waldo_jeffers

Welcome to Mr Mocata's Esoteric Book Club. Upon entering, please be advised to hang your sanity on the coat stand provided.

Mr Mocata's current book recommendation is "Shadows Over Baker Street" edited by Michael Reeves and John Pelan. This extraordinary little tome consists of a collection of short stories by various authors which blend elements of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories with HP Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. Within the pages of this fascinating little anthology, Sherlock Holmes investigates a dark selection of mysterious crimes, which subsequently turn out to have a Cthulhu Mythos explanation. Also, featuring a guest appearance from the lovely and charming Miss Irene Adler.

Now it is time for the return of Poetry Corner!! This month's poem of choice is a rather feeelthy poem concerning the adult pleasures ofahemhorticulture

The Geranium by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

In the close covert of a grove,
By nature formed for scenes of love,
Said Susan in a lucky hour,
Observe yon sweet geranium flower;
How straight upon its stalk it stands,
And tempts our violating hands:
Whilst the soft bud as yet unspread,
Hangs down its pale declining head:
Yet, soon as it is ripe to blow,
The stems shall rise, the head shall glow.
Nature, said I, my lovely Sue,
To all her followers lends a clue;
Her simple laws themselves explain,
As links of one continued chain;
For her the mysteries of creation,
Are but the works of generation:
Yon blushing, strong, triumphant flower,
Is in the crisis of its power:
But short, alas! Its vigorous reign,
He sheds his seed, and drops again;
The bud that hangs in pale decay,
Feels, not, as yet, the plastic ray;
Tomorrow's sun shall bid him rise,
Then, too, he sheds his seed and dies:
But words, my love, are vain and weak,
For proof, let bright example speak;
Then straight before the wondering maid,
The tree of life I gently laid;
Observe, sweet Sue, his drooping head,
How pale, how languid, and how dead;
Yet, let the sun of thy bright eyes,
Shine but for a moment, it shall rise;
Let but the dew of thy soft hand
Refresh the stem, it straight shall stand:
Already, see, it swells, it grows,
Its head is redder than the rose,
Its shrivelled fruit, of dusky hue,
Now glows, a present fit for Sue:
The balm of life each artery fills,
And in o'erflowing drops distils.
Oh me! cried Susan, when is this?
What strange tumultuous throbs of bliss!
Sure, never mortal, till this hour,
Felt such emotion at a flower:
Oh, serpent! cunning to deceive,
Sure, 'tis this tree that tempted Eve;
The crimson apples hang so fair,
Alas! What woman could forbear?
Well hast thou guessed, my love, I cried,
It is the tree by which she died;
The tree which could content her,
All nature, Susan, seeks the centre;
Yet, let us still, poor Eve forgive,
It's the tree by which we live;
For the lovely woman still it grows,
And in the centre only blows.
But chief for thee, it spreads its charms,
For paradise is in thy arms. -
I ceased, for nature kindly here
Began to whisper in her ear:
And lovely Sue lay softly panting,
While the geranium tree was planting.
'Til in the heat of amorous strife,
She burst the mellow tree of life.
'Oh, heaven!' cried Susan, with a sigh,
'The hour we taste - we surely die;
Strange raptures seize my fainting frame,
And all my body glows with flame;
Yet let me snatch one parting kiss
To tell my love I die with bliss:
That pleased, thy Susan yields her breath;
Oh! who would live if this be death!'

Dear readers, I trust you have enjoyed my hospitality but alas, I must now leave you to your own devices (the mere thought of which fills me with a voyeuristic thrill) as I have just received word that a certain Duc De Richleau has, once again, attempted to break into my observatory. The fellow's a damned nuisance and I swear he only does it out of jealousy (his friend Simon always gets invited to my special parties, but Monsieur Le Duc, being a frightful bore, is not welcome).