Model - Maya Delma - Photo - Islandboiphotography

She leans into me in the queer morning light for her kiss, and my mouth slackens and my head lolls back. Every day is the same, and night no different than day. Darkness, rain needling against the rooftop and windows, wind thundering through distant trees. She never sleeps. Her need keeps her running hot and constant, a nuclear reactor of hunger that can never be shut down. – It’s not so bad, my sister said, the few times I spoke with her until she stopped taking my calls. – She takes from you, but she gives you something back, in a way. It’s almost an even exchange. – What does she do, what is she, how can she be? I asked over and over again. – Is she a vampire? A ghoul? An insect? Why do we submit?

– I don’t know, my sister always replied. – Who can say?

Livia Llewellyn
The Mysteries

a vampire’s castle

November 13, 2017

1. Don’t go anywhere near a vampire’s castle, no matter how bad the weather.
2. Having gone near the castle, don’t knock at the huge forbidding door.
3. Having knocked at the huge forbidding door, don’t accept the invitation from the strange man in black clothes to go inside.
4. Having gone inside, don’t go into the guest bedroom.
5. Having gone into the guest bedroom, don’t – whatever you do – sleep with the window open.
6. Having slept with the window open, don’t come running to me to complain.

Terry Pratchett and Stephen Briggs
Nanny Ogg’s Cookbook

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


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
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


Diary 19th February

My interest in history?

It was the way our teacher approached the subject back in the day, made it so much different to my other classes. I can’t remember her name now, but I can visualize her face. I was seven years old.

It was a mixed class, boys and girls, and we all sat around listening to her, still as statues as she told us about the Stone Age, Neanderthal man and the first Homo Sapiens. It fired my imagination.

I remember working flint in the garden at home and making my own (lethal) Stone Axe, using a tree branch (suitably trimmed and stripped of bark) and twine. My first attempt at ‘historic’ reconstruction.


Dildos are great and vibrators are fun,
But nothing beats the strength of my tongue!


Just because it’s a bad idea doesn’t mean it won’t be fun…


I felt your mouth on me as I slept. I forgot about your teeth…Ah, my sweet vampire!


Trump, Trump, Trump…

Poor Donald seems to be floundering, out of his depth. He plays the media, of course, and they hate it. Each day in office he creates a new controversy and the media like a pack of constipated gripe hounds hurry to the sound of “their master’s voice”.

He has, without doubt, outraged the world with his attempted immigrant ban. But he’s certainly NOT the first president to do this. Back in 1882, Chester A Arthur signed his name to the ‘Chinese Exclusion Act’ banning Chinese for a period of ten years from entry into the US.

President Franklin D Roosevelt, elected four times no less, argued Jewish refugees posed a threat to US national security. Exaggerating the fear that Nazi spies could be hiding in their number, he limited the number of German Jews who could be admitted to 26,000 annually. (Less than 25% of that number were actually admitted).

Theodore Roosevelt, that tireless advocate of war and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize (one should never underestimate Scandinavian wit), banned “Anarchists” from entry to the US along with sufferers of epilepsy, beggars and importers of prostitutes. It was the first time ‘the home of the brave and land of the free’ banned people because of their political beliefs.

And more recently, Jimmy Carter banned Iranians from entering the US. His attorney general, Benjamin Civiletti, ordered all Iranians with student visas to report to U.S. immigration within a month or face possible deportation. Almost 60,000 students were registered as requested, 430 were deported and 5,000 left voluntarily. There was no great outcry or gnashing of teeth at the time by the moral majority.

And then President Ronald Reagan, dear Ronnie, inventor of the Star Wars project and ex-FBI informer, banned HIV positive persons from arriving in the US. This law was influenced by homophobic and xenophobic sentiment towards Africans and minorities at the time. Again, the media paid little attention.

So perhaps the problem is NOT the immigration ban as such, but is more about President Trump’s ‘style’ of government? He is NOT seen as “presidential” by the media, possibly?

Perhaps they are comparing him with those rather dim presidents in the past? Rutherford B Hayes, for example. Hayes and his wife known as Lemonade Lucy were high society butterflies. Of course, his opponent in the 1876 election, Samuel Tilden, was elected president by a quarter of a million votes. But Congress and the Supreme court, showing they could act just as forcefully and illegally as any president, reversed the election and the poignantly blameless Rutherford became know thereafter as president Rutherfraud.

Or then again, perhaps it’s Trump’s wealth the media and his opponents take issue with? The US, of course, has never had a ‘poor’ president. Even George Washington was a millionaire (his fortune honestly acquired via marriage). From that day to this, holders of the presidential office simply became increasingly more wealthy – that had to be the case in order to finance their political campaigns. And the media flourishes on the hundreds of millions of dollars spent at election time for television advertising – air time that increasingly avoids anything political, while indulging in ever more disgraceful character assassination.

Or then again, perhaps it’s the way Donald backcombs his hair pisses off so many people? I don’t know. It’s a mystery. He’s not a very ‘revolutionary or original’ president; most of what he suggests has been done before – like the famous wall between US and Mexico,  a build already commenced by another, earlier president!

No. Ultimately, I see Donald Trump as one of the prosperous few making wide-ranging promises to the restless many – his personal goal, to depart on that magical ego trip of White House residency. But will he keep those promises? Are they even realistic or realisable? Only time will tell…


October 18, 2016


Without me, Transylvania will be as exciting as Bucharest…on a Monday night.

Love at First Bite (1979)
Directed by Stan Dragoti and written by Robert Kaufman


Diary 13th March

Sometimes we resemble a small pack of wolves, we’re that insatiable…
Yesterday, I was out of “salts”: hardly any sleep to speak of; prepared breakfast as usual, but couldn’t face my own…For the whole day I eat only a small bowl of cous-cous mixed with roasted veg. Drank nothing but water and one glass of apple juice. Concern from the others – Was I all right? ‘You must eat…’

Made tender love together in the evening – but, abruptly, it turned rough and selfish. We pursued and achieved climax in an orgiastic delight of thrashing flesh…
Talk of monsters…Real monsters. The rise of Adolf Hitler in Germany. Almost inevitable given the circumstances of Germany at that time. Probably one of the most hypnotic orator’s of the twentieth century. He offered boundless aims and promises, and unlike other politicians of his day, he gave social conflicts and national hopes a mystical sense of majesty and purpose.

The man did not step from a void, however: a strong belief in German racial superiority had developed during the Second Reich of Bismarck and Kaiser Wilhelm…Hitler was a logical heir to this idée fixe of the German people.

It is easy to overlook the part played by the Weimar Republic in the rise of Hitler, the terrible inflation, the tidal wave of sexual immorality…Thomas Mann’s son, Klaus described walking past a group of dominatrices in Berlin 1928:

“Some of them looked like fierce Amazons, strutting in high boots made of green, glossy leather. One of them brandished a supple cane and leered at me as I passed by. ‘Good evening, madam,’ I said. She whispered in my ear, ‘Want to be my slave? Costs only six billions and a cigarette.”

Child prostitution was commonplace in the larger cities. There were brothels specialising in the supply of girls as young as eight years old in Berlin. Mother and daughter “teams” delivered sexual services to men, as described in pornographic detail by the French journalist, Jean Galtier-Boissière. Prostitutes were everywhere on the streets. When your currency is devaluing with every passing second, when work is nowhere to be found, then a woman’s greatest asset becomes her body. Earn the cash and spend it quickly before it becomes worthless. The same applied to boys and young men, too, of course.

In his memoir, “The Europeans”, Luigi Barzini affords us a view of the sleazy side of Berlin brothel-life:

“I saw pimps offering anything to anybody: little boys, little girls, robust young men, libidinous women, animals. The story went the rounds that a male goose whose neck you cut at just the right ecstatic moment would give you the most delicious frisson of all – as it allowed you to enjoy sodomy, bestiality, homosexuality, necrophilia and sadism at one stroke. Gastronomy too, as one could eat the goose afterwards…”

It was a time when six wheelbarrows full of bank notes could barely cover the cost of a loaf of bread. A single pound sterling could purchase in excess of eight billion German marks…!
Cold night, but I slept for a few hours. Outside before dawn, the air smelled fresh and cold, frost on all the cars. The lounge retained the faintest tang of the roasted vegetables I cooked last night. A truly lovely smell, that…peppers, red onion, courgette, tomatoes and olive oil, overlaid with a hint of spices, cumin etc.
If you don’t frighten people a little bit, then what’s the point…?
Sweet Cheeses! Every night he rises from his coffin-bed silently to seek the soft flesh, the warm blood he needs to keep himself alive!

Madness and blood

January 5, 2016


My sweet madness licks the blood from my wounds….

Viscount de Morieve

February 28, 2015


Snow softly falling on the small clutch of buildings comprising the Morieve family estate. As later related by Aristide Groult, all were sleeping when the child screamed.

‘It was a scream to curdle the blood.’

‘A soul in torment,’ Groult described, making the sign of the cross in the air before him. ‘It woke everyone. We all heard it. A death sound…’

Fear often paralyses. An individual, touched by unspeakable terror, finds him or herself unable respond; to take action of any sort. And that is precisely what happened now, following the screams of young Adine Boursang. Groult and his wife sat frozen into ridged immobility – as did most of the estate’s terrified inhabitants.

Josépha Boursang, however, after momentary hesitation, rushed to her daughter’s room above the stable; her husband was only seconds behind her. They found the girl on her bed of blood-soaked straw, throat ripped open and totally drained of blood!

Word of the bloody atrocity quickly spread. Many of the local peasants muttered an explanation of sorts with the single word: vampire…

‘The child had been sucked dry by one of the undead,’ said Groult. ‘A priest should be sent for immediately. Action taken…’

Because the vampire’s identity was known to one and all: the old Viscount, dead and buried these past ten years. Yes, the Viscount de Morieve, that shrewd aristocrat who had managed to keep his head, when all about him were losing theirs, during the ongoing terrors of the French Revolution, an upheaval soaked in the blood of the French aristocracy.

‘There was talk,’ said Aristide Groult, ‘of great evil in the man. Even before the Revolution, people claimed the Viscount’s blood was tainted; that he came from the East. Others say how could the man have survive the trials of Robespierre’s Reign of Terror? Explain that if you will. Madame guillotine was cheated by this de Morieve. He faced down the mob. Or so they say. He came through it, and with his lands intact.’

Came through it, yes, but greatly changed by what he’d seen and experienced. People ripped apart by the mob, literally ripped limb from limb; others stoned or beaten to death by peasants whose faces were awash with blood. He’d witnessed friends and close acquaintances beheaded by the guillotine, the national razor. He’d existed for some years in this sea of blood…

Biding his time, or so it was claimed, the Viscount de Morieve waited until the restoration for his revenge. He systematically began to murder peasants, day labourers and casual farm hands. Using a double-handed axe he would decapitated his victims, bathing in their blood and dancing naked in the moonlight.

These atrocities continued for some months, until one evening a blacksmith on the estate fearing for his own life brutally murdered de Morieve. The Viscount was dully buried in consecrated ground with all due ceremony.

‘But he came back,’ Aristide Groult claimed. ‘He came back and we did nothing. He murdered child after child. For years it went on. And we did nothing…’

Finally it was Nathalie Larrieu who took action. Seventy-two years after Adine Boursang’s bloody murder, Nathalie visited the newly appointed priest. The priest, uncertain, shocked by the woman’s tale of blood lust and walking dead, consulted with the grandson of de Morieve. Together they investigated the Viscount’s tomb, opening it to find…the perfectly preserved body of de Morieve, ruddy-cheeked, and in the full-bloom of health.

Without delay a stake was obtained and driven through the heart of the ‘sleeping’ Viscount. He screamed and his screams were heard for miles around. Blood spurted over the interior of the tomb and over the praying priest, the grandson and his retainers.

‘It was the most terrible thing,’ Nathalie Larrieu later testified. ‘As if he were still alive. I’ve never seen so much blood before. After the whitethorn stake was driven through him, the body was removed from the tomb and burned. The ashes were taken to a nearby river and scattered. Since then there have been no more attacks on our children…’

Belated Burial…

February 18, 2015


Being buried when one is fully conscious and keenly aware of the confines of her narrow house and the stink of cemetery soil, these things are terrible, but, as she has learned, there is always something incalculably worse than the very worst thing that she can imagine. Miss Josephine has had centuries to perfect the stepwise procession from Paradise to Purgatory to the lowest levels of an infinitely descending Hell, and she wears her acumen and expertise where it may be seen by all, and especially where it may be seen by her lovers (whether they are living, dead, or somewhere in between). So, yes, Brylee objected, but only the halfhearted, token objection permitted by her station. And then she did as she was bidden. She dressed in the funerary gown from one of her mistress’ steamer trunks, the dress, all indecent, immaculate white lace and silk taffeta; it smells of cedar and moth balls. Amid the palest chrysanthemums and lilies, babies breath and albino roses, she lay down in the black-lacquered casket, which is hardly more than a simple pine box, and she did not move. She did not make a sound. Not breathing was, of course, the simplest part. Miss Josephine laid a heavy gold coin on each of her eyelids before the mourners began to arrive, that she would have something to give the ferryman.

Caitlín R. Kiernan
The Belated Burial