The Structure of Structure

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Lilith

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Angelsong

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The Succubus Series

succubus (n): a demon in female form, said to have sexual intercourse with men in their sleep

The Treeman.Report

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YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS

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IGNORE AT YOUR PERIL

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THE DEMON IS LEAVING

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there are shadows in every image forms that there are no words for they stare at me like i were family in the crowd, i, too am an otherling made of dreamstuff, you and me they croon in their secret messages and if i blink just right, they’re gone

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Now that we know where we come from, we can address one of philosophy’s and theology’s greatest mysteries: why would a perfect Creator make

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The incalculable machine keeps on, incessant and inevitable, and thoughts stray from me like the sands, and everything goes away because this is their nature: they are one with the machine, and follow the courses of the seconds passing, while I am somehow outside, or inside, where I can’t get out, somehow meandering outside the cycle of life and death. The feeling that I am a stranger is not new, and in fact, it surprises me whenever there is some semblance of me belonging; just that now, I have this sense that I want just to settle into the framework of this world, where I am to be these many years to come; this noble savage, or not so noble: let us dress him in finery and teach him couth, and see if he can ascertain the accoutrements of society. It is a good experiment. For my part, I think I must forget that the machine even exists if I am to be a part of the niceties. But I know in the back of my mind the barbarian in me will let out a healthy snort at everything, and secretly, I will wonder at the silver gears that underpin creation, whose architecture inspires in me the wildness to dance around the fire.

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the hint of her coming is as the moment fills with magic the curve of her cheek a line between the real and dreaming she is what a flower imagines itself to be in its fantasy she lifts me with her eyes until i am drifting with the moon her kiss is where time stops, eternity wrapped in her lips her eyes are where the rose of fate blooms before me where am i? so lost in that whisper like i am nowhere. . .

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Vanishing

Where the snow has fallen, there grows not even the imagination of a flower. Somewhere in my mind it is always winter, so cold and fragile, where our breaths are somehow thicker with life, and everywhere is virgin white in the silent blankets of an eternal snowfall. The air itself is always so sharp, the skies seem to reach higher, and my wonder drifts slowly over the hills, as my eyes wander the vanishing horizon in search of a dream I could not name if you asked, remembering a childhood that never was. Where the snow has fallen, there lie the graves of all my former selves, buried in the imaginary season, somehow better than they were, forever out of any sight — like anyone who is gone. Somewhere in my mind this winter has never known the thaw of a sun who was ever loud enough to argue away the chill of this frost. The time is always morning, and I have just awakened, ageless in my fascination at every little thing: who have I been, where have I gone, what have I done, that somewhere in me there is still such a vast open country, spotless of any footprint, the purest white as far as I behold, in frozen bloom?