a black cat among roses

depraved and sweet eros and thanatos, libido and mortido personal photos --- tender flesh

[thebabyanimals]

[stickyskin]

Next month I will be traveling to Turkey, Greece, Bulgaria, Romania. Do I possibly have any followers who can suggest something of interest or throw some tips my way?

[stickyskin]

heaven on earth is waking up covered in his dried blood and tobacco oud

[stickyskin]

“I am his tomb. The earth is nothing. Dead. Staves and orchards issue from my mouth. His. Perfume my chest, which is wide, wide open. A greengage plum swells his silence. The bees escape from his eyes, from his sockets where the liquid pupils have flowed from under the flaccid eyelids. To eat a youngster shot on the barricades, to devour a young hero, is no easy thing. We all love the sun. My mouth is bloody. So are my fingers. I tore the flesh to shreds with my teeth. Corpses do not usually bleed. His did.”

— Jean Genet, Funeral Rites

[stickyskin]

I was just on with a client who switched from a woman's voice to a high-pitched elven voice to a very deep masculine voice. When I asked him what he was, he said "pure consciousness, omniscience, omnipresence, a fly on the wall" and then hung up.

[stickyskin]

The Tree

I undressed to climb a tree; my naked thighs embraced the smooth and humid bark; my sandals climbed upon the branches. High up, but still beneath the leaves and shaded from the heat, I straddled a wide-spread fork and swung my feet into the void. It had rained. Drops of water fell and flowed upon my skin. My hands were soiled with the moss and my heels were reddened by the crushed blossoms. I felt the lovely tree living when the wind passed through it; so I locked my legs tighter, and crushed my open lips to the hairy nape of a bough.

Hymn To Astarte

Mother inexhaustible and incorruptible, creatures, born the first, engendered by thyself and by thyself conceived, issue of thyself alone and seeking joy within thyself, Astarte! Oh! Perpetually fertilized, virgin and nurse of all that is, chaste and lascivious, pure and revelling, ineffable, nocturnal, sweet, breather of fire, foam of the sea! Thou who accordest grace in secret, thou who unites, thou who lovest, thou who seizes with furious desire the multiplied races of savage beasts and the couplets the sexes in the wood. Oh, irresistible Astarte! hear me, take me, possess me, oh, Moon! and thirteen times each year draw from my womb the sweet libation of my blood!

-Pierre Louÿs, from The Songs of Bilitis

[mt-analogue-deactivated20131028]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Do not kiss me, my love. Do not hold me, my love. If you love me, my love, kill me.

Anna Swir, from Kill Me

[dead-eyes-open-deactivated20110]

[stickyskin]

…It was this white garment of mourning which he still wore, the white mourning of surgical gowns so much more significant than black, since white is the colour of obliteration whereas black, far from being the colour of emptiness and nothingness, is much more the active shade which makes the deep and therefore dark substance of all things stand out, from the flight of despair whose magical blackness animates the blank parchment of the soul, to the supposedly sinister flight of the raven, whose croakings and cadaverous meals are but the joyful signs of physical metamorphoses, black as congelead blood or charred wood, but much less lugubrious than the deathly restfulness of white. Yet this desert whiteness did not rule out all subsequent possibilities, when it too would coagulate to form directions in blood and when it too would know the three congruences of putrefaction

-Michel Leiris, Aurora

[stickyskin]

the state of my hands upon waking up this morning!

[ebaecheap]

[stickyskin]

Crawl into my open wounds And il show you all your dreams…. “Search, and you’ll find diamonds in my rosegarden”. Oh,how neat you dance between the ancient trees “…Dance beloved one” I laugh in your dreams. Crawl into my open hand, and i’ll clench it… Far beneath your well of thoughts you swim in my wounds…. I embrace you with my poisoned blood and drag you to your bed of Thorns.

[stickyskin]

My Huysmans pants are coming along....

[putrida-deactivated20151128]

[stickyskin]

Sadly - Dorothy Lathrop

[elaphos]

The magic of beasts is sympathetic magic, fetiche magic, and death magic, but it is also sensual magic. It is the feel of the Saturn finger dipped in warm blood, of softest fur on barest skin, of sharpest tooth and talon biting in, of a raw heart on the tongue, and the scent of decay deep in the lungs. It is the rendered fat of a flying ointment like smooth silk across the brow, and it is the tactile, dirty, grounding sorcery of the here and now. It is an amoral, carnal, fleshly, and sensory feast of visceral magic combining the sacred and the profane.

Excerpts of ‘The Mysteries of Beast, Blood and Bone’ from Serpent Songs

[stickyskin]

In order to possess "The Wonder-working Serpent," it is necessary, in the words of the Grimoire, "to buy an egg without haggling," which (by the way) indicates the class of person for and by whom the book was written. This egg is to be buried in a cemetery at midnight, and every morning at sunrise it must be watered with brandy. On the ninth day a spirit appears, and demands your purpose. You reply "I am watering my plant." This occurs on three successive days; at the midnight following the egg is dug up, and found to contain a serpent, with a cock's head. This amiable animal answers to the name of Ambrosiel. Carry it in your bosom, and your suit inevitably prospers.

Aleister Crowley, Moonchild