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carnelian

the moon

Hopeful Since 2010

Followers 1844 Following 1494

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Sunday Mar 18, 2012

Mar 18, 2012
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Feeling somewhat like hell. . .I remember recently dreaming I had made fuck with the devil. His soul was split into two people. A man and a woman. They/he lived in a great house of stone cold and nasty like concrete. It was hidden away in an alley downtown. I had to pass through a door of alternate dimension. Then there were stairs and the climb lasted until my throat was sore and dry. Then the front door was before me and swung open. There were beautiful and ugly servants they gave me a sweet liquor with something maybe lavender. I drank and felt well. I felt dark and peaceful I felt sensuous and wild. I kept my eyes upon him. The two of him. The room filled with sweet smelling smoke. My self and him suddenly and shockingly became entwined in silk and thorns of roses.I watched as his female ate a rose and was pierced by thorns. Her mouth became a most beautiful red. There was no telling of up or down as the smoke and silk were one and blood would not drip but poured or swayed here and there but did not separate. My bleeding felt good. His was beautiful. I was high. When I left all was cold but the deep core of my sex.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
codemonkeym:

Silence
BY THOMAS HOOD

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold graveunder the deep deep sea,
Or in the wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hushdno life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.


Mar 22, 2012
codemonkeym:

Autumn
BY JOHN CLARE

The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.


Mar 22, 2012

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