I am soul ****** What matters this skin bag we wear? Deep down, within.....I rely on my ability to pick up scents. The scent of another can send a roiling sensation through my belly thus filling my being. Is it the musky odor of predator or prey I detect? Getting down to basics. Stripped bare physically and psychologically. Whatever shred of humanity we once had are peeled away during our time together. Will it be I that is deliciously devoured slowly inch by painful inch or shall it be my lips that lick the wounds of my prey as I toy with it...Close your eyes and let the long ululating howl escape us.....~M
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Lately her dreams have been playing out like the beginning
Of a clichéd dime store horror novel
Always awakening on page three
The theme it varies
Sometimes it is about Vampires and Werewolves, sometimes Zombies, or even some crazed psychopathic serial killer
But what never varies is that she awakes on page three where the dark place starts
It also happens to be between 3:00 and 3:15 am in the morning
The Witching Hour
She recalls a quote from a movie she just recently watched, “Pitch Black”
Riddick: “They say most of your brain shuts down during cryo-sleep. All but the primitive side, the animal side. No wonder I'm still awake.”
Sleep is a required activity, not an option, and is needed for survival.
Yet when she dreams, she is deeply awake
Yes her primal side is on constant alert
And not sleeping can be deadly
Rats deprived of sleep will die within two to three weeks
A time frame similar to starvation
Her primal side is always hungry so she must she feed it
When she gets to page three in every story there is always a door
A big wooden door made of bristlecone pine
With runes and symbols upon it
From cultures she is familiar with and cultures unrecognizable
Covering since the beginning of time
It is when she pushes that door open and walks through That she finds the dark place
Where she begins to acknowledges her shadow self
And that the world is not rose tinted and fluffy
That fear of the dark is a wasted and useless fear
And she is able to embrace her hidden desires
The unknown
In this dark place she brings death, for without death the earth is not fertilized to bring new life
She is the Destroyer, for without destroying that which is no longer needed, things cannot grow
She is a murderer, for there is evil in this world
And the children need protection from it
She is the keeper of magick and mystery
For the dark fuels it all
She realizes that when behind that door
If she were to suppress her dark self, it would build in intensity and break out uncontrollably
So she embraces it all
And when she awakens from page three at the witching hour
She is exhausted but stronger, eager, and ready to
Tackle subjects such as violence towards women, war, child/animal abuse, ****** and death
Topics avoided in polite society
And she can deal with these subjects in a healthy manner
She is sister of the Dark Goddess
Page four always begins in the light of day
She continues to write the rest of the story as time passes
So her sisters and their daughters will no longer fear the dark
Nor fear their own dark place or primal selves
They too will walk through the big wooden door
Heads held high
They will weave new stories
New beginnings
Become warriors in their own right
After all, someone has to be willing to face the boogie man down….. ~M
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
The smell was gagging her.
She no longer felt the constant agony which was a relief but the smell indicted
A severe infection
Perhaps she would get lucky and cross the veil soon
Her day of execution was coming upon her
She could hear stakes being placed and wagons
Delivering peat, coal, and wood
Oh how she feared the burning
Once as a child she burnt her hand in her father’s smithie
She cried till her mother rubbed a poultice of comfrey upon it
She never forgot the pain of that burn
All the comfrey in the world was not going ease her pain after tomorrow
She remembered growing up hiding in the hay mound
Watching her father
It fascinated her, turning hot molten metal into something useful
Working the elements her father would say was an honor.
She secretly yearned to do the same but her father said it was ’men’s’ work
So when not in the fields her brothers got to spend time with their father not she
Not that she minded spending time with her grams
Learning the healing arts
Using herbs and precious stones with magical properties
Working the elements but in a more subtle way
But she was more drawn to her fathers work
And look where her grams legacy has gotten her now
If she had been allowed to work with her father and brothers she thought bitterly….
She tried to move and felt an instant stab of pain where her bones had once been
Her right foot was nothing more but dangling rotting flesh
The Malleous Malficarum meant nothing it seemed
The traveling inquisitors did not receive the confession they sought
She refused to confess even under torture
So instead she would burn to purify her soul
They would get their entertainment
As would her village
She heard moaning coming from the cell next to hers
It was her neighbor old Hatty Beckwith
She had been accused by Ned Higbee of consorting with the devil and killing livestock
The whole village knows Ned wants her land for the water
This was insane
The inquisitors fees for Hatty would come from Hatty’s estate she supposed
She wondered how her father and brothers would manage to pay her fees
She heard the guards talk and say the expenses for torture and burning were great
As were the cost for their food, drink, and their diversions
As if torturing were not enough entertainment
The sound of screaming suddenly pierced her senses
Someone was being pulled on the rack again
She knew that pain too well
Not being able to stand the smell of blood and listen to the screams any longer
She struggled to crawl to the dark corner of the cell
She lost track of time being in the dark for so long
Only seeing slivers of light through the opening of doors
As the guards came and went
But she calculated Samhain would soon arrive
Possibly even this evening
The village would be preparing and celebrating
The ending of the last harvest and the beginning of a new year
Honoring their dead ancestors
Setting a place for them at the table
She wondered if her father and brothers would set a place for her next year
Telling her tale as they have done for her mother and her grandmother before her
About now her brothers would be taking stock of the herds and grains
Deciding which animals to slaughter
Preparing stores of meat, fruits, and vegetables
In order to help them survive the coming winter
A huge bonfire would be lit in the village
And the villagers would extinguish all other fires
Each family lighting their hearth from the common flame
Bonding the families of the village together.
One big happy family she thought with irony
She still knew not who turned her in
But one thing she was sure of and that was fear changed people
Or maybe it only brought out their true selves
She shifted trying to get comfortable and began to drift off into a merciful sleep
When she awoke hours later she sensed a difference in the air
She heard drums keeping time
And she could see and smell old autumn leaves gently swirling in her cell
She thought she saw a gate, opening wide
And from this gate appeared the dark mother in her terrible naked glory
She froze -fear overtaking her
She closed her eyes tightly only to feel a gentle touch
Her mind crossing another’s
And when she found the strength to open her eyes
There stood her mothers mother
Her grandmother’s arms inviting
She stands, pain forgotten
She feels the nights stretching behind the days till
She reaches the darkness where all of her is ancestor
It is who she has been all along
She is ready for this journey, crossing the dark river
Into the country of death
She will join her ancestors and her witch sisters
Breathing freer knowing that her death
Will shed her of her female body
Cleansing her of the sin of being a woman
Who is more than the sum of her part’s
Taking the dark mothers hand, now hearing whispering and laughing
Her grandmother smiles and she sees the moon and stars above her
They cross the veil together, the gate gently closing behind them
She understands clearly now
In Mabs cold womb life will start again
A child of light to begin a new
The wheel continues to spin, the cycle continues
And she will always be a part of it all ~M
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
Plunge deep into my soul that shank made of bone. It is when my back is turned away from you. As you are slowly withdrawing your ancient weapon, it would seem a ****** ripe ol piece of meat still precariously clings to the end point. A....Nice....Big......Chunk. Will you roast it over open flame? Nah, not you. You wink at me and begin to eat it raw, blood dripping down the sides of your mouth as you primitively grunt and tear at the rawness and the sinews, suckling in the fat for a bit. You pause only for a moment to enjoy the tangy metal taste of the blood dance as it bursts onto your not particularly hard to please pallet. Are we well sated? Now I that I have been made to watch these acts of cannibalism to my being? A piece of my soul here, another slice there. Oh by the Gods! Is that cheap wine you’re using to wash me down? How bitterly cliché.........A lesson from my childhood now transfixed. Oh yes indeed grandmother, fairy tales are real. The veritable Big Bad Wolf lives. The beast was predatorily and brutally ravenous whilst hiding in sheep’s clothing. Aye, ravenous….. ~M
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
She drives up to the old building like she has done every other day for several months.
Turns off the ignition and steps out of the vehicle
As she walks through the automatic doors she wonders at the contrast between modern conveniences and old world antique décor
The building is well over a hundred years of age
And it smells of it
It also smells of paper, tape, business, hopes, dreams, and even devastation
Yes, much passes through this building
She continues on and turns into the first corridor and walks to the very end.
She takes out the key and it feels hard and smooth in her hand
Much like the marble upon which she is standing
She stares at the box her breathing quickening
She inserts the key and twists, thinking to herself that hope is waiting with that little door ajar
But as it turns out hope is just an open wound
Sighing, another little piece of her essence again slowly ebbs out and goes to that place in the building that collects such things
It is what keeps the building strong after all these years
It is what it feeds on
It has been dining on her for months now
Soon there will be naught left of her to consume
She closes her eyes and secures the door, putting the key back into her pocket
Over time disappointment has been slowly becoming the scabs and scars that cover her
Also poisoning her blood
However despair, despair is the antidote
It has her returning every other day, week after week, month after month
As she exits she smells a faint hint of decay and hears a whisper emanate from the building
Softly it says, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, If you have already abandoned hope, please disregard this notice.”
Ah…but she is already aware that there is no hope, no escape from the never ending torment
But that is ok, she thinks, she likes it here. ~M
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
This man upon whose face I have yet to gaze
Blew into the wind
A seed which has taken root and spread unto my soul
So that now the mere thought of him causes my blood to flow
His essences the branches which climb the trunk of my being
But in being apart I find the branches break much like that of a broken heart
And yet…..and yet the bark becomes my shield and I am stronger
I know I shall pass this storm of waiting, breathless and spent
while blooms continue to blossom and sprout
With a pressed and filling light, empty no longer ~M
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:18 PM UTC
Standing on the edge I look down upon cloud shadows and rising winds wild with leaves. Spirits crying, rejoicing- their tears, rain drops blanketing the earth- their passion fueling the suns fire-The priestess of Muses her drawn sword hanging- singing songs- disturbing the bards and artists, daring them to create - drinking music-breathing life back into the elements. Shadows competing for their place in the play- Liaisons made liaisons broken- time fleeting -the moon dance continues -moments-war plucking the strings of Gods- The Goddess in the mist, spinning tales-spinning life-spinning death-awakening finally from my earthly slumber-myself burning at the center of my innermost being-Lighting the path surrounding my climb-the culmination of all my soulful searches-quiet whispers coloring my heart-hidden paths and finding pleasure in it all....... ~M
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
Having fed on your mortal essence, over come by the intoxicating mixture, I ride across the skies, unseen, within storms, otherworldly. Catching you upon the edge about to fall, gathering you within my wings and free falling only to land safely. ~M
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:13 PM UTC
Always the intermission
waiting......
buying juju beans standing on red carpet
Forever an after thought
the heart cannibalized
some fava beans and a nice Chianti with that?
Drink up sweet decadence..... ~M
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Untitled
We once surrendered to desire
Willingly forging ourselves to delicious heights
At night, lazy, touching the chaos of fantasy
In doses playing our coming apocalypse
In the end lies only pain ~M
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC