And promises of light to come

Midwinter tidings of much merriment

 "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again

"I dreamt that where our drive once lay, a dark and tortured jungle grew. Nature had come into her own, and yet, the house still stood."

Island winter's whispers

I play my flute at night in the cisterns, I hope no one hears 

but the entities 

that live in the echoes and under the waves. It sings back to me, washes over me, envelops me, 

with much more warmth than the island really has to offer. All is still. 

And I thank the swans for sharing their bathing spot with me this summer, 

the smooth rocks for their comfort; they look like flesh; 

the tall grass for not biting me any more than it did, 

the wasps for slowly kissing me as they searched for sweetness and went to their rest. 

So shall I.

Pic by Aron Mattson.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices

That, if I then had waked after long sleep,

Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,

The clouds methought would open and show riches

Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,

I cried to dream again.

 

- Caliban, The Tempest

And I laugh a little to find that some things were, after all, just what they seemed.

I am drowning in too much. Too much time, silence, trips to the fridge) . I miss beauty and rarity and those things you only got once, but that you did at least get. Like, holding someone's hand nervously, softly as the light is dimming and tomorrow will leave it mostly forgotten, but it will have fed your skin

our skin has many gaping little mouths, like naked baby birds, hungry

and pushed you forward just a bit, among the changing.

Art Cosplay: John the Baptist

Art Cosplay: Lady Lilith

Death - Who Art Thou?

Gustav Klimt, Tod und Leben, 1910/1915

My hollow-eyed love, grinning eagerly, bony, not-beautiful.

Follow me through a spring and summer's day that takes no end.

Mememto Mori

At All Costs: Bring me his Head on a Platter

He summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends

...an Allegory for Destructive Relationships

-> Monet

The Necrophiliac 
"The most beautiful book I ever read."

...as Active Contemporary Force in Late Capitalism

-> Ophelia

The Journey with no Return.

Wet Fur

Friendship wears a wolfish grin, exclaiming loudly that you're worthy, pretty, tasty morsel of feels-like-family. Friendship offers you a close embrace and draws you all the way inside itself, stroking, brushing, pulling, prodding, smelling your scent of the sea, mouth running wet with comfort. "You have a space here, little nest, good place to rest." Friendship is stronger than it looks, and it gives and takes of secrets shared like currency, expected to perish soon anyway - butterflies and pixiegold, shimmering, almost-painful. Don't you give your gold away, little girl. Shouldn't you be careful?

But friendship is domestic. It licks itself clean at least once a day. So you scratch it behind its ears while it talks for hours on end about its exploits, all its affairs of the heart and hard-ons, its thoughts and dreams. Warm and furry and full of love, friendship feels, lying at your feet, snoring by its own fire.

And it is only later friendship eats you, seasoned with all types of salt (sweat, sperm and tears), that you feel silly because you thought yourself anything other than flesh.