Astral Plane Magick


I drew my magick in Arts,

In front of the altar starts

The Magick Circle around,

The Demon was abound.


He bowed over me,

"What doth thee?"


Magick on the Astral Plane,

This way invocations are safe...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Some thoughts.

Zinxong: The Torturer

Cthulhu Mythos

Oracle of the one born of Hanuman's womb,

Words to confirm what has gone before.

Blessed is the one who grasps inner meaning,

For only the inner eye may read.


In the year of the badger,

My office to the Feeble One.

Century-old master of our sect,

And his bloated viceregent;

The Mad Prophetess.


Occupying the forlorn monastery of Tsang,

Whereupon no worldly man may enter.

The task was the keeping of the scrolls,

Housed in abundance.


No longer could they read the scripts,

Traced upon parchment.

From the skins of humans,

Stripped on their deathbeds.


When one might dare to read

What was written on those pages;

Dangerous doctrines might arise,

But forgotten by the tortures of our tribe.


But these two arts,

Copying the scrolls.

Flaying of humane hides,

Was the monastery enriched.


Discipline for their prisoners.

Peaceful community,

Year after year.

'Till the return of Zinxong,

Away serving as the torturer;

For Qwon-Ling, the most powerful.


At first rejoicing,

As for a long lost relative.

Little they knew that his warriors,

Were slaying all who opposed them.

Sounds of fighting in the dining hall,

All rose safe for the Feeble One;

Who had to be carried from place to place.


The false brother greeted the warriors,

The chieftain as well as his shaman.

His tribe had made alliance with our rivals,

The Brotherhood of Leng.


Their silken yellow caps glowed in the soft light,

Their presence was blasphemy.

A sword struck the Feeble One;

A second blow silenced forever the mouth of the Mad,

Prophetess ever at his side.


None mourned greatly at the passing of the Feeble One,

His voice not being heard in many a season;

Since the Mad One had dominated him.


The Cult: the Red Hats of Tsang.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem about a torturer near the monastery of Tsang.

war of wordss


I write under some small delusion,

that you would want to see

me bare my soul and that my soul

is full of colour and wonder,

that I could some how venerate your being

with Some spark of creativity

magnified to a whole new status.
And I wrap myself up in this warm delusion

It helps me sleep at night,

I feel better about the world

even a little less lonely, at first...

Because then you're driven by some constant compulsion

to draw out the emotions.

You plot and plan words

and the schematics of affectations.

The tiniest hopes spur you on

through endless trials and drafts of perfection

not yet in words perfected.

You stretch your minds limits

you seek new boundaries of thought.

You while away hours forming possibilities

based on a line that becomes the hook.

You become the friend of empathy.

Seeking to somehow bring a voice to others pain.

All the while selfish and conceded

it is merely a means to an end.

The is no torture greater than this discipline of arts

with such limited tools to drive a wedge of emotion

through the eyes and drive to affect the mind

to cause a heart response that reaches the soul...

I please you.

This is my delusion

that sparks the wars of many wordss.

Fighting for the chance to venerate me.

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“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….






Author's Notes/Comments: 


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