“I meant,” said Ipslore bitterly, “what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?”

Death thought about it.

“CATS,” he said eventually. “CATS ARE NICE.”

Terry Pratchett
Sourcery

When I write a novel I’m writing about my own life; I’m writing a biography almost, always. And to make it look like a novel I either have a murder or a death at the end.

Beryl Bainbridge
On writing: authors reveal the secrets of their craft
The Guardian, 26th March 2011

a clown died

December 28, 2017

Whenever Susan Pitt went to the circus a clown died, and she wasn’t entirely sure that it was a coincidence. She mostly thought it was. It had seemed a coincidence when she’d been a little girl, rather less so in her late teens and early twenties. And now she’d turned forty, and the world seemed flatter and greyer and just so very real, and she was firmly of the opinion it was a coincidence after all. Much of the time, anyway. If she stopped to think about it.

Robert Shearman
The Gift

the little death of orgasm

December 19, 2017

We rehearse for the big death through the little death of orgasm, through erotic living. Death as transfiguration. Lazarus, like Dracula, knows the thresholds and how to pass them. The Desperado desperately wants to do this, does it in one way or another.

Peter Redgrove
Interview with Lidia Vianu

A warning to you all…

December 16, 2017

The nature of love

November 11, 2017

Omens

October 21, 2017

The dead bird, colour of a bruise,
and smaller than an eye
swollen shut,
is king among omens.
Who can blame the ants for feasting?
Let him cast the first crumb.
#
We once tended the oracles.
Now we rely on a photograph
a fingerprint
a hand we never saw
coming.
#
A man draws a chalk outline
first in his mind
around nothing
then around the body
of another man.
He does this without thinking.
#
What can I do about the white room I left
behind? What can I do about the great stones
I walk among now? What can I do
but sing.
Even a small cut can sing all day.
#
There are entire nights
I would take back.
Nostalgia is a thin moon,
disappearing
into a sky like cold,
unfeeling iron.
#
I dreamed
you were a drowned man, crown
of phosphorescent, seaweed in your hair,
water in your shoes. I woke up desperate
for air.
#
In another dream, I was a field
and you combed through me
searching for something
you only thought you had lost.
#
What have we left at the altar of sorrow?
What blessed thing will we leave tomorrow?

Cecilia Llompart

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

spirit lights

It was difficult to settle down in England. My mother missed the warmth of the Irish people, the rough country scenes, and the soft Irish rain. She became ill, and one day just before my seventh birthday, Sarah (the young woman’s governess) took us all into the room to say goodbye. Although it was a winter evening, the room was strangely light. A soft radiance flooded my mother’s face and enveloped the tiny face , which was all we could see, of the baby lying in the crook of her arm. We (the six children) waited in silence beside Sarah. My mother beckoned, and Sarah went forward and lifted the baby from her arms. She murmured, ‘Goodbye,’ then held out her hands to my father, who clasped them in his own until my mother’s smile faded and she was at rest. At that moment, fifty or more fairy people, holding a shimmering blue cover, came instantly forward and drew the wonderful gauze over the bed and the still figure. The light faded and the room felt cold. Then from the corner came the clear notes of my mother’s harp.

Marjorie T. Johnson
Seeing Fairies: From the lost archives of the Fairy Investigation Society, authentic reports of Fairies in modern times

tell me of night

October 10, 2017

In the evening, when everything is tired and quiet, I sit with Walt Whitman by the rose beds and listen to what that lonely and beautiful spirit has to tell me of night, sleep, death, and the stars. This dusky, silent hour is his; and this is the time when I can best hear the beatings of that most tender and generous heart.

Elizabeth von Arnim
The Solitary Summer