dreadvelvetzombie

Why laugh at all the bloodshed? She inquired Why hide your face in paint? She said to me I’m no saint. That's just how my gun was fired (The true, bad answer is that it’s funny) We laughed at life, we loved the you-and-me The world outside, such fun, such happy fare We looked down from the circled gallery And saw no solemn spirits standing there She had a cruel side to her (don’t we all?) She loved her dangerous games, and played them well With cold and whiteface grin, she thought me warm She loved me but sensed no approaching hell And then my gambling rolled into the red And much was red in that small awful hou

Mrs. Pokhotsk gripped the arms of the chair yet tighter with her talons, nails biting into the cheap, cracked leather.  Her eyes were narrowed so much as to appear closed entirely, but through the thin space between eyelids she glared at the newspaper on her lap.  The rheumatics made it difficult to turn the pages, but turn them she did, mouth grumbling and moving constantly as if trying to remove a perpetually troublesome pip from the recesses of a tooth. Shljukhi ... politicheskie dejateli ... suki, proslavlennye bumagami ... otvratitel'nyjj... Ja byl pravil'nym ..., ehto javljaetsja adom With a rasp of scorn she pushe

DAY 25 I awoke in the circle again this morning, and this disturbs me.  This is the second time, and I am beginning to fear the sleep that somehow ferries me back to those woods, and that place with its hem of blasted earth.  There is meaning to it, of this I am certain, but what meaning, and meaning for whom, I cannot venture.  The fourth time… With each of them, each waking in the circle, I fancy I can hear noises, I think human noises, but this of course nonsense.  My nightmares echo in my head after I escape them, that is all.  I have endeavoured to sleep less, or even not at all, but this is fruitless.  Much more of this and I shal

We met in darkness The throb of the night matched the throb of our bodies A touch, a touch, too little, too much Oh, I shall go to pieces I swear I shall I miss you so my little fever dream I want to lose myself in you The folds and curves of you Why did you have to lose yourself first? I think, if I were pressed I should choose you always Above all others And scream my vision of beauty to the stars But I am not loud enough Here In your arms In you I am quieter inside than I have ever been Your smell dances in my head I never want to move again It scares me, just a little. Just a little.

O, deep in the woodlands As green as the glade Sat a small happy village Called Gon Ganymede And one winter's morning The folk gathered round To see the odd feller A-dance into town His smile was a-shiny His clothes were a-bright His bells were a-janglin As hard as they might He skipped to the town square And pulled out his pipe Played a song of the forests Of fruit round and ripe "O dewn, dewn, misery dewn Yl shantay mi sonnets alown on te grown Wit sarris an hiltopp yl sing showt an houl Alown and alown, yl sitt misewf dewn And the villagers clustered and asked him quite straight "Who are ye good sire, so chipper round

Cracks are appearing In the glass pane of me I did not do this

Willowman Elm he do brood And oak he do hate But the willowman goes walking If you stay out late Theres lies in vine a shattered stump Vile megalith to folklores cruel And carved in ash a hermit's waning voice… "Four children went a-walking The deep forest for to see Returned they did to mother's arms Returned they did, but only three Three little children creeping cautious Three good children brave and true That eve they came back none the wiser For this night there were only two Two old children with a burden One a daughter, one a son Now on this night she came back screaming Poor girl she, the only one Now the village h