering. Her body is a temple of it, an altar to it, a sanctum of arcane mysteries. Know the rites and rituals of the shrine of womanhood. You are given its wisdom in venom. Be wise in it…
…Dream, and know the temple of woman. Its façade is laid bare before you. Know that there are secrets without and within, upon her skin and within her vestibules. Know the three sacristies of the sacred clay, the three where she takes you inside her. These are where you perform the phallic rites of rape, where you find the culmination of your ecstasy with her suffering.
Know that her mouth is narthex to apse of a phallic rite. It is a chamber of her sensual suffocations. It is the hall of choke and gag in communion with Ithyphallos.
Unlock the jaw. Enter her mouth. Perform the rite from lips to throat. Dream of this, as succubae perform it upon you. Dream at the gate of woman’s mouth, while you are smothered by the destroying delta. Dream that woman may not have breath. She may only have of Ithyphallos, choke on Ithyphallos, hurt of Ithyphallos.
Her breathless panic and hurt heighten the pleasures of her mouth. It is the hurt of woman that multiplies the ecstasy of your arousal and orgasms. Fill her throat and smother her. Asphyxiation becomes a transmuted element, an alchemy of sadism. Your pleasure is the supernova of the black sun she suffers. Feel her suffocation like a harem fellating you at once. Her agony feeds into Ithyphallos and translates into ecstasy.
Before you leave from the sacristy of her mouth, you must make a sacrifice of your seed. This is an equilibrium of ecstasy and suffering.
Unto the second vestibule of the sacred clay of womanhood is another sacrifice of your seed to be made. This is also writ upon her skin in secret, the erotica of violent sodomy. Its cipher is washed away by the venom in your veins. Its arcanum is made clear by acidic revelation. It is of you now, as you dream it.
You are raped by succubae, kept erect by their venom, swallowed into the rectum of a darkling daughter, and dreaming the same of nameless woman. Dream of woman whom has taken your violence and sacrifice at her mouth. She has more to give and take. She has yet to be partaken of in sodomy.
Have her as such. Delve between the cleft that hides it, to the anus and rectum. Perform the rite, again where her agony will translate to your ecstasy, from the black nadir of her pain to the zenith of your unearthly pleasure and orgasm. Here, she may bleed to welcome you into her. She will fissure and haemorrhage her blood to pull you in deeper, like a tide drawing you in. Her blood will grease Ithyphallos. Her groans and whimpers will make you slaver all over her. She will moan the chorus erotic that exalts your presence inside her. She will hurt deep, and will scream a stifled scream that will be felt like a thousand tongues lathering and dithering and lavishing at Ithyphallos.
Her suffering of sodomy is exquisite when expressed in blood and half-gasped soliloquies of anguish. Devour what comes of her mouth. What come are secret words of enchantment spoken in the tongue of utmost hurt. Swallow from her mouth and be enchanted to violent orgasm inside her. This is the second sacrifice at the second vestibule. It is a gratitude for your wisdom of secrets, a gratitude unto Lilith, and expressed in violence and rape as she demands it.
Know the third vestibule of the sacred clay. It is the apex of the pyramid. It takes you to her belly, as succubus takes you to her belly now. It is the delta, the wellspring of blood like a magikal potency. You must part the thighs to find this high chamber, part the thighs and mark them with your passing. Bejewel them in amethyst and dark onyx, in obsidian and sapphire, in heliotrope and twilight. You must part the delicate labial veils. Let them, too, be bejewelled. Let them be tattered and pierced. Let them bead with droplets of nectar, like a mist of the river inside her. Then may the mount of Venus be delved into, then to the third vestibule, then to the high chamber of her suffering in marriage with your ecstasy; to her belly, and blood may flow.
Scourge the vulva and womb with Ithyphallos like a weapon of iron. Undo the keep of veins and make her spill. Her heart will drain through her womb. It will weep through her vulva to steep Ithyphallos. Her cycle may come of the violence. There may come menses and debris and the ecstasy of it. By your gift of violence, her tribulation will speak its saga in sweat, her exquisite Hell in every language of rapist erotica, like a tongue speaking upon Ithyphallos, a whisper hypnotic, a whisper of violence, and its pleasures.
Dream it in venom. Lilith does bestow upon you the wisdom of dark misdeeds and corporeal secrets. The sacred clay of womanhood has many secrets. Woman is delicate beneath your violence. She is frail and sweet of many scents. All that you do must hurt her. She holds the zenith of your pleasures in her hurt. They are thousands. Each is potent. Each hurt guards a pleasure. You must draw her hurt into being, into expression, before you can attain the pleasure it guards.
Your every touch must excruciate; every caress, bruise or pierce. You will feel her hurt like a black tongue over your phallus. The garden of her mouth, the sighed songs of suffering, these will be as if her mouth fawned and slavered over your phallus, as if every anguished whimper were laid down at your scrotum in harem appeasement, like a hundred women sucking down on your erection, like whores and harlots in love with Ithyphallos.
Havoc upon the sacred clay, and she will spill her secrets upon you. Her blood will pour over Ithyphallos like kisses. It will be the nectar that glides you into her vestibules. It is the river that guides you into her delta, the water of her body that gives you passage in sodomy. Her heart gives it to let you in. From the seat of her passions bleeds forth your every dark passion; from her belly, your lust for her suffering; from her bosom, the wind that enchants and erects you.
This is the wisdom of Lilith’s venom, such as she gives it to you. Her venom is becoming as your blood. This is your becoming, in dreams of it, and in deeds to come of it. You are discipled of it, made a vessel of it, made as a phallic counterpart to darkling daughters. As succubae work you, you are become Ithyphallos, a cairn wrought by the destroying delta, to be unto woman as they are unto man.
The Harlot Goddess
May 3, 2016
Diary 3rd May
And I will give to my dark mate
Cold kisses, frigid as the moon,
And I’ll caress you like a snake
That slides and writhes around a tomb.
Charles Baudelaire, excerpt from ‘The Ghost.’
In the collection ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’.
I’m here but my head’s filled with atrocities that play over like a continuous loop of film…E in that tight leather dress yesterday, the hem just below the swell of her plump bottom – and the soft curve of her inner thighs as she pressed my face to her crotch, smothering me with love…I drank her in, hating myself, hating and fearing, while the others watched in lewd silence my purple and blue agonies.
Consider time: my body’s become this gallery of scars, a canvass of experiences. All these leftover traces of past lovers, each fresh lover leaving their mark, and these woundings building over time to form the residue which is my identity. Ultimately you are what you’ve loved.
Complete immersion in self: think only of self; the texture of the world is self – painful, inadequate and changeless. Reality becomes an agony that threatens to split one apart. Reality is red-hot, and tastes of wet minge.
My body, my soul opening…
E’s legs begin quivering uncontrollably, and her hands become tight fists in my hair. Someone gives a little cheer of delight…
‘Oh, Christ..Christ…’ this hissed abruptly from between tightly clenched teeth: the faintest expiration of breath; a prayer of pain, pleasure or a supplication? I can’t be certain.
I need air and step out on the patio. Breathe. Breathe deeply. Naked and cold in the fine drizzle. Cock is this wounded, flaccid piece of uselessness against one thigh. Drink champagne like beer from the neck of a bottle, frothing it over my chin…R on the patio, too, in a cloud of acrid cigar smoke.
‘Tell me,’ he says. ‘Who is that tall blonde lady in a black dress. Very leggy.’
‘Oh, d’you mean M? That’s M in highheels and fishnets. She’s with HD.’
‘Is she now…’
Inside, music playing…Sarah Vaughan…Bluesy-sounding…‘The more I see you’. SE dancing on the farside of the lounge. Laughter and myriad conversations going on. Big Ron dancing, singing loudly, his voice booming:
‘I put my finger in a woodpecker’s hole,
And the woodpecker said, “God bless my soul,
Take it out. take it out, take it out,
REMOVE IT…” ’
To newcomers Ron can be quite intimidating. His size and raucousness, especial when, as now, he’s more than a little drunk. But in fact he’s a big puppy…
I see AC, half-undressed, dancing with T, his mistress; his wife, J, is reclining naked on cushions at the side of the room with a bloke considerably younger than herself. Some of the women wear lacy ethereal underthings; others are naked. Burnt sienna breasts. Soft thighs. The hard hairy bodies of men, some very erect as they dance. Overfed, oversexed hedonists, one and all, conspicuous by their clannishness; a glib, overdrinking lot…and on the fringes of this crowd, a few virile lesbians, hardfaced, dominating and protecting their newly found bicurious girlfriends.
The tense, temporary nature of their mating habits would cause an alleycat to blush in shame. But we have only the one life. It isn’t a feckin’ rehearsal. So live for the moment, would seem to be the philosphy…
Outside again, twilight. A heavy, liquescent sky. Clothed, now, and standing on the patio. Drunk as a skunk, of course. From the house, wild notes of hysteria, perversion and the shrill laughter of women with inflamed ovaries. Thank God we have no nearby neighbours to complain…
Morning. This place looks like a bomb hit it! Dr Terror’s house of horrors. Upstairs some lesbians remain, a last forlorn hope… Simone de Beauvoir announced lesbianism was an attitude: “you are, therefore, all lesbians”. Crophaired lesbians. Lesbians wearing ties or monocles. Everything, but lesbians pushing this bloody vacuum cleaner around…
In degenerate solitude
And all that space we share
With a strange view
Now I must prepare a shoping list for the supermarket shop later this morning.
April 24, 2016
What she wanted was a bearded man
to tease her, all those tight curls
between her legs scratching, tickling.
She would hold him as she would
an amphora, scenes painted onto it:
a boar with scythe tusks, a chariot
high-wheeled and eager, a naked driver
curved indelicately, his horse a puzzle
of arcs. Or she would hold him as Salome
offered up St. John, his head open-mouthed,
on a platter. No, she’d hold his head,
alive, the tongue arced and silent.
(Athena Kildegaard is the author of several books of poetry: Rare Momentum and Bodies of Light (a finalist for the Minnesota Book Award), both from Red Dragonfly Press, Cloves & Honey, from Nodin Press, and Ventriloquy, just out from the new Tinderbox Editions.)