Gothic

Autumnal Equinox LIII

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Seasons In Hell

SEASONS IN HELL


 

 


Season Belial

The Devil's Covens gather forth at The Gates of Hell to reap the pleasures of previous spells...

Demon Winds, Dragon Wings, the colors of The Abyss upon flora & fauna cascading upon leaves strewn from tentacle vines & bloodthorned branches, as spiderweb veils gently dances. The faces of Satan interchanging with The harvest Moon, the wondrous sights and sounds of the season of gloom. Shadows stretch, The Hands of Doom. 

The Throne of Satan darkens the land with enchantment & mystery, pleasures & treasures possessed with ghoulish delight! 

Draegon Ouroboros sheds & turns another cycle of timelessness. 

Mighty Belial there calls forth in bestial rapport, hooves splitting rock, carving paths with Hellfire from cavernous Brimstone Pits, receive the triple mark of sulfurous plume! 

In Nomine Satanas,

Warlock Draconis Blackthorne
22 September, LIII
Noctuary, Infernal Empire

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Dark Gothic Heart

I look to the sea
viral implications take me to the surf
along the rocky ledge leads to an old abandoned house
you hear the intense pounding of the waves outside
a cobblestone walkway lines the entrance to the inclosure
the limestone permeates the small structure
a creeky door open to plants inside having moss
an old woman perched in her rocking chair begins to speak
"My name is Martha I'm the owner of this home & I will tell you your future,
you have a dark gothic heart with a temper that is unmatched."
Suddenly a black cat thunders through the home with a screeching noise
Martha continues," The devil lead you to this home in search of blood for tormented souls,
you have been given a gift with an aura of sophistication".
At that the woman said nothing more but pointed at the door
Outside in the back of her yard were skulls lining the main exterior
I couldn't take it any more so I ran so fast to a nearby stream
Looking into the water I then saw my mere reflection
I was left to wonder what the old woman really meant
a figure moved to help me gain my composure
of that of a hunch back creature having viscous fangs that bite dripping blood off side
Again I ran away to hide frightened
At last a nearby meadow with a clearing sought me to venture further
It was then I realized the true message of my gothic heart
a cool breeze calmed my spirit & soul
noting that love was the mere essence of my existence
I sat alone & collected my thoughts

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CHILDREN`S GRAVES.

CHILDREN`S GRAVES.

“Some of the best show as perform to a empty stage.”

        It was one of these summer evenings, the day was to his end, when I open my eyes, and the curtains of my attic room…

The place got suddenly fill with dusty tangerine light.

The sky was like a painter palette, fill with mixture of colours, from violet to deep ageing purple, and cross over by bleeding scarlet traces, open wounds, broken rainbows!

How long have I been hibernated? Did not really matter, time was a notion I had learn to master and therefore to forget!

My knowlegde as far as I was aware, was similar to a cuddly beast, immersing from a long sleep, which at this second, was to satisfy his appetite, from which anger was tremendous!

The ritual was about to start. I sank my body into the cold water of the bath, washing my dreams away, my mind must be clean and the treasure of my inspiration reborn…

I grab a bunch of dried flowers, which I left floating around me, perfumes of the decease, when I felt my flesh impregnated by their passing life’s, my soul twisted with new senses!

I stood naked, dripping from the tears of the earth; affront of the Victorian mirror, starring at the reflection of what I suppose was the Goth of myself…

I still had to wear my disguise.

I sat at the small table and with robotic movements, started to applied the white powder, first layer of my human canvas, for a quick second I could smell, the perfume of my grand-mother powdering her face, souvenir in my blurry mind…

My fingers took hold of the crimson lipstick, a favourite of mine. So much red as been symbolist in my early youth…

Smear it against my lips, silver shade on my eyelids, cold ashes, when the fire of passion had finally died.

A black line under my eyes, to accentuated the tiny sparkle left…

I look again, in the split mirror of my reflection and smile…and this was the sweetest smile I had seen for a long time.

When I had accomplished the portray of my face and was satisfied with the vulgar result, I went toward the large wooden wardrobe.

As I open it, the smell of incent left me dizzy, it is then from the smell of the ages, that I knew, I was about to accomplished my master piece, therefore my best outfit was to be wear…

White was the robe, maybe to the eyes of an expert, you could have see the slight yellow discolouration of time, but the colour of innocence was to be!

I grab a long silky scarf, who once upon a time used to be used for confession, and wrap it around my waist, the ends of it was garnish with golden threads twinkling by the candle light.

I took hold of my long dark hair and wrap it around my head in some Victorian fashion, fix with a tortoise shell pin.

All was left was wearing my long grey coat.

By this stage, the room was diffuse by shadows. I took hold of the metal box, hidden under my bed. Meticulously, holding each photos, pile neatly.

My pride, my work of so many years! I started to flick through each ones, filling my decaying mind from their beauty, wondering for a while if my work would ever been admire for his artistic qualities?

Somehow I did not really care, one way or the other.

The burning desire of ambition had long left me and the void had been fill, with the only primitive desire to create upon my own impulse.

You see there was no doute that I had become the tool of some stronger forces! I sat there in complete silence, the candle flame flickering inside my black pupil, the shadow changing my face to something hideous, image finally switch to a sainthood figure…

I hear the owl of the nearest church and knew that time had come to slip into the night.

The noise of the keys inside the rusty lock of the door. I walk in the same pace, ignoring the look of passer by, upon me…

I sat on my old friend, the bench facing the Thames, electric’s lights reflecting and shaking by the movement of the dirty water.

I knew, she would come to me, patience was another jewel, I had learned to master. It is true, that when you are not waiting anymore for such a thing call “life”, it seem so easy to oblige…

And so she did. Youth, shy, godly creature, at first she gave me a quick glance and sat few feet’s away, but curiosity was to strong…

I smile with bleeding lips and she did the same, with revolting innocence!

She must have not been, any more than fifteen springs but her body had flourish into the most saintly womanly figure, but most of all, she had kept the quality I cherish the most; PURITY!

My hands instinctively clutched on my camera. The desire of using it became so strong, that I could hardly comtemp my posture, but time will come…

I did not have to say a word, she knew, her destiny had took her to me. Her god had guide her toward my evil and the two of them has somehow, in some intriguing ways, find a common ground…

I gently took hold of her fragile hand and headed toward the scene of my masterpiece.

The breeze of the night was ever so flirtatious with her hair. I could smell the perfume of her milky skin, sensing the pulse of her heart, drumming against the end of my fingers, like a mournful symphony along a funeral cortege!

HIGHGATE cemetery:

I push the gates, which left a sharp lament into the space. And still, the view of the grave did not seem to scare her, apart from a light pressure of her fingers in the palm of my hand; she kept the same pace and follows me ever so tamely…

But why fighting against fate? When the all story is already laid into the sacred book…

Myself knew, that tonight was my last, and it is with the star and a feebler moon, that I was about to give my best picture to the world…

My final act, the missing piece of my own story, mine been a little bit more visual than others…

We pass the trees, from which their long branches, cut out affront of the deep blue night, look like some long forgotten mythology monster, part of so many secrets…

And finally, we saw them…

Line up into a perfect circle. Children’s graves, golden names incrusted in the cold marble stone, and there in the middle of it, more macabre than what was rotting inside the earth, stood with great arrogance, a gigantic monument of the virgin Marie. How vulgar the sculpture looks to my eyes…

And the memories of the child I was came back to me…

My father had spend nearly a year, sculpting it, putting so much pride in it, while at the same time, he rejoice himself by humiliating me, somehow is Art feeding on my own child misery!

The boy had not forgot his baby sister, falling from his arms, the crack of the skull against the pave stone!

The scream of my mother, which a minute later had faded with her broke heart!

I was to be responsible. This hideous monument, in which my paternal had put so much of his hated for me would forever, symbolised my double crime….

As each night, the acidic whisper of his vitriolic words would remind me, in some nightmarish lullaby.

And this is where, for so many years, the dust of my Sybil rested, I decided to take my young friend.

She knew and looks at the small marble stone, stain by the passing seasons.

And as she was reading the word “angel”, I took hold firmly of my tortoise pin, and as my hair felt on my shoulder in some water falls movements, the pin went through her delicate neck!

I drag the body gently against the statue. Defiant I had finally broke my father curse. What I was offering to the god and the Goth of these children’s was not made of hate, but purity, as pure as the expression on her dead face look…

The blood pouring over her silky dress was looking like red sapphire around her neck.

I gather many plastic flowers into her hair and put a dead rose inside her stiff fingers.

I step back and mechanically, pointed the lens of the camera. My final picture was accomplished!

And as the flash was lighting up the all scene, I could swear that for a brief second, I saw the face of my sister, smiling at me, with the most forgetful eyes…

I pushed the door firmly behind me, locked it and left the key inside the lock.

Developed the photos and as usual, after selecting the best shot, burn the others one, and the film.

I open my metal box and place it on top of the others; the work of a lifetime had finally being achieved…

I stood affront of the broken mirror, my face had somehow change, I suddenly look older.

I wiped the make up and saw the figure of my father staring back at me.

But the eyes of the old man was not so cruel anymore, instead tears was filling them, and I felt for the first time, the warm of them running along my cheeks, as I laid down on my bed, and felt into eternal sleep….

                        COPYRIGHT@H.NAUDET.2014.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

MY HOBBIES!!!!

The wind howls red

 

 

 

Fingers frozen, jacket tight, the merlot leaves taking flight

Foot steps long ,quick in pace, better hurry home, you are not alone

The wind howls red, the chill runs deep, you should be in bed, to Grandmas keep

The bramble cottage comes in sight, everyones sleeping, there is no light

You skip closer, just a little more, oblivious to the danger lurking beyond the door.

 
C.Grainger

awakening

run from pain by diving through it
seeking to awaken from the cold
feel of its splash upon me
reach deep and wrap myself
in cloak of dreams
shelter from their sanity
know path of dreams
and wishes by the stroke
of their movements
as limbs animate
them as paintings
moving
dancing
upon the canvas of life
paintbrush
as lips
softly caress
painting the gift
of pleasure
watercolor
fingerpaints
color the air
red with
heat of
hunger as it slides
across molecules
of oxygen
to taste
moans as they escape
from ur lips..
tasted well and
washed down with
the sip of your eyes
as they mirror
the warmth
of the exchange
as our bodieds swim together
wrap your cunt around
my thrusting gift of
curiosity
as i seek the knowledge
hidden deep within unknown
flesh..
lessons learned in
warm comfort of my cell
companions bodies teach universal truths
shared with teachers and students
yet unknown to
the feel
of warm fingers
questing tongue
dancing heart
beating
against nipples
grazing hard
against tender skin..
pressed full crushed
into body wrapped around the gift of you

The Cold Master's Feast

Once there was a man with seven Silver spoons
each one marked with a sliver of a crescent moon.
One spoon would stirs his tea.
Another was used to eat the Soup of Three.
The Third spoon appeared for those puddings found sweet.
The Fourth spoon was saved for the softest of meats.

And, when the moon went to sleep
with the Fifth spoon he would creep
along the dark avenues and tight shouldered alleys
underfoot, slick wet stones, old as bones tallied.
Like an alien star descending
on those uncomprehending,
the Sixth spoon shining bright
then would hover in the night,
intermittently misting
by the kiss of breath of those drifting.
Whose eyes would open wide
while bodies froze and voices hide
held by the Sixth spoon's might
and its damning light.

And, with a smile like a crescent moon
he'd draw forth from his coat the Seventh spoon,
and mad laughter and sad pleas would jump from the shadows like fleas
fleeing from the flames of something still unnamed
that in the night will reign.

And choking on screams unspoken
forcing closed eyes wide open
they try to run from his night mare's bray
yet it gallops too fast and snatches who pray.
It's crescent
the sickle
of a hardened black hoof...

In the morning, the remainder remark the dark's cold,
of a fear filled fevered night better untold.
Of ghostly apparitions that withered and rolled,
of the wailing of the children no one may hold.
Then, counting their numbers they noticed those gone,
open wide windows and bed covers torn,
red ruby puddles collected in bowls,
and long jagged gouges in the walls and the doors.

Once there was a man with seven silver spoons
each one marked with a sliver of a crescent moon.
One spoon would stirs his tea.
Another was used to eat the Soup of Three.
The Third spoon appeared for those puddings found sweet.
The Fourth spoon was saved for the softest of meats.
Three other spoons to make it complete
all implements
of the Cold Master's Feast.

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The White & Black Jack

He rose
from the graceful abode
the White and Black Jack
with his toad
and his goad.
One hand hot
the other one cold
towing bones
and bottles of souls,
and a fire blackened pot,
for the tolls and the coals.

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Tomorrow Laughs

Tomorrow laughs
full bellied and bold
clutching Today
lifeless and cold.
Its shadow a victor
no eye may behold.

It kicks Yesterday
into a corner of shame
and covers its presence
in moments unclaimed.
Tomorrow then sups up
whatever remains.

Tomorrow laughs
with swollen wide fingers
that beat a staccato
on bells and their ringers,
and the Future she smiles
save those who have seen her.

Standing full height
Tomorrow touches the sky
Sunrise's reflection
it's pale mighty eye
awake on the waters
of the oncoming tide.

Tomorrow laughs
that's its echo you hear
in the engulfing broad silences
of the Night's
layered tiers
of something approaching
that waits to appear.

Tomorrow laughs
and laughs
and laughs
and laughs
then laughs even more:
over weeping word widows
and motherless brides;
over lid welded warriors
and rich men's asides;
over babies unbundled
and swollen belly lies;
over writers and written
and lovers and sighs.

Over everything
seen, held, coddled, and clutched
Tomorrow laughs
with a grin
finger to lips, hush.

Tomorrow laughs,
as sure as leaves descend
in the Fall.
Ashes
or boxes
Tomorrow laughs at us all.

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The 3rd Riddle

And in that place forgotten deep
grows the Tower, a darkened keep,
and there the ones that sleep
feel the halls with frightened screams.

To play their game makes one their slave,
makes one's pallor a haunting shade,
for the stones they cast
are the bones that laugh
well beyond the grave.

Your sealed away till one dark day
you also play their tune.
You'll pray for life, you'll pray for light,
seen: two eyes, twin baleful moons.

Maiden's madness mingles
with fears of fical youths
who shine for time in wayward mines
till teller tells times are do.

The vast bell wrings
and cobwebs swing
with petty mortal forms.
The coil it snaps,
the Beast it taps,
the door closes on their tomb.

"Heard no more,
heard no more"
the solemn make their cry,
for the stones they cast
are the bones that laugh
beyond the mortal sky.

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